#newsies spot conlon oneshot
Note
LISA !! your requests being open again is a glorious occasion, i’m so happy !!
now, could i pretty please request spot conlon with a gender-neutral reader who’s a brooklyn newsie ? the reader’s newsie nickname is sunshine because they’re known for being super cheerful and sweet and pretty much always having a smile on their face, but thing is that spot’s kind of closed-off and gruff with them, even more than he is normally, because he finds it kind of grating how relentlessly happy they are when as newsies they live the way they do. but the reader just keeps on being the way they are, being kind to spot and smiling whenever they see him no matter how he always responds with a scowl, until finally he snaps at them and tells them to quit being so weird and happy all the time, but then they actually do and it makes him realize that he’s relied on seeing their smile every day and that he actually likes seeing it, so he goes to find sunshine and apologize, telling them that he actually admires how strong they are to keep being kind and happy despite everything and how much he appreciates it. it doesn’t have to end with a confession or anything, but hopefully at least some romantic undertones ?
now, as always, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, but thanks in advance if you do, and i hope you’re doing well !! <3
'cloudy days' - spot conlon
masterlist
For once, it’s not a gray and blustery day in New York. Spot Conlon doesn’t know what the hell he was thinking, settling in a place like this, although he supposes he never really had a choice about it at all. It’s a cold and shady city, and that mood translates to its people. No one here would give him the time of day unless they absolutely had to, and he wouldn’t give them a damn thing either. That’s the tune of the city, and Spot drums it daily. Eat or be eaten. Kill or get killed.
That’s the way it’s always been, the way it always will be. Spot doesn’t want anyone’s sympathy. He’s grown past the point of needing it. Spot will do what Spot does best: look out for himself, never take handouts, never be dependent on anything save his feet to carry him places and that weird thing beating between his ribs to keep him alive.
The other newsies respect that, and look up to it. Brooklyn may have a reputation for being the meanest borough around, but the newsies protect each other like no one else. Even when the sun don’t shine for months on end. Even on rare days, like today, when it does.
The bright streets have Spot thinking a little funny, just like always. When the sun is out and the skies are blue, he starts feeling a strange thing some might describe as happiness. For once, everything isn’t totally terrible. It’s like the high he gets after soaking his enemies, ‘cept his knuckles aren’t bloody and his eyes aren’t blackened.
Maybe it’s got him in a good mood. Maybe that’s why, when a new fella comes looking for a spot in Spot’s growing army of newsies, he’s inclined to say yes. This new ally of his is nothing like Spot has ever seen before. They’re smiling at him before they so much as tip their hat or say hello. At first, it makes him wonder if they’ve got some sort of problem, then he realizes that the newcomer isn’t grinning like that to be threatening, just because they’re legitimately, well, happy.
Strange. Confusing, even. Still, the abundance of sunshine is rattling Spot’s brain, so instead of laughing in their face, he actually offers them a place amongst the ranks. Were it any other day, he’s sure he would have made them go somewhere a little more sickly-sweet, where friendship is magic and everyone can stand around, fuckin’, square dancing or something, whatever it is they do over in ‘Hattan or the other less serious boroughs, but he doesn’t. He welcomes them into his home. He pretends he isn’t completely baffled by their happy-go-lucky act.
And, since it’s clearly on the brain anyway, he gives them a nickname then and there, a real Spot Conlon first edition: Sunshine. He reckoned it seemed pretty true at the moment. As it turns out, he had no idea. Sunshine gets on his damn nerves every moment of every day. They’re so sweet it makes him want to throw up. If he ever saw them without a smile on their face for longer than thirty seconds, he’d suspect an imposter. They toss out compliments like they mean it or something, and they actually pick flowers to give to their friends.
Spot would think it was an act, except it actually isn’t. No way a human being could keep up a pretense that long and not go totally crazy. Spot, for one, does feel like he’s going crazy, but that’s neither here nor there.
Every day is the same. He wakes up too early, drags himself out of bed and gets ready, then pokes his head out of his space just to find Sunshine already up and at it, beaming at him and wishing him a very good morning, Spot, before turning to the next half-asleep newsie and repeating them message, and man, he wants to throttle someone already. In the line for papes, they’re excitedly talking to him about how they hope for a good headline, and whenever Spot runs into them while selling, they’ve always got something funny to say. If Spot wanted to laugh, he’d go to the circus. Although even he has to admit that New York feels like that half the damn time anyway.
It’s actually starting to make him angry. Who is this newcomer to burst in and disrupt everyone like this? Spot’s no fool. Even though he’s proud of his newsies and glad to be among the best company there is, this isn’t the life any of them would choose if they had other options. The newsies are here because they have no money and no prospects. They are the terrible youth, set out on the streets because there is no one else to watch out for them but each other.
Yet here’s this stranger, bounding down the halls of their lodging house, beaming and laughing as if everything were sugar and sweet. It feels as if they’re making a mockery of the whole thing, and Spot doesn’t like being taken for a fool.
It twists his judgment. Spot isn’t exactly known for his warm and caring personality, but he cracks down even harder around Sunshine. Maybe then they’ll figure out that the whole super happy thing doesn’t fly around here. Dreams don’t get you anywhere, and pretending otherwise only costs a lot of effort that could instead be directed towards selling some papes.
He should be better, Spot knows that. Already, his closest friends have started to scold him (very carefully) about how he’s treating sunshine. “Y/N’s no problem,” they’ve said. “It’s just you, Spot.” But he doesn’t listen.
One day, he gets to the breaking point. After another restless night, Spot drags himself out of bed despite not getting nearly enough sleep. He’s hardly stepped out of his room before Sunshine’s smiling cheerily at him, asking, “How was your sleep, Spot?”
As if they can’t tell by the look on his face. Unable to hold himself back any longer, Spot positively growls at them, “Terrible, obviously. God, can you just quit it with that stupid attitude? It’s makin’ me crazy.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, just pushes right past them and heads downstairs. He’s a grouch all morning, purposely making sure no one is near him while he’s selling and not talking to a soul all throughout the day. He manages to pull himself together enough to sell the papes he needs, but other than that, Spot is barely functioning at all.
Even the Brooklyn newsie home base seems quiet and uneasy when he gets back. Spot sits by himself in his office, temper growing worse with every passing hour. He can’t put his finger on the issue until nightfall, when he hears a chorus of cheerful voices out in the hall and realizes that Sunshine hasn’t spoken to him all day. Not since he snapped at them.
Cursing faintly, Spot drags a tired hand across his face. He’s fucked up, hasn’t he? Thinking back on it now, he remembers the startled look in Sunshine’s eyes when he told them to stop being so fake all the time. It’s fine, he tells himself. Everyone gets their feelings stepped on in Brooklyn. Things will be back to normal this time tomorrow.
Only, it isn’t. When Spot wakes up, Sunshine isn’t there to wish him a good morning. They avoid him in the line to pick up papes, and they steer clear of him throughout the entire day. Even when he makes a point of emerging from his office to sit with the rest of the newsies, Sunshine talks to every damn person there but him. It’s enough to make anyone feel a little guilty. Even Spot Conlon.
As the days go by without a single word from Sunshine, Spot feels worse and worse. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to see their smiles and hear their laughter until he didn’t get a drop of it. It’s like he’s trapped in permanent storm clouds. Only gray clouds and cold nights for him.
God, he’s getting poetic. This is horrific. Spot knows what he has to do, and even though he dreads the idea of having to admit he was wrong, he gathers his strength and goes to find Sunshine. At first, they try to duck out of the way when they see him coming, but Spot tracks them down, pulling them into an empty room so they can talk.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Spot says by way of introduction.
Sunshine doesn’t meet his eyes. “Thought that’s what you wanted.”
A sharp prick of guilt stabs through his chest. “I thought that, too. Turns out I was wrong.”
Sunshine’s head snaps up, and their eyes meet his. “Really?”
“Really,” Spot confirms. “I– I like being around you, Y/N. I like hearing you talk. I’m sorry for making you feel bad about being you.”
A slow, careful smile spreads across Sunshine’s face. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Spot says indignantly. “What, you’d think I’d go around saying things that ain’t true? What a waste of time.”
When Sunshine starts laughing, Spot feels his cheeks start to rush with warmth. “It’s not– you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“I do,” they grin. “I’m just glad to hear you want me back.”
“I do want you,” Spot breathes. “Back, I mean. I want you back. Yes.”
When Sunshine smiles knowingly at him again, Spot gets the odd feeling that he’s revealed more of himself than he really ought to, like he’s been caught showing his cards halfway through a bet. He gets the feeling he can trust Sunshine to not call him out, though. For some reason, he believes in them more than anyone. Maybe even more than himself.
The threadbare curtains on a nearby window shift slightly, allowing a thin, tenuous ray of sunlight to slip through the cracks. It slices neatly through the room, illuminating Y/N’s face in thin tendrils of gold. The sun’s back again. They’re back again, and Spot might be okay after all.
requested by @faerieroyal, i hope you enjoy!
newsies tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @misguidedswagger, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed
all tags list: @wordsarelife
#spot conlon#spot conlon imagines#spot conlon x reader#spot conlon oneshot#newsies#newsies imagines#newsies x reader#newsies oneshot#newsies spot conlon#newsies spot conlon imagines#newsies spot conlon x reader#newsies spot conlon oneshot#newsies spot#newsies spot x reader#newsies broadway#newsies live
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You know I love you (Spot Conlon x Reader)
This has been sitting in my drafts forever
Warnings: Not proof-read, a sentence about a fist-fight, bruising
Remy tugged on your skirt. “Hey- Hey Y/n?” His voice was quiet and nervous.
“Yeah, bud?” Something was off in the usually lively and energetic boy. You scooped him up, bringing him to eye level.
Remy looked down, avoiding your gaze. “Could I please have one of your apples?”
“Of course,” you walked over to the small kitchen in the Brooklyn boarding house and picked an apple off of the counter. “Why? Did you spend all your money on toys again?”
“Um, no.” Remy said, “I lost it.”
“You lost your money?” You frowned. Every newsboy bag had a special pouch for coins, its sole purpose being not to lose the pennies and nickels. “Where’s your bag?”
“I lost that too,” Remy mumbled.
With those words, you immediately knew that he was lying. The first thing a newsboy learns is to not lose his bag. It holds his papers and earned money- the most important things in a newsboy's life. What didn’t help your suspicion was that every younger boy was paired with an older, tougher, more experienced one. You made sure of that early on, pestering Spot until he relented (to be truthful, Spot had caved easily). Someone should’ve been watching Remy.
“Who was with you?” You asked him. “Was it Patches?” Remy nodded and you gave a nod back. “Okay, you stay here and eat your apple. I gotta go talk to Patches really quickly.”
