delanceyxbrothers reblogged
There’s nothing weirder than finding out your seventh grade English teacher apparently no longer works as a teacher and works with a semi-famous ghost hunting team in your state traveling around the US with them sometimes
Punishment Starters!
“Are you going to come here, or are you going to make me come get you myself?”
“Don’t look at me like that, you brought this on yourself.”
“Stay still, squirming will make it worse.”
“Keep count. If you lose it, we’re starting over. Understand?”
“Go get me the cane.”
“Take your shirt off and put your hands up against the wall.”
“Open your mouth. I’m putting the gag in so your screaming won’t alarm someone.”
“Did you disobey my orders?”
“I thought I told you not to touch that?”
“Have you finished everything I told you to do?”
“If you don’t stop acting like this, I’ll be forced to use different tactics.”
“Your skin turns so red under my palm.”
“Bend over the back of the couch.”
“Twenty hits with the belt sounds fair to me. You don’t get a say in it.”
“I don’t care that it hurts, you’ve earned it.”
“You might want to bite something, the whip has a bite to it.”
“Come here and bend over my lap.”
“I’m tired of your smart mouth.”
just-go-and-get-her
newsies asks:
jack kelly: is you could change one thing in the world, what would it be?
davey jacobs: are you a leader or a follower? / are you hesitant in situations?
crutchie morris: have you had any injuries? if so, what were they?
race higgins: what’s the most rebellious thing you’ve done?
albert dasilva: if you could spend an endless amount of money, what store/place would you spend it in?
jojo de la guerra: list five (5) things you love about yourself! (because self love is cool!)
buttons: do you lose things easily?
mush: if you had to have one (1) last meal, what would it be?
romeo: if you could play any broadway role, what would it be?
finch: if you could have any superpower, what would it be and how would you use it?
henry: would you rather be able to understand any language or play any instrument?
elmer: tell your best joke!
tommy boy: what’s your favorite memory?
mike: name your three (3) top netflix movies/shows!
ike: movie theater or living room? (to watch movies in)
smalls: what’s your favorite clothing item in your closet?
sniper: nike, converse, or vans?
les jacobs: what three (3) celebrities would you like to have as your siblings?
katherine plumber: do you like to read? if so, list your three (3) favorite books!
spot conlon: name something that makes you angry!
the delaney brothers: if you had to have a celebrity for a public enemy, who would it be?
santa fe (prologue): would you rather have a small life in a big town or a big life in a small town?
carrying the banner: what’s your dream job?
the bottom line: if you could live in any decade, what would it be and why?
that’s rich: what’s your theee (3) favorite candies/sweets?
i never planned on you: do you believe in love at first sight?
don’t come a-knocking: if you had to choose one (1) chore to do for the rest of your life, what would it be?
the world will know: what do you want to be known for one day?
watch what happens: if you could write a book, what would it be about?
seize the day: give some advice!
santa fe: where is your dream destination?
king of new york: tap or ballet?
watch what happens (reprise): tag your tumblr squad/friend!
the bottom line (reprise): are you a trouble maker or a peace maker?
brooklyn’s here: what borough of newsies would you want to be from?
something to believe in: tell about a dream you had!
once and for all: if you could rule any country, what would it be?
finale: tell what broadway means to you!
hey-thats-my-leg-of-lamb
!!!!!
please???? ask me????
race-is-a-furbie
Guys I love you!!!
albert-eats-cookie-cake
PLEASE SEND ASKS YEET
technically-whizzy
please I need a distraction
delanceyxbrothers reblogged
they dropped the world on your shoulders and called you ATLAS
——- how long can you hold the weight?
Anonymous asked:
send me “look at me while I’m talking to you” for a starter with your muse scolding mine for something they did, and my muse avoiding confrontation ((~~a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah))
Lucille wasn’t used to being in this position, not usually. It had always been her yelling, just trying to get a drop of attention from her brothers before they got themselves in trouble. She was the calm one, the the gentle one, the one who always took a deep breath and counted to five before doing anything— so why were her knuckles now scraped and bruised?
