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people who dislike 92sies are just mad livesies doesn't have kloppman

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pink pony club is a song jack kelly uses to hype himself up

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three person poly relationship made up of two people who are already dating trying to coax someone with horrific self worth issues into a loving relationship. stray cat style

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Day One of Your Honor, I Love Them!

Happy Day One! For today, just share your top OTP! Let’s see how many we got!

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An underrated friendship (in which they actually get the chance to meet)? Katherine and Skittery. Imagine the chaos of a prodigy writer Skittery with Katherine, when she's not correcting his spelling (he'd asked her to) she's amazed by what he comes up with, poetry, short stories, "the boys got talent" she'll say to the group if they've stolen what he's working on or tried to poke fun. Skittery with a smug grin with his arm around Katherine's shoulder walking into the lodging house, "I'm gonna get published one day, just you wait"

[My loudest and longest hell yeah u have ever heard]

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Haven't done this in ages

Reblog for a newsies idea in your inbox ♡

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reblog this if you're okay with booping spams please !!

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The accents in newsies are my favorite thing ever because I genuinely cannot tell if there terrifyingly accurate or horrible overdone

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Newsiestober Day 21 : Storm

Chaos writing a bit of pirate au?? After half a year?? More likely than you think (I have so much thoughts but just cannot write it)

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The ship swayed back and forth, waves crashing on the sides, and while Flipper knew the boat wouldn’t sink, that it was safe, that the older men would do whatever they could do get them through the storm safely, he couldn’t help but think of the last storm he’d been in, where he’d almost begged for the storm to sink them, for lightning to strike the captain and the mast and everything that would just make the ship break down so he wouldn’t have to go where they wanted to sell him off to.

It had happened, and Flipper was the only person that survived, as far as he knew, only because the Santa Fe had been close and had seen him between the wreck of the slave ship.

As much as he’d wished for the ship to never reach it’s destination, for a storm to wreck it, he’d still been afraid getting tossed around the ocean and ship, even now. Because what if, what if the ship sunk once more, what if it was because of him, what if he’d be the only one to get away again, this time not from people he hated but from people he thought of as his family, what if-

Flipper got up, careful to not be too loud and wake Tumbler and snuck out of his room, right to Bumlets’ room, slowly opening the door to find Skittery and Swifty asleep on the bed, Swifty holding his boyfriend tight, while Bumlets was watching over them.

He went over to the black-haired man, tapping his shoulder as he didn’t notice.

“Flip? Hey, what’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

“No. Too loud and shakey.”

Bumlets opened his arms, Flipper instantly cuddling under his chin, feeling calmer already. “Fear of the storm?”

“Mhm.”

While stroking Flipper’s hair, he reached for a book lying close. “It’s a loud storm, you can be afraid, it’s not weak or anything, I promise. I didn’t feel quite safe either, felt like I had to watch over them, in case something happened.”

While he did understand that, he still felt like he shouldn’t need someone to help him sleep just because of a storm. Well, he needed it, no matter what he might think of it. And Bumlets was nice, like the big brother he never had.

Opening the book with the hand not holding Flipper, Bumlets started reading from the first page. He didn’t think he’d read it before, maybe it was new, but for now it didn’t matter much as Flipper just took in Bumlets’ voice, not much of the contents. With the shaking ship it now finally felt like it was lulling him to sleep instead of keeping him awake with it’s potential doom.

“Th’nks.”

“Of course, Phillip.”

prompts by @newsiestober2024

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This. Is far from done but the delancey brothers deserve to be silly with eachother this is the candy corn prompt!

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Newsiestober Day 19 : Candycorn

A little Snowpike (Snoddy/Pie Eater/Jake) pic for Candycorn because the only thing I could think of was a couples costume with three sweaters in the colours.

prompt list: @newsiestober2024

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ai-less whumptober; day eighteen

@ailesswhumptober 18 — mind control, possession, “Everybody will end up despising you.” ↳ the refuge, an alternate universe word count; 1.6k

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

"You know," Snyder says conversationally. "Sometimes, I think you'd be well suited as my protégé."