“Okay!” Remy looked happier now that he was out of your scrutiny and concern.
You scanned the room, seeing Patches stretched out on a couch, listening to Cal read a book. You weaved through the boys, hopping over legs and stepping over arms. You loved your newsie family and you would do anything for them. The scene of everyone relaxing after a long day warmed your heart. You knew that these boys would do anything for you and each other.
You sat down on Patches’s legs, making him groan and kick your side. “I come in peace,” you said.
“Fine,” he rolled his eyes. “What’s up?”
“You sold with Remy today, right?” He nodded in confirmation. You continued, “did you see him lose his bag?”
“He lost his bag?” Patches sat up, now invested in the conversation. “He told me that he gave it to Crackers for safekeeping.”
“Crackers was selling on Clermont Street,” you said slowly. “Weren’t you guys selling by Hicks and Clark?”
Patches nodded, watching the concern on your face grow. “When did he tell you this?” You felt like you were interrogating the poor boy, but at the same time, you needed to know what happened.
“I know Remy had his bag at four thirty. I remember him coming up to me and telling me about a guy who paid him double. I didn’t see him again until five.”
“I’m going to try and get him to tell me the truth,” you stated. “Thanks Patches.”
“Anytime.”
You went back to the kitchen, finding Remy sitting on the counter, eating the apple to the core. But, before you could make it to the small child, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. Knowing there was only one boy who would dare do that, you relaxed into your boyfriend.
“Hey, Spotty,” you said quietly.
“Hey, doll,” Spot replied softly. “How was your day?”
“You were with me for most of it,” you pointed out, referencing how Spot only let you sell with him.
“Yeah, but I got pulled away at the end.” Indeed, Fisher had needed Spot’s help with something before the selling day had ended, leaving you alone to pawn off the last few of your papers.
“It was alright,” you turned in his arms, leaving a kiss on his cheek. “But I’m a bit worried for Remy.”
“Why? What happened?” Spot’s brows furrowed, getting that telltale expression that meant he was stepping back into his King of Brooklyn role.
“That’s the thing; I don’t know.” You explained, “Remy said he lost his selling bag, but Patches said Remy told him he gave it to Crackers for safekeeping. But I know Remy. The kid would never lose or give away his bag. You know how protective he is over it.”
“Cause he carries his teddy bear in it.” Spot nodded, ending your thoughts.
“Exactly.”
“So what do you think happened?” Spot asked you.
You sighed and began speaking, “a little while ago, Lemon came to me saying how a group of older thugs had stolen her bag. I had her sell with Slugger for a bit, and the problem went away. Do you think that the same thugs could’ve stolen Remy’s bag?”
Spot hummed, “you’ve certainly got a memory about you, doll. It’s definitely not a bad idea. I’ll go talk to Lemon and Slugger about it and you talk to Remy?”
“Deal,” you agreed.
“Pleasure doing business with you, doll.” Spot smirked and pressed a kiss to your lips before sauntering off to find Lemon and Slugger.
You chuckled before turning back to Remy and handing the kid another apple. “You’re hungry,” you commented.
“Yeah…” Remy looked shyly away.
“It’s okay,” you reassured. “We all pitch in to buy this food.” After a moment, you quietly said, “I know you didn’t lose your bag, Remy. What really happened?”
Remy didn’t meet your eye, giving a small shrug.
“Was it some boys?” You asked, “did they steal it from you? Like they did Lemon?”
Remy chewed on his lip, turning the apple over in his small hands. “Yeah,” he finally admitted. “They cornered me and called me small and weak.” His fingers clenched into fists. “Then they stole my bag. It’s happened four times.”
“Four times?” You knelt down so you could meet his eye. “Remy, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because they said I couldn’t fight my own fight. I’d be proving them right if I told you,” Remy mumbled.
You sighed, feeling terrible and squeezed the boy into a tight hug. “Remy,” You whispered. “Don’t be afraid to tell me anything. Especially if people are bullying you.”
“But what if they come back?” Remy wondered, “What if they do this again?” He lifted his shirt slightly to show you a large, ugly bruise. Immediately, a rage boiled in your chest and your jaw clenched. “They did that?” You growled.
Remy nodded slowly, frightened by your change in demeanour.
You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down in front of the scared child. “It’s gonna be okay,” you told him. “We’re gonna get your money back from those boys and make them pay.”
“Really? But how?”
You smiled stiffly, trying to disguise your hatred for the punks by a thinly veiled grin. “Don’t worry about that,” you said. “All you have to do is keep on selling.”
Remy’s head bobbed up and down happily. “Thank you so much, Y/n!” He hugged you tightly and you reciprocated the action. He then pulled away, his problem suddenly fixed and out of mind as only a six- year old could.
Heart still burning with hatred for the thugs that messed with Remy, you knew it was now time to call upon the people who would stand by you no matter what- your newsies.
**
Remy cried out in his squeaky voice, “Read all about the car crash that killed dozens! Police are convinced it was murder!”
“Hello, squirt,” a deep voice laughed from behind Remy. “Sell any papers today?”
Remy gulped loudly and slowly turned around, gripping his bag tighter. “Wha-what do you guys want?”
“I think you know what we want,” the lead man growled, stepping up along with his group of ten or fifteen boys.
“I-I’m not giving you my money!” Remy stomped his foot.
“Oh really?” The leader laughed loudly. “What are you gonna do? Fight us?” The rest of the boys chuckled along with their leader.
“Well, no,” Remy admitted. “But this time, I have friends.” You stepped out from around a corner.
The goons glanced around at one another before bursting out in short, loud, ugly guffaws. “I’m sorry?” The leader snickered out, “A girl is gonna beat us up?”
“I’m going to ignore your misogynistic comment, even though you probably don’t know what that word means, and even though I could kick your ass, just to scare you into never coming near Remy again, I brought my boyfriend. You may know him as the King of Brooklyn?”
Spot, along with his cavalry of newsies appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Spot snaked an arm around your waist and pulled you close. “Where you messin’ with my doll?” He asked, knowing whichever way they answered, he was gonna soak either way.
“You looking for a fight?” The leader bit back.
Spot shrugged, smirking. “Maybe. But I’ll let you off if you don’t come near my newsies again.”
One of the cronies grabbed the leader and whispered something harsh to him. The leader scoffed, but said, “Fine. We won’t bother your pathetic newsies again.”
“And my girl?” Spot’s thumb drew circles on your waist.
“Never said anything about her,” the leader smiled tauntingly.
You glanced at Spot to see the muscles in his jaw tighten. “Don’t,” you whisper to him.
“Doll,” Spot drawled, swinging a look down at you, grinning brilliantly. “I have to.” And with that, Spot stepped forward and punched the leader across the jaw. The newsies cheered and rushed forward, intent on standing up for one of their own. The bullies quickly ran away after a few hits. You took Spot’s hand in yours and thumbed the split knuckles. Before you could chide him however, Spot simply said, “You know I love you.”
“Yeah,” you smiled and kissed his cheek. “I do.”
#spot conlon#spot conlon imagine#spot conlon oneshot#spot#spot conlon x reader#Newsies#newsboys#newsie#newsies musical#new york#brooklyn#brooklyn boys#brooklyn’s hereeeee#oc male characters#fluff#angst#fist fight#kinda
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꒰✧ᯇ✦꒱ OUTLAWS OF SANTA FE
ᯇ summary ! ✦
“You know what they say about cowboys who brag too loud about their women.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose.
Jack gave a mock laugh. “Anyone in town would tell you I’m not queer. ‘Specially the ladies who pass through. Who do you think you are, anyway?”
As the boy pushed his hat out of his face, he made direct eye-contact with the outlaw. "I think I'm the fella that can send the ‘famous’ Jack Kelly home crying to his mama." Jack was silent, stunned. His finger was still pressed into the man’s chest, but it had begun to shake. "What now, Cowboy? I'd tell you to take me down like you promised," Deadwood gave a slight shove to Jack’s shoulder, yet he found himself almost toppling over. "But you're too corned to even stand straight."
aka the wild westsies au i've had in my drafts forever
ᯇ tag list ! ✦
@bound-for-santa-fe ,, @fandomtrashcollector (taglist form is in my pinned post!!)
ᯇ warnings ! ✦
cussing, alcohol consumption, violence, use of guns
ᯇ vienna's thoughts ! ✦
here are the meanings of the wild west slang words in here:)
paintin' his nose - to get drunk
corned - drunk
fogy - a stupid fellow
dynamite - whiskey
ANYWAY, i've had this in my drafts for forever and i just wanted to finally finish is so sorry that the ending is really rushed el oh el. also i recommend listening to Billy the Kid by Tex Ritter before reading!! as always, reblogs & comments are always appreciated <333
ALSO READ IT ON AO3
THE PLAYLIST
2883 WORDS
© 2023 , 𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲
WANTED
Jack ‘Cowboy’ Kelly
$1,000.000 REWARD
Wanted for robbery, murder, and disruption of the public. Does not attack without motive. Contact Sheriff Charles Morris of Santa Fe, New Mexico.
WANTED
The Delancey Brothers
$500.000 REWARD
Oscar and Morris Delancey are wanted for robbery and attempted murder. Contact Sheriff Charles Morris of Santa Fe, New Mexico.
WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
Deadwood David
$5,000.000 REWARD
Wanted for robbery and murder, on a large scale. Does not attack without motive. Contact Sheriff Charles Morris of Santa Fe, New Mexico.
A proud cowboy listened to the chatter of customers outside of Spots Shootin' Saddle Saloon. A cocky smirk played at his lips as he pushed through swinging doors. He heard gasps and the sound of multiple pistols being dragged from his holster. Then, the saloon went silent—save for the high-pitched squeak of wet glass being towel dried.
The bartender didn't even spare him a glance. "Well, well. If it ain’t the famous Jack Kelly."
“I could say the same to you, Spot. Lookit you, got yer own saloon and everything.”
One of the saloon boys perked up. "Jack!” The boy gave a half-hearted excuse to the men he was serving, he made up for his departure with a wink. He eagerly made his way behind the bar and began fixing the ex-cowboy a drink. "What brings you into town?"
Jack gratefully took the drink with a tip of his hat. “You’re a good man, Race.” He downed the drink before addressing the question before him. "Can't a lonely cowboy just visit his old friends?"
"Why, sure he could!” Racetrack grinned, already refilling his glass.
“That is, if that's what he was really doing." Spot added quickly. “Besides, can’t really be calling yourself a cowboy anymore. Not when a wanted poster names you an outlaw.”
“I can call myself whatever I please.” The cowboy realized it was a fight not worth fighting. He waved him off and dragged the newly poured whiskey closer. "Howd’ya know it was me?”
