I Am So Very In Love With These.

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

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

RUBS RIGHT OFF

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pairing: newsies x platonic!reader

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

warnings: swearing, fluff, self-doubt

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

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

“Cute mug?” You questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A new aquarium opened up.

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

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

To save you from the brutality of work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You paled. “What?”

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

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

“Baby born with three heads!”

“Terrified flight form burning inferno!”

“Man discovers an unidentified object in his backyard!”

“Witch reported in Salem!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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hiiii are you taking newsies requests??

yes!! i’m still taking newsies requests. i plan on posting one soon! send them in, i could never not write for newsies!

“i can fix her, i can fix him, i can fix them”

i think we need to work on you first.

i will admit, i’m on the art donaldson train rn

Spontaneous.

Art Donaldson x Reader

oops. it’s gonna be a series. i’m developing Lore. let me know what you think and where to go next.

warnings: 18+ please, drug use mention, drinking (underage), kinda sexual content.

Fancy parties were loathsome. [Y/N] thought so, at least. She hated being told to stop calling them fancy parties and shindigs and to call them by their proper names: galas, benefits, balls, whatever. It was exhausting. Her feet weren’t meant to be elegantly jammed into spike heels. [Y/N] liked the height she was, thank you very much.

Did supporting charitable causes have to feel so degrading?

Capitalism at its finest.

[Y/N] had been attending these things since she was a little girl. Seven or eight years old. So young, in fact, that she now can’t remember what demographic or ailment-research, or political party this goddamn yearly spring shindig was for. Mr. and Mrs. Zweig were always nice to her when she was a child. She wasn’t just a family-friend, she (and her parents) felt like friends that were family.

What made the lavish Zweig parties tolerable was Patrick Zweig. She had known Patrick as long as there had been parties to get dressed up for. He had scraped her off a marbled staircase step as a little girl when her polished pleather mary janes didn’t have the traction to keep her upright. She had cried when she fell. He had said: “you’re really loud, you know that?” And she had laughed. So they were doomed to spend eternity hiding in coat rooms and getting tipsy together at these things.

Patrick was never one of those boys that felt the need to turn his back on [Y/N] during the cooties years, or the so-she’s-your-girlfriend? years. The pair of them always managed to be simply themselves and that was enough. He was merciless and unapologetic, but he made a hell of a best friend.

[Y/N] was two months older than Patrick, and had been taller for their first two years of friendship. When his shift in stature occurred, it happened fast.

Patrick went away to boarding school and came back a gangly beast. [Y/N], though they hadn’t spent every waking moment (weekends and school days) together since he had left her for a racket and a tennis ball, was always pleased to see Patrick was still himself every time he came home. Louder and stupider each time, but still Patrick.

Though, one spring break was different. Eleventh grade, if [Y/N] recalled correctly. Patrick came home, tall and stupid as ever, toting a boy named Art Donaldson.

Art Donaldson was considerably smaller, and debatably less stupid than Patrick Zweig. [Y/N] understood that day why all the girls in her grade giggled about boys. [Y/N] could never tell Patrick that. He would have been insufferable about it.

Actually, [Y/N] felt jealous. That was also a secret. Because Art, unlike she and Patrick, was nice. Everybody liked him. Nobody ever talked shit about him. Adults loved him and his small-town boy manners. He actually was a rambunctious little jerk, but nobody else saw that. Everyone else got yes sir, yes ma’am, I’m well, how are you? He could turn that charm on and off like a faucet. Infuriating, right?

[Y/N] was also jealous because it was clear she had been replaced.

Patrick lit up like a Christmas tree when he was with Art. He never looked at her like that. Art must have been a better friend to him then she was. Patrick called her once a week to talk for years, but Art slept, like, six feet away from him. It simply wasn’t fair.

Because of that, [Y/N] remembers spring break was really hard. [Y/N] was acutely aware she had lost something she didn’t know she could lose to the human version of a fucking beagle.

[Y/N] couldn’t remember the grade they were in exactly, but she did remember the dress she wore to the Zweigs’ party that year. It was light green and had spaghetti straps. It was longer and more form-fitting than what she was used. Most of the girls her age had settled for lots of tulle and cheetah-print so [Y/N] looked more mature by comparison. It was the first time [Y/N] remembered feeling grown up at all.

