RAHHHHH IM BACK! Sorry Again For Disappearing 😭😭😭

davey talking to jack in French bc he knows it makes jack weak in the ole knees ...... however consider jack rebutting by pulling Davey in real close by the collar and teasing him with the whisper of a kiss ... however consider Davey continuing to say sweet nothings in French and jack folds ... he just cannot beat davey's confidence and put-together ness at all times .... in short confident davey who knows how to get jack wrapped around his little finger and jack who is unaware it's happening until Davey has him (literally? figuratively? you decide) pinned against a wall and he looks up into daveys grey-blue eyes and /god/ that smirk of his and he's weak at the knees but davey has him completely cornered ...... 'i win, Jackie.' 'IT WASNT A COMPETITION?????'

teehee this was super fun !!

no pressure :) @ethereal-bumble-bee @toffyrats @carmineskiesandspidereyes @coircus-aceman @getyourpaybackwithsomepayback and anybody else!!!

Make yourself into a spooOoky ghost or ghoul

tagging: @postwarlevi @chaotic-on-main @darlingheichou @humanitys-strongest-bamf and everyone else who's interested!

newsies mutuals we should play among us sometime

“I thought I saw you sneak up here,” Jack murmurs.

“...I just needed some air,” Davey says in a thin, quiet voice, staring determinedly out into the darkness.

“Got room for one more?” Jack asks, stepping closer.

Davey gives a tiny shrug, wrapping his arms around himself. Taking this as permission, Jack clambers up onto the ledge and sits down beside him, not quite close enough to touch, letting his legs dangle over the edge.

The silence stretches on and on, as vast as the expanse of sky overhead. Hesitant, Jack allows it to linger for a long, breathless moment, and he’s honestly not sure if he’s trying to gather his thoughts or his nerve.

But finally he says, “Ain’t seen much’a you tonight. Ain’t seen much’a you in ages, really.”

He pauses there, trying to judge Davey’s reaction to his gentle prodding. But Davey doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn to face him, as still and stone-faced as a statue.

The pit in Jack’s stomach grows even wider.

Aloud he continues, “And I’m not tryin’ ta point fingers, Dave, but I’m startin’ to worry that somethin’s gone wrong between us. Horribly wrong. Maybe—“ He sucks in a breath. “Maybe so wrong that it can’t be fixed.”

He wants Davey to reassure him, to explain away the unease that colors their every interaction, why each conversation seems to end with a thousand words left unspoken. To say that it’s all going to be okay.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not a single, godforsaken word, and somehow, out of everything, that’s what cuts the deepest.

“Trapped”

Stone Butch Blues - Leslie Feinberg

@/lilboyblueish on Instagram

Poem by Keaton St. James (@boykeats)

I/Me/Myself - Will Wood

We Both Laughed In Pleasure by Lou Sullivan

cis people asking cis questions by Silas Denver Melvin (@sweatermuppet)

Tomboy Survival Guide by Ivan Coyote

Davey keeps him close, flattening himself to Jack's back - he could blame the small bed if he wanted, blame the cold or whatever else, but there's no denying the thrumming in his chest, the determined want of 'keep here, stay here, right here with me'. Jack tenses for a moment, muscles seizing in reflexive panic, and Davey's worried he's wrecked it for a moment before Jack sighs, melts, presses the curve of his back against the sturdy bow of Davey's chest, like a fawn huddling into a shelter, away from the wind and wilderness.

"Spoons..." Jack murmurs, his tone more sleep-drunk than actually drunk now. "Just two li'l spoons..."

"That's right, Jackie," Davey curls his arms around Jack's soft stomach. It's possessive in a way that normally makes him sick, but he has to, has to know that Jack's there, has to let Jack know that he's not going anywhere, and neither is Davey. "You just sleep now, yeah? You go right to sleep, Jackie-love..."

He keeps doing that, murmuring sweet things into Jack's ear, petting along his stomach the way he does to Les when he's sick, the way Jack does to every stray kid who needs a warm touch. He's always doing that, Davey thinks, just on the edge of bitter - giving away all his warmth, letting people seep it out of him. It's kind, so achingly kind, but Davey can't help but wonder how long Jack's been doing that, shivering for the sake of someone else's warmth. Jack Kelly, protector of strays, patron saint of never knowing when to quit.