Spot laughed. "What, when you walked in? Yer the only fella I know who quiets my saloon like that.”
Racetrack leaned forward against the counter; his arm wrapped lovingly around Spot’s waist. He rested his head in his own hand, his elbow digging into marble, and gave Jack a pointed look. "Not anymore. Say, Jack; you heard of that David feller, yet? He paid us a visit couple’a days ago. Shoot, we didn’t hear much noise in here ‘till the next day!”
Jack's fingers squeezed his glass, before they relaxed and stretched. "Yeah, I've heard of him. Fill 'er up again, would'ya?"
Spot took the glass and kept his gaze on the outlaw whilst he poured the whiskey. He placed it in front of the boy with a thump, then glared at him through narrowed eyes. "What are you really here for, cowboy?"
"Just paintin’ my nose, Spot." Jack pushed away from the bar, drink in hand. He sat down with a boy who was lazily pulling at the strings of his guitar. “Tell me a story, Al."
The boy responded with a toothy grin, then tipped his hat up and out of his eyes. He slowly looked up and made eye contact with the outlaw. “Long time no see, Jackie." He plucked at his guitar more rhythmically than before. "What'cha wanna hear?"
"Why don’t you tell that one about ole Billy the Kid?”
"Only because you're an old friend." Albert chuckled. He took a deep breath before he put on his story-telling voice. His demeanor demanded the attention of those around him, and he always got it when he was performing. "Some folks do a lot of good in the world, that encourages us to do good. A few people start off on the wrong foot - their black deeds serve as a warning post to us. The song I'm gonna to sing for you now, fellers, is about a boy who sorta wandered off the straight and narrow trail, took up a crooked course. As usual with all outlaws, he paid with his life. His name,” a pause, “was Billy the Kid."
His singing was mesmerizing, just like his stories, and everyone in the saloon slowly began to sing along. Some of them absentmindedly hummed along as they gambled, and others gave the man their full attention. They swayed merrily back and forth with each other, their glasses raised to the gods as they hooted and hollered.
"I'll sing you a true song of Billy the Kid.
I'll sing of the desperate deeds that he did.
Out in New Mexico, long time ago,
When a man's only chance was his own forty-four."
While everyone sang along, a boy slipped in through the doors, entirely unnoticed. He whispered to Spot and kept his head hung low. Had he made any noise, it had been covered up by obnoxious singing. The boy pushed a couple of coins across the counter before he slumped farther into his hat.
"When Billy the Kid was a very young lad,
In old Silver City, he went to the bad.
Way out in the West with a gun in his hand-
At the age of twelve years, he killed his first man."
Racetrack wanted to tell Jack about the man at the bar, but Spot had instructed him to keep quiet. He had been told to loosen the outlaw up, and he did just that. Race kept a close eye on Jack’s drink and made sure he never reached the bottom of his glass.
"Fair Mexican maidens play guitars and sing
A song about Billy, their boy bandit king.
How ere his young man-hood had reached it's sad end,
Had a notch on his pistol for twenty-one men."
To say the drinks had loosened him up would be an understatement. Jack pranced around the table—dragging Racetrack along with him—with his glass raised. The whiskey sloshed over the side and splashed his boots. He jumped atop the tables and managed to gain the attention of all the customers. It wasn’t long before everyone was shouting and throwing their drinks into the air.
"Twas on the same night, when poor Billy died,
He said to his friends, 'I'm not satisfied,
Twenty-one men I have put bullets through.
Sheriff Pat Garrett must make twenty-two."
Jack tried to sing along, but his mouth had other plans. He rambled to Albert, who just smiled as he sang, about his recent affairs. “I could take down the sheriff!” He bragged. “No! I could take down big ol’ Deadwood David… with my eyes closed!” Al shook his head and his eyes flitted quickly to the man at the bar.
"Now this is how Billy the Kid met his fate.
The bright moon was shining, the hour was late.
Shot down by Pat Garrett, who once was his friend.
The young outlaw's life had now come to its end."
“Don’t make promises ya can’t keep, Kelly.” Spot warned with a sigh. Racetrack cocked an eyebrow from his place next to Jack. He raised the pitcher in question, and moved away from the table when Spot shook his head. The cowboy waved off Spot’s warning as the bartender whispered lowly to his customer.
"There's many a man with a face fine and fair,
Who starts out in life with a chance to be square.
But just like poor Billy, he wanders astray
And loses his life in the very same way."
Everyone cheered in unison for the song; although, some might’ve been cheering for their gambling wins. Albert smiled and tipped his hat before he went back to strumming mindlessly at his guitar. A small grin made its way onto his face as Jack drunkenly droned on.
"D’ya hear Spot? Talkin’ bout promises I can't keep!" He scoffed; a drunk burp made its way up his throat. "I mean- Listen, I've got way more kills under my belt than Billy the Kid had got." Jack took a sip of his glass. Race had been filling it with coffee, but he was much too drunk to notice. “He would’ve never died if he was as experienced as me. Besides, this Deadwood guy’s a total poser. I betcha I could take him on with my-” He looked confused for a second. “With my- my eyes closed!”
“So you’ve said.” Albert shook his head and chuckled. "Anyhow… the song ain’t a challenge, Cowboy. It's a warning. Don’t mess with something that ain’t botherin’ you.”
"You’re starting to sound like my Papaw, Al.” Jack bumped Albert’s shoulder with his cup. “He don’t look good on you. Oh! You know who looked good on me, though? Them gals over in Tombstone.”
"Yeah?"
"Yeah!" He slurred. "I mean, practically a different girl each night. Gorgeous women too. Unlike any lady out in these parts."
An obnoxious scoff came from the boy at the bar. He circled his finger around the rim of his glass as he spoke, his head still down. “I sure ain’t heard any Tombstone ladies bragging on about pirooting with a Jack Kelly.”
All conversation ceased at the boy’s words. The notes on Albert’s guitar suddenly became more dramatic, and Jack would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so offended. Spot let out an exasperated sigh, but the rest of the customers were visibly tense. Every man had a hand on his gun, waiting for a showdown.
Jack turned and stared the boy down. "Maybe you ain't talked to the right ladies.”
"Maybe you just ain’t worth bragging about.” The boy took a sip of his drink. Racetrack let out a short giggle, then nervously ducked under the counter to make a drink that nobody had asked for. “Or, maybe, you ain’t really been with as many ladies as you claim.”
Disgruntled, Jack got up and made his way to the bar. The boy laughed as the outlaw tripped a little over his own feet. Jack grabbed the man by a shoulder and forced him to spin in his chair. He shoved a mean finger into the man’s chest. The man at the bar snickered, his face still covered by his hat.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Huh?”
“You know what they say about cowboys who brag too loud about their women.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose.
Jack gave a mock laugh. “Anyone in town would tell you I’m not queer. ‘Specially the ladies who pass through. Who do you think you are, anyway?”
As the boy pushed his hat out of his face, he made direct eye-contact with the outlaw. "I think I'm the fella that can send the ‘famous’ Jack Kelly home crying to his mama." Jack was silent, stunned. His finger was still pressed into the man’s chest, but it had begun to shake. "What now, Cowboy? I'd tell you to take me down like you promised," Deadwood gave a slight shove to Jack’s shoulder, yet he found himself almost toppling over. "But you're too corned to even stand straight."
Spot cleared his throat. “I won’t have you dunderheads havin’ a showdown in my saloon. Be respectable, boys.”
“There wasn’t gonna be no showdown, anyhow. This feller’s too drunk to do anything. He couldn’t shoot at me even if he had his pistol to my head.” Deadwood flicked a coin to Spot. “Thanks for the dynamite, Spot.” And with that, he proudly walked out of the saloon.
Jack watched the man leave and stood tall with fake pride. After the man was gone, he made a drunken attempt to sit down but instead accepted his place on the floor. Racetrack sighed and raised the outlaw by his armpits before sitting him on a barstool. Spot scoffed as he handed the outlaw a glass of water. “I told you not to make promises you can’t keep, you stubborn ole fogy.”
"I'm fixin' to keep that promise. But right now,” He started to gag, “I think I'm gonna be sick."
“Steady, Izar.” Jack mumbled. “Ain’t too far from here.” His horse neighed, almost as if she was responding to him. She even sighed as he stumbled into her. Jack could almost hear her complain about his recklessness. “I ain’t that drunk, Izar. Honest.”
He led her into the stable behind the Conlon home. “Spot was kind ‘nough to give us a nice little place to stay in for the night.” Jack looked around the stable and flinched at the smell of manure. “Well, he offered to let me stay in the house. But ya know I can’t leave you, mama.”
“Second I heard about you, Jack Kelly, I knew you were insane.” A voice muttered from the corner. “But I never would’a figured you was the type of insane to talk to yourself.”
Jack groaned. “Fuckin’ Spot. He knew you’d be here. Ain’t that right, Deadwood?”
“Yup.”
A tense silence fell over them, but Jack was far too tired (and drunk) to start a fight. He began to take off Izar’s saddle. “I wasn’t talkin’ to myself. I was talking to Izar.” He explained and gestured to his horse. Though, as Deadwood laughed, he realized that wasn’t a much better excuse. “Listen, I don’t feel the need to explain myself to you.”
“Yet here you are. Doing it.” Deadwood snorted as he pulled his hat further over his face. The hay he was laying in enveloped him as he snuggled deeper into it. “Now, I promise not to kill ya if ya promise to shut up.”
Jack grunted in agreement. His intuition screamed at him not to let his guard down, but Izar had already nestled herself into the hay. At that moment, he figured his awful gut feeling was just the whiskey from earlier. Besides, Izar had a good judge of character, most of the time. She curled around Jack as he rested against her, and the two slowly drifted off to sleep, just inches away from one of the deadliest men in the country.
Yelling voices and the sound of cracked wood startled Jack awake. Once he came to his senses, he realized that Izar was no longer behind him. Panic filled his chest and he scrambled to his feet. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to barely make out what was happening in the shadows.
Deadwood had a lanky boy pinned beneath him, his pistol to the person’s head. Another boy laid up against the wall of the barn; he was surrounded by splinters and his own blood. His head lolled against his shoulder, the blood from his nose pooled on his leather vest. The boy had a gun in his hand, the safety off and his hand on the trigger.
David lifted the boy underneath him by the collar of his shirt and shoved him against the wall. “I knew you were pathetic, Morris. But going so low as to kill a man in his sleep? We may be outlaws, but we have some sense of morality.” His hand in the Delancey brothers’ shirt tightened as he pushed the boy farther into the wall; Jack could hear the wood cracking beneath him. “And you don’t kill a man’s horse. Not unless you’re too much of a pussy to kill the owner.” Then, he dropped the man to the floor and spit at him.
