Is That-

Is that-

Is that 1992 Jack Kelly working at a newspaper stand in a REAL My Little Pony episode?! (S5 Ep16 Made in Manehattan)

According to the transcript his name is "Fine Print". God Jack, how many nicknames are we up to now?!

His cutiemark is a newsie cap! (rip cowboy Kelly) and says : "Yeah, not a good time right now. Heh. What am I saying? It's never a good time!"

Not very seize the day of you Jack!

Do with this info what you will, but just remember Newsie Jack Kelly is cannon in My Little Pony.

LOOK WHAT WE COULD HAVE HAD

also hot take but I like these costumes more than the Broadway ones

It’s about time I talked about my favorite use of visual storytelling in Newsies (1992) - Davey’s costume

This post contains quite a bit of analysis and screenshots from the 1992 movie, so it’s all going to be under the cut! This is a post I’ve been wanting to make for quite a while, so I’m excited to finally be able to share it!

Keep reading

ai-less whumptober; day fourteen

@ailesswhumptober 14 — seizures, concussion, “See if you can follow my finger with your eyes.” ↳ boarding school au, modern word count; 2.3k

cw; severe bullying, violence, head trauma, mentions of abuse and death

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

Morris just wants to get to the library. He's had a full day of classes — actually attended them all for once, since his last run-in with Mr. Snyder regarding his truancy — and it's been miserable. Moreso than usual. Winter's coming in, so it's freezing in every classroom and colder in the hallways, and out of the huge windows he tries to gaze out of for solace he can only see grey and drizzle and mist.

It'd be romantic, perhaps, if it weren't for everything else.

It's the perfect backdrop for a movie, Dead Poets Society or an older noir, would look beautiful as the environment for a beautiful '40s actress in black-and-white, but even the fantasy doesn't much help with Morris' usual feelings of listlessness. He's always lonely — having no friends has that effect, but weather like this makes him feel somehow lonelier. He'd been stung worst of all when he'd been sat beneath the covered alcoves towards the back of the school at lunchtime, neglecting to eat atop a stone wall a hundred years old or so, and seen Oscar run past with the rest of the rugby team, all in their rugby uniforms. All of them muddy and wet from the rain, hair slick to their heads, but grinning, laughing, shoving at each other the way groups of boys do.

Morris misses his brother often, but especially in the winter.

A season they'd used to spend glued even closer than usual. A silent understanding between them of the seasonal melancholy that always seems to hit Morris the hardest, but also the weight of each bit of grief contained in these months. Lonely birthdays — Oscar's October, Morris' December — and Ma's death nestled neatly between. Oscar used to spend this time looking after Morris. Checking in on him a hundred times a day, taking the time before they left the house to ensure Morris was dressed properly for the cold weather, used to always make sure he had Morris' inhaler on him.

Nowadays, he doesn't often look Morris' way. They share a dorm room, but even then Oscar is around sporadically. Often up and gone by the time Morris wakes up — rugby practice. Or not there when Morris settles down for bed — parties. Oscar had taken like a duck to the water of the school their Da scored them free attendance to, meanwhile Morris is sure he's still drowning, no matter how long they've already been here.

Things have been somewhat better, at least, since Katherine transferred. A generous exchange of the title of new kids — a title that doesn't get passed often in a school like this — and an offer of Morris' first friendship. Sure as he still is that Katherine liking him will soon run its course, she's nice. And has asked him on more than one occasion to spend time together even after school, which is. Also nice.

Nice enough that he'd accepted again today, despite knowing full well the risks. The provocation of him walking the hallways alone once classes have ended and there's infinitely less risk of anyone coming across anything, not that it makes any difference when they do. Teachers turn wilful blind eyes, students don't want to make themselves a target. Everyone is comfortable with Morris being the school's pariah, scrawny and queer in both senses of the word.

There would've been a time Oscar would've defended him. Would've spilled blood to protect him.

But now, he's one of the group that surrounds Morris in one of the lonely stone hallways leading down to the library.

"I don' want trouble," Morris says, to none of them in particular.

To Oscar, really.

It doesn't work regardless.

One of the boy's shoves his shoulder hard, and in an instant Morris finds himself with his back pressed to the cold stone wall, staring up at one of the rugby players. Tall and broad. Already having fun.

"Who says we want trouble?" he says. "Jus' saw you all by yourself again. Thought you was prob'ly feelin' lonely."

