Jack Kelly - Tumblr Posts

ship what you want but i don’t get when people consider jatherine to be out of nowhere… particularly the kiss but i think i just really like to psychoanalyse my favourite characters… it definitely isn’t random like they have chemistry it’s just subtle as hell because that isn’t really what you’re supposed to be focusing on. jack is endlessly flirty and katherine refuses to admit her feelings even when you can see it on her face and in her voice and the way she shows concern for him and the denial is So Real, particularly in watch what happens. she kisses him because she needs to do something, anything to reassure him that she wasn’t conspiring against him or double-crossing him and his boys to pulitzer and that she really truly believes in him and cares about the strike just as much as he does. i like to think she hasn’t really experienced love like this before or much unconditional love in general & doesn’t really know what to do about it. i’m a jatherine defender til i die

i understand when people say that they don’t think jatherine wouldn’t last and obviously the way their relationship ends up is up for interpretation but i can’t imagine anything else than them growing old together and being married and in love because they literally changed each others perceptions of love (“love at first sight’s for suckers / at least it used to be” and etc. vs “til the moment i found you / i thought i knew what love was”)

i think these come from jack struggling with commitment and him not really being able to stay in one place which then in turn seeps into how he views relationships and therefore would struggle with keeping a serious, meaningful relationship with someone, especially in a romantic sense, and katherine not having really experienced unconditional love and support like this in her life. obviously this one is more of an interpretation than canon but given the way her father is, it’s very likely, and after meeting jack she gets to properly learn what love is. through all of the cocky flirting she could see someone who actually cared for her and wanted to spend time with her just for the sake of being around her and it opened her eyes to something new. generally speaking neither of them have experienced a serious romantic relationship like this before, in my eyes, and it will not be perfect and it will be messy but it’s their mess and they love it and they love each other forever and ever.

actually the reason why i can so vividly imagine jatherine living a long fulfilling life together is because they remind me of i’m a believer by the fucking monkees

fem 1992 javid because we dont talk about them enough

i wish jack kelly was on the ballot for 2024. i would vote for him.

this is the type of high quality fic i'm looking for

ai-less whumptober; day three

@ailesswhumptober 3 — shared trauma, survivor’s guilt, “It’s not your fault.” ↳ october, 1899 word count; 1.5k

cw; sibling death, implied alcohol abuse

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Jack thinks about Michael every day of his life. Maybe that's a good thing. He can't imagine the guilt if he didn't. But he also, really, can't imagine being able to…not. The thinking is one thing, but the nightmares are another.

And then there's the reminders.

Jack is all too aware his brother's death had had witnesses, all those boys watching out of the Refuge windows as they'd hopped the carriage, as Michael had slipped — and witnesses talk. Newsies talk, every shoeshine and street rat in New York talks; there ain't much else to do when they're working dawn 'til midnight or locked up behind those barred windows under Snyder's heel. Everyone knows. But it's one of those things most folk don't dare talk about — not when he's Cowboy, not when he's got the mask of being a leader to hide behind. Folk don't mess with him, though it's not the same way they don't mess with Spot Conlon. It's not fear.

They just…like him. Too much to bring up his dead little brother every time the urge might strike, whether they're pissed off with him — Jack thinks about his photograph, silently torn to shreds after he took the money — or they're just curious.

The Delanceys have no such reservations.

"Hey, Kelly," Oscar calls out from a little way down the alleyway Jack had just turned down. "Happy anniversary."

It's not. It's in a couple weeks. But Oscar's never been good with numbers.

"Fuck off, Delancey," he responds.

It's fucking cold. Too cold for October, too cold to be outside all day, but Jack doesn't have a whole lot of choice. He'd sold like shit, the way he always does in that lull between the cold weather starting and Christmas coming in — it's late and he's only just sold his last pape, he just wants to be done. But there Oscar is, leaned against the wall of the alleyway Jack's trying to cut through to get back to the lodging house, cigarette in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He smells like the stuff, but it isn't the sharp, acrid smell of the cheap booze that can usually be found amongst the newsies. It smells good. It looks good.