Morris used a dramatic hand to wipe off his face before he scrambled to his feet. His hands shook as he moved to grab his pistol. “You place a single finger on that gun, and I will break every single one of your fingers-” Deadwood growled and grabbed the boy’s wrist. “One. By. One.”
After he let go of Morris’ wrist, the boy tripped over himself as he picked up his brother. Oscar barely seemed alive; his only sign of life had been the elongated groan he let out as Morris lifted him. David stopped the two before they could hurry out the door. “You two better never point a pistol at my Cowboy or his horse ever again. Next time, you don’t get a warning. I’ll line you two up and watch the bullets go straight through both of you.”
The two hesitantly nodded (Oscar moved his head down, and that was enough for David). Morris dragged his brother out the door, and it wasn’t long before the sound of galloping hoofs grew quieter and quieter.
“What the hell was that about?” Jack demanded. Deadwood rolled his eyes and led Izar out from behind his own horse.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Cowboy. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re losin’ it if you think I’m gonna let this shit go,” Jack argued as he moved to pet Izar’s neck. “They got you riled up enough to call me your cowboy.” He scoffed. “And you called me queer.”
David cocked his pistol in retaliation. “I defended you while you’s was asleep, but I’m not against shooting a man who’s awake.”
Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry, Deadwood. I won’t tell no-one ‘bout this. It wouldn’t be good for my reputation, anyhow. Cowboy don’t need no-one to save him.” He closed his eyes, an amused grin on his lips, and went back to resting against Izar.
The infamous outlaw stared at him, before he broke into laughter. “Spot was right. You are a stubborn ole fogy.”
#okay#hope you guys enjoy my pride and joy LMAOOO#this au is my child#newsies#livesies#jack kelly#david jacobs#racetrack higgins#spot conlon#wild westsies#92sies#cowboy jack kelly#cowboy david jacbos#˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ newsies // oneshots ❥#˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ newsies // wild westies ❥#also this is me announcing that there will be a full length fic based around this au#guys im so nervous posting this#ive worked on this for months years decades#my heart is fr racing#also sorry if the delancey brothers are inaccurate#i've never written them before
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LGBTQ+ Newsies Headcanons
Jack—He/Him, cis, bisexual, dating Davey
Davey—He/They, AMAB demiboy, gay, demisexual, dating Jack
Katherine—She/They, AFAB demigirl, bisexual, dating Sarah
Sarah—She/Her, cis, lesbian asexual, dating Katherine
Race—He/They, trans ftm, pansexual, dating Spot
Spot—He/Him, cis male, bisexual, aroflux, dating Race
Crutchie—they/them, non-binary, aro-ace, not dating
Elmer—they/he/it, genderfaun, panromantic ace, dating Albert
Albert—they/he, transmasc, gay, dating Elmer
I WILL DO A PART 2 IF WANTED!
#newsies#jack kelly#au#davey jacobs#headcanon#david jacobs#headcanons#oneshot#livesies#ships#albert dasilva#Elmer newsies#racetrack higgins#spot conlon#katherine plumber#sarah jacobs#crutchie
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fanfic recs !!
hai !! i have over 300+ fanfics/ oneshots n i need to sort them :3 (update i give up)
HARRY POTTER UNIVERSE
mattheo riddle:
sleeping after an argument: by vipwinnie
fu in my head: by pizzaapeteer
chicken noodle soup: by azrielscrown
we are done: by slytherinslut0
willow: by wordsarelife
the way i loved you: by writesleah
you are in love: by ashley-is-tired-af
peace by vengeance: by duchesstypewriter
opposite: by avalynlestrange
muggle mixtape: by writersblockedx
draco malfoy:
not in the mood: by in-my-shifting-era
little miss perfect: by givemequeen
lorenzo berkshire:
in a world full of men, he's a gentleman: by ghostfacd
like nobody else: by heliads
king of my heart: by starstruckmoony
DEADLY CLASS
marcus lopez:
fate: by lilyswriting
DEVON BOSTICK CHARACTERS
rodrick heffley:
sitting on his lap whilst with the band: by turvi
goldmine: by queerpumpkinnn
NEWSIES 92
spot conlon:
silence.: by justasimphere
that stupid smirk :by cant-see-sam
friendly rivalry: by cant-see-sam
to grieve: by beeposstuff
a greaser's girl: by demipuff17
CREEPYPASTA/ MARBLE HORNETS
toby rogers:
meeting toby for the first time: by d0gr0t
#slytherin boys x reader#devon bostick x reader#lorenzo berkshire x reader#creepypasta x reader#creepypasta#slenderverse#marble hornets#ticci toby#fanfic reccomendation#fanfic masterlist
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come with me- Crutchie
(Note: I know, I’ve already written like three oneshots that are just letters from Crutchie, but I absolutely adore his character and letters are one of the best forms of expression in my opinion- it’s just something about someone’s heart poured out onto a page that inspires me. This is in a world where Jack moved to Santa Fe after the strike, leaving Crutchie and the others behind. Enjoy!)
Dear Jack,
It’s been a while hasn’t it? Almost ten years now, if I remember right… damn, it’s almost surreal to think of all the time that’s passed since I last saw your face. We miss you, all of us do, Racer and Dave and hell, even Spot Conlon. Santa Fe’s a long way away.
I guess you really had to go away, though. It was a long time coming, I’m sure- you’ve been dreaming of the plains and desert of New Mexico since we were ten. Right now, I’d guess that you’re settled somewhere outside, sketching the landscape with a broken charcoal pencil and a scrap of stolen paper as the world flies by you, your heart full of happiness and relief.
No more talking about that, though. I need to ask you something, something that’s been eating at me since the moment we said our goodbyes. I’m sitting in Miss Medda’s theater, where you used to paint sets for her, because I can’t keep wondering any longer.
Do you miss us?
Do you miss the days when you were free, when all the responsibility you had was to survive until your next meal? Do you miss the fights, the jokes, the laughter and the tears, all experienced under the roof that nurtured the man you are today? Do you miss us newsies and everything we went through together?
What about Katherine? Do you think of her often, that girl with the fiery red hair and a way with words that would make Shakespeare tear up with awe? Do you miss the days you spent reminiscing about that first kiss up on the rooftop, the fit of passion and anger that made you fall in love for the very first time?
Davey- that beautiful boy, shaking like a leaf when you first met him, growing into the bravest and most dedicated leader Manhattan had ever seen- do you still love him? He never moved on after you, Jack. He’s got a job with the Journal, editing articles and making enough to support his family now. He’s got enough money to have a nice house in the suburbs, a wife, and a litter of youngins, but I think he’s holding onto the hope that you’ll come back.
We all are, if I’m honest. It’s been different around here without you.
You’d be proud, if only you were here to see how well we’ve done. Race made it big betting at the races and now he and Spot have got this little business opened together, living off of the winnings plus the profits. Specs has got himself a job working on a steamboat and now he’s seeing the world, and JoJo’s a pastor now, preaching every Sunday. You wouldn’t hardly recognize us, I don’t think- we’ve all grown so much, so far past the scared little kids we used to be.
Sometimes I wonder if you ever changed that much.
I have to go now. If you ever get this letter, please respond. I’d love to know that you’re okay, that Santa Fe was just as beautiful as you thought it would be, that you’ve got a lass and a good sum of cash in your pocket. If you haven’t already forgotten us, please write back. I miss you.
Your brother,
Crutchie
#newsies#newsies musical#jack kelly#crutchie#crutchie morris#crutchie newsies#jack newsies#letters from crutchie hooray#newsies 1992#livesies#92sies#1992sies#newsies uk#uksies
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Newsies Rewritten Intro
Howdy! I’m Flintt (Any/All) and this is my Newsies Rewritten AU where I combine aspects of the 1992 movie, broadway newsies, west end newsies, and the book!
This is a passion project because I love getting nitpicky and in-depth with my works. This AU allows me to expand and make Newsies even more fun for me!
Newsies Rewritten is open for collaboration, which means you can send in asks to add headcanons to individual newsies and/or events to the plot!
I plan on posting the structure of each borough and a list of each newsie from each borough with their personalities and notabilities.
At the end of the day, this is purely for fun and to make connections!
Here’s a guide to all of tags:
Each tag will begin with newsies rewritten! Characters will be split by borough and if they’re an adult or newsie.
Spot Conlon - #newsies rewritten brooklyn, #newsies rewritten newsies
All oneshots, chapters, etc will be tagged with #newsies rewritten entry
All headcanons, analysis, etc, will be tagged by #newsies rewritten writing
All asks and collabs will be tagged with #newsies rewritten newspaper collumns
Sorry if it gets confusing, trying to keep it organized!
#newsies#newsies the musical#newsies musical#newsies the broadway musical#broadway newsies#newsies on broadway#livesies#broadwaysies#west end newsies#west endsies#newsies the movie#newsies movie#newsies 1992#1992sies#newsies book#booksies#newsies rewritten#newsies rewrite#newsies rewrite au#newsies rewritten boroughs#newsies rewritten manhattan#newsies rewritten queens#newsies rewritten staten island#newsies rewritten brooklyn#newsies rewritten bronx#newsies rewritten characters#newsies rewritten newsies#newsies rewritten adultsies#newsies rewritten writing#newsies rewritten entry
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Newsies Fanfics
Here is where you will find all of my Sprace Fanfics (short summary for the series') I will update this as I go
Sprace
New York at Hogwarts (on Ao3)
Its in the name tbh just Sprace at Hogwarts
The Best Brothers Aren't Blood Related (In progress, will be updated as I write)
A Different storyline.
All parts on ao3
Summary: Spot and Race dated for four months before it fizzled out... and now Manhattan is starting a strike
A Sweet Little Symphony all parts on Ao3
Summary: August 8th, 4:30. The exact moment in time Sean 'Spot' Conlon was shot. Now he's caught somewhere in between life and death, but the choice is his whether he stays or goes.
Shared Dorm Syndrome
Spot Conlon and Race Higgins are both roommates at the same college. All parts on Ao3, in progress, updated st least every Sunday.
Neighboring Graves
Race is chatting with Albert when he gets the news...
Newsbians
Cherries and Cigars
Oneshot of Sarah and Katherine talking about their day after work
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thoughts of summer
by, etherealbumblebee
by etherealbumblebee
Summer had always reminded her of Sarah.
Words: 313, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Newsies - All Media Types
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: F/F
Characters: Spot Conlon, Sarah Jacobs (Newsies)
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Sarah Jacobs
Additional Tags: Female Spot Conlon, Summer, Short & Sweet, i wrote this because I am slowly becoming spot/sarah trash, into the garbage can I go, uksies spot my beloved, forgive me for how painfully short this oneshot is, but it’s still cute, Adorable
read : https://ift.tt/PC3Np7k - February 22, 2024 at 01:23PM
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guys just-
Albert, Race, and Spot on facetime calls, Albert and Race on Albert's phone, Spot on his, Albert and Spot staying up long into the night whispering long after Race has fallen asleep.