To think she thought that all her excitement and contentment was wasted. [Y/N] sat in a plastic pool chair in the backyard curled up with her cork wedge platforms resting dangerously close to the water. She nursed a bottle of vodka she had swiped two months ago from her parents liquor cabinet to surprise Patrick. Meticulously, she had waited for them to be out of town and found the key to the liquor cabinet. A whole bottle just for [Y/N] and her best friend. [Y/N] had barely managed to keep it a secret that she had taken it. She had been so proud of herself and thought Patrick would be too.

Now, she was the only one around to drink it.

Patrick had put his warm, familiar hands on her shoulders and told [Y/N] to wait right there and that he and Art would be back in a sec. The two boys had vanished upstairs presumably to Patrick’s room with laughter spilling from their mouths. [Y/N] sat at the base of the stairs alone for twenty minutes.

According to the garish clock on the wall, at twenty-one minutes, [Y/N] disappeared to the pool. She officially hated Patrick too. He had left her alone at parties plenty of times, and she him. They’d dance with others, or sneak off for a makeout session with a pretty stranger. It had never been a big deal either way. This felt like deliberate abandonment for no good reason. That was a first.

“Whoa, save some for the rest of us.” A reedy voice called out. Art Donaldson. [Y/N]’s head glanced over her shoulder so fast at the sound that she almost made herself dizzy. It took little time to realize there was no Patrick with him.

[Y/N] pulled the bottle closer. “That was a really long one sec,” She replied. She planned to say that eventually in the wasted minutes she waited, but it sounded less cool now than it did in her head. [Y/N] sounded plain mopey and that was a shame. “What’d you guys do anyway? Where’s Patrick?”

Art shrugged and walked further into view. He looked a bit sheepish. “Being Patrick,” He didn’t answer the first question she asked. There was a half-smile tugging at his lips. Art looked nice. Brown dress shoes, navy jacket, white shirt. No tie. She could have sworn that had been a tie at some point earlier. His shaggy blonde hair was mussed, but she had yet to observe it being neat. It was fustrating how effortlessly nice he looked. [Y/N] thought that everyday from day one. “It’s getting kinda cold. You wanna head back inside? I was looking for you—“

“I’m alright here, but thanks,” she slurred slightly. “You head in. I’m not here to ruin your fun.” It had sounded bitter. She hadn’t meant for it to.

Art sighed and glanced away from her. He paused a moment and sighed. “I’m not here to ruin yours either, y’know.”

“You don’t have to make this into a thing. It’s fine.”

“Well, too late. Patrick’s being an ass. I don’t want you out here feeling like I’m some homewrecker. I’ve been on the receiving end of shit like this from him, too. He’s not trying to be nasty to you, ‘promise. Come on, I’m not gonna let you freeze out here.” Art said, stepping in a bit. The glow from the pool left green and white wiggly lines across his cheeks.

“It’s spring, It’ll warm up. Get back up to that party, man. Patrick’s waiting for you.”

“You’re being impossible.”

[Y/N] set the half-empty bottle down beneath her chair. “Nuh-uh.”

“Jesus… if you’re gonna be a jerk about it, at least take this.” Art frowned, shrugging out of his suit jacket. He seemed disappointed.

“Oh, Art, please—“

“No, no! You made your choice. Don’t let me spoil your fun with you and the… the vodka,” Art said, making a show of taking the jacket off and throwing it over to [Y/N]. The balled up lump of fabric landed in her lap with a soft thud. Her stomach churned. “All hunky dory now,” He said, holding his hands out to show he was no threat. Art’s brows were lowered protectively close to his eyes in what [Y/N] thought was an effort to mask slight hurt or rejection. He turned to walk away as [Y/N] clutched the fabric of his jacket between her fingers. Art turned back to to look at her for a moment. [Y/N] didn’t know what that expression was meant to mean. “Be careful, okay? For what it’s worth, you—you look lovely tonight. It would be a shame for such a, uh, such a pretty girl in a pretty dress to end up face down, stuck in the pool drain. ‘Night [Y/N].”

[Y/N] was glad for the dark because she felt her face heat up and dopey smile start to form at the compliment. Maybe she was drunk, but that had to be flirting. In the most fucked up way possible, but still. Why? Art Donaldson didn’t even like her.

Art had only managed to take a few steps into the dewy grass when [Y/N] begrudgingly called out: “Art, wait!”

She hated that she liked the smirk on his face when he turned around. He could tell what she wanted by her tone. What kind of fucker takes no for answer happily and still sets himself up for a yes in the end. “Yes?” He asked, trying not to smile.