"I'm meetin' Kath," Morris forces out. A few of the boys laugh.

"She can wait." His chest is shoved again, hard and pointless when he's already up against the wall, but it's a power play. "Dunno why you're meetin' her anyway. She don't know you're a queer yet? Weren't around at lunch when you was enjoyin' the view."

Oh, Christ.

"Weren't lookin' at anythin'," he says. "You was jus' passin' while I was there."

"He was starin'!" a boy jeers.

"Bet he took photos."

"Show us your camera, Delancey."

One makes a grab for his bag slung over his shoulder, lopsided from how he's pressed to the wall, and Morris desperately grabs the strap and clutches onto it. There's no photos of the boys on the film, obviously, but there is schoolwork he needs — and a $20 roll of film that he can't afford to lose. Can't afford to lose the camera. Da would beat the shit out of him.

"Stop!" he spits, trying to wrench his bag back. Immediately, the bag is released and he gets a punch to the stomach for his troubles instead. Doubles over wheezing, and his bag hits the ground anyway.

He hears Oscar laughing along with the group. Recognises the footsteps approaching him then the way he'd recognise his own. The worn black leather shoes that enter his bleary line of sight, still ducked to the floor.

His brother's hand seizes him by the necktie, and when that same hand forces his chin back up, Morris glares at him as fiercely as he can.

"Jus' leave me alone," he pleads quietly. "Os."

His vision bursts with stars as his brother simply slams him into the wall again, more brutal than the boy before had dared to be. They all laugh, the sort of breathless amusement of being impressed.

"Christ, Os, gonna knock somethin' loose like that."

"Would do him some good. He's queer an' retarded, surely you can fix one of 'em."

Morris hates them. A violent, hopeless, impossible amount. He just wants to leave, just wants to sit in the library with Katherine and pretend to read or maybe get some drawing done, but he's trapped. Eyes on him from every direction, sharks in the water, waiting for what's next. More blood. More to feed on.

"Wish you weren't such a freak," Oscar tells him.

And then the rest of it is a blur.

~

Oscar really doesn't mean for it to go so far.

It's easy to enter a sort of fugue state with violence. It does something to him, something therapeutic, something for him to get lost in, even in the worst circumstances. It's why he'd been so attracted to rugby, why it had come so naturally to him — and it's what had earned him the first bit of status he's ever had in his life. A popular member of a respected school's star sports team, finally clawed his way up far enough that nobody even cares anymore that he was the late-enrolled new kid, only got in because his Da works here so he gets free tuition.

And he's even proven himself against his freak of a little brother.

Morris has been an easy target all his life. He'd been one in public school, in foster care, and Lord knows he's one here. The student body is wealthy and mean, and Oscar had given Morris the chance to toughen up or lose it — and lost it he had. The boys Oscar befriended went after Morris like sharks, and Oscar will not sacrifice himself to the same fate. He'll follow them and keep his fins, keep his teeth. Even if it costs him Morris.

But, God, he didn't mean for it to go this far.

It's standard fare for what they do to Morris mostly. Corner him and shove him around, shots to the abdomen where they won't be seen, a few to the face if they get the chance because it's always fun to see his eyes bruise, his nose bleed. He's a mess already, blood beaded between pale lips, one side of his face blooming red that'll be black by tomorrow.

But then Morris tries to run.

It's a natural instinct. They're not that far from the library, where Morris had been trying to get to anyway, and even if there isn't a staff member there, Katherine will be. It's a shot at safety.

It doesn't work.

One of the boys grabs at Morris to wrench him back, in the same moment his ankle gets caught in the strap of his bag on the ground, and Oscar doesn't process the sight of what happens next. It happens so fast. He just processes the sound of it, the awful crack.

And then everything is very still. Morris is on the floor.

Oscar's friends are gone in an instant. All of them bolting, fleeing the scene of the crime before the risk of being caught can even be considered, but Oscar is rooted in place. Heart pounding in his chest.

"Mo," he says, real quiet. Terrified. "Mo?"

He steps shakily closer from where he'd backed away, happy to let his friends have their fill of violence. Crouches, reaching out with a shaky hand — bruising knuckles — to rest it on his brother.

Morris twitches hard like he's been woken up.

"Fuck," Oscar sobs. "Oh, fuck. C'mon. C'mon, Mo, get up."