#spralbert#spot conlon#racetrack higgins#albert dasilva#newsies#guys my writers block is over after 4 months#look forward to a new spralbert oneshot sometime this week
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With or Without You
A/N: listen, I think the Newsies let Jack back in and forgave him way too easily. He should’ve worked for it, just because I love the angst of it all. So, I wanted to combine the Jack/Davey confrontation from the 92 movie and the betrayal from the broadway, because I love them both but needed more from both of them. I’ll make the angst myself >:)
It’s not entirely true to film, honestly I’ve kind forgotten how the broadway betrayal went at this point, but it’s a ~re-imagining~ so that’s fine.
With his back to the roaring crowd, Davey has half a mind to run away. This isn’t his fight—he’s not a real newsie. He only just joined them a week ago, maybe less or maybe more. He hasn’t been keeping track. The thrill of the strike and the rush of Jack’s friendship has made the days blur together and blend until it’s nothing but strike, sleep, strike, sleep.
But Davey knows, despite his greatest fear of it, that the newsies are his boys now. Leading them away from this madness is his job and nobody else’s. But it’s hard to think about consoling them, about hugging the small ones and helping Race keep Albert from running rampant through the streets, when Jack Kelly stands opposite him with the saddest eyes.
Jack Kelly, with a stack of money clutched tight to his chest. Jack Kelly, with his feet cemented to the ground and his eyes stuck on Davey’s. Jack Kelly, the one who betrayed them.
Behind him, he knows Spot and Race are by his side, eager to see what happens. Though, he imagines Race doesn’t want to deal with this in any way. Probably wants to dream it away, to wake up with a harsh slap and be told that Jack’s only joking. He wouldn’t sell them out like that.
“Jack,” Davey says, and his voice feels so frail even to his own ears. But his words still the crowd, a hush of anticipation and fear crawling up everyone’s neck.
What happens when you pit the two leaders of the strike against each other?
Jack looks away, ashamed but stubborn. “Davey, I—”
“Shut up.” Davey’s never sounded so harsh before. “Suddenly you’re a...what? You’re a sell out now, Jack?”
Taking a step forward, Jack says, “Davey, you don’t get it. We can’t--this strike won’t work. Pulitzer’ll only keep pushin’ the price of papes no matter what we do.”
Davey doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want to get any closer to the traitor, but he takes a step forward of his own, arms spread to protect Race and Spot and Les behind him.
“I put my family on the line for this strike,” says Davey with a tone of tired heat, like the thought of a fight is worse than the real one. “For you. I believed in you Jack. And--and look where that got me. Look where that got all of us.”
He doesn’t have to look at the crowd of newsies to let them know he’s talking about them. Everyone single one of them put their lives on the line to follow behind Jack and his speeches, his dreams, his revolutionary acts, only for this to be the outcome.
Without him, this strike wouldn’t be in place. Nothing would have come from this--not a single movement, not a single change. And they’ve been making such good progress. One step forward is better than none. Davey thought Jack knew that.
Davey continues, feeling as his cheeks flare with growing anger. “You knew this strike wouldn’t be easy. I told you it would be hard, that it might not seem like we’re winning but...dammit, Jack, we were winning! We’ve got Brooklyn behind us, that’s all we needed to make the difference. And you blew it.”
Jack reaches out a hand, fingers shaking as he hesitates to touch Davey. He fears they may both explode if they make contact.
“Davey,” Jack whispers, collapsing in on himself. Standing beneath the theater lights, surrounded by all the boys he has lived and loved with, some he even raised himself, and feeling their shame and disappointment makes him want to vomit. “Please.”
Davey bats Jack’s hand away, eyes hardening even as tears begin to pool on his lashes. “You know what, Jack? We don’t need you.”
“What?”
Turning his head to face the crowd, silent and still, awaiting orders or watching for the first sign of a fight. But who, in the end, will they protect? Davey, their newfound friend, or Jack, their backstabbing brother?
Davey fights off the tears. He has to look strong now if he wants to lead the newsies to victory. With or without Jack, they will win this strike. No one will be lost for nothing, Davey can promise that.
“We don’t need you,” Davey repeats. His voice is louder this time, stronger, much more like steel. “This strike continues without you, Jack. And we’ll win it without you. You may have started this, but I’ll end it. Me, Race, Spot--it’s our strike now. We don’t need sellouts.”
Turning on his heel, Davey makes to join the others again. He aches to hug Les, to promise him it’ll be alright. He wants to sit down with Race and just...grieve. He wants to make sure Spot is still going to stand by his side after what happened tonight. He needs to make sure everyone else is alright, is going to be alright, and that people can all cope.
A hand on his shoulder makes his freeze. It’s Jack--nobody else would touch him right here, right now. Davey can see Race step forward, shielding Les with his body. He can see Spot squaring his shoulders, ready to go at a moments notice.
But this is Davey’s time, and he isn’t aware he’s doing it until it happens.
Davey spins and punches Jack in the face. His old friend hunches, hand on his cheek, forced back more from surprise than anything. Nobody was expecting that.
Davey holds his fist to his chest, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knuckles. His punches aren’t any good, his form is shit and he knows it, but damn did it feel good to punch Jack. It felt as good as it did bad.
Around him, the theater erupts into chaos.
Race rushes forward with Spot at his side, pulling Davey back while propelling themselves forward. They get to Jack first, pushing him away from center stage. No punches are thrown, though it’s obvious Spot is holding himself back. In truth, nobody wants to hurt Jack as much as they may feel the need to. Violence to push an outsider out is their defense, but...can Jack be considered and outsider?
Davey watches, numb, as Jack disappears from view in a mob of angry newsies. Les stands by his side, fingers clutching at Davey’s pant leg. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, and they both know it.
“I’m sorry, Les,” Davey says, eyes still trained on the back of the mob.
Les shakes his head, voice trembling as he says, “I didn’t think he’d do it.”
Neither did I, he wants to say, but the more Davey thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Something about it feels right. Being betrayed like this, by the man who’s too stubborn and too scared push through with a dream. By the man who used to sit with Davey on the fire escape and tell him of all their plans to take down Pulitzer once and for all.
When Race and Spot return empty handed but surrounded by their gaggle of loyal boys, Davey knows it’s his turn to become the leader, whether he likes it or not.
“This strike isn’t over,” he calls out to them. “With or without Jack, we’ll win this. I promise.”
#newsies#92sies#davey jacobs#jack kelly#racetrack higgins#spot conlon#katherine pulitzer#crutchie#Javid#broadway newsies#davey x jack#Ravey#Spavid#Spavey#angst#Davey's just trying his best#i love davey jacobs#i love davey#javid one-shot#oneshot#newsies fic#javid fic
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hello! i was wondering if you could possibly do a spot conlon x reader where they're really good friends but she sees him getting a little chummy with another girl (but its only bc he wants to sell a pape but she doesnt know that) and so she becomes a little distant and when he confronts her, feelings come out and all
spot conlon is my boy my man my idol
masterlist
This is the part where it all breaks down.
This, right here, watching him talk to her, is where all of your carefully tied ends come undone, where your quiet afterthoughts revert back into raging storms. You had been doing so well up until now. You had been happy, if not blissful than certainly a meager sort of content, and then you had seen it.
This is also not where all of this begins. You are starting in the middle, finding the center of the storm, the worst destruction of your life. This is not where it starts, even if it feels like it all might end right here, right now. There is more before this, and before you can stop yourself, you pull it back to you.
There is a moment of spinning through time, and then your memories conjure up the perfect image of how it had all been. It is rare for girls in Brooklyn to survive by themselves on the streets for as long as you have, even more rare for them to seek a job amongst the masses of the newsies. You did both, and you did so quite admirably.
You can picture the memory just before it flashes before your eyes. He emerges out of gray haze and swirling inconsistency, walking briskly down a cobblestoned street that forms before your troubled gaze. Red shirt, bright as blood. Sharp grin, terrible as a knife. How he’d welcomed you with open arms.
It is unusual to look at a stranger and know immediately how much they’ll mean to you, but you’d swear a thousand times that you felt that sort of strength with Spot Conlon the second you laid eyes on him. You had heard scores of rumors about the brutal leader of the Brooklyn newsies, enough of his soaking kids for nothing but crossing his path to doubt even your own powers of persuasion.
When you’d tracked him down all those years ago, though, Spot hadn’t greeted you with fists but a smile. He admired your persistence, your unwillingness to take no for an answer. You’d told him outright that you would be working with the Brooklyn newsies before he could so much as ask for your name, and that was that.
Normally, Spot would never take that sort of insolence, but he must have felt something of the same strange familiarity as you did, because he just laughed like a drowning man and handed you the very cap off of his head as a job offer. He’d told you to never talk to him like that again, of course, but both of you knew he didn’t mean it.
The happiest time of your life had started there, with that laugh. Dark curls falling into dark eyes, a hand extended towards the newsies’ Lodging House and a declaration that it would be your home so long as you’d not get bored of it. You knew enough to tell him that you’d never tire of it, and Spot had said that he’d hold you to that promise. You have yet to break it.
It is something entirely different to find your best friend. It creeps up on you slowly, most of the time, a bond that weaves itself in the dead of night, not letting itself be known until you wake up at midnight and realize that you are not alone and never will be.
It was like that with Spot, despite your strong starting point. You blinked once and he was trusting you unconsciously to watch his back during a fight. His colors were your colors without question, and you could not shake free from him if you tried. You don’t know that you ever will, no matter how much it hurts right now.
The problem with such a quick friendship with Spot is that you never stopped trying to get closer to him. It wasn’t enough to merely own the title of being his best friend, you wanted to defend it, to get to a higher rank within his heart. Soon enough, that meant you started loving him, and that was your first and most treacherous mistake.
Spot Conlon is not capable of this sort of love. He had told you so himself, one dark night when the two of you had stolen drinks from a closing bar and taken them up to the roof of the lodging house. Both of you were past the point of no return when Spot had turned to you with a graver look than a dead man and told you that he would never, could never love. It was not in his nature, or so he claimed. He could never afford it to be in his character to love.
You had thought that it might have been an apology, if he had used his knack for always knowing what was on your mind long enough to realize what sorts of thoughts were forming there. Was he warning you off, when Spot said that he couldn’t afford a single weakness, not even if he wanted one? Or was he just taking care of loose ends?
You suppose you’ll never know. He’s proven himself wrong now. This is the sight that breaks you, after all, when you are dragged back to the present day and find that not a single circumstance has changed. You had been selling papes, and turned a corner to find Spot all but hanging off of a pretty girl from down the block.