“Listen, you’re right—“ [Y/N] stood up confidently, sliding Art’s jacket around her shoulders. And she stood up too fast and knocked her sandals into the pool. “Shit!” She cursed. She was still an age where cursing felt cool and unfamiliar. [Y/N] stood on her unsteady feet and watched her sandals bob out to the middle of the pool, propelled by her kick. She was embarrassed now as well. The stakes of everything felt so much higher than sandals in the pool of her best friend’s backyard. Booze will do that to the sanest of folks. [Y/N] dropped her face heavily into her hands. Great.

Quickly, Art cut his eyes between her and the shoes and back again. “Where do they keep the pool net?” Art asked calmly, without missing a beat.

“The shed.” [Y/N] said miserably and pointed a few feet away. Art bounded across the pavement around the pool to the shed. He tugged once, then twice.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. “It’s locked,” He reported to [Y/N] from practically halfway in the pruned hedges. Art started the walk back to her. Once he was beside her, Art placed a hand gently at her elbow. “Come back inside with me. Please. Patrick may be able to get us a key and we can…”

But [Y/N] looked so sad from behind her hands. Even though all of this was so childish. She was also wearing Art’s jacket now and that did things to his brain. Her dress wasn’t not low cut and he froze for a second. All he could do was stare.

“Just do what I would do,” Patrick said. “It’ll be fine, man. She’s already into you, I can tell.”

“Well, if she’s into me, why would I do what you would do? That’s an awful suggestion, Patrick.” Art protested.

Patrick spun around in his desk chair to face Art as he rolled a joint. “I’ve known her since before I knew you. Just, like, be spontaneous. That’s what I mean. Spontaneous. She’s into that because she’s like that too. And she’s… wicked mean, so don’t start shit. She’ll surprise you, but like, in a good way. What I said before makes me sound like a jackass,” Patrick paused to laugh. “Be in the moment. Don’t get in your head about it. Which you’re doing right now— I can tell, Arthur…” Patrick drew out Art’s full name (which he hated) to get under his skin.

Art stood up from the floor in frustration. He glanced at his watch. Too much time had passed. The window was metaphorically closing. Hastily, Art dashed to the door. “I’m going down there. Poor girl’s been waiting all this time because you, my friend, are a shitty advice-giver.”

“Spontaneous!” Patrick called after him with a grin.

Art stared at [Y/N]. Then he blinked. Then tilted his head to the side. Spontaneous. Before he knew it, he was tugging his shoes and socks off and diving into the pool. Art had been right, it was getting decisively cold and the pool water reflected that. Art swam out to where the wedges had floated too, which had actually been fairly far. He wasn’t sure if the net would have gotten them that easily. Art nicked the shoes by the ankle straps and shook his wet hair out of his face. As he paddled back, he glanced at [Y/N]’s expression. She smiled wide with joy and surprise at Art’s sacrifice.

“Art! Thank you so much!” She said when he flopped the waterlogged shoes onto the concrete. Art looked up at her from the water and he only looked up her skirt a little bit.

“It’s no trouble. Repayment’s in order, though.”

“Repayment…? What do you—“

Art wrapped his wet, callused hands around both of [Y/N] ankles and flipped her into the pool. She screamed as she splashed into the pool. Then laughed hard. Art wanted to hear that laugh for the rest of his life.

“Wait, fuck, you can swim, right?”

Fortunately, [Y/N] could, and that’s the move that won Art Donaldson his wife.

—

“Honey, you have to get up so you can get ready…” Art’s mouth moved against the shell of [Y/N]’s left ear. His arm was tossed over her middle. Normally, it was Art that dreaded getting out of bed, but clearly they enjoyed switching roles once in a while.

A nap had turned into two-and-a-half hours of [Y/N]’s soft snores while Art held her. He couldn’t sleep much, but luckily he had something beautiful to look at. She ripped into him about his staring problem all the time. Art couldn’t be bothered to give a damn. “No.” She mumbled.

“Please…” Art’s hand trailed under her shirt and climbed up, up, up.

“No,” she sighed. Art’s hands groped her left breast and [Y/N] didn’t particularly mind. She shivered at the contact. Art had known every inch of her body over years. Neither was bored yet, though.

“It’s one night. One party. We don’t have to stay all night… He’s not going to be there, Lenora told me when I RSVP’d.”

They had an unspoken rule. They did not name Patrick in conversation when sober. The wound was too fresh still.