Oscar grins at him, lopsided. Jack can guess that what's been drained from the bottle has all been drank by him tonight, and his suspicions are confirmed when Oscar brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long, easy drink.

"How long's it been now, eh?" he asks as he draws the bottle away, voice still a little tight as he swallows, utterly casual. "Since Michael. Ten years?"

His tone is lazy, something smug and amused and utterly infuriating in his face. Jack rolls his jaw.

"C'mon, Oscar, get your fingers up. Try an' count it out."

Of all the possible reactions, he isn't expecting Oscar to laugh.

Violence would be expected, normal, but Oscar laughs, the way he usually only does when he's beating someone into the pavement or ruining their day.

It makes something in Jack's gut curl, burning hot and angry.

"Y'know, I really don't get it," he says. "Why you're like this. Why you act like all that time in there was nothin' to you, jus' somethin' to crack jokes about now. I saw you. Every day. Saw you go through Hell with me. An' your little brother."

Oscar takes a slow drag from his cigarette, still sort of smiling around it. One side of his mouth curled up to bare a canine that gets covered when he exhales the smoke into the cold night air.

"Been through worse," he says with a shrug. Takes a swig of his whiskey. "An' clearly I did better in there 'n you did. Got my wee brother out alive an' all."

The noise he makes when Jack throws him into the wall is satisfying, at least. A grunt from deep in his chest as the air is knocked out of him, a dull crack of his head hitting the brick last. His cigarette tumbles to the floor, and Jack takes no small amount of satisfaction in catching it beneath his boot and scraping it hard, mangling it into a spread corpse of tobacco, though Oscar keeps a firm hold on his whiskey.

And then he smiles again, lazier this time.

"You always been jealous."

Jack had seen Morris go through Hell in the Refuge. As much as if not more than Jack himself and Oscar had faced. He'd been tiny when Jack first saw him. A tiny, malnourished little kid who'd clearly been brutalised all his life. For the first few years, Jack had believed Morris to be a lot younger than he is — Michael's age, maybe. Never could've guessed that he's only a few months younger than Jack himself. But Morris was always well looked after by Oscar, regardless of the circumstances in there, or the circumstances of wherever they'd come from. Morris was forever under the protection of his older brother. Oscar, who would start fights with the other boys to wrench their rations from them to give to Morris. Who'd stay awake all night and curl himself around his brother, vicious and protective like a dog, or sit vigil at his bedside to ensure nobody dared come close. Who'd walked out of the Refuge, freshly eighteen, with his hand clasped around his little brother's bony wrist when their uncle had arrived, looking for boys to put to work.

Maybe Jack thinks about them near as much as he thinks about Michael. It's a fact he fucking hates.

He'd compared himself to Oscar at every possible turn as they grew up, confined together, the only other older brother he'd ever known to compare himself to.

He'd wondered, in the wake of Michael's death, if he could've kept him alive, protected him better, if he was only more like Oscar. More vicious, more controlling, more willing to bide his time and take it for as long as he had to until it was over, instead of always having to try and run. Maybe he could've been stronger.

"'M'glad," he says, without. Really thinking about it. Means it, at least. "That you got your brother out."

He's still got Oscar pinned to the wall, leaning his weight against him with hands balled into the worn fabric of his jacket, but finally he forces himself to let go. Staggers a step backwards, skin feeling heavy on his body. Grief feeling heavy on his aching shoulders.

There's a brief stretch of silence. And then Oscar wordlessly holds out the bottle of whiskey between them.

Jack takes it without hesitation, and tips it back to draw a long swig from the bottle. It's good. Rich and warm, burns down his throat right to his empty stomach. Oscar's looking at him.

"You expectin' me to lie to you?" he says, but his voice is softer now. "Tell you it's not your fault?"

Jack shakes his head, and takes another swig, maybe half because he can and half because he's cold. Mostly because he needs it.

"Know it is," he says forcefully. "'Course it's my fault."

It had been October then too, and he knew then how utterly miserable winters in the Refuge were. He'd just wanted to get out before the cold set in, wanted to get him and Michael somewhere they could stay warm. Boys always died during the winter in the refuge. And isn't there a sick irony to that.