The worst part is that it isn’t just a momentary lapse. Spot has been getting closer and closer to this girl all week, you’ve seen it happening. Today is the worst offense, though, and you watch as his hand rises to carefully brush a curl away from her face from where it’s fallen down from her updo. He leaves his fingers there, coiled against her collarbone, and the smile on his face is nothing like you’ve ever seen before.
Spot Conlon has never lied to you, so long as he could help it. Spot Conlon has just lied to you now, because you knew what he said when he told you he could never fall in love, and you’ve just seen that contradicted before your eyes. This is love in every form of the word. You can see the truth of it whipping around the two of them, drawing them to each other. It could never be anything else but love.
You turn hurriedly and head back the way you’ve come, but no matter how far or fast you walk, you can still see the sight of it burned into the back of your mind. Perhaps Spot should have tacked on an addendum to his declaration on that drunken night: he could most certainly love, he just could never love you.
The agony of it dogs your steps, pulling you down the longer you live with the truth. You manage to sell the last of the day’s papers despite the fact that you feel as if you couldn’t force a smile if you tried. Maybe your misery makes the disasters of the headlines all the more credible, forcing coins into your palms despite your lack of enthusiasm, or maybe the city wants to be rid of you and would send any customer into your path so long as it would let you leave faster.
Regardless, you make your way back to the lodging house at last, the setting sun at your back. The lights are already on inside, and the shouts of the other boys hit you like a brick wall the second you slip inside the door. Despite the camaraderie of seeing your fellow friends, you can’t convince yourself to join in their jokes, so you head upstairs without another word.
There’s another reason to confine yourself to sleep earlier than normal, too. Usually, you would wait for Spot to return so the two of you could debrief on the day’s sales, but you don’t think you could face him without seeing that girl tucked around him. Spot comes by the bunks later that night, and you hear him pause by your bed, but you refuse to open your eyes and he ends up slipping away once more.
You had hoped that the day’s miseries would lessen with the dawn, but time heals few wounds, and least of all yours. A new morning only brings a new wave of resentment towards you, for falling in love with the one boy who would never have you, and bitterness towards Spot, for being so perfect in all ways bar one.
It takes everything in you to just wave a quick greeting to Spot across the crowded room when he locks eyes with you, and talking to him outright is out of the question. You hurry off to buy the morning’s papes before he can track you down, and spend the rest of the day trying to avoid all of his usual selling places.
It hurts to be without him. Spot’s absence cuts like a blade, but even that torture is nothing compared to thinking of how delighted he had been when curled around the girl from earlier. Besides, he couldn’t be missing you, he’s got her to keep him company. The only one currently suffering is you.
That’s what you intend to believe, at least, but you only manage to go about a week before Spot takes matters into his own hands. You’ve grown suitably capable at making sure your days rise and fall without Spot being a major character in them, but when the King of Brooklyn sets his mind to something, he always gets his way.
So, when you take up your usual selling spot at the corner of a major road and Spot finds you within about half a second, you can admit that there will be no losing him. That doesn’t stop you from trying to distract yourself with customers so Spot can’t find a moment to talk to you. All he does is wait for the temporary rush to fade, and then he’s upon you.
You keep your eyes carefully trained on the horizon, searching for buyers that aren’t there. Spot folds his arms across his chest, irritated that you’re not paying attention to him.
“Are you going to avoid me all day?” He asks, obviously bothered.
“Only as long as you keep pestering me about it,” you joke.
Spot doesn’t so much as crack a smile. “What’s up with you?”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you respond, but Spot’s clearly in no mood for games.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he counters, “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Look, just tell me what’s wrong, alright? We can fix this, easy.”
You make sure your face remains studiously neutral. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.”
Spot scoffs. “That’s the worst excuse I’se ever heard. There’s clearly a problem, just spell it out already. I don’t like this distance between us.”
“Neither do I,” you whisper. Unfortunately, Spot hears.
He spreads his hands. “Then tell me what’s wrong, and we can solve this. We always solve things like this, that’s how we work.”
“Yeah?” You ask, “Well, usually there aren’t other girls involved in how ‘we work’ now, are there?”
Spot blinks in surprise. “What are you talking about?”
Your lips tighten. “You don’t have to lie to me, Spot. I saw you with that girl. I know what it means.”
He stares at you, baffled. “What’s wrong with me talking to a girl?”
This makes you lose the last of your composure. “What’s wrong with– Spot, the problem isn’t that you’re talking to a girl, it’s that you’re in love with her.”
There, the truth at last. You’re not sure that it’s made either of you any happier to hear it.
In fact, Spot looks even more upset than before. “Love her? Y/N, I don’t love her.”
You laugh bitterly. “Of course you don’t. That’s what you promised me, you know, that you would never fall in love. Do me a favor, Spot, if you’re going to lie to me, don’t do it over something like that.”
Spot’s voice is soft. “Why would that matter?”
You look away. “Because that girl isn’t the only one who’d like to have your heart, Spot.”
Silence descends upon the street. You’re almost certain that he’s going to walk away from you when his hand touches your cheek, gently turning your head to face him.
“I don’t love that girl,” he says calmly, “I was flirting with her. Didn’t mean a thing. All I wanted to do was make sure that she was going to keep on buying papers from me instead of resorting to some other seller.”
You arch a brow. “And you expect me to believe that the display I say was just the result of harmless flirting because—”
“Because of this,” Spot returns, and kisses you.
It takes your breath away. At first, you do not know what to make of it– could it be a ploy, perhaps, some folly of your mind and eyes to deceive you into thinking that the boy you love actually loves you back– but no, it is true and it is happening and you could not be happier.
When he breaks away, you’re almost too overwhelmed to say a thing. “What,” you manage to gasp, “was that?”
He has the audacity to grin. “That was me explaining things. If you like, I can do it again.”
You try to glare at him. “You’re too proud of yourself, you know that?”
“How could I not be proud,” he asks, “when I’ve just realized that you love me too? I didn’t think there was a chance of it. In fact, I took steps to make sure there wasn’t. That night on the rooftop, I was trying to convince myself that I wouldn’t fall in love with anybody as much as I was trying to tell you. I couldn’t afford to lose your friendship.”
“You haven’t lost it,” you reply, “far from it. Although I’ll have you know that I heartily disapprove of you flirting with other girls to sell papes from now on.”
“Very well,” he says, “but you have to stop flirting with other boys to do the same.”
You pretend to consider this. “I don’t know that I could do that.”
“Then I shall have to give them a reason to keep their distance,” Spot claims, and kisses you again. This time, you know well enough to believe it, and allow the feeling to sweep you away.
newsies tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @misguidedswagger, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie
#spot conlon#spot conlon imagines#spot conlon x reader#spot conlon oneshot#newsies#newsies imagines#newsies x reader#newsies oneshot#newsies spot#newsies spot imagines#newsies spot x reader#newsies spot oneshot#newsies live#newsies live imagines#newsies live x reader#newsies live oneshot
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A Roll of the Die (Spot Conlon x Reader)
New York was divided into levels. Levels that made up skyscrapers and classes of wealth. There were the rich people- the top tier of New York City. Then there were the people directly under them, middle class who were their assistants or worked away at the bank or as a maid and butler. There was also the lower class. The people who had two or three jobs, scavenging away for the smallest scrap of money. Maybe seamstresses, factory workers, or newsies. And then there was the lowest of all of New York. The street rats. The homeless. The scabbers.
Y/n hated the levels of New York. As she was on the bottom, her opinion would make sense. Y/n made a living as a scabber. She worked many small jobs- wherever she could find them. Most of the time, she sold newspapers alongside the newsies. She wasn’t officially a part of the newsie ranks, nor did she ever intend to join them, but it was a somewhat stable job that helped her maintain enough money for her and her family to eat, so in her book, it was a mighty fine job.
However, Y/n got wind of a strike that was stirring in the newsie ranks. Her scabber friends, Mark and Joseph told her that the newsies were upset at the raise in price and were deciding to do something about it. Apparently, the newsies had stopped Mark and Joseph from buying papes yesterday while Y/n was off sewing clothes with her sister.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Y/n groaned once she heard the news as the trio slowly made their way to the circulation centre. “You let them stop you from buying papes? What about your day's work? And now you’re telling me I should stop getting an honest day’s pay?”
“They’ll beat you up if you don’t.” Mark warned.
“Like they’d beat up a girl.” Y/n chuckled. She hopped down onto the street, a carriage barely missing her. Joseph pulled her back onto the sidewalk.
“I heard that they even got Spot Conlon on board,” Joseph gossiped.
“That little guy?” Y/n rolled her eyes. “What’s he gonna do to me?”
“You’re not scared of him?” Mark laughed incredulously.
“No.” Y/n shrugged. The three of them got to the gate of the circulation centre and as Mark and Joseph joined the growing ranks of newsies, Y/n nonchalantly stepped up to the counter.
“Hi Weisel.” Y/n grinned, “200 papes please?”
Weisel raised a brow. “Really? You of all people not joining the strike? Thought you scabbers would wanna change the laws.” He then turned and yelled, “200 papes for the girl!”
“Not so loud!” Y/n hissed, “the newsies can’t know I’m buying.”
“Looks like they already do.” Weisel smirked and nodded to the crowd around her.
Y/n sighed and reluctantly turned to face the throng. She was surrounded by angry and expectant newsies. Mark and Joseph looked worried from the back. Weisel slid the pack of papes towards her and gestured for his money. Y/n slammed her coins down and Weisel happily took them.
“What are you doin’?” The lead newsie asked. It didn’t sound like a question.
“Buying papes,” Y/n snorted a laugh. “Obviously.” Life on the streets had shown her to act indifferent until the first punch was thrown.
“Haven’t you heard about the strike?” Another newsie with a cigar hanging from his lips asked.
“Yeah.”
“You can’t buy papes,” another said. “We won’t allow it. For the strike to work, no one can sell papes.”
“Yeah, but some of us need to eat,” Y/n pointed out. She took her papers and started out the clump of newsies. They blocked her and Y/n stepped back into the middle of the circle. She squared her shoulders. Y/n didn’t like being surrounded. The odds weren’t in her favour and it made her feel trapped.
“You can’t sell papes!” The first newsie argued. He seemed to be their leader. “We’re in this together. I know you wanna get your money, but just cause we make pennies doesn’t give them the right to rub our noses in it. Are you gonna roll over and let Pulitzer pick your pocket? They need to respect your rights! All we ask for is a square deal. I told your buddies this yesterday, and Imma tell you this today: for the sake of every overworked kid in this whole city, I beg you. Throw down your papers and join the strike.”