“Don’t talk about him, or his fucking mom when you’re touching me like that,” [Y/N] all but moaned as Art’s left thumb circled her nipple. “‘Thought we had to get up…”

Art smirked. “We do. At least you’re awake now.” He teasingly withdrew his hand entirely from out of her shirt and scampered out of bed in one agile zip of a motion.

“Art!”

She groaned. Rolling on her back to look at the ceiling, she glanced over at Art walking through the master bathroom doorway in his briefs. What an incredible ass that man has. “Motivation to leave the party early.” Art said and popped off into the shower.

Maybe it was selfish. Patrick and [Y/N] and Art hadn’t spoken in almost a year. It was no surprise to the Donaldsons that Patrick was an addict. He had been addicted to almost everything and everyone that crossed his path. What they hadn’t expected was him becoming so out of control that he missed the wedding of his two best friends and was sent into rehab once he was declared medically stable. The one person that both Donaldsons had fought to have in their own personal half of the wedding party. And he wasn’t there. And the wedding was expensive enough to go through with it amid all the bad feelings over Patrick.

Still, they were invited to the Zweig family’s charity or whatever gala. They would go like they always had, too. But it would be their first time alone, so to speak.

[Y/N] regretfully got out of bed while Art showered. She moved to the closet and unzipped her paper thin dress bag. The gown itself was beautiful, but not all too expensive. The year had been tight in terms of money. The wedding and the honeymoon were pricey enough before you added in rackets and competition entry fees and coaching. Art was an expensive husband to have. He made up for it. He was playing at his best too, so [Y/N] hardly cared. Who could put a price on seeing Art smile like that?

[Y/N] cringed if she had to pay more than two-hundred dollars for shoes or a dress anyway.

The dress was green. She’d worn a lot of green since she met Art. [Y/N] dreaded wiggling into shapewear and spending too long on her hair. Art had it easy. A tie, a jacket and trading his nasty watch for his nicer one. It wasn’t fair. It never was with Art.

She got ready all the same. The straps rested on her shoulders, thicker than the early 2000s straps she had been dumped into the pool in. It was longer than that dress. Almost floor length instead of mid calf. It was elegant for its price tag.

Once the dress was on, [Y/N] tumbled into the bathroom to do her makeup. The shared counter was way too small for both of their shit to sit nicely on. She would complain about that when there was more money in the bank account to do something about it. Art was taking longer than normal in the shower. Boner, [Y/N] thought.

As she started to put her face on, she could see Art’s face in the foggy mirror behind her. The sound of the water stopping and the shower curtain being tossed back had gone unnoticed. He was smiling slightly. “You look nice.” He said softly. Art toweled off his shaggy hair harshly behind her. He kept looking at her.

This is how Art was. He made these remarkable heart eyes at her every time he saw her. [Y/N] could be wearing a potato sack and she would feel beautiful. That look, that staring problem, was worse a hundredfold when she was dressed up. He kept glancing at her. She could see him in the mirror. He wanted [Y/N] to see. The blue and brown of his eyes cast further and further down her body.

“Staring.” [Y/N] said simply. She didn’t even look away from her own face in the mirror.

“Yeah. And?” Art smiled cheekily. His face was bright red not from the warm shower water. He wrapped his towel around his slim waist. [Y/N] applied too much concealer and less blush. “I, of all people, am allowed.”

“Idiot.” [Y/N] said. Art dried his hands profusely on his towel, knowing she would squawk at him if he left wet handprints behind on her dress.

Art’s hands wrapped around her waist. Great pains were taken to prevent other wet spots from splopping up her dress. So, so gently, he kissed the left side of her neck from behind. “I was thinking—” Art was always gentle in his own way.

“Ooh, dangerous.”

“Shut up. Y’know, this is the first Zweig party where your placecard is going to say Donaldson on it…”

[Y/N] nodded softly. “Huh. Yeah. That’s true.” She said, smiling a bit.

“I’m really, really excited about that. On the seating chart, we’re the Donaldsons. Isn’t that so crazy…?” Art whispered into her plush skin. “Plural. Two of us.”

Teasingly, she nudged him back with her elbow. The smile was still wide on her lips. “You’re being such a girl about it.”

Art didn’t let go or relent. He pressed feather-light kisses between [Y/N]’s ear and collarbone. “Am I? Hadn’t noticed.”

“We’re going to be late to this thing you want to go to so bad, Mr. Donaldson, if you don’t stop.” [Y/N] whispered, incapable of doing more. She did set down her makeup sponge and pot of foundation with a clack.