"I—" Oscar says suddenly, then stops himself. Swallows, and drops his head back against the brick again, pale eyes looking up at the sky. "Dunno how you kept goin'," he says. "Dunno that I could. 'f Mo…"

Jack swallows too. He can't help but look at Oscar, closer than he usually ever gets to be, something. Sickeningly intimate about the vulnerability in this moment. The older boy looks tired. He looks sad. And then seems to experience his own wave of grief, as if realising in an instant that he's said more than he wanted to — revealed too much, like Jack hasn't already seen everything. Hasn't seen Oscar holding Morris' limp body and screaming. It was just the fact that Morris woke up.

"Fuckin'. Whatever," Oscar mutters. "I gotta get home."

Jack imagines Morris is waiting for him.

It's how it always is, when the two of them are apart. They're just waiting to be reunited, two broken halves of a whole. Oscar goes suddenly, without another word, and Jack watches him walk away with his hands shoved in his pockets, boots crunching. He's still got his own hand around the neck of the bottle that Oscar had left with him. There's still a warmth to it where Oscar had held it.

Jack takes another swig, and starts heading his own way home, trying not to think about Michael waiting for him somewhere.

my two favorite things in the whole world, steinbeck & newsies.

newsies (london production, 2023) / east of eden by john steinbeck

color me obsessed.

snyder as a young man? brilliant. jack’s psyche? incredibly complex. am i feeling all the feelings? oh yeah.

ai-less whumptober; day six

@ailesswhumptober 6 — multiple whumpees, self sacrifice, “I’m the only one who can do this.” ↳ outside of the refuge, circa 1895 word count; 1.4k

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"This is a bad idea, Jack," Crutchie spits, for what might be the hundredth time — regarding this specific idea, at least. Maybe the millionth time in general, at least as long as Jack's known him.

And, for once, Jack sort of agrees with him.

It's not going to stop him, though.

"Told you what it's like in there, Crutch," he says, and Crutchie sighs, eyeing Racetrack for a moment — clearly hoping, for once, he'll be backed up — before turning his gaze back to Jack. Jack's told him a lot about the Refuge. Nothing personal, nothing relating to his own feelings regarding his time there, but the rest of it. The state of the bunk room, overcrowded and filthy and infested. Snyder, pure evil behind a young, handsome face. And the story of every boy he'd known in there, as vividly as he possibly could, every detail he could remember, because they're all going through hell and so many of them disappear. Jack doesn't want to let any more of them go.

"It's. It's Hell in there," he says.

"Don't mean you can fix it."

"Means I have to try."

He's been working on this for months now, ever since he got let out last and finally had the chance to put his plan into motion. He's been stealing what he can when he can, one or two pieces at a time to reduce the risk of getting caught, and finally he feels as if he's gotten enough — the floor of the rooftop is a mess of clothing and underwear, a few pairs of shoes, dry food that'll last even if it's rationed out a little. Everything he had prayed and fought for when he was locked up. Everything Snyder had denied him, denied all of them. Winter's coming in again, and he knows it's about to get bad in there, get cold. He knows he has to get in before it can.

He tosses his duffel bag down onto the floor amongst the stock of liberated goods, and Race starts helping him shove things in. Balling up the clothes — ain't like it matters if they're wrinkled.

"I got your back," Race tells him quietly.

Crutchie scowls. He hesitates for a moment more, watching, weighing — and then joins them. Grits his teeth against the pain as he bends his leg to get down to the floor.

"Gimme that," he orders Race, and Race hands over his lapful of crumpled clothes. Somewhat clumsily, but utterly devotedly, Crutchie begins to fold them, and they're handed to Jack in turn, the three of them working like a production line.

"Still think it's a shit idea," Crutchie says. "But yeah. Alright? Got your back."

Jack grins at him.

He's got a plan.