Morris had been the one to ask her to come by The World, just for a bit, because half of the printing presses were being repaired and they needed all hands on deck and then some if they wanted to get the paper out on time. She knew she was too busy, and she’d been stressed between their father getting out of prison and Warden Snyder coming into the theatre to look for some poor kid, but how could she ever say no when she looked into her baby brother’s blue eyes? It had been so easy, grab papers off the press, bundle them up, and repeat— then she went to take a smoke break, and she heard what the boys were saying about her brothers when there wasn’t a lady present. Insults about Oscar’s intelligence (he can’t count to twenty with his shoes on, says the bastard who doesn’t do more than daydream all day) and about their father’s job (if you even knew one thing about him, you’d never mention him again for the rest of your miserable life) and she felt her heart sink because nobody spoke to her little brothers like that. It had been a perfect punch— he was spun around into a hit to the stomach, angled just right so that it caught under his ribs, momentum and positioning knocking the breath out of the teenager— and it had felt good to her, as if all of the anger she had been holding in at their father and uncle and mother was released in one solid hit. Lucille knew she had hissed a threat to the boy (god he’s no older than Morris, I just hit a kid, why did I hit a fucking kid when his back was to me?) but it was a blur as she rushed behind the desk and grabbed her stuff, rushing to Medda’s theatre with what felt like a stomach full of lead. The work was mostly done, and if her brothers really needed her, they knew where to get her.
Even now as Crutchie asks her why the hell she would go beating up on one of her friends, she’s still in a daze, chest tight as she bounces between feeling guilty for the act and feeling angry that it had ever been necessary. She can’t focus on the girl’s scolding, her thoughts blurring together until the snarled words brought her back.
“What would it matter if I’m looking at you or not?” Lucille asked, suddenly aware of the tears in her eyes. There’s a feeling of hurt that mixes with the shame when she looked at Crutchie, her face full of betrayal. “I didn’t see you standing up for my little brother— for either of them!”
“Small talk— casually bringing up the weather is fucking small talk, mentioning someone’s obviously estranged father is asking for a fight!” The anger burning in Lucille’s blood was beginning to fizzle our, her shoulders heavy as every moment of the day seemed to replay in her mind. She should apologize, she knew that, but the reminder of what was said— a new spark was lit inside her and she gripped the corner of the desk so hard she was worried it would crack— was close to tearing her in two. It would be easier if she could just rip in half, let part of her heart be with Crutchie while the other stayed with her brothers, but she’d always be stuck in the middle.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Crutchie, but I already made the mistake of leaving them once— the next time I hear or see someone hurting them, I’m gonna fight for them. I made a fucking promise to keep them safe, and I won’t just throw it away because some kid got mad at me.” There are thousands of reasons why Lucille can’t just apologize and let it go, most of them centered around the memories of two little boys with bright blue eyes looking to her for guidance and protection. Even now, with those little boys all grown up, she can’t help but feel a twinge of sorrow, exhausted from years of fighting. “You don’t know what we’ve had to do to get to this point, how many times we’ve barely escaped by the skin of our teeth. If I don’t watch out for them, give them support and backup when they need it— I can’t just walk away. They’re my brothers, Crutchie! I don’t want to fight like this, but if it keeps them from coming home with busted up faces and broken ribs? I’ll do it again in a heartbeat.”
a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah
“Well, you ain’t tha one hurtin’ me, are ya? That’d be tha bruddahs ya tellin’ me is jus’ misunderstood… An’ even if ya did hurt me, I betcha there’s nothin’ you can do that they ain’t done, but hey! They get a free pass! They’s jus’ misunderstood… That’s why they beat up me an’ my bruddahs…” She paused for a moment, gritting her teeth, before forcing a way too cheery smile, and a cheery tone to match. “They’s near killed a couple of us on occasion, but oh, they’s jus’ misunderstood! That def'netly helps tha bruises hurt less, don’ it? An’ it heals tha broke ribs an’ makes ‘em right as rain! An’ it makes tha black eyes easier ta see through an’ means that lookin’ like thugs what’s been out prizefightin’ don’ affect tha way our customers treat us!” The smile turned to a snarl surprisingly quick. “They don’ need ya protection! They got fists enough of their own wit'out havin’ ya’s, too… But I’ll say this… They got you ta fight their battles for 'em, an’ all we got’s each othah. so keep ya hands off my bruddahs, or I swear ya’ll all three see consequences. Nobody messes wit’ 'em, or I mess wit’ one of you’s. Personally.” She took a deep breath and stared Lucille down, right down the hatch, before turning to leave.
