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"wot is this chris?" AAAWWWW BABIEEEE

“It was like…a month before I actually said to anyone it was a musical. I was sort of… Well, people asked me, ‘What is this, Chris? Is it a musical?’ ‘Oh, not really. No…’ It took me a long time before I could say it was a musical straight out.”

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oooooh bitch he don’t play abt his girl

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apparently, the press referred to Teddy Roosevelt as the "cowboy candidate" in elections

Jack Kelly you fangirl

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THE GREEN EYED MONSTER — bruce wayne

MDNI ┆warnings: smut. bruce wayne thoughts

BRUCE WAYNE didn’t think of himself as a jealous man. jealousy was irrational, unproductive—a crack in control, and control was the very foundation of who he was.

“h-aah—bruce,” you arched beneath him, hands scrambled for purchase, one curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck while the other clutched at his shoulder. his thoughts churned even as his body stayed attuned to yours. “bruce,” you whimpered again, half a plea, half surrender.

bruce’s mind stuttered, unbidden thoughts clawing their way back. that investor at the gala—what was his last name? langley? no, it was something else. didn’t matter. bruce could recall the man’s face with infuriating clarity.

but what burned brightest was the handshake: his hand lingering in yours just a beat too long, bordering on intimate. the subtle breach of etiquette set bruce on edge. then the man leaned in, voice dipping low as he murmured something meant only for you, the words drowned out by the clinking of champagne glasses and soft murmur of the crowd. your laugh had followed—light, polite, the same one you’d offered to so many others that evening. you’d likely forgotten the exchange entirely. just you being you—sweet, approachable. but the rasp of the man’s smoker’s laugh lingered in bruce’s memory, coarse and unwelcome, grating against his nerves like sandpaper.

muscles drawn taut, his hips moved on their own accord, driven by a dangerous mélange of frustration and lust. the next thrust was rougher than intended, forceful in a way that bordered on needy, and it stole a sharp gasp from your lips. you arched against him, body yielding with desperate eagerness that sent a shiver of triumph through him.

“nnngh–hah-”

could he make you sound like this? bruce wondered, his jaw tightening as his mind darkened. could he make you dig your nails into his back like this, leave those fleeting little crescent-shaped reminders?

his pace slowed, the haze of primal lust lifting as rationality began to reclaim its hold. his forehead pressed against yours, eyes shutting briefly before reopening. bruce tilted his head slightly, seeking your gaze. your pupils were blown wide, kiss-bitten lips swollen and parted, breasts heaving with every laboured breath. you didn’t seem to mind the newfound edge in him; if anything, it appeared that you enjoyed it.

could he make you shiver like this? could he have you matching his every thrust, cumming so many times but still craving more, your body pliant yet demanding?

“f-fuck,” he ground out, his sweat-damp forehead falling against your shoulder as he drove himself closer, deeper. until bursts of white danced at the edges of your vision, every nerve-end alight.

could he-

drunkenly, you reached for him, fingers weaving into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging just enough to coax a guttural groan from his throat. that simple action unraveled his jealousy, scattering it like ash on the wind. his mind snapped the answer into place with startling finality.

no, bruce decided. he couldn’t.

your head tilted back to fall on the pillow as he dipped his head, warm lips found the edge of your jaw, trailing up as he sought the delicate curve of your ear. you felt his teeth grazed your earlobe—a soft, teasing nibble. a sound escaped you, high and needy, and it must’ve sparked something in bruce because another thrust that made your toes curl in welcome to the glorious stretch of his cock.

eyelids fluttering open, you glanced up at bruce, the faint glow of the room casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face. his brows furrowed in concentration, hair curling damply against his temple, and above you, he looked godly—untouchable, yet entirely yours. you barely had time to drink in the sight of your lover before he tilted your chin toward him, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that stole your breath and any lingering coherent thought. there was a brief clash of teeth before it softened into the warm yet insistent press of his lips, the demanding slide of his tongue as though he had something to prove—not to you, but to himself.

he reared back before snapping his hips forward again, earning another stretched moan from your lips as you felt him nudge against your cervix. once more, his name slipped from your mouth in the form of a broken whine when he broke the kiss, dark gaze smouldering as he studied your face—drinking in every detail like a man starved, and the corner of his mouth twitched with a satisfied smirk.

you clenched around him, felt that pulsating warmth through the thin veil of slick and sweat. it wouldn’t take long for you to fall apart once again, not with the multiple orgasms he had bestowed upon you earlier and the frantic pace he was moving now. bruce drove into you one last time with a strained grunt, sheathing himself to the hilt.

you couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment your climax began or where his met yours—all you knew was the overwhelming surge that overtook you both, cresting like a tidal wave. your vision blurred, edges dissolving into brilliant white, and a broken cry slipped from your lips as your body trembled uncontrollably. your fingers clenched, digging into his shoulders, while your muscles turned molten, leaving you boneless and weightless, as if you were melting into him. the low, guttural sound he let out against your neck sent another shiver through you, tethering you to the shared euphoria that left nothing untouched.

the vice-like grip on your hips slackened, and you could feel his cock continuing to twitch and spasm as he thrust lazily inside you, grinding his cum as deep as it could go.

he should’ve felt satisfied, but instead, there was something else—a knot still twisting low in his chest. his jealousy had burned out, but in its place was something else, that made his heart ache.

“did i hurt you?”

“no. you were…” you paused, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his forearm. “perfect.”

a faint exhale left him, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. bruce pressed his lips to your forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than he usually did.

could anyone else make you look like that?

he didn’t have to ask himself. he already knew the answer.

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THINGS I WANNA SAY TO YOU (BUT I’LL JUST LET YOU LIVE) — bruce wayne x reader

the dark knight has been shouldering gotham’s weight for too long. tonight, he might just need someone else ease the burden. // wc : 773

raindrops traced uneven paths down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the wayne mansion, the soft patter filling the otherwise tranquil room. fire crackled low in the hearth, its amber flickers like demonic fingers, clawing and reaching, scraping at the shadows that clung to the vaulted ceilings. BRUCE WAYNE sat on the edge of the leather couch, shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie discarded carelessly on the coffee table. there was a dull ache in his shoulders—a reminder of the endless strain he subjected himself to. but tonight, there was nothing demanding his attention. no calls to answer, no suits to don, no crises waiting in the alleyways of gotham. for once, quietness held.

bruce intended to keep it that way.

his gaze followed you as you entered the room, his thoughts unspooling before he could stop them. the life he’d constructed, brick by brick, with walls of steel and grief meant to keep others out. yet somehow, you’d slipped through. the way you fit into his life, seamlessly yet entirely your own, never ceased to disarm him. you were so different from everything he was—light where he was shadow, warmth where he was cold.

somehow, you belonged here. with him.

you set the tray down on the coffee table, the clink of ceramic pulling him from his thoughts. you started to sit on the armrest, but he caught your hand, long fingers curling around your wrist. “come here,” he said, tugging you toward him. your brows lifted slightly, but you didn’t resist as he guided you until you were settled in his lap, facing him, your knees bracketing his hips. one of his hands resting on your waist, the other trailing up your arm idly.

“what was that for?” you tilted your head with a curious smile, your hands instinctively settling on his shoulders. bruce didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on your face as his mind scrambled for the right word to capture the sight before him. eloquent, articulate bruce wayne, who always seemed to find the perfect phrase, drew a perfect blank. ethereal was the closest candidate, but even that felt inadequate. the firelight danced across your features, softening the curve of your lips and the elegant slope of your nose. for a fleeting moment, he felt utterly unmoored.

“you’re so tense,” you murmured, breaking the quiet as your fingers pressed into the tight muscles along his shoulders, working with a steady rhythm. bruce allowed his head to tilt back slightly, eyelids fluttering shut as he surrendered to your touch. your fingertips dug into the knots, slowly unraveling the tension that had built up over days, coaxing a deep exhale from his chest. the pressure was firm but gentle, easing away the stiffness in his muscles. as you continued, bruce’s thoughts drifted, and this time, he made no effort to reign them in.

the sound came first—a sharp, ominous crack. bruce stood on an endless pane of dark glass, its surface trembling under pressure. fractures raced outward like veins, jagged and merciless, the splintering sound echoing like gunfire. beneath his feet was nothing but darkness, a bottomless void that yawned wide, waiting to swallow him whole.

shit, he’s going to fall.

and then, your touch—fingers gentle but firm against his skin—and the cracks stilled as though startled into submission, the jagged edges softening under the warmth of your palms. the glass rippled, smooth and fluid like water, its sharpness dissolving as if it had never been.

he swallowed back a groan, adam’s apple bobbing as his fingers tightened briefly on your hip. the reaction didn’t go unnoticed. “relax,” you teased, your voice a lilting chirp of amusement. his lips twitched in response, though his grip on you remained firm. “you make that sound easy,” bruce countered gruffly, the strain in his voice a contraction to his words. your hands slowed, one drifting to rest over his chest, where you could feel the steady thrum beneath your palm. leaning forward, warm breath skimmed his jaw, impossibly close yet maddeningly restrained.