The Refuge has only one gate, which is locked throughout the day — but opened on a strict schedule, because Snyder's neurotic about the stupidest stuff. It's opened for staff arriving and leaving exactly on time, for the nuns and the priest, for deliveries, for visitors — Jack's memorised it all. There wasn't much else to do when he was trapped in there, staring listlessly out of a window when he could get away with it, and thus he knows exactly who is where for each opening of the gate too. Snyder will be there at the gate to see off important guests, will usually bid the priest and nuns goodbye from the building's front doors, but the rest of it? He's nowhere in sight. Thinks himself miles above the regular staff, the common folk visiting. So Jack's got his in. It'll be easy, he says.

Race and Crutchie still kick up a fuss when he insists on going on his own.

"What if you get caught?" Race demands, shoving him in the shoulder as Jack tries to sling his duffel bag up onto it. It knocks it from its velocity and it tumbles to the floor again.

"Then I at least go down on my own," Jack says, ducking to pick his bag up again. Slings it again, and this time successfully gets it up over his head.

"But you been in there before," Crutchie argues. "They'll give you a rougher sentence this time, you know how it goes—"

"But I been in there before. Means I know the place. I know Snyder." He reaches out and clasps Crutchie's arm reassuringly. "I'm the only one who can do this. An' I gotta do it. Alright? Can't leave them kids on their own." He swallows, and offers his friends a performance of a smile. "'Sides, they'll keep arrestin' me for bullshit anyway. Might as well go down for doin' somethin' good."

The smile has long, long since faded when he gets to the Refuge gates.

It's an unfamiliar route, going every direction his experience tells not to go to get him closer and closer to that godforsaken place, his stomach churning more and more with each corner. It's late, the streets are quiet. His bag is heavy, weighing him down — keeping him grounded, at least. But he's right on time, only has to wait hiding by the gates for a few minutes before he hears hoofbeats approaching from the other side, the rattling of a carriage, and then the gates are swinging open.

It's easy to slip into the yard and run for it behind the carriage, getting across the yard before anyone at the gates can see him. It feels strange to be running towards the building instead of away from it, but he makes it, around the building to the same back door he'd slipped out of with Michael. Ran across that same path the other direction. It had been right on that run that Michael had—

God. His heart is pounding in his chest, in a way he firmly tells himself is just from the run. Knows it's not. But he's here, and all he has to do is get this bag inside, get it to one of the kids who can get it to the rest. He goes for the door, and—

It's locked. Locked like it's bolted, but this door is never locked. It leads through to the kitchen, it's where the cooks and other staff sneak out for breaks, it wouldn't be locked — and if it was, it would be promptly unlocked. But maybe Jack's just gotten here at exactly the wrong time, during one of the small windows it is, so — where else can he get in? He's formulating a plan, trying to remember all of the windows that might be open, trying to guess if maybe he could slip through the front if the desk is unmanned—

"Hello, Jack."

His stomach drops through the floor.

For a moment, he's sure he's imagining it. A momentary hallucination, his worst fears being realised — it happens sometimes, he gets too lost in fantasy, in the worst possible possibilities. But he turns, slowly, and. There he is. Snyder, stood at the end of the little alleyway that leads to the locked door Jack is trapped at. He's dressed immaculately, not a hair out of place, as if the day running this house of horrors has had no weight on him at all. He's smiling.

"Did you miss me so much?"

Jack tries to run. Snyder catches him around the waist and shoves him, and he hits the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him, hits the floor next. His bag tumbles too, and Snyder drags it closer to himself with a polished shoe hooked in the strap. Crouches to begin rifling through it, tossing out the contents onto the ground.

"Smallclothes, shirts, shoes. Even food." He looks up at Jack, eyes alight. "All stolen, I presume."

"You ain't got proof—" Jack croaks.

"Do I need it? You're a habitual criminal, Mr. Kelly." Snyder throws one of the little shoes aside, and it tumbles. Lands hopelessly, yards away, and Jack could sob. "Trying to break into my own institution, who knows what your intentions could be?"

"That ain't—"

"Guards!"

For once, Jack doesn't fight. He lets them take him when they come, lungs burning as he's wrenched up from the ground. Watches Snyder — and Jack's bag — get further and further away. What little hope he could've offered, now gone.