“Would that be such a bad thing? Only a couple minutes, right? We could-we could cut out some of the boring small talk and…” Art said, daring boldly to drag his tongue up her throat as the steamed up mirror cleared some. He never finished his sentence verbally.

[Y/N] gasped at the feeling. That was a brave move for Art. “You drag me out of bed early so we can be late anyway. You don’t make any s-sense, babe.”

He huffed impishly. Art spun [Y/N] around to face him. His face and shoulders were damp from the water collected in his hair, which desperately needed a trim. Carefully, Art brushed [Y/N]’s hair away from her face. “You’re right… I’m sorry. Please let me make it up to you?”

“How?”

Then, Art’s mouth quirked into that crooked smile she loved so much.

“Please.” Art said in a hushed voice and boosted [Y/N] smoothly onto their rickety counter. “Give me ten minutes.”

“You can do better than ten.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Clock’s ticking.” When she said it, she heard Art’s knees hit the tile in front of her.

hii hope you’re having a good time i was wondering if you were okay with a luke castellan x reader request where she has him try all the different flavors of her lipglosses until he finds his favorite please

◟𖥻 gloss taste test : luke castellan

▰▰ pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

luke trying his girlfriend's lipglosses until he finds his favorite— except he just likes the kisses.

"Next"

Luke's voice is almost lazy, as he leans back on his elbows with a smug, amused smile on his face.

It had all started when Luke saw her collection of lip glosses and he dared to question it, "Why would you have so many if they're basically the same?"

And from that, he'd ended up here, sprawled on her bed, surrounded by her plushies, while she sat cross-legged in front of him, a bunch of glosses scattered over the covers.

"I swear you're not even trying." She shakes her head while applying the next one.

Luke shrugs, eyes fixed on her lips. "It just wasn't a strong contender." His hand suddenly shots up to her waist to pull her close. "Now, come here."

Before she can even drop the tube, he crashes his lips against hers. A soft, breathless giggle leaving her lips.

"That one's good, but not my favorite." he says against her lips before fully pulling back. "Next."

"You didn’t even let me tell you the flavor." She blinks at him, still stunned.

He smiles smugly. "Strawberry, love, I can taste it."

She rolls her eyes fondly, grabbing the next gloss, a soft, shiny pink. "This one's called Pink lemonade sorbet."

Luke raises an eyebrow. "That's surely not a real flavor."

"Try it yourself." She challenges playfully after applying it.

Of course, Luke is immediately leaning in to kiss her. When he pulls back, he hums thoughtfully. "Interesting. But not the one."

"Not even trying." She repeats, amused.

This goes on for a while. Peach candy? Good, but not great. Cotton candy? Sweet. Birthday cake? Absolutely not. Vanilla is too bland, But mint too tingly. Ginger snap? Gods, no. Chocolate—

"I like that." He hums, smiling against her lips. "But there’s gotta be a better one."

"You're doing this on purpose." She narrows her eyes, her cheeks already warm.

"I'm just taking my job very serious." he replies as she reaches for another tube of gloss.

It's a new one. She has barely used this one. It's mauve, with glittery shimmer, labeled dragon fruit. She swipes it on carefully, Luke's eyes following every movement.

And when she kisses him again, it's different. This time, there's no immediate next. Instead, he kisses deliberately slow, and she can totally feel him smiling against her lips. He doesn’t pull away, not until he absolutely has to when air is finally needed.

Even then, his hand slids up to her jaw and he presses breathless, short kisses to her mouth, lip-gloss quickly gone.

"So, what did you think?" She asks, giggling between kisses.

He doesn’t answer this time. Instead his hand tugs on her waist until he has her sitting closer, then he takes the gloss from her hands. He uncaps it and gently reapplies it to her lips himself.

Then he leans in again, lips curving into a grin as they brush hers once more.

"Mhm" he hums between kisses, hand holding her cheek. "Where do you buy this? I'll make sure you never run out of it."

After that, she uses the same lip gloss almost every day.

And almost every day, it's quickly gone once Luke starts kissing her.

FEIGNING FOR YA

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CHAPTER 3

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: easter with your family sucks and since when can Luke read you so easily

warnings: not proofread! slow burn, college au, smau, fake dating to dating, cursing, aged up! pjo charcters, parental expectations

a/n: guess who’s back from my hiatus! can you tell i used a crazy rich asians line. feedback is much appreciated after i took a long break

series list | next

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You’ve said it once and you’ll say it again. Springtime is truly a lovely time of the year, especially late spring. It was a healthy reminder of the college year ending in a month and a half.