“What do you want me to say, Crutchie— my little brothers are monsters, that they don’t deserve someone to love them no matter what, that they deserve to be treated like shit until it wears them down?” Lucille asked, scoffing at Crutchie. It hurt her to hear those things, her face cold as she turned away, stiffly moving to clean up the mess she had made. “Unlike you, I don’t turn on people I thought I cared about the moment I don’t agree with something they feel, and I don’t ask them to choose between their friends and their family!”
At the threat against her brothers, Lucille straightened up, grabbing the girl by the arm before she could walk away. She felt the same hatred well up in her chest from when she was a child, the rock in her stomach gone. “Don’t you ever threaten my family, Crutchie, especially when we both know it won’t be you doing the fighting when it all goes to shit.” She hissed, jaw tight. The last thing she needed was a bunch of newsboys making her life hell, especially with rent almost due and their father back on the streets. There was no space in her life for that kind of trouble, not with everything she had built for herself going so well. “If anything happens to my brothers, I’ll hold you personally responsible, and I won’t be as hesitant to lose my temper. I raised those fucking boys, and I will die and kill for them if I have to.”
Anonymous asked:
send me “look at me while I’m talking to you” for a starter with your muse scolding mine for something they did, and my muse avoiding confrontation ((~~a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah))
Lucille wasn’t used to being in this position, not usually. It had always been her yelling, just trying to get a drop of attention from her brothers before they got themselves in trouble. She was the calm one, the the gentle one, the one who always took a deep breath and counted to five before doing anything— so why were her knuckles now scraped and bruised?
Morris had been the one to ask her to come by The World, just for a bit, because half of the printing presses were being repaired and they needed all hands on deck and then some if they wanted to get the paper out on time. She knew she was too busy, and she’d been stressed between their father getting out of prison and Warden Snyder coming into the theatre to look for some poor kid, but how could she ever say no when she looked into her baby brother’s blue eyes? It had been so easy, grab papers off the press, bundle them up, and repeat— then she went to take a smoke break, and she heard what the boys were saying about her brothers when there wasn’t a lady present. Insults about Oscar’s intelligence (he can’t count to twenty with his shoes on, says the bastard who doesn’t do more than daydream all day) and about their father’s job (if you even knew one thing about him, you’d never mention him again for the rest of your miserable life) and she felt her heart sink because nobody spoke to her little brothers like that. It had been a perfect punch— he was spun around into a hit to the stomach, angled just right so that it caught under his ribs, momentum and positioning knocking the breath out of the teenager— and it had felt good to her, as if all of the anger she had been holding in at their father and uncle and mother was released in one solid hit. Lucille knew she had hissed a threat to the boy (god he’s no older than Morris, I just hit a kid, why did I hit a fucking kid when his back was to me?) but it was a blur as she rushed behind the desk and grabbed her stuff, rushing to Medda’s theatre with what felt like a stomach full of lead. The work was mostly done, and if her brothers really needed her, they knew where to get her.
Even now as Crutchie asks her why the hell she would go beating up on one of her friends, she’s still in a daze, chest tight as she bounces between feeling guilty for the act and feeling angry that it had ever been necessary. She can’t focus on the girl’s scolding, her thoughts blurring together until the snarled words brought her back.
“What would it matter if I’m looking at you or not?” Lucille asked, suddenly aware of the tears in her eyes. There’s a feeling of hurt that mixes with the shame when she looked at Crutchie, her face full of betrayal. “I didn’t see you standing up for my little brother— for either of them!”