He hopes maybe he'll get another chance.

a streetcar named desire, tennessee williams // hard promises, bob tzudiker & noni white // newsies, 1992 film

Don’t think about Micheal Kelly.

Don’t think about 5 year old Michael Kelly who follows around this big brother Jack wishing he could be a cowboy too.

Don’t think about 5 year old Michael Kelly, nicknamed Mikey, getting a red bandana to match his brothers red bandana.

Don’t think about 5 year old Mikey Kelly, walking with his brother across the street.

It was an accident

It was just an accident

Don’t think about 5 year old Mikey Kelly’s mangled body in the streets after a wagon ran him over without a second thought.

Don’t think about Jack screaming and wailing and holding his brother.

Don’t think about Jack holding Mikey so delicately despite almost all his bones being broken.

Don’t think about Jack begging for Mikey to wake up.

Begging Mikey to look at him.

Begging Mikey to say something.

“Look at me Baby, Baby Look at me it’s okay you’re okay”

“Oh god my baby please god my baby”

“Please please Mikey please wake up wake up”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want I’ll get you whatever you want please look at me”

“Ice cream, a new toy I don’t care it’s yours please baby please”

He’s dead.

Day 7 of @ailesswhumptober

Field medicine/running out of supplies- “hold on. We’re going to have to improvise.”

apologies this one is not good

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It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

He didn’t know how it went all wrong this quickly, he had planned it for weeks, he’d thought it out, he’d be good. Had stayed off Snyder’s radar and out of the way.

He never thought anything could happen that could make him wish he stayed in the refuge.

The building was haunted, Jack would swear it, infected; infested with every bad thing that had ever happened in there, with every lashing and every missed meal and the sleep shirts and sheets vandalised by mice and rats, spiders making home in every corner. The constant smell of must, and dust and vomit and Snyder’s cologne, and Christ Jack remembered barely making it through last winter, remembered how his lungs rattled as he pulled the thin, stained sheet tighter around his younger brothers body, willing him to sleep, hoping the shivers would exhaust him enough that he could get some rest.

It was why he needed to get Michael out now, before the cold could hit again worse than it already had this month. Michael’s lungs were already weak.

But there was more blood than Jack had ever seen, the puddle of red growing larger and filling the cracks in the cobblestones.

He slammed against the fence, skin sticking to the icy metal as he rattled it, freezing despite the fact it only late October. It was a desperate cry, voice scratching and raw in his throat as he yelled, something visceral and animalistic as Snyder leant down over the body of Jack’s little brother, eyes closed, head haloed in blood-

“Michael!” The name was ripped from him, he didn’t recognise his own voice, stripped down to pure grief. “Don’ touch him! Snyder don’ touch him-“

Snyder didn’t even look over at him, as collected as he always was, brows furrowed in thought as he reached out with a polished black shoe to gently nudge Michael’s head to the side, frowning to himself at whatever he was seeing.

From behind the gate Jack could only make out his little brothers curls matted with blood, the back of his head a mess of dark red, and concave-

Jack threw himself against the locked fence again. The carriage he had jumped on had already left the courtyard, was already out the gate, when he realised his little brother was no longer next to him. The euphoria had been immediately killed by the pit opening up in the base of his stomach.

Michael’s scream that was still echoing in his ears and the sickening crack as his head hit the cobbles had Jack scrambling off seconds too late, trapping him on the outside of the refuge courtyard.

The skin of his palms sticking to the fence. He never thought he’d be begging to be let back in.

Snyder had a key for it, for the padlock that held the gate shut, Jack knew he did.

“Sny- Mr Snyder please-“ his voice was raw, choked up with tears, face wet and burning hot, the back of his throat aching and a pounding headache just behind his eyes. “Open the gate, please, lemme see him-“

“Oh you poor boy.” But the statement wasn’t directed at Jack. His tone was softer than he had ever heard it, but still so cold, sharp at all the edges. He was quiet enough that Jack had to strain to hear.

Snyder tutted, hunkered down next to Michael. “Just what has your brother done to you?”