That, along with the flowers in full bloom and allergies at a minimum. Luke watched you enjoy the bright scenery racing by his car window. A sigh escaped his nose.

You were in your head. Luke could tell.

He would’ve said something to cheer you up, anything stupid really, but his car was already coming to a stop. The engine sputtered.

“You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” Luke gently placed a hand on your knee. The incessant tapping you produced stopped. You figured he was slightly irritated with your nerves.

Cars were lined down the street. You could hear people talking in the backyard. Easter was a big holiday. Though a bunny planting eggs in the yards of homes was an absurd caricature to choose. Where did the bunny get the surplus of eggs? Dollar Tree.

Luke listened to you (which really meant he listened to your Aunt Shelley). He traded in his wife beater and button up for a sage green button up. The colors matched your white dress with patterned green flowers.

Sure, you hated coming back home at times, but you wouldn’t use that as an excuse to not dress up for holidays.

“I know.” You spoke up finally and glanced at him. He could tell you didn’t take his words to heart.

“Believe me.” Luke emphasized with a squeeze of your knee. You nodded your head, internally thankful he decided to accompany you this Easter. “We’ll be okay.”

And it was okay, like Luke promised, at least it was.

“That’s the boy you’re dating?” Your parents had pulled you inside the house. Shock and disappointment written all over your mother’s face. The subtle action of wrinkling her nose told you how displeased she was with this.

The Easter party was outside in the backyard. Your younger relatives were playing outside, running around Luke, begging him to join their games. Music was playing and your aunts and uncles were joking around.

It was a complete contrast to the inside of the house. Your mother had still upheld the rule of that quiet, peaceful environment. The ticking of the grandfather clock paired with the hum of the AC echoed throughout the house. It was unnerving how foreign the sounds of your home had become.

“He is.” You swallowed your nerves and guilt to put on a mask of faux confidence. You switched from hugging your arms to crossing them. “He…he is sweet and kind and treats me right.”

“He is the one who turned you into some sleaze!” She accused and pointed her wrinkly finger at you. Your father grunted in agreement, staring you down. “Do you not care about your future?”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you take a deep breath. You weren’t going to let your parents push you to be their “perfect little girl”. You dropped your hands to your sides and stared at your mom’s judging eyes.

All you’ve done is care about your future, your life. It was the constant studying, the constant tutoring kids who didn’t care. Just to make your college resume look like the perfect candidate for some top notch college. High school was so mundane and terrible and you tried to look on the bright side, tried to reason with your parents—your mom’s, decisions.

“I told you to get rid of those friends of yours and now you’re dating the bad influence. The fly!” Your mom reminded you harshly. Always your and your friends' fault for turning out a certain way. Always. “You never listen to me because of them—him!”

Luke was starting to become concerned with how long your parents were keeping you from festivities. Your little sister and cousins have asked him to lift them up with just his arms so many times.

They were getting impatient, waiting for the Easter Egg Hunt to start. The sky has even taken it’s cue to start going to bed (as your little sister called it)

“He is not a bad influence. He doesn’t smoke and rarely drinks.” You defended with a firm tone. “Luke and my friends are not going to ruin my future because I want to have fun.”

“It’s that mindset that’s going to get you homeless!” You left the conversation after that.

Judging stares and faux smiles were plastered on your older relatives as soon as you left the house, followed by your parents soon after. Aunt Shelley was a prominent figure, reveling in gossip and family drama.

Luke wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed your temple. A silent act of reassurance, that he was here. You watched as your cousins and little sister ran around the large backyard, collecting the plastic little eggs.

“Look!” Your little sister presented a shiny pink plastic egg. She smiled, proud of her find. The sun was beginning to set. A range of oranges, pinks and yellows complimented the clouds and the horizons. The lights in the backyard blinked on.

“That’s really shiny. What’d you get?” You crouched down to your sister’s height, entertaining her ego.

She opened it with a small ‘pop’ and inside was money. “I’m a dollar and twenty-five cents rich!” She exclaimed with a happy smile. Your sister proudly showed off her reward to Luke.

Your sister was the only reason you came back home anymore,

It wasn’t until dinner was served that the whispers became prominent. Left and right as you sat and ate, you heard how different you were. How you back talked (back sassed in Aunt Shelley’ words) your parents. How disobedient and ignorant you’ve become and what they would’ve done in this situation.

