& if the music's good, we dance.

[stagekiss-xx]

drabbles & headcanons?

If anyone is interested, I'll be around for a few more hours (and back in the morning) and would be willing to try my hand at drabbles and/or hc's if you'd like to send them in. I'll stick to "Newsies" for now, but I could be talked into trying my hand at "Bonnie & Clyde" - please specify if you'd like fluff or smut. 💗💕

[pontmarius]

You’ll lose the blues And you may lose your heart

[stagekiss-xx]

Sigh.

[stagekiss-xx]

Chionophiles (3/?) Race Higgins x Reader / Jack Kelly x Reader

Chionophile, noun: 1) one with a love of snow, 2) one capable of thriving in cold winter conditions

Rating: smuttysmuttysmutness. Word Count: 3,700+

So, this took ages, and angst keeps creeping into my smut but don’t worry, this is still crazy smutty and I kind of can’t believe I wrote it? I’ll be going through and reformatting some tags, and hopefully linking to previous installments, but I wanted to post this as soon as it was finished. Thank you for reading, as always, and please leave some love if you’d like for me to continue!

The season’s first heavy snowfall had transformed the city into a wonderland for approximately a day or so, until shoes and wheels and hooves trampled the pristine veneer into brown sludge. You contribute your share of tarnishing as you make your way to and fro, spending your days in rehearsals and your nights in performances, penciling in the occasional escapade when money is tight or rent comes due. Your side-hustle’s popularity had become slightly overwhelming, and on the advice of a few other ladies in your circle, you’ve narrowed your client list down to a handful of men whose company you enjoy – all things being relative – for the sake of safety, health, and reducing the chance of getting caught up in the law. You even go so far as to consider a few of your regulars to be friends, of a sort; on some nights, when you’ve shared a little bit of liquor and they’re looking at you like you hung the moon, this mess of a lifestyle almost passes for romance.

The loops of cursive in your agenda spell out a name that causes a flush to settle in your cheeks, which refuses to be calmed by the temperature as you wait outside the theater. He’d chosen the location, electing it as “your spot,” although the first time you’d met there had really been a matter of convenience; neither of you had the extra cash to rent a half-decent room, nor living arrangements that allowed for any real privacy, so you’d let him in through the side-door after curtain call. The two of you had burrowed together in the balcony for a stretch, biding your time as the building emptied out below. Sitting on the floor with your backs against the box shielded you from view, but it was torture to be in close proximity to cerulean eyes and mischievous hands, flirting in hushed tones.

You’d asked him why he’d needed this arrangement. It didn’t seem a savvy business practice to blatantly tell a client he was wasting his money, but you couldn’t imagine a world in which he struggled to take anyone to bed. He responded with something between a chuckle and a growl, pulling you into his lap as though he was going to tell you a bedtime story. Instead, he informed you rather conversationally that sometimes he needed more than what a nice girl was able to provide. Sometimes, if work had been particularly lucrative or if he’d placed a smart bet on an underrated horse or a lucky hand of cards, he wanted to spend his time with a naughty girl who didn’t mind being roughed up just a little bit. He teased details of what he’d do to you once the theater had gone dark, his fingertips transitioning from your thigh-high stockings to the bare skin above them. He carefully studied you for any sign of hesitation, occasionally pausing to give you the opportunity to object, but there hadn’t been any need for negotiations. It was as though he was reciting a catalogue of desires that had lain dormant inside of you, and his dirty imagery wrecked you both until you were sharing ragged breaths and deep, hungry kisses. Eventually, he honed in on the hem of your undergarments and maneuvered them down your legs, tugging them off and tossing them to the side.

He pulled away with a smile, asking if you wanted to make a bet to pass the time. You managed a nod, grateful for anything to take your mind off how badly you wanted this man, but he shifted his weight so that you were straddling him, core pressing against his slacks.

That’s when he’d started to hike up your skirt.

“Show me,” he directed, and you wordlessly slipped your hands between your legs to part your little mound, exposing the delicate shade of pink inside. He gave a wolfish grin of approval, abandoning the layers of fabric around your waist to grab at your thighs, and it had been miserable to feel such a powerful touch just inches away from where it was desperately needed. The pads of his thumbs massaged deep into your trembling muscles as he explained the rules.