He's desperate to destroy this scene before anyone comes across them. Gets considerably more frantic when he hears footsteps approaching from down the hall.

"Mo. Mo, c'mon, you gotta get up. We're gonna be in trouble."

Oscar lifts him, ignoring how utterly stiff he is, and all in a moment notices the stream of blood from where Morris' temple had split against the stone. There's a small pool of it, still dripping, getting all over Morris' uniform shirt, and Oscar is wondering if he could mop it up with his own rugby jumper when—

"Oh my God, Morris?"

It's Katherine. Of course it's Katherine.

Her footsteps are deafening as she runs over, clicks of her heeled shoes echoing around the hallway. Morris twitches in Oscar's arms, making a vague, croaked noise that Oscar recognises as a protest against the noise.

"What happened," Katherine demands. Her eyes are wide, pale face drawn tight into horror. "Oh my God. What happened?"

"He's fine."

"We have to get him to Matron—"

"He's fine. He jus' he had a wee fall, okay? Fuckin'. Tripped over his bag. He's fine. He's fine."

"Oscar, he hit his head."

Oscar can't breathe right. He's helpless to do much but watch as Katherine rounds him to crouch in front of Morris, wild ginger curls falling into her face with her haste, stricken with fear like Oscar's never seen — but Morris is fine. He's fine. Of course he's fine. Da's cracked his head against stuff countless times and Morris has always been fine.

"Morris," Katherine says, very gently. "Morris, here, see if you can follow my finger with your eyes."

Oscar watches her do it, draws a line across in the air. Morris has his back to his chest, so Oscar can't see what he's doing — but he must've done it.

"He did it, right? He did it," Oscar says, a little desperate.

Katherine ignores him. That look on her face is getting worse.

"Morris," she repeats, and there's something awful in her tone now. "Morris, please."

"What?" Oscar croaks. "What, what?"

"His—his pupils are uneven, so he must have a concussion. But. He. He's completely unresponsive. Like—he's just staring straight through me, like he can't even see me."

Oscar feels utterly sick. People can go blind from head trauma, right? That's a thing, he swears he remembers being told that. He's frantically trying to remember all the things he was taught when he started rugby, all those lectures on injuries and concussions and TBIs that he hadn't paid attention to — had rarely even attended — when suddenly what little colour had been in Katherine's face drains. Morris jerks again.

"Oh my God, he's having a seizure," she croaks.

Oscar's throat convulses like he's going to throw up.

"What? No. No, he ain't. This ain't—" he's seen seizures on TV. All that jerking and shaking all over, dancing about the floor. Morris isn't doing that. "This ain't what seizures are like."

"Yes, it is, Oscar. Holy shit. Oh my God."

Hands shaking, she starts digging in her blazer pockets, desperate.

"What're you doin'?" he croaks.

"I'm calling 9-1-1."

Oscar is hit with a flash of terror as she puts her phone to her ear and begins speaking, asking for an ambulance with a tone that no longer belies her childlike terror.

Oscar knows that, if an ambulance comes, they're going to ask questions — and it's his friends who will be in trouble. Big trouble. Fuck, what if they get charged? He knows what charges like this are like, it's the type of shit Da has been to court and then jail for after fucking people up in fights. Battery and GBH and—all that shit.

But then Morris jerks hard in his arms again. Lets out a croaked little noise that sounds so vividly like when he was a kid, deathly sick or beaten to shit by Da, in Oscar's arms because Oscar was the only person on the planet to look after him.

Oscar leans over and looks down at him. Just manages to catch a glimpse of his pale, colourless face and dazed, empty eyes and the blood drying against his skin, bloomed into his shirt that Oscar used to iron for him.

He doesn't say a word as Katherine talks to the operator on the phone, on her feet and pacing the hallway beside them. He just holds his brother closer to cradle him. Can't even begin to pull together an apology, so goes for the next best thing.

"'S'gonna be okay, Mo," he says softly.

Morris slumps against him. Oscar feels the twitching melt to trembling as Morris cries.

It's going to be okay, he tells himself.

i’m definitely worried.

“can’t wait to participate in whumptober to create a series of fics i don’t have to think about too hard” i say, and then i’m neck deep researching the history of plumbing to find out which water system would most likely be employed for waterboarding at a specific point in history

apparently if he replaces katherine i hate him but if he and katherine coexist in the same universe suddenly i will guard him with my life

y'all don't understand how much he means to me