“Small talk— casually bringing up the weather is fucking small talk, mentioning someone’s obviously estranged father is asking for a fight!” The anger burning in Lucille’s blood was beginning to fizzle our, her shoulders heavy as every moment of the day seemed to replay in her mind. She should apologize, she knew that, but the reminder of what was said— a new spark was lit inside her and she gripped the corner of the desk so hard she was worried it would crack— was close to tearing her in two. It would be easier if she could just rip in half, let part of her heart be with Crutchie while the other stayed with her brothers, but she’d always be stuck in the middle.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Crutchie, but I already made the mistake of leaving them once— the next time I hear or see someone hurting them, I’m gonna fight for them. I made a fucking promise to keep them safe, and I won’t just throw it away because some kid got mad at me.” There are thousands of reasons why Lucille can’t just apologize and let it go, most of them centered around the memories of two little boys with bright blue eyes looking to her for guidance and protection. Even now, with those little boys all grown up, she can’t help but feel a twinge of sorrow, exhausted from years of fighting. “You don’t know what we’ve had to do to get to this point, how many times we’ve barely escaped by the skin of our teeth. If I don’t watch out for them, give them support and backup when they need it— I can’t just walk away. They’re my brothers, Crutchie! I don’t want to fight like this, but if it keeps them from coming home with busted up faces and broken ribs? I’ll do it again in a heartbeat.”
delanceyxbrothers reblogged
Though I’m beyond belief depressed, confused, and mad… well, I got dressed. I underestimated how much that would take. I didn’t break until right now.
delanceyxbrothers reblogged
((Y’all send your prayers my way, I’m about to be stuck in a church van with barely working AC in this southern post-storm weather, transporting 20 exhausted kids home from sleep away camp… while wearing my boot because my foot is hurting me. Or just send me tips on how to break up fights without taking my aircast off and using it as a weapon against them))
((I feel like I should mention that I didn’t actually sleep last night, because my sleep schedule is so whack I don’t go to bed until 4 am and get up at 10. So I get to watch 20 kids without being able to take a nap on a 1-2 hour car ride in the church van from hell. Help me.))
((My grandma is slut shaming the O’Charley’s waitress and she’s not being quiet about it ma’AM))
delanceyxbrothers reblogged
((Y’all send your prayers my way, I’m about to be stuck in a church van with barely working AC in this southern post-storm weather, transporting 20 exhausted kids home from sleep away camp… while wearing my boot because my foot is hurting me. Or just send me tips on how to break up fights without taking my aircast off and using it as a weapon against them))
((I feel like I should mention that I didn’t actually sleep last night, because my sleep schedule is so whack I don’t go to bed until 4 am and get up at 10. So I get to watch 20 kids without being able to take a nap on a 1-2 hour car ride in the church van from hell. Help me.))
#pray for me im no delancey#i cant keep the peace i can barely keep calm in cars#and i cant let them read The Mist#here kids gather round lemme read you some good ol stephen kimg#nothing scarring about the old gods coming to yeet our wheat#especially for a bunch of grade schoolers#how do i display dominance against them with no room to T pose aggressively
((Y’all send your prayers my way, I’m about to be stuck in a church van with barely working AC in this southern post-storm weather, transporting 20 exhausted kids home from sleep away camp… while wearing my boot because my foot is hurting me. Or just send me tips on how to break up fights without taking my aircast off and using it as a weapon against them))
I just want y’all to know that I am always on this blog to IM and do threads, but I’m super slow bc I still don’t have a working computer, and I’m a bit caught up on my writing blog for my D&D characters over @truthfulstars . If I’m not answering any messages on the delanceys or @daughtersofexiles (future multi muse for my newsies OC ladies), hit me up over there.
delanceyxbrothers reblogged
Blurt out the first sexual fantasy or desire your muse has towards mine, no matter what it is. No consequences! SEIZE THE MOMENT! (Anons welcome!)
BONUS: if you’re off anon & someone my muse ships/already likes, they HAVE to blurt out the first sexual fantasy that comes to their mind over YOUR muse.
Anonymous asked:
send me “look at me while I’m talking to you” for a starter with your muse scolding mine for something they did, and my muse avoiding confrontation ((~~a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah))
Lucille wasn’t used to being in this position, not usually. It had always been her yelling, just trying to get a drop of attention from her brothers before they got themselves in trouble. She was the calm one, the the gentle one, the one who always took a deep breath and counted to five before doing anything— so why were her knuckles now scraped and bruised?