“We’re gonna see how good ya listen, sweetheart. When I says go, I wanna see ya play with that pretty lil’ pearl-a yours ‘til I tell ya to stop … and go … and stop … and go. I betcha two bits that you can’t wait ‘til no one else is here to cum for me, huh? Bet?”

The chatter of the crowd had lessened but not ended, and the idea of touching yourself with others nearby felt impossibly heady. You’d affirmed a “yes,” which earned a tsk-tsk and a slap to your inner thigh. You corrected yourself: “Yes, sir.”

And to no one’s surprise, you’d lost.

Two hands covered in knit, fingerless gloves fold across your eyes from behind, grounding you back in the present.

“Guess who, babydoll?” is the cheeky greeting, and you’re genuinely smiling when you spin yourself around in his arms to greet him.

“Anthony!”

He leans down to kiss you in a way that feels so comfortable, and for some reason it makes your heart ache. Your lips surrender easily to his, taking in the taste of bubblegum and tobacco. It’s a perfect representation of this rambunctious, curly-haired blonde with freckles and a cocky grin, who also holds such authority and protection, tall and strong and capable. He takes your face in his hands as you all but make-out in the middle of the sidewalk, and it’s almost enough to make you forget that this is a business arrangement. You break away just enough to murmur, “Hey, um, do you have …”

“Yeah, about that,” he begins with a lopsided smile, “I’s a little short.”

“How short?” you reply, neither of you letting go of the other even as you openly discuss the payment on which this relationship is based.

“Uh, half?” he ventures, and you openly groan. “C’mon, angel, don’t be like that – the headlines have been shit all week and, Jesus, I just need ya …”

“I already give you a deal,” you remind him in a harsh whisper, which is true. There’s no contest as to which customer is your favorite, and you’d rather lower your price for him than watch some other working girl weasel him away, but you need to pay bills. You bicker with each other for a few minutes, a hushed but animated disagreement that masquerades as a lovers’ spat to any passersby, until his gaze connects with something over your shoulder and he tells you to stay put as he brushes past you to greet someone.

Exaggerating your exasperation only slightly, you roll your eyes as you turn to investigate, never expecting to see him slap the back of a navy peacoat draped with a charcoal scarf. You freeze, transfixed by their interactions, chummy and chatting, and you think your heart can’t move any higher into your throat until Anthony cocks his chin in your direction. His friend turns, and your world implodes as you lock eyes with Jack Kelly. Emotions immediately battle for dominance – surprise, annoyance, humiliation, fear, remorse, amusement, indignation – and you haven’t really crowned a winner in time for the men to make their way back to you.

So, you shut them down entirely.

Anthony facilitates introductions, and you refuse to telegraph any hint of your inner monologue as you feign hearing the name for the first time. He picks up your silent cue and does the same, although neither of you extend a hand. You’re half-listening to what Anthony’s saying over the blood pounding in your ears, but you perk up when you hear the words “lend me some cash if …”

“Anthony,” you try to interject, but you’re trampled by his continued pitch. You don’t miss Jack’s cocked brow and nearly imperceptible puff of breath as you refer to his friend by his given name.

“No, no, doll, not like that. He’s just, uh, gonna –”

“Watch,” Jack provides, and it’s the first word you’ve heard him say in a month, and his voice is just rich and deep, and there’s an edge to it that will not make you weak in the knees – pull it together.

“It’s your money,” you acquiesce before you can overthink, turning to yank open the door of the theater, and in doing so, miss the glance shared by the boys. You probably wouldn’t have been able to decipher it even if you’d caught it.

It takes almost no time for your eyes to adjust to the darkened theater, and you lead your guests inside, guided by the bare lightbulb radiating from its downstage post. You fling your coat onto a random seat, and they follow suit. When you reach the front row, you point dead-center and toss one syllable in Jack’s direction.

“Sit.”

You only watch him long enough to make sure he’s listening, satisfied enough when he takes his first step down the front aisle to begin moving towards the stage.

“And where’s you goin’?” inquires Anthony good-naturedly, a small laugh creeping in. You try to force a flirtatious lilt into your response, not even present enough to know if you were successful: “Your buddy wants a show.”