“better?” you asked softly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes searching.

“better,” he replied, though the word couldn’t begin to articulate even a fraction of what he felt.

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“I'm not sayin' that it should matter to you. I'm just sayin', um- but does it? Matter?”

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oh my god this takes me back to the chatroom fic days

Spot: who the fuck added me to a fucking group chat? Jack: language! Les: yeah watch your fucking language Crutchie: OKAY WHO TAUGHT LES THE FUCK WORD? Race: 'the fuck word'. Davey: Are you stupid? You guys use the f word all the time Jack: oh my God he censored it Crutchie: say fuck, Davey Race: do it, Dave. Say fuck.

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Imagine the comedic potential of David thinking that Ed is short for something and all of the newsies messing with him

Scene One David: What's Ed short for? Edward? Jack, known liar and little shit (affectionate): Actually, it's short for Edwina, after his grandmother. His parents thought they were havin' a girl and didn't bother changing it. David: Do you think I'm stupid? Jack: Do you really want me to answer that? Scene Two David: Bumlets, do you know what Ed's short for? Bumlets, secret shit-starter: Eduardo Napoleone Ignacio Battista. He had to change his name to escape a murder charge in Boston. David: Are you serious? Bumlets: Why would I lie to you? Besides, Sarah was there when he told me. Right, Sarah? Sarah, who is always down to mess with David: Of course. It's a tragic story. Poor Eduardo was just trying to protect his mother and now he can never see her again. David, suspicious and confused: ... okay then. Scene Three David: Excuse me, Mr. Kloppman. You wouldn't happen to know what Racetrack's real name is? I know he has to sign the logbook when he stays the night. Mr. Kloppman, very tired: Well, son, today it's Theodore Michael Anthony Higgins the Third of the Kensington Higginses. Yesterday, it was Eddard Alfson, Scourge of the North Sea. Come back tomorrow and it'll probably be something different. David: Do you know any of their names? Mr. Kloppman: I have no idea.

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YOU COULD BE MINE — patrick bateman

synopsis: a brief overview of how it’s like to be in love with “the boy next door” patrick bateman // warnings: mentions to sex & drugs. mdni !

a/n: for my parasocial anonymously mysterious gf

PATRICK BATEMAN was always a cold heartbreaker, fit to burn, and he knows it. but the worst part? so do you.

the two of you meet halfway—your innocence for his corruption, your softness for his sharp edges, your willingness to forgive for his inability to change.

dating him is stepping into a world of perpetual luxury. he spoils you rotten with reservations at dorsia, presents wrapped in tiffany blue, uncut cocaine. the kind of materialistic attention that made you feel like you were the centre of his perfect but bleak universe. you’re his trophy, the physically flawless partner who makes him look enviable. everything patrick does is a flex, a way of saying, look at me. look at us.

but there’s another side to patrick bateman, the one he conceals behind “the boy next door”. he’s awkward, painfully so—pathetic in the way he overcompensates, always trying too hard to be the man he thinks you want him to be. he tells you “i love you” often enough to sound convincing, but the words always feel oddly rehearsed, like lines from a script he doesn’t quite understand but knows he has to deliver. it’s the same way he taps his american express card on the counter, eager to buy anything that might fill the empty spaces between you—but unable to offer anything of real substance.

you’ve been together for years now—long enough for him to know your habits, your tells, the way your lips tremble before you bite down on them, or the way your hands fidget with your necklace—a nervous tick he’s cataloged along with every other detail about you. he notices everything. “why must you find another reason to cry?” he asks. it’s not really a question. it’s an accusation, laced with an irritation that cuts deeper than he probably intends. patrick doesn’t mean to hurt you, not exactly. but he doesn’t know how not to, either.

sex is the only thing he doesn’t hold over your head, the one currency in your relationship that flows freely. it’s not something you have to beg for or negotiate. in fact, it’s almost like an unspoken truce, a way for patrick to smooth over his shortcomings and remind you why you stay. he knows what you like, knows how to make you feel wanted even when his words fail him. and he uses it, of course he does. for patrick, fucking isn’t just about pleasure—it’s control, reassurance that you’re his, that no matter how much you fight, you’ll still end up tangled in his sheets by the end of the night.

but it’s the aftermath that stings the most. you see it in the way he leaves you in your bed, cologne and sex lingering in the air as the door clicks shut behind him. in the way he doesn’t answer your questions, just shrugs and says, “i need to return some videotapes.” he comes home late smelling of bourbon and sin, brushing off your concerns with a kiss and a designer bag to smooth things over.