Morris had been the one to ask her to come by The World, just for a bit, because half of the printing presses were being repaired and they needed all hands on deck and then some if they wanted to get the paper out on time. She knew she was too busy, and she’d been stressed between their father getting out of prison and Warden Snyder coming into the theatre to look for some poor kid, but how could she ever say no when she looked into her baby brother’s blue eyes? It had been so easy, grab papers off the press, bundle them up, and repeat— then she went to take a smoke break, and she heard what the boys were saying about her brothers when there wasn’t a lady present. Insults about Oscar’s intelligence (he can’t count to twenty with his shoes on, says the bastard who doesn’t do more than daydream all day) and about their father’s job (if you even knew one thing about him, you’d never mention him again for the rest of your miserable life) and she felt her heart sink because nobody spoke to her little brothers like that. It had been a perfect punch— he was spun around into a hit to the stomach, angled just right so that it caught under his ribs, momentum and positioning knocking the breath out of the teenager— and it had felt good to her, as if all of the anger she had been holding in at their father and uncle and mother was released in one solid hit. Lucille knew she had hissed a threat to the boy (god he’s no older than Morris, I just hit a kid, why did I hit a fucking kid when his back was to me?) but it was a blur as she rushed behind the desk and grabbed her stuff, rushing to Medda’s theatre with what felt like a stomach full of lead. The work was mostly done, and if her brothers really needed her, they knew where to get her.
Even now as Crutchie asks her why the hell she would go beating up on one of her friends, she’s still in a daze, chest tight as she bounces between feeling guilty for the act and feeling angry that it had ever been necessary. She can’t focus on the girl’s scolding, her thoughts blurring together until the snarled words brought her back.
“What would it matter if I’m looking at you or not?” Lucille asked, suddenly aware of the tears in her eyes. There’s a feeling of hurt that mixes with the shame when she looked at Crutchie, her face full of betrayal. “I didn’t see you standing up for my little brother— for either of them!”
a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah
Crutchie was taken aback, but didn’t fall, still looking up at Lucille with fire in her eyes. She saw the be tears, and began to feel a bit uncomfortable, but still stupid strong. “I didn’ see you standin’ up no fer me when yet “little bruddah” too me crutch an’ shoved me to the ground, callin’ me a list crip, like I don’t already think that enough!“ It came out before she could stop it, and it has felt right, righteous, even. “Maybe I was takin’ a lesson from ta bruddah… I take care of the guy what takes care of me! An’ all ya bruddah’s have Evan done fer any of us is bully us an’ push us around! An’ that ain’t right! I may make jokes sometimes, but I don’ tease like tha othahs because I’s terrified of ‘em! They’s near killed me on more occasions than I can count on one hand, n’ given me broken bones on more than I can count on two! Oh, but don’ worry… I can count ta twenty wit’ my shoes on, unlike some people.” Ot came out as a sneer, and she meant it, anger bubbling and ready to boil. Nobody touched her brother. Ever.
“Who started it, Crutchie— who fucking started it, because for as long as I can remember, there have been fights at the distribution center!” Lucille snapped, and she felt every word of it. It was no wonder they had been trapped in the vicious cycle, their uncle having sowed the seeds of resentment long before she and her brothers came along. He didn’t care to make sure his count was right, and even when she or Oscar did, it was met with a chorus of, ‘just get the damn papers already,” from newsies and their uncle alike. After hours of being yelled at, rushing around, trying to keep the peace with only a couple hours of sleep and a few bites of apple keeping you going— no wonder it was so damn easy to snap.