ME WITH JAVEY

OH TRUE i actually see that but like

me personally jack needs somebody to like love him gently, and I personally am a big supporter of brothers jackcrutchie ... and like their character development ... makes sense to me .. but i get what ur sayin

does anyone have any sprace fic recommendations ? i need more sprace content in my life

Davey trying to sell newspapers

I wrote a Jack & Crutchie story for @loiteringandlurking re: his post about Jack who is an amputee.

One-Handed

In the circulation yard, Crutchie watches the new kid with the knotted-up shirt sleeve, watches how he holds the top of his bag open with his stump and then shoves the papes in one-handed. Crutchie knows that dance; he's got two good arms himself, but one of 'em's always occupied. It ain't as easy as it looks.

Kid says his name is Jack. He's straight from a factory job -- by way of the charity hospital on Hudson Street -- and can't hawk a headline for shit, but he can tie a bootlace real tight, a hard-won skill he's clearly proud of. First, he does up the dangling lace on Crutchie's bad foot. Then he tackles the other side for good measure. Double knots on both scuffed boots. And Crutchie lets him. For once, he don't care who sees him getting help because it makes the guy so happy.

Crutchie lets Jack follow him around, too. Teaches him the ropes. Why not?

::::

August in the crowded dormitory bedroom, hot and airless. Most of the boys have stripped to their undershirts, including Jack, sprawled out on his bottom bunk. Crutchie glances quickly away from the place where his right arm ends, the scar still red and angry, and looks down at the sketch slowly developing. A nighttime scene in a desolate place, a wolf howling next to twin pine trees, mountains in the background, a crescent moon riding overhead. Jack scratches his pencil along the wolf's back. His neck flushes with frustration. He still ain't used to being a lefty.

"Looks real good," Crutchie says quietly.

Jack spits out the rubber eraser he's been holding in his teeth. It lands on his pillow and Crutchie waits for him to say something mean. But he only uses the eraser to rub at some of the smudges. "Not every day you gets to see talent like this up close, huh?"

::::

Someone sends word that Jack's old man is doing poorly, so he stops by with a carton of cigarettes he bought. The place is a tenement on Mulberry, prostitutes coming and going. Jack insists that Crutchie wait on the stoop to protect their pile of newly bought evening Worlds. He's back in less than ten minutes, looking slightly out of breath.

"If he lives so close, how come you don't stay with him?"

"Well, I used to," Jack says, though that don't answer the question at all.

"He hit ya?"

"Nah, never." Jack seems to realize he's walking too fast and slows his pace. "Sorry. I think maybe ... I think seein' me makes him feel bad. So I just don't go by there too much."

Crutchie knows exactly what Jack means, and it makes him mad. He stops in the middle of the street to call the headline to an old woman in a kerchief. Jack waits, lighting a cigarette one-handed, while Crutchie juggles his crutch to make change. "You're still a kid. Your pops should be helpin' you out. If he ain't gonna do that, the least he could do is be proud of how good you is doin'."

"He don't need to be proud. I's just livin my life," Jack says. "Not everybody's gonna understand." He slings his good arm around Crutchie's shoulders. "But I got you."

::::

Ladies like Crutchie. They always have. They want to help him; they buy his papes and sometimes they gives him food and things. But it's girls that like Jack Kelly -- girls their same age.

And Jack seems to like them back, too. He'll pick someone out special to pass the time with, take her to the music halls -- he can sell a hundred twenty papes on a good day and always burns through his money -- draw pictures for her, tell her all about the Wild West. When the boys at Duane Street tease him, Jack tells them to shut up: this is the one.

Somehow, none of them girls ever is. But when it ends, Jack don't seem too heartbroken. Nothing bothers Jack, nothing Crutchie has ever seen.

Maybe he is the wolf in the picture. Maybe he is the moon.

::::

When Jack talks about New Mexico, Crutchie can't help but worry. He's been working to support himself ever since he was eight, but he's only ever done the kind of jobs people think a cripple can do. Who says anybody would hire guys like them them for farm labor?

Jack hooks his right arm over the top rung of the fire escape ladder and reaches his hand down to take the crutch. He says, "Well, we'll show 'em, pal. We can find a way to do most anything we wants to. Can't we?" And he pulls Crutchie up behind him.

They stand together on top of the world. No mountains, no majestic pines. Just them and the buildings that crowd all around them, the landscape of the city where he was born. Life ain't fair; he's always knowed that. But in this moment, Crutchie thinks what Jack says might be true.

Because he ain't never felt sorry for Jack, not for a minute. Why would he? Maybe there is folks out there who won't feel sorry for him neither, who will see him for all that he is.

FIN.