eventually, you stopped asking where he’d been. you learned not to question him, to count your stars that he even came home. because that’s how patrick operates—on his terms, in his world.

it wasn’t new to you. you’d seen this movie before, the kind where the man you love doesn’t love you back—not the way you need, anyway.

and yet, you don’t leave. cannot leave.

sometimes he shares his favourite music with you, insisting you listen to a specific album from his beloved artists like whitney houston or huey lewis & the news. he talks about them in a way that’s almost obsessive, like he’s desperate for you to see something in them, some part of him he can’t articulate. and, somehow, you do. you listen, not because you love the music, but because you’ve learned to understand the way he talks about it, the way he tries so damn hard to make you get him.

and then there’s the patty winters show—he’ll insist, more often than not, that you watch it with him, even though it’s something he already watches religiously. it’s never really about the show itself—not about nazis juggling grapefruits or the absurdity of it all. it’s about you being there, sitting next to him on the couch, as he soaks in every detail. patrick wants you to be involved in his world, however messed up that might be. he doesn’t always know how to express his thoughts or feelings, but in his own way, it’s his clumsy attempt at connecting with you.

it’s pathetic, really, how much you’ve come to rely on him. and how much he needs you, even if he doesn’t know how to show it. you stay—not because it’s the easy choice, not because you’re a materialistic, shallow bitch who can’t say no to designer handbags and reservations at dorsia—but because somewhere deep down, you’ve convinced yourself that you can make this work. that despite everything, maybe you deserve this mess—this flawed love. a love that isn’t perfect, but it’s there. and that’s something.

because, despite everything, he’s still there. and that’s the part that fucks with your head. patrick bateman might not be the man you imagined, and he may never love you the way you thought he would, but in this mess, he’s still yours.

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he's just a little dude

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a lot of jack's bravado is fed by his fellow newsies.

they're there to drive him into acts of courage, like fights or leading a strike. they're his source of confidence and support. so, even though he's actually scared shitless by warden snyder, he still manages to put on a brave face because he knows the boys got his back.

when the rally happened, he still got arrested even though every newsie he knew was there. after that, he was quick in putting up his fists and running away, expressing his fear —

— because he found out that even a hundred boys protecting him isn't enough to fight off a handful of powerful men. or so he thought.

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BRUCE WAYNE and LUCIUS FOX in THE DARK KNIGHT (2008)

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i'm so unhealthily obsessed with jack kelly and i'm so scared of turning 20 because it's gonna start being weird

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Rdr2 takes place in 1899

You know what else takes place in 1899??

NEWSIES

New headcanon Arthur and Jack are distant cousins on their mother’s side and the reason Jack is obsessed with Santa Fe and being a cowboy is because he was once a little city boy listening to his older cousin tell him all about what it’s like out west

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Color Symbolism in Newsies

Newsies (1992) is much beloved for it's use of color. From the pastels of the ensemble newsies to Jack's distinctive red bandana, the use of certain colors in the film do an excellent job of helping to tell the story. Exhibit A: the contrast between Jack's bandana and David's blue shirt which creates a visual representation of the contrast between the personalities of our two main characters.

Coupled with historical context and meanings, there are many connections between and insights into characters that can be gained by paying close attention to how Newsies uses color.

For the sake of brevity, I'll just be analyzing the colors in Newsies as they are used in costuming and ignoring set design or we could be here all night.

Red

In political history, red has often stood for revolution and rebellion. It's no wonder then that the leaders of Brooklyn and Manhattan both wear red. Red also indicates passion and bravery, which are key to the strike.

Besides Jack and Spot, Pulitzer wears red when Jack is brought to his study and attempts to bribe Jack to scab. Aka, Pulitzer is dressed in red at the height of exercising his power over Jack.

Center: Jack And The Beanstalk. Illustration for unidentified book of children's nursery literature, with Kronheim illustrations, c 1870

@sarahjacobs has an excellent post that talks about red symbolizing power in Newsies which you can read here.

Another interesting meaning for red comes from Jewish belief where the color red is linked to sin, but also to sacrifice and redemption. Jack scabbing to protect David and his friends after Pulitzer threatens them comes to mind.

You could consider Jack dawning his bandana again during "Once And For All" as symbolic of his redemption and reconciliation with the Jacobs and the newsies.

Red: Uncovering the Historical Significance of a Bold Color - Symbol Sage Political colour, Red - Wikipedia What colors symbolize Jewish culture?, Red

Pink

When most people think of pink, they often associate it with femininity. However, pink being a "girl" color is actually a modern idea which only gained significant popularity in the 1950s. Before this, pink was worn beginning in the 1700s by European aristocrats and became a color of success and class.