“You should be terrified of us!” For a brief moment, Lucille started towards Crutchie, actual fury in her eyes. She wanted to hurt her, the fire in her bones burning every inch of her body as she fought for the words to say, choked by her own tears. She was angry at her brothers for acting like brutish thugs every time she turned her back, at their uncle for taking what pay they bled for so he could get drunk, herself for falling back into old habits after just an hour at The World— so much hatred and frustration bottled up inside of her, enough that she wanted to burst. “You shut the fuck up before I make you, kiddo.” She hissed, teeth bared as she caught herself on her sewing desk, keeping her from taking just a few more steps and letting ten years of anger go. “You don’t know us, and you don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t know what we’ve given up to make it this far. You want to know why we take care of our own? Because no one else ever would have, and no one else ever will. Don’t act like your jokes are harmless and then complain when they call you a crip, not if they’re anything like the jokes I heard today. You don’t get to take the high road if you’re joking at the expense of a kid whose father— the same one your friends are laughing about and bringing up to get him mad— tried to kill him when he was ten-fucking-years old.”
a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah
"Well, I sure as hell didn’t! It’s always been like that, evah since I first started sellin’!” She replied defensively.
But then Lucille snapped and started towards her, and Crutchie couldn’t help but flinch away and take a stumbling step back. Something had made her think that somehow, the sister was different from her brothers… but maybe not. For only a brief moment, fear shone in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by fury. She scoffed with a badly disguised gulp of fear, fidgeting but making herself stand there, and take anything thrown her way. “Ya know what? Do it. Do it!” She held her free arm out to the side, welcoming an attack. She almost smirked when she saw Lucille stop herself, but the fury was just too hot. “An’ you don’t know us! What’re taunts compared ta fists an’ billy clubs an’ them brass knuckles Oscar flaunts? So what? I called ‘em smelly! An’ ya know what? Havin’ shitty folks don’t make ya special! It don’t give ya tha right ta beat on kids younger tha yous! Ya talk about me tryin’ ta take tha high road fer teasin’ someone who’s dad did 'em wrong? Me ma tried ta kill me, too! An’ as far as she’s concerned, it’s true! I was five! I couldn’ walk, an’ she left me on a street corner ta freeze! We all have shitty folks! An’ Racer weren’t teasin’, he was askin’ a question. I didn’ say nothin’, but they take it out on me!”
“That bastard wasn’t asking the question to start up a conversation, he asked it to start some shit!” She’s clinging to the desk like its the only thing keeping her up, because she doesn’t trust herself to move an inch. She’s angry— more than she’s been in years— and she knows how close she is to snapping, to letting the resentment she’s held onto for years go. “Every word they say is just a chance to stir up trouble, and you eat it up out of their hands! You can only kick a dog so many times before it finally decides to bite back.”
This time, Lucille does react, her sewing kit thrown into the wall beside her, a mess of pins and buttons and thread spilling out all over the floor at her feet. She knows it’ll be a mess for her to clean up later, but there are too many voices churning in her mind— Snyder, who never hesitated to tear down her confidence in order to control her; her father, who held her to impossible standards and hurt her when she couldn’t meet them; her uncle, who compared her to her mother and treated them both with disdain— too many insults and jokes that sound far too close to what Crutchie said to her.
“I don’t want to fucking hurt you, but I can’t just stand by and play nice while I know people are hurting my baby brothers, not ever again!” She’s finally crying, the closest she’ll let herself come to breaking down in front of someone who has hurt her. It’s Crutchie, but the insults she used were too close to one’s she had always swallowed without complaint; Little Lucille once more, holding the world up like Atlas so her brothers could find some semblance of normalcy when they’re being raised by their older sister. “What they do is wrong, but that doesn’t mean you can treat them like shit— they’ve got just as many troubles as you do!”
Anonymous asked:
send me “look at me while I’m talking to you” for a starter with your muse scolding mine for something they did, and my muse avoiding confrontation ((~~a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah))
Lucille wasn’t used to being in this position, not usually. It had always been her yelling, just trying to get a drop of attention from her brothers before they got themselves in trouble. She was the calm one, the the gentle one, the one who always took a deep breath and counted to five before doing anything— so why were her knuckles now scraped and bruised?