It's early afternoon on a Sunday, and everybody else is in prayer. Oscar is supposed to be with them, but he'd been subtly redirected on the walk through the hallways, and sent to Snyder's office instead.

It's one of those days. The days where he's Snyder's friend for a few hours, as long as it must take to balm Snyder's loneliness. Oscar will sit with him, the luxurious leather-topped desk between them, and take an offered cigarette from Snyder's gold case. Sip at the glass of whiskey Snyder pours for him. And, for as long as he's wanted, he'll listen to Snyder talk. Provide answers, initially, only when it's clear they're wanted — but the amiable air and the whiskey in his system, always hitting harder with no food to be soothed by, always tend to make him loose-lipped.

"What's a—pro-duh-jay?" he asks, nose wrinkled, fancy word falling flat on his Southern drawl. Falls flat on the cigarette he's smoking too — he can never seem to make it look elegant and refined the way Snyder can.

Thankfully, Snyder only smiles, amused.

"A protégé," he says, "Is a pupil. One guarded and educated by a man with skill and influence in a specific field. Many politicians have protégés."

"Oh," Oscar says. Takes another drag of his cigarette. "…What would I be prodigyin' you in?"

"Protégé. Lord, you're as bad as your brother. And what do you think?"

Oscar meets Snyder's eye over the lip of the fancy carved glass as he takes a sip, and offers a shrug.

"Being a warden, Oscar."

"Oh." Oscar doesn't really process it for a second, still swallowing down the burn of whiskey. And then it sort of hits him. "What?"

"I was my father's protégé, you know." Snyder gestures to one of the portraits on the wall, and Oscar glances over to lock eyes with the grim, oil-painted face of Nigel Snyder, the man who had been warden when he and Morris first entered the Refuge. True to Snyder's word, he'd been a sort of assistant then, a tall, young-faced figure ever shadowing his father, always watching everything with sharp eyes. When Nigel Snyder had died, that same boy had stepped eagerly and instantly up to the plate, no time set aside to mourn for the father he'd lost.

Snyder always says he and Oscar are a lot alike. Oscar can't imagine caring much if his Da died either.

"So he was trainin' you? Ready to replace him."

Snyder smiles sharply, eyes dancing, as he takes a slow sip from his own glass.

"Well. I don't think replacement is quite what he had in mind. Not so soon, at least. It's a good thing I was such a quick learner, so prepared to take the reins when he passed." And then his eyes are on Oscar again, so sharp Oscar almost jolts. "But replacement certainly isn't what I have in mind for you." He takes another sip, thoughtful, and Oscar sees his lip quirk slightly against the fine rim of the glass, the way it does when he's amused himself.

"Are you familiar with the term sous chef, Oscar? If we're operating on a French theme today."

"Know a chef's a cook."

"Good. And a sous chef is an under-chef. Works under the head chef."

"Dunno if I wanna work under you."

Again, Snyder's smile only seems to grow. He sets down his glass and cigarette and stand leisurely, rounds the desk to Oscar's chair.

"Come."

Oscar hesitates for a moment, but goes, leaves his own cigarette and glass on the desktop too as Snyder guides him by a firm — too firm — hand on his shoulder.

"There will never," Snyder says, "Be a world in which you are not working under someone, Oscar. You are gutter trash. And in the world as it is, as you are, you would leave this institution and work under trash a mere rung of the ladder above yourself. Both of you in the dirt you were born in, unable to climb higher."

Oscar is steered to a sharp stop, and finds himself staring at himself in the tall mirror againt Snyder's office wall, Snyder himself stood behind him. Still a few good inches taller, but Oscar's been catching up — though, stood as they are, he can see every inch of disparity between their figures. The way Oscar's torn, stolen clothes hang from him, how he is emaciated and filthy in a way even his broadening shoulders can't remedy.

Snyder's shoulders are wider. Cut broad and sharp in his perfectly tailored suit, fine dark silk like Oscar has never so much as felt.

"Do you like my suit, Oscar? You're staring."

Oscar swallows. Nods.

"You always have had a good eye. Good tastes too — you even like my whiskey."

Oscar does.

"Someday, Oscar, how would you like to wear a suit like mine?"