Jack was going to throw up. He didn’t let go off the gate as he wretched, trying to fight through the urge to vomit while trying to work out some way of getting Snyder’s attention.

He could feel boys staring out The Refuge windows, watching. He had bragged to them all that they were getting out.

(He pictured an orange sun, low hanging dusk, warmth and food and somewhere so far from here. His brother at his side.)

“I’ll do whatever you wan’- I’ll stay- just lemme in- please.” His voice broke to a crack, a sob he could barely understand as his own.

Snyder didn’t even look at him

“Mr Corey.” Snyder’s tone was sharper this time, and directed at one of the guards stood in the refuge doorway, the one who had alerted Snyder to the child’s body bleeding out in his cobblestone court yard. Who had told him it seemed like an escape attempt gone wrong.

“Get me some antiseptic will you, and some bandages. We’re going to have to improvise.” Jack swore Snyder’s gaze flicked to him for a moment, “I doubt he’ll survive. But we may as well try, it’s not the boys fault, after all.”

It was difficult to make out what Snyder was saying with the way it felt like Jack’s head had been dunked under water, each movement slow and pointless and muffled, black fuzz slowly growing round the edges of his vision.

He slammed his hand against the metal again, “Snyder! You’re sick- lemme see him- he’s my brother-“

“The antiseptic you wanted, sir.” Jack was interrupted, ignored.

He was watching his brother bleed out while Snyder took the bottle and cloth bandages handed to him, pleasant handsome smile on his face as if there wasn’t a child in his care who was- who-

Jack couldn’t say it. Couldn’t admit it.

Then Snyder tipped the bottle of antiseptic upside down and let it mix will the blood on the cobblestones.

Jack’s chest felt hollow.

When the bottle was empty, Snyder shook it, just to make sure.

Then he looked up at Jack and smiled. All faux sympathy, something cruel flashing behind his eyes.

“There’s nothing I can do for your brother, I’m afraid Mr Kelly.”

A sob ripped through Jack.

“You wanted to escape, so go.” It felt like his ribs were cracking, being stepped on and splitting into shards. He couldn’t breathe.

Snyder’s smile was shark like, all sharp teeth in a row, vying for blood.

“Oh don’t feel too bad Jack, you promised him freedom didn’t you? He got it.”

newsies fic recs (from an english major):

no hate to those who like the 5+1 and just one bed tropes, but they're just not my cup of tea. (i have been called a hater.) instead, here are my favorite ao3 newsies fics, ones with intense originality, lyrical prose, and in-depth character studies. (;

canon era:

among the roses green by TheBarkeep. a jatherine retelling of the ballad of tam lin, featuring a gentle davey, tumultuous katherine, and poignantly-drawn jack. and, of course, whump, always. word count 66k.

Sacrifice by Efstitt. this fic is my roman empire. mayer jacobs and jack kelly have a history riddled with pain, and jack has to battle his demons to let himself be loved. oh, and the refuge has a fight club. word count 15k.

keep the earth below my feet by scarlettroses. i'm a sucker for race & jack friendship, and here, race is a prizefighter. jack is there to drag him out of trouble, forever. word count 2.6k.

tryin' to talk with a fist in ya mouth by Somanywords. jack kelly's full backstory, chronicling his grief, his darkness. featuring intense PTSD, art as a form of therapy, and emotionally charged prose. word count 15.5k.

Jack's Self Portrait in Apologies by Em_313. a different angle on jack's backstory, captured in snapshots of regret. meticulous period research in this one, as well as a whole lot of bloodstains and death. word count 3k.

cardboard crown (jack kelly, a life) by stars_and_sunflowers. this is my own take on jack's story. featuring a fight club, a debt-riddled race, and irish catholicism. in-progress, current word count 16k.

Escapes by Efstitt. jack has just broken out of sing sing, and he lands smack dab in the middle of the pulitzers' summer estate. cue savagery, a pretty heiress, and a compassionate spot conlon. word count 30k.

On the Road by Efstitt. sequel to escapes! ever more whump, this time in the context of a road trip. jatherine is endgame, and the plot is dazzlingly engaging. and, as always, brilliant characterizations. word count 56k.