Morris had been the one to ask her to come by The World, just for a bit, because half of the printing presses were being repaired and they needed all hands on deck and then some if they wanted to get the paper out on time. She knew she was too busy, and she’d been stressed between their father getting out of prison and Warden Snyder coming into the theatre to look for some poor kid, but how could she ever say no when she looked into her baby brother’s blue eyes? It had been so easy, grab papers off the press, bundle them up, and repeat— then she went to take a smoke break, and she heard what the boys were saying about her brothers when there wasn’t a lady present. Insults about Oscar’s intelligence (he can’t count to twenty with his shoes on, says the bastard who doesn’t do more than daydream all day) and about their father’s job (if you even knew one thing about him, you’d never mention him again for the rest of your miserable life) and she felt her heart sink because nobody spoke to her little brothers like that. It had been a perfect punch— he was spun around into a hit to the stomach, angled just right so that it caught under his ribs, momentum and positioning knocking the breath out of the teenager— and it had felt good to her, as if all of the anger she had been holding in at their father and uncle and mother was released in one solid hit. Lucille knew she had hissed a threat to the boy (god he’s no older than Morris, I just hit a kid, why did I hit a fucking kid when his back was to me?) but it was a blur as she rushed behind the desk and grabbed her stuff, rushing to Medda’s theatre with what felt like a stomach full of lead. The work was mostly done, and if her brothers really needed her, they knew where to get her.
Even now as Crutchie asks her why the hell she would go beating up on one of her friends, she’s still in a daze, chest tight as she bounces between feeling guilty for the act and feeling angry that it had ever been necessary. She can’t focus on the girl’s scolding, her thoughts blurring together until the snarled words brought her back.
“What would it matter if I’m looking at you or not?” Lucille asked, suddenly aware of the tears in her eyes. There’s a feeling of hurt that mixes with the shame when she looked at Crutchie, her face full of betrayal. “I didn’t see you standing up for my little brother— for either of them!”
a-smile-dat-spreads-like-buttah
Crutchie was taken aback, but didn’t fall, still looking up at Lucille with fire in her eyes. She saw the be tears, and began to feel a bit uncomfortable, but still stupid strong. “I didn’ see you standin’ up no fer me when yet "little bruddah” too me crutch an’ shoved me to the ground, callin’ me a list crip, like I don’t already think that enough!“ It came out before she could stop it, and it has felt right, righteous, even. "Maybe I was takin’ a lesson from ta bruddah… I take care of the guy what takes care of me! An’ all ya bruddah’s have Evan done fer any of us is bully us an’ push us around! An’ that ain’t right! I may make jokes sometimes, but I don’ tease like tha othahs because I’s terrified of ‘em! They’s near killed me on more occasions than I can count on one hand, n’ given me broken bones on more than I can count on two! Oh, but don’ worry… I can count ta twenty wit’ my shoes on, unlike some people.” Ot came out as a sneer, and she meant it, anger bubbling and ready to boil. Nobody touched her brother. Ever.
“Who started it, Crutchie— who fucking started it, because for as long as I can remember, there have been fights at the distribution center!” Lucille snapped, and she felt every word of it. It was no wonder they had been trapped in the vicious cycle, their uncle having sowed the seeds of resentment long before she and her brothers came along. He didn’t care to make sure his count was right, and even when she or Oscar did, it was met with a chorus of, ‘just get the damn papers already,” from newsies and their uncle alike. After hours of being yelled at, rushing around, trying to keep the peace with only a couple hours of sleep and a few bites of apple keeping you going— no wonder it was so damn easy to snap.
“You should be terrified of us!” For a brief moment, Lucille started towards Crutchie, actual fury in her eyes. She wanted to hurt her, the fire in her bones burning every inch of her body as she fought for the words to say, choked by her own tears. She was angry at her brothers for acting like brutish thugs every time she turned her back, at their uncle for taking what pay they bled for so he could get drunk, herself for falling back into old habits after just an hour at The World— so much hatred and frustration bottled up inside of her, enough that she wanted to burst. “You shut the fuck up before I make you, kiddo.” She hissed, teeth bared as she caught herself on her sewing desk, keeping her from taking just a few more steps and letting ten years of anger go. “You don’t know us, and you don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t know what we’ve given up to make it this far. You want to know why we take care of our own? Because no one else ever would have, and no one else ever will. Don’t act like your jokes are harmless and then complain when they call you a crip, not if they’re anything like the jokes I heard today. You don’t get to take the high road if you’re joking at the expense of a kid whose father— the same one your friends are laughing about and bringing up to get him mad— tried to kill him when he was ten-fucking-years old.”