Y/n rolled her eyes. “Real nice speech you got going on there. Worked on my friends.” She jerked a head towards Mark and Joseph. “But… it’s not gonna work on me. I need this. More than any of you. You know nothing of my life and how hard it’s been. I need to get my money. I need to feed my siblings. No one else will feed them except me. And without you lot on the streets, maybe I’ll actually be able to buy some food for myself. Ever think of that?”
Someone pushed through the crowd. A teenage boy stopped in front of her. He was maybe fifteen or sixteen with a cap pulled low over his dirty blond hair. His blue eyes pierced hers. “Listen… goil,” he finally decided on before continuing, “do you know who I am?”
“No.” Y/n deadpanned.
“Spot Conlon. King of Brooklyn.” The boy smirked.
“Am I supposed to be impressed by that?” The newsies all fell silent. No one had ever talked back to Spot Conlon before.
Spot huffed. “If you weren’t a goil, you’d be on the ground, bleeding after the soaking I gave you.”
“Then do it.” Y/n challenged. “I’ve been beaten up before.”
“Listen,” Spot ignored her comment, “I didn’t come all the way from Brooklyn for this strike just for some scabber to mess it up.”
“Sorry, Spot Conlon,” Y/n pushed him aside and the newsies gasped. “but I gotta go.”
“Did you just… push me?” Spot gaped.
“Yeah. What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Leave us,” Spot Conlon waved everyone away. His newsies pushed all the other boroughs away to leave Y/n and him alone. Y/n felt a stir of panic in her chest. What was about to happen?
“So,” Spot laid an arm around Y/n shoulders. She shrugged him off and replaced him with her papes. “Where do we start?”
“What?”
“I’ve never sold in ‘Hattan before. Where do you sell?” Spot asked.
“What are you doing?” Y/n squinted at him. “What’s your angle? Your tactic?”
“No tactic, doll, just wanna help you sell.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Where do you sell, doll?”
Y/n rolled her eyes at his insistence. “Fine. But the first sign that you’re manipulating me, I’m ditching you.”
“Fine by me.” Spot stayed at her side as she walked to her selling spot, seeming to take it all in. He seemed relaxed, hands in pockets and looking around casually. Y/n’s wariness of the boy hadn’t gone away, but after a while, she felt herself loosen up a bit and step into the newsie role.
Y/n had one of the best days selling. With no other newsies around, people flocked to her to get their hands on the news. Some asked her where the others were and Y/n replied with, “they’re on strike.”
If her customers had been poorer, they would’ve looked on with confusion and disdain, wondering and judging her for not joining her friends to try for a better life. However, her patrons were richer and simply complimented her on staying true to business and even tipped her extra.
At the end of the day, Y/n’s bag was brimming with coins, leaving her smiling proudly. This would certainly provide a couple meals for her family.
Y/n had expected Spot to try and disway her from selling, but he just found a bench to lounge on, watching her and the passerby’s intently.
“You’d make a good newsie,” he commented lightly after the day had passed.
“I’ll never be a newsie.” Y/n said hotly, as if taken personal offence. “I’m a scabber.”
“Do you ever do work in Brooklyn?” Spot asked, looking at her as they walked.
“Not usually.”
Spot hummed. “You should.”
“Why’s that?” This time, it was Y/n’s turn to look at him inquisitively.
“I’d get to see you more.” Spot smiled softly. A group of young men passed them and Spot instinctively took Y/n’s arm, guiding her carefully past them. Once they were gone, Spot’s demeanour eased up and offered Y/n his arm. Y/n shook her head and pushed him away.
“This is all a ploy to try and get me to join the strike,” Y/n said dismissively.
“How is me wanting to see you going to get you to join the strike?” Spot chuckled lightly.
Y/n was silent for a moment before replying, “I don’t know, but I know you’re smart enough that you have an endgame.”
“Aw!” Spot nudged her. “You think I’m smart.”
“Listen, bud.” Y/n rolled her eyes. “I’ve heard plenty of stories about you. I know your true colours. I know not to trust you. I’m not joining the strike and I’m not working in Brooklyn. End of story. Goodbye.” Y/n then turned on her heel and walked up a set of stairs that led to her family’s apartment.
**
A week had passed when Y/n’s sister shared some interesting news with her. “Y/n, can you do me a favour?”
“Anything,” Y/n instantly replied, looking up from her mother- mandated sewing.
“Well, there’s a job opportunity that pays really well that’s been offered to me.” Her sister said hesitantly, a large smile growing over her face.
“Really?!” Y/n set her sewing down. “That’s great! When do you start?”
“Tomorrow. But, there’s a catch,” her sister sat down next to her. “It’s in Brooklyn and I would need you to walk me back and forth.” Y/n’s brows tightened and her sister quickly exclaimed, “But you could come back to ‘Hattan during the day to work and all I need is someone else to walk me so I stay safe! It’s really not that far away. With the pay increase, maybe I could catch a trolley some days? Or you could get a job in Brooklyn too.”
“I’m really happy for you and what this means for the family,” Y/n started, “so yes, I’ll walk you. But how did you get the job?”
“Well, see, that’s the odd part. A kid just came up to me one day and said that he knew someone who was looking for workers. He introduced me to the guy, and here we are!”
“Who was the kid?”
“Um, I think his name was Spot Connon? Or something?”
“Spot Conlon?”
“Yeah! That’s it! Do you know him?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
**
It seemed too big of a coincidence for Y/n as she marched next to her sister, walking her to work. And when Spot Conlon was seen selling papes on the next corner over, it felt too bad to be true. After she had ushered her sister inside to her new job, Y/n strode up to Spot and jabbed a finger in his chest, disrupting the few customers around him. “What the hell, Spot?!” She cried.
“Geez, Y/n,” Spot grinned. “Came all the way to Brooklyn just for me?”
“Why’d you get my sister that job? How dare we even talk to her! Stay away from me and my family and stop trying to get me to join the strike!”
“The strike’s over, doll.” Spot chuckled, waving his papes in her face. Y/n stood for a moment, processing his words. “Now, would you like to apologise for storming over here and disturbing my sales?” His words were coy and made her want to slap him.
“Just, come here!” Y/n growled, pulling him away from the customers.
“An impromptu make out session?” Spot teased, “I’m down.”
“Shut it, Conlon.” The girl turned to face him. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand.”
“Y/n, I think I’ve made it pretty clear,” Spot’s demeanour changed drastically. “I wanna be your friend. I like being around you. If you didn’t hate me, I might even ask you out. I should be asking you the question of why don’t you like me?”
Y/n bristled, startled by his confession. “Because,” she hesitated, “because you were trying to get me to join the newsies. All my life I’ve had to look out for me and my family. I’ve had to scrape along the bottom of the barrel just to survive. It doesn’t seem fair that instead of working hard and being unhappy and burnt out, you guys earn the same amount of money but you’re happy while doing it. You have friends. You’re loved.”
Spot tilted his head. “Doesn’t your family love you?”
“They’re too busy.” Y/n muttered, shaking her head. “Mom and dad work two jobs each just to pay rent so it falls on me to earn money for food and clothes. It’s not fair.”
“Nothing about life is fair.”
“Could you offer some sympathy instead of truth?” Y/n asked snarkily.
“Isn’t truth better than wool over your eyes?” Spot retorted easily.
After a moment, Y/n muttered, “how did you become so smart?”
Spot grinned. “I’ve always been smart, doll. You’ve just been too dumb to see it.”
“I have the same street smarts as you,” Y/n said. “It’s not my fault if I don’t have proper schooling.” Y/n’s hands balled into fists and she glared harshly at him. Spot noticed and gently took one of her hands in his. Y/n jumped back, but kept her hand in his. Her jaw tightened and Spot slowly reached up to cup her face, running his thumb over her tense jaw and then moving his hand up to her eyebrows, thumbing the space between them, making her relax.
“You’re right,” Spot whispered. “None of this is your fault. It’s a bad roll of the dice. But we can make the best outta it. We can make friends and family outta it. You can’t spend your life in misery, especially if you have people looking out for you.”
“Are you looking out for me?” Y/n was hesitant in asking her question.
“I thought I’d made that perfectly clear,” Spot said, cocking his head slightly. “Why else would I seek you out or try and help your family? It’s not everyday I see a pretty girl. I wanna hold onto her while I can.”
Y/n exhaled a laugh, looking away from Spot. He frowned and tilted her chin toward him, forcing her to meet his eye. “Why’re you laughing? Do you think you’re a joke?” He asked, “Do you think I’m joking about you being beautiful?”
“Spot,” Y/n gently pushed his hands away from her face. “I’m a scabber. I know daughters of CEO’s might be a little outta your league, but anyone would be lucky to have you.”
“But I don’t want just anyone,” Spot muttered. “I want you.”
The tension in the air held the words aloft. Did he really mean it? Slowly, waiting for Y/n to stop him, though she never did, Spot stepped closer to her. “Is this okay?”
Y/n nodded. She couldn’t trust her words. Before Spot’s lips could brush hers, Y/n wondered, “are you sure you want to?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything, doll.” Spot smirked slightly. And then he kissed her.
#spot conlon#spot conlon x reader#spot#spot conlon imagine#spot conlon oneshot#spot conlon x y/n#Newsies#newsie#newsies musical#Newsies The Musical#new york#newsboys#newsies movie#scabbers#Jack Kelly#jack#race#racetrack higgins#weisel#weasel#joseph pulitzer#strike#fluff#one sided feelings#one sided enemies to lovers#enemies to lovers#manhattan#brooklyn#brooklyn boys#brooklyn’s hereeeee
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꒰✧ᯇ✦꒱ BROOKLYN RED
ᯇsummary ! ✦
in manhattan they'd call it a sin, but race's wearing brooklyn red for him
ᯇpair ! ✦
spot conlon x racetrack higgins (livesies) || inspired by Tennessee Orange by Megan Moroney & these (one) (two) posts by @crystallized-twilight
ᯇvienna’s thoughts ! ✦
uhhh i definitely think this could be better but i just wanted to get it out of my drafts tbh LMAO. i swear the next piece or writing will be better :')
1249 WORDS
© 2023 , 𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲
"Racer!" Spot groaned. "I give up. Ya ain't never gonna learn the damn song."
Racetrack smiled and took a drag from his cigarette. "Well, I like the teacher betta than the lesson anyway."
"No amount of flattery can make up for how badly ya butchered our song," Spot laughed. He continued to speak, but his words were lost in the night.
The lights on the Brooklyn Bridge gave Spot a certain glow. One that made his skin look like that of an angel. Racetrack couldn't help but stare as he watched the boy laugh. He wanted to listen to Spot, he really did, but how could he listen to him when he was so beautiful? He tries his best to focus, but who could if Spot was sitting in front of them looking like a gift from God?