“How could she talk back like that? My sister only cares for her future.”

“I would’ve made her do online school.”

“Mm, no bad influences. Smart man, Thomas.”

“When children are away from home too long, they forget who they are.”

God, couldn’t they just mind their business?

“Let’s just go.” Luke suggested smoothly. His voice is like caramelized honey amongst the sea of scratchy voices. It made your stomach churn because it was the best thing he could’ve said to you all night (totally)

At this point, Luke could read you like a book. Since the food came out, you’ve been in your head, thinking twice about this act of rebellion. Doubts seeding through your mind. He needed to pull you out.

And as much as you wanted to stay for your little sister, your need to get out of that backyard outweighed it.

The final stop of today’s lovely excursion was the local lake. The sandy banks were warmed by the fading sun. Luke was determined to cheer you up.

Though he wasn’t doing a good job. He left you at the lake alone.

It was a little bit before he showed up again with a flower bouquet, take out and his jacket. “What good fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t try to cheer you up?”

“You left me for twenty minutes.” You rolled your eyes. He sat down next to you and handed you the flowers. The appreciative smile betrayed your annoyance.

“Y’know, in a way, you did piss off your parents.” Luke nudged your shoulder, changing topic. You ran your fingers over the flower petals. “Like you wanted.”

And that was what you wanted. To get back at your parents, to piss them off, for how judgmental and controlling they’ve been of your life. So shouldn’t it feel good?

Luke kept staring at you, taking in how resigned you looked. Your mouth turned downwards whilst your eyes hid how upset you were at the comments.

“Thank you.” You finally spoke up and placed the flowers in your lap. “I think…we don’t have to continue this anymore.”

You spoke with much thought put into this. The whole goal was to piss off your parents. Why did you need to fake date when you already did that?

“Don’t be stupid, sweetheart.” Luke rolled his eyes and opened up the Chinese food he bought. “I’m still in it for the trip.”

You snorted. Of course he was. “Besides, you haven’t even touched the surface of rebellion. You feel unsatisfied because you planned this.” He made his point by gesturing with his chopsticks.

“You’re not supposed to care about what other people think of you or your actions.” Luke shoveled some Kung Pao Chicken in his mouth. He talked like he was an expert on this. He was, but only to his dad.

“So what now?” What a failure this was.

“I help you experience your new freedom with rebelling.” Luke smirked and offered you some food. “C’mon sweetheart, the least you could do is indulge in my ways.”

“Okay, Master Yoda.” You laughed and took a piece of his chicken. The sky had fully darkened and the stars blinked in the night sky.

“No, no! I’m Anakin! Come to the dark side.”Luke and you look out at the stars and constellations. You lean your head against his shoulder.

“Fine.” You mumbled. “I’ll join the dark side.”

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taglist:

@happy-mushrooms @m00ng4z3r @justanotherkpopstanlol @2hiigh2cry @celluifleur @yuminako @pookiebear16 @mxtokko @cxcillia @kai-islost @kidkrowk @iluvpjo @sofiacblair @cherryynovaa @dracoslovergirl @lalloronaisreal @jennapancake @urbanflorals @sweetstime @cherr-y-eji @thatbird-fromrio @itzlilywelch @annispamz

The people have spoken! I will start writing ch. 5 of FFY. In the mean time have:

A SAD SONG

A cute like hadestown inspired fic with the reader and luke with absolutely no tragedy…

PERCY JACKSON

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FEIGNING FOR YA’ - luke castellan x fem!reader

KISS THE GIRL - luke castellan x reader

CAN’T CATCH A BREAK - luke castellan x daughter of demeter!reader

THE TALK - luke castellan x daughter of dionysus!reader

WHAT IS LOVE? - luke castellan x fem!reader

GHOST IN THE WIND - luke castellan x fem!reader

FIRST LOVE - past!luke castellan x reader

ROMEO AND FAIR JULIET - biker!luke castellan x reader

FESS UP! - luke castellan x reader

COLUMBA - luke castellan x daughter of aphrodite!reader

TOO LATE - luke castellan x daughter of poseidon!reader

PARAMOUR - college!luke castellan x fem!reader

A SAD SONG - luke castellan x daughter of apollo!reader

LOVER AND A WARRIOR - clarisse la rue x daughter of aphrodite!reader

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FLICKERING LIGHTS

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pairing: racetrack higgins x reader

summary: racetrack finds y/n on jack’s rooftop, silent, peaceful, looking at those big beautiful flicking lights in the night sky.

warnings: n/a

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The faint chatter of the Manhattan Newsies faded away as Y/N climbs up the fire escape. Escaping life, noise, smiles, chatter, work, hunger, exhaustion—escaping it all for just a moment.