Oscar stares at himself in the mirror, and, steadily, he can picture it. Snyder helps, reaching around him to pull his collar straight — pulls a comb, shining tortoise shell, from the inner pocket of his jacket, and carefully combs through Oscar's curls the way nobody has since his Mammy getting him ready for church.

It's a Sunday again. If he strains, he thinks he can hear the prayer services downstairs, all the boys in chorus. In his reflection, above him, he sees the dark wooden crucifix affixed to Snyder's wall.

"Oscar," Snyder prompts. "Look at yourself."

For a moment, it's his father staring back. And then Oscar blinks, and realises it's him.

He's taller and older suddenly, and clean and dressed. His face is mature and sharp, shaven but subtly stubbled. Hair combed back, curls smoothed. The suit he's wearing is all black, tailored like Snyder's are — all sharp lines and fine details, made for him — and moves with him as he shifts, gaze locked into the mirror in dazed disbelief. The handkerchief in his breast pocket is a pale, stormy blue, but as he focuses on it, trying to identify the colour as something familiar, it seems to change before his very eyes. It soaks on a deep redness from within itself like it's bleeding. Or something else is bleeding, and it's mopping it up without hands to move it.

He draws it sharply from the pocket, desperate to see, and the blood smears against his skin — it's soaking wet with it, the handkerchief heavy with it, slick enough it slips from his fingers. His gaze follows it as it falls, and for a moment as he glances down he sees his own feet, dirty and bruised and bare — but then a hand, his hand, is stretching out to pick it back up, and he meets his own eyes in the mirror again.

He looks different now. The black suit jacket has disappeared, and he's left in a collared waistcoat and a rumpled white shirt, tie — blood red — loosened around his neck. His sleeves are pushed up, and there's. Blood. More blood than had smeared from the soaked handkerchief, no, he's spattered with it, like after a fight. It's on his face too, tiny spots of it around a curl that had fallen in his face, as if from exertion. He's using the handkerchief to clean his hands, wiping his knuckles calmly.

For a single, dizzying second, Oscar is hit with a memory — a memory? — of caning a small boy. The exhileration of bringing the strip of rattan down against his back again and again, the rush of power each time the boy screams. The sprays of blood, warm against his skin. He can feel himself grinning. He can taste red wine on his tongue, he can taste rich meat and fish and sweet pastries, he can feel himself laying down in a plush bed of silk, he can feel his palms wrapping around a neck and squeezing, not letting go even when he tries, knows it's too far, he doesn't want to kill them—

He jolts back, heart pounding in his chest, stomach churning, but only meets the hard line of Snyder's body stood behind him, keeping him immobile. He clenches his eyes shut instead, desperate not to see any more, not until he can ground himself.

Snyder only moves a hand to grip him hard by the face.

"Don't you want this, Oscar?" he breathes, right against Oscar's ear, breath hot and sweet with whiskey. "I know you do. You're just a bit too much like me, aren't you? You can't resist the call of what you were made for. The violence and the finer things. You'd be so well-suited to it, you share my strengths, my beliefs in discipline, I could make you something great."

His hand grips impossibly tighter, and Oscar's eyes bulge open in an instinctive panic. He's helpless but to lock eyes with his reflection again, though finally the suit is gone. He sees only himself, skinny and filthy, dressed in clothes that have never been his.

"Everybody will end up despising you. But that'll happen regardless, won't it?" Snyder says. Squeezes Oscar's shoulder. "Better a snake than a rat."

Oscar doesn't know if it's real anymore. If his body is his again now.

But he sees himself nod.

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Newsiestober Day 17 : Cryptid

Only cryptid I could think of was Pie Eater so have him dressed up as a scary wood spirit/dryad thing. He's just a cryptid

Appears silently and just says a few words, scaring the others for a moment

Also I find it funny that he's dressed like an evil tree and Jake just painted some funky spiderwebs on himself

prompt list by @newsiestober2024

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@newsiestober2024 day 13:cozy they're cozy together its why they always sleep with eachother

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@newsiestober2024 days 12 and 14 bats and graveyard who doesnt like a spooky jaunt through a cemetery with your best b(c)at King!