This meaning makes pink fitting for Miss Medda Larkson, the Swedish Meadowlark.

In the later half of the 19th century in particular, pink was also tied to youth, which is why we see Sarah and several newsboys alike in the color. As The Art of Dressing Well (1870) dictated, pink "is only fitted for the young. It is a charming color, and those to whom it is suited look very graceful in it."

Because it was also seen as a "paler shade of red", pink had masculine connotations that were also associated with red. Pink therefore occasionally shares the meanings of passion, aggression, and bravery with its parent color.

The first time Sarah wears pink is when she discovers Denton's article and becomes directly involved with and passionate about the strike.

Oscar Delancey, arguably the more aggressive Delancey, wears a pink undershirt. You also have Kid Blink in a pink shirt who is known for being very passionate and short tempered.

The shade of pink that Blink wears is the same shade as Sarah's shawl which she wears when she punches Morris Delancey in the face. Medda too isn't afraid to fight back and speak her mind at the rally. She and Sarah both exhibit bravery.

Refined, rebellious and not just for girls: A cultural history of pink | CNN Tickled pink: colors in the Victorian era - Recollections Blog The complicated gender history of pink | CNN

Blue

You've likely heard the phrase "true blue" before, this is because blue has a reputation stretching far back in history for representing loyalty and trust. Blue also often represents intelligence and tranquility. It's extremely fitting then that David Jacobs is always seen in blue, especially because he values honesty and prefers peaceful means of protest to violence whenever possible.

The color blue, specifically tekhelet or a shade of blue described in the Torah, holds significant weight in Judaism. It is sometimes referred to as the 'color of God’s Glory’ in Rabbinic literature and has been used in ancient and modern Jewish symbolism alike. This connects the color blue to the Jacobs family as a whole.

Even without the association to Judaism, the Jacobs family puts high value in education and truth. After all, it was Mr. Jacobs who taught his children not to lie and who insists on David and Les returning to school.

Left: King David with the Lyre, 18th century Sebastiano Conca (1680-1764)

Left: Tekhelet (תְּכֵלֶת) or "sky blue" tzitzit; Right: King David. Psalterium et horae ad usum Sanctae Capellae Parisiensis, 1360-1400

Because blue was historically both an expensive dye and pigment for painters, blue was worn by and used in art for only the most important subjects. Thus, blue became symbolic of nobility.

To the Renaissance artists, there was no subject more important than the Virgin Mary. While blue had been tied to female figures and goddesses previously across several cultures, Renaissance depictions of Mary led to blue becoming widely associated with humility, grace, and femininity in the Western world.

Left: Periwinkle flower, a symbol of grace and femininity and a Christian symbol of the Virgin Mary

Pastel shades of blue in particular became commonly feminine colors suitable for women and girls in the 18th and 19th centuries. Hence, it makes sense that Sarah would wear blue at the rally.

All You Need to Know About What the Color Blue Symbolizes | Slightly Blue What does blue mean in Judaism? | Slightly Blue The Secret History of the Color Blue — Google Arts & Culture The History of Blue as a Women’s Color

Purple

Because of its rarity in the natural world, and the labor historically needed to create purple dye, purple was highly prized and was considered a symbol of high status and honor.

Spot Conlon is the only member of the our main cast of newsies to wear the color purple, which visually symbolizes the newsboys' respect for him, his reputation, and his involvement in the strike.

The purple detailing on Medda's costume when we first meet and are introduced to her by Jack is also an indication of the respect other characters have for her.

Purple can also denote ambition and independence, characteristics that suit both Spot and Medda well seeing as Spot has "moved up in the world" and Medda owns her own theater.

Why is Purple Considered the Color of Royalty? | HISTORY Purple: Color Meaning, Associations, and Effects

Black and Grey

What about lack of color? In Newsies, we can easily tell our heroes from the villains through the use of color. Or can we?

The villains or "opposing forces" are all dressed in dark greys or black as opposed to the pastels and shades of brown that the newsies and their allies wear. Jack Kelly is an interesting exception, dressed head to toe in dark hues with the one color being the red of his bandana. Visually, Jack could fit into a crowd of newsboys, or of scabs and goons.

Black has long been associated, for obvious reasons, with darkness and secrecy. Similarly, grey is often seen as representing foreboding, moral ambiguity, and evasiveness.

The use of grey and black for Jack clues us into the fact that he is lying about his past and his family and also foreshadows his betrayal of the strike.

Which Colour represents evil?