Just Hold On Kid by flyinghome21. another jack kelly backstory (do you see a pattern?) flashes of years gone by; i was really captured by the way the plot moved, the highlights of what made jack tick. word count 27k.

melt your headaches, call it home by floodlights. latino jack kelly. jatherine. classism/racism, violence, startlingly lyrical prose. do i even need to SAY more. i want to eat this fic. one of my all time faves. word count almost 5k.

Best Laid Plans by TheBarkeep. ashkenazi jewish jacobs family rep! this one features a soft davey jacobs falling in love with a sex worker, jatherine sweetness, and teenagers bearing the weight of the world. word count 128k.

Jack and the Baby by tuppenny. cute one-shot told in jack's vividly unique, endearing voice -- he steals a baby in the summer of 1891. carefully researched, wonderfully executed. word count 5.6k.

of cowboys and princesses by TheBarkeep. little jack and charlie meet each other in an orphan asylum. jack is a fierce protector, charlie a wistful dreamer. this one made me cry. word count almost 3k.

honorable mention: for you are my fate, my sweet by TheBarkeep. cupid & psyche retelling featuring organized crime, meticulous period piece research, and a villain more horrific than snyder. this is one of my favorites, but i skimmed so much of it because it gets very dark. word count 149k.

(now would be a good time to get up, stretch, drink some water. will i ever stop yapping? eventually.)

modern au

No Way by Efstitt. this and the sequel have my brain in a stranglehold. foster care au ft a severely traumatized jack, charlie and jack gorilla glue familial love, stunning plot twists, horrific whump, mayer jacobs for king of the universe now and forever. this one made me cry like a baby.

Just Hold On, Kid by Efstitt. the sequel. i am getting these two as bound books by the end of the year. davey is doing an investigative report on the refuge just as jack gets sent back, and mayer won't let something like trauma or distance stop him from loving his boys. in-progress. current word count 56k.

Medda Crusade by sunkissedstar. this series is the perfect blend of fluff and angst, focusing on baby jack and his trauma in foster care, and medda showering him with mother love. series word count is 10k.

to be updated! i am currently reading Hell Is a Sober Crawl by glitter_ink, rereading for you are my fate, my sweet (TheBarkeep), and beginning Five (stress), all of which came highly recommended. thanks for coming to my ted talk enjoy <3

playing guitar, singing phoebe bridgers, thinking about michael sullivan, and eating pringles (that i dropped on my bedroom floor) like a stray cat

here’s part of what i was singing if y’all care

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.

Ya know, you could just stab me, I think it might hurt less

Some Hard Promises Angst

So I was sitting in bed minding my own business thinking "So what if Jack had more left of his brother than just a photograph?" and it led to this.... well, whatever this written hell counts as. Enjoy the shitshow.

(Also haha enjoy the play on the Hard Promises title in here)

---------------------------------

“Hey, kiddo! Look who I got back!”

The young boy in front of Jack smiled… or, Jack could only assume he had. He could only hear the boy’s voice. He didn’t want to look- he knew what he’d see if he did. He’d had this nightmare before. Instead he looked at anything else- the small stuffed horse in his hands, the walls, the cheaply made wooden furniture and the locked doors and barred windows. The edges of the scene were fuzzy, like a dream, but just nostalgic enough in some sick way to make his skin crawl. He hated how he felt for this place, for the people in it- and for the people who never made it out. The dull walls of the refuge that surrounded him, stained in blood that realistically shouldn’t be there, both comforted and tortured him. He didn’t look down, even as the kid begged him. 

“Francis!”

Jack felt sick. He hated that name. He hated the person who it belonged to.

“Francis, you got him back!”

“I know… I know, Michael.” Jack forced a smile. He hated Francis Sullivan, and his life, and his name, and his family. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate his little brother. What kind of a big brother would that make him?

“Will you keep him safe for me? So Snyder doesn’t take him again?” 

“S-Sure. I will.”

“Do you promise?”