A cool breeze hits their face once they step foot on the metal stairs, climbing and climbing until they reach “Jack’s Penthouse”.

There is a couple of blankets, pillows and clothes sprawled out over the roof. Jack and Crutchie’s things. The two newsboys usually retire here during the summer and autumn seasons.

Stepping over the belongings, carefully, Y/N reaches the railing of “Jack’s Penthouse”. All is quiet, all is peaceful. It is as if the city that never sleeps was actually asleep, save for the murmurs of a passerby. They lean against the railing, looking up at the millions and millions of glimmering stars in the evening sky. Beautiful flickering lights. Celestial balls of gas.

Their thoughts cease on when their next meal is or if they’ll sell all their papers tomorrow or when they’ll age out of being a newsie.

No.

Y/N focused on the stars and it brings them peace. A newfound solidarity blooming within. “The stars are so beautiful.” Y/N thought. A soft smile playing on their lips.

The constellations are mapped out amongst the millions of stars. Y/N wished they could remember what constellation is what, but they can see the pictures they make.

Y/N makes out one to be a ladle for soup or a pan with an odd handle. There is a small one just besides it. There also seemed to be one that looked likes a stick figure of a dog. Y/N liked to think that was an actually constellation.

Time passes by, Y/N underestimated how long they’ve been up there when Racetrack comes looking for them. His head popped up from the fire escape. His hat and cigar missing from his usual newsies getup. “Hey, Y/N!” Race called out.

Upon realizing the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of the night, Race lowered his voice. “Hey.” Race almost whispered as he made his way to the newsie. He leaned against the railing just like Y/N, looking at them with a softened gaze.

“Hey, ‘was wondering where you went.” Race spoke and followed their gaze. The stars capturing his eyes. “S’pretty.”

“Mhm.” Y/N hummed.

It’s silent again, the occasionally cricket chirping (wherever it was on the roof). Now, Y/N had a star-gazing partner, for now. Y/N deducted that Race would get bored and go back inside the Lodging House.

But, Race stayed. He appreciated the peaceful beauty of the evening sky as much as they did.

Which compelled Y/N to say, “D’you know constellations?”

“Constell—what?”

“Constellations.”

Race thought for a moment, his attention on the newsie beside him. “I’ve heard of the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper…” Race uttered softly. He didn’t want to disrupt the atmosphere and mood.

Y/N looked at him curiously. Race smiled and took their hand, fumbling with their fingers, so the pointer finger stuck out. He guided their hand to point at the Big Dipper. “There.”

It took a moment for Y/N’s eyes to figure out what they were looking at—oh…

The big ladle for soup.

Race guided their hand a little bit down. “The small ladle for soup.” Y/N mumbled the thought.

“Yeah, those two are the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.” Race grinned at the newfound information Y/N learned. He let go of their hand.

In return, Y/N mimicked Race’s actions with his own hand. “Right…there. Do you see the stick figure dog?” Y/N asked. They could see it loud and clear.

“No…” Race squinted his eyes as if he would be able to see the image better. He did. Somehow. “Oh! Yeah…I see the guy.”

“Named him Oliver.” Y/N grinned and let go of Race’s hand.

The two newsies take turns spotting our different images they can see amongst the stars. Sometimes the other lied about seeing a certain thing just to make the other happy. Laughs and comments traded amongst them.

By the end of the evening when Jack and Crutchie made their way up to the “penthouse”, they found Race and Y/N on the floor. Race’s arm was being used as a pillow for Y/N. Their eyes slowly shutting but re-opening quickly to find new constellations of their own.

“Alright, you two.” Jack clapped his hands to wake them from their droopy states. “Get back to the bunks, you’ll be stiff if you sleep up here.”

Crutchie shook his head with a playful grin. Race grumbled something incoherent as Y/N and him move their bodies down the fire escape.

When they reached the window to lead them back into the Lodging House, Y/N stopped Race. They found the courage to press a kiss to his cheek. “Star-watch with me tomorrow.” Y/N mumbled and headed inside.

Race stood on the fire escape and touched his cheek. Specifically, the spot where Y/N’s lips touched. His cheek and ears turned a rosy pink. “Yeah.” He whispered almost inaudibly.

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Spinning these around in the washing machine that is my brain