Race wanted to tell him every one of his thoughts. How Spot's laugh was probably what Heaven's trumpets sound like, how gorgeous his eyes were-
"I mean, honestly, how do ya mess up the wor-"
"Red's definitely your color." And he winced because that was definitely not what he had meant to say. It didn't even begin to cover half of what he was thinking.
Spot smiled and cocked an eyebrow. "Red's Brooklyn's color, Racer."
He groaned, "I just meant- It looks good on you. Like, really good. Ya look heavenly right now. You sure you're real?"
"Pretty sure. Speaking of red," Spot shoved his hand into his selling bag and pulled out a crumpled shirt. "I know you'll always be Manhattan, but... I thought, maybe, you could play Brooklyn sometimes too?"
Race moved to grab the shirt and exchanged it for the one he had been wearing. He scoffed, mostly at himself. "God, the boys would kill me if they saw me wearing this."
"Ya still ain't told anyone 'bout us?"
"Have you?" Race snapped, slightly defensive.
A beat.
"No." Spot admitted as he adjusted his hat. He crossed his arms, defeated and grumpy. Race slumped down with him, he intertwined their fingers and let his forehead bump into Spot's neck.
"I didn't mean to snap at'cha." He sighed. "I just- I don't know how to tell ''em that the Spot Conlon—the one who left us for dead during the strike (hey!)—is my sweetheart. Hell, how am I supposed ta tell 'em you got me wearing Brooklyn red?"
Spot rolled his eyes. "I did not leave you for dead." A shrug. "You're all still alive, aint'cha?"
Race smiled fondly and rested his forehead against the others. "Yeah, I guess we is."
"I'm glad you are," Spot whispered. Then he straightened himself and pushed Race an arms-length away, and held him there. "Because if you weren't I woulda never seen how good you look playing Brooklyn."
He laughed and shoved Spot's cap—which was really his own; he had been sporting Spot's actual cap ever since the time they went to the racetracks—over his eyes. "Don't forget it's just playing. I'm only Brooklyn in your dreams."
"Damn right."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Race flipped the shirt in his hands over and over again. He stared into the deep red that felt so much like home that it almost made him sick to his stomach. God, if anyone saw his damned red shirt. It was just a stupid shirt, but holding it in his hands felt like treason.
"Hey, Racer. Haven't seen ya in a while; where ya been?" And his heart dropped into his stomach as he rushed to crumble up the shirt and shove it under a blanket. Jack threw his hat onto a random bed before addressing him again. "Woah! Ya good, Racer? Ya look like you'se a ghost or somethin'."
"I'm alright. Hey, uh," it's now or never, "I've gotta tell ya somethin'. But- Listen, you can't tell the other guys, they'll probably kill 'im."
Jack's eyebrows furrowed, concern flooded his expressions. He leaned against a bed frame with his fists clenched. "Did someone hurt ya, Race? Did'ya mess with some dame and her fella got at ya?"
He couldn't help but laugh. "I'm fine, Kelly. Seriously. You've taught me better than that. Kind of."
The strike leader all but sighed with relief, then sat down on the bed across from Race. "So, what'dya need to tell me? What, ya done sellin' papes or something?"
"No, no. I'm still sellin' papes. I don't got enough money ta quit." He paused. "I might've... met someone."
Jack smiled, crossed his arms and leaned back in amusement. "And?"
"And... he's really good to me. He's got these eyes and they're... they're so blue that it's almost scary. Ya know the kind? He holds doors open for me, stop laughing. And he ain't made me cry yet. Which is saying somethin' for him." Race was looking down at his hands, a stupid smile beating the embarrassment to his face. "He ain't from 'round here, but he still- He still feels like home, ya'know?"
"I know the feelin'. Who's the fella?"
Race looked up, only to meet Jack's eyes just for a second. "Ya can't tell the other fella's, Jackie. I mean, they'd probably call it a damn sin-"
"Racer, come on. They ain't like that-"
"No. Not 'cuz of that, not 'cuz he's a guy. 'Cuz he's..." Race sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "He's got me wearing Brooklyn red, Jack."
And to that, Jack let out a long sigh.
"I know! Brooklyn ain'tcha best friend. Hell, they ain't no-one's best friend." Race started to grin a little again. "He, uh, he took me out to the bridge last Saturday."
"Oh, so that's where ya run off to. To betray us." Jack teased. He even reached forward and gave Racetrack a playful punch to the shoulder.
Race's smile was back in full force. "Anyway. It wasn't nothing like 'Hattan, but nothin' ever will be. But man, I'd like to personally thank whoever made the lights on that damn bridge. Ain't neva seen someone look like that. He looked like a damn angel."
"Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed-"
"I'm sorry Jack. It's just... man, I like him a lot. I'm even learning that stupid Brooklyn chant."
Jack laughed. "Race. I'm not actually disappointed, I'm just messin' with ya. But everyone looks better in 'Hattan colors. Can't deny that." He stated, pulling at his own shirt.
"Obviously. But that smile he carries with him makes ya forget all that. I mean, the grin he had when he made me try on a Brooklyn shirt; made me think I should only ever wear red for the rest of my life!"
Jack grinned and shook his head. "Well, well. Neva seen you so smitten over someone. So, what? Ya Brooklyn now?"
Racetrack laughed. "Never. Not even Spot's smile could make me crazy enough to leave 'Hattan."
"Ya fella's the Spot Conlon? Man, you ain't dating a fella from Brooklyn. You're basically dating Brooklyn itself!"
"I know."
"Listen, Race. Manhattan's gonna loves ya. Even the traitor part of ya." Jack leaned forward to grab Race's shoulder. "If you're happy, we're happy."
Race let out a sigh of relief.
Like a tidal wave, the rest of the newsboys poured into the lodging house. Jack gave the other boy a wink━a promise of secrecy━before he reached under the blanket, pulled out the Brooklyn shirt, and jumped up to wave it in front of the crowd. "You guys won't believe who Racer's swoonin' over!"
"Jack!"
~
#if this is bad just squint and it might be better!#i hate my writing someone send help#anyway!!#very different from what i wrote last time#country music is so good i wont apologize#i only edited it once so bare with me#posting it so that i don't have to deal with the guilt of it in my drafts#spot conlon#racetrack higgins#sprace#newsies#livesies#newsies live#broadway#newsies broadway#˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ newsies // oneshots ❥#☄. *. ⋆ vienna's ... writing
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Here’s a link to all my Newsies writing
#newsies#jack kelly#davey jacobs#incorrect quotes#au#modern au#racetrack higgins#livesies#david jacobs#spot conlon#sprace#javey#javid#ships#my writing#oneshots
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So, I was wondering if you could do a Sprace one shot but where they're in a Modern AU and one kisses the other at a party (or something idk) and they're tryna ignore each other after that but all their friends ship it and want it to happen?
Spot Conlon x Race Higgins (Modern AU)
warnings: cussing, mention of sex
word count: 763
i loveeee modern au’s so this is gonna be so fun to write. here you go! <3
Race hated being hungover. God, it was the worst feeling a human could experience, or the worst thing that he had ever experienced.
He sat on the bus and closed his eyes momentarily.
The darkness felt good to his head, but then stopped feeling good the moment that someone tapped his shoulder.
“Hey Jack,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes in annoyance that he’d been disturbed.
His best friend slid into the other part of the bus seat, frowning tiredly. They’d gone to the party together, although Race couldn’t quite remember going back home with Jack.
“I’m never going to another party again,” Jack ran a hand through his hair and Race found himself laughing a bit.
“That’s a lie for both of us and we know it,” Race grinned, though. Their attempts to stop drinking was futile, and they both knew it.
“Anyways,” Jack rolled his eyes, a smirk raising on his lips. “You and Spot Conlon, eh?”
“What about it?” Turning his head away towards the window. Sure, he’d kissed Spot. It was a party, it’s not like it meant anything anyways. Well, probably, Race hadn’t figured that out yet.
“Don’t play dumb, I know you like him,” it was widely known that Race liked girls and boys. Leaning towards boys, but that wasn’t as widely known.
“Do not,” Race huffed and crossed his arms and frowned, causing Jack to raise an eyebrow. “He’s hot, but that’s it. Just because I think he’s hot doesn’t mean I want to, you know, date him or anything.”
“Yeah, maybe, but you’d totally let him hit it,” Jack snorted in amusement after he said that.
“That’s not important,” Race mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and facing completely away from his best friend for the rest of the ride to school.
Race should’ve known better then to expect his friends to not ask him every single detail about the night before with Spot. Not like anything happened anyways.
“So,” Blink was on to him in a minute, closely followed by Mush. The two were happily in love, which always made Race chuckle a bit. “How was Spot? Was he good?”
“We didn’t do anything,” Race grumbled, walking to his locker and entering the code into his lock.
“But he wanted something to happen,” Jack concluded, following him. Not only did they live by each other, they also had lockers really close together. Which was sometimes more annoying than other times.
“Did not!” Race retorted, shoving his back into his locker.
“Hey, what happened?” Davey, who was probably the only kid in the entire school who didn’t show up to the party (even his sister snuck out to come), arrived just on time to save Race.
Or so Race thought.
“Race and Spot hooked up last night, now Race is in love,” Mush gathered, leaning his head onto Blink’s shoulder and grinning at Davey.
“Aww, are you guys dating now?” Davey smiled, happily. “You guys will be so good together.”
“We’re not together,” Race rolled his eyes, grabbing one of his books and gritting his teeth.
“But he wants to get with Spot,” Jack ended, slamming his locker shut and leaning against it while looking at Davey and Race.
“Oh, look, here he comes!” Mush pointed out, loudly. Race’s face flushed and he made ey contact with Spot, who’s face was also just a bit flushed.
Race’s eyes fell to his shoes and cussed out his friends under his breath.
He felt two hands on his back, and suddenly he was being shoved towards Spot. Race yelped in surprise, almost crashing into Spot, who grabbed his shoulders to keep him upright.
“I-,” he began but was interrupted by Mush.
“Race wants to date!”
Swearing under his breath, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, he flipped off his friends who smiled and waved before walking down the hall, leaving Spot and Race alone.
“Sorry,” Race ran a hand through his hair nervously.
“Not a big deal,” Spot scratched the back of his neck.
They were both nervous as hell, but both had enough pride to not admit it. Even if it was killing them.
“So, um-”
“About last night-”
They both talked at the same time and stopped eruptedly.
“You first,” Race said, quickly, wanting to hear what Spot said. He was worried that what Mush had said would ruin everything.
“Do you maybe, I don’t know, want to skip eighth hour and go get some ice cream?” Spot said, quickly.
“Oh,” Race felt his face heat up again. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”
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