Jack didn’t want to. After what happened, it was a hard promise to make, even if he’d technically made it in real life before the accident. But he sighed. “I promise.”

Jack had to shut his eyes tight when Michael hugged him. He smelled the blood. He felt it on his clothes. He remembered every detail of what happened to his brother. But that didn’t mean he wanted to see it again. He never wanted to see it again.

“Francis, why aren’t you looking at me?” Michael whined.

“Stop.” Jack begged.

“Francis, come on!”

“No!” Jack yelled, opening his eyes. 

-

“JACK?!” 

Jack sat up, breathing so heavily his chest hurt, instinctually smacking the arm off of his shoulder that was shaking him. 

“Jack?! Ow- I- Are you okay?”

“Crutchie?” Jack shook his head, running his hand through his hair. “I- I’m fine… what time’s it?”

“It’s really early, I’m sorry! You were crying in your sleep-”

“I wasn’t.” Jack sighed. “We’ve been over this. I just have allergies, remember?”

“Okay… just- are you sure you don’t want-”

“I’m fine, Crutchie.” Jack snapped. He hated how cold he sounded. How scared he was. He wanted to talk about it, he did. But he didn't want to be a burden to Crutchie. What kind of a big brother would that make him?

“Alright… Goodnight, Jack.” Crutchie said quietly, a hint of coldness in his own tone. Jack supposed he deserved it, even though it hurt. 

“Night.” He responded half-heartedly. 

Once Crutchie was gone, Jack cautiously pulled a loose brick out of the wall, and retrieved a small stuffed horse from inside it. He turned it over in his hands, looking it over. It was far from perfect anymore, it was all dusty with rips and tears, and blood stained over what used to be the white muzzle. It was trash, really, but Jack couldn’t bring himself to put it away.

He promised he’d keep it safe, and he wasn't about to break that promise. Not the last promise he'd ever made to Michael- what kind of a big brother would that make him?

- 

Jack marched into the lodging house shamefully, flanked by cops and Pulitzer’s workers, avoiding the gazes of all the boys who used to be his brothers. He didn’t want to come back here himself, he’d begged for someone else to do it, to retrieve his things for him so he wouldn’t have to face everyone. But for some sick reason Pulitzer had insisted he go himself.

“How can we be sure you have all your… belongings, if you don’t go yourself?” The voice still rang in Jack’s ear, mocking and taking pleasure in what clearly was Jack’s pain. 

Jack didn’t care about his clothes or his bedding. He hardly cared about the money he’d left. There were only two things he really came for. But when he reached inside the wall, he felt sick to his stomach.

The first thing he felt was toy stuffing. 

Fighting a rising panic within him, he pulled out the remnants of what was once a small stuffed horse, now in nothing but a few sorry shreds and a head separated from the body. Nobody in the lodging house knew why he cried that day, nor why he even had it in the first place- to them it was just a meaningless stuffed horse, one that happened to get caught in the crossfire of their anger when they searched for the photograph of Jack’s family.

To them, it meant nothing.

But to Jack? It meant the world. He felt worthless, useless... he just wanted to shut his eyes and cry. But he didn't even feel like he deserved to do that, not in front of everyone. For all he'd done, after Michael and now Crutchie and Race and the rest of the boys, it just now hit him that he'd failed as a big brother.

He’d broken his promise.

jack & crutchie | newsies

Yo, welcome me to the Newsies fandom because these guys have stolen my heart&mind&soul since last December :') never really been on tumblr but I see the newsies community is doing pretty well here!!

Jack Kelly is that you

New favorite newsies fics

If Newsies characters had tiktok:

Jack- probably trying to start a strike on the app

Davey- doesn’t post just has it

Race- re-enacts encounters he’s had

Crutchie- one of the people who comes up on your fyp and makes your day

Spot- honestly probably thirst traps

Albert, JoJo, Mush, Specs- share a group account and either post memes or dance

Katherine- posts daily news

Sarah- dances and posts transition videos

Delancys- posts basic white boy shit and are problematic

Medda- one of the voice and acting teachers who makes short tip videos

Ik I missed some bare with me :)