The stairs on either side of the stage are shallow and it takes you no time to reach the top, a crook of the finger signaling for him to follow behind. When he catches up to you, he stops you before you can move any further onto the stage, tugging you by your wrist until you’re flush against his chest. You feel rigid and unresponsive in his embrace, and he loosens his grip, ducking his head to murmur his words into your hair.

“Hey, we don’t gotta – y’know, if you’s don’t like this, tell me. I got some hot tips comin’ in, I should has plenty to see ya at the end of the week …”

You shake your head, and he makes a noise dangerously close to a giggle when a few wispy tresses of hair tickle his nose, counterbalancing the endearing sound by taking firm hold of your chin and forcing you to look at him. Despite his smile, the power dynamic is reestablished, triggering a flood of relief as you surrender; your tense posture melts into his chest, which rumbles with a contented sigh as the blue of his irises darkens.

“Mmm, you betta tell me whatcha want then.”

“You need to fuck me,” you answer without hesitation, “now.”

He gives a kind of appreciative laugh, as though you’d executed a well-timed punchline, repositioning his raised hand to capture your throat as the other twirls you around, slamming you back against him. The pleasant inflection in his voice conflicts with his words as he remarks, “Don’t know who the hell toldja you’s was givin’ orders ‘round here, but they’re wrong.”

He rids you of your dress without issue before nudging you closer to the light, which casts a tall shadow of your silhouette against the wall. Your performance instinct kicks in immediately, and you know to make eyes at a receptive audience member, engage them in coquettish flirtation as you entertain – or, in this case, strip for a repeat customer who regularly pays to dominate you, whom you may or may not have a crush on, and his apparently close friend who happens to be the singular best one-night stand of your life, whom you refused to see again for fear of his promiscuous tendencies.

So, fuck everything.

Jack is sitting deep in his seat, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, refusing to meet your eyes as you remove your slip. You turn your back to him, keeping your legs straight as you slowly remove and step out of your knickers. This leaves you bent at the waist, skin illuminated in the stark haze, ass in the air and pussy just barely peeking out from between your thighs. You take the opportunity to lean to one side and begin unbuckling your shoes.

“No.” The order comes from both men simultaneously, and you take your hands away as though you’ve been scorched. You turn your head to look at Anthony through a curtain of tousled hair, noting that he’s removed everything but his pants, his suspenders still attached but hanging loose around his hips. “Leave ‘em on.”

This necessitates leaving on your stockings, which means leaving on your garter belt, and you don’t hate that vibe. Unclasping your bra allows gravity to slip the lace garment from your arms. You straighten up with a graceful roll of your spine, looking to Anthony for approval. Off to the side, he can only make out the profile of your figure, but it’s enough for him to rake a hand through his curls as he examines your shape, and you see him start to approach as you turn back downstage, not admitting to yourself that you crave the same approval from Jack.

Jack uncrosses his legs and takes you in, and you wonder if he remembers the state in which he left you, painted with colors he smeared across your body with possessive hands and mouth. His marks of ownership have long-since faded, but when his gaze finally locks onto yours, an icy pang shoots through your heart, and you release a shaky breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Anthony sidles up beside you, and you save him the trouble of telling you to get on your knees; this is routine. You blink up at him as you pop the buttons on the front of his slacks, tugging at the waist until they fall to his ankles. His cock is hard against the flat plane of his torso, and you instinctually flit your tongue out to wet your lips, staving off the want to touch. He holds a palm out and you spit into it, watching as he wraps the wetness around himself, stroking just inches from your face.

“Where’s this go, huh?” he asks, and you offer the correct answer by opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue. He rubs his length across it a few times before delving between your lips entirely, nudging at the back of your throat. He groans as you swallow around him, lips forming a perfect “o” around his base until you eyes water and you back off to take a breath. He watches your chest heave as you inhale, collecting you hair in a makeshift ponytail and pulling you in to repeat the action, murmuring encouragement and praise. He eventually permits you enough slack to control the pace, and you tease him as much as you dare, languidly sliding your tongue along the underside of his cock, taking in an inch at a time with hollowed cheeks.

You’re upset when he pulls away, but then he’s kneeling beside you, capturing your lips with his to erase your pout, never untangling his fingers from your hair. The other hand ventures to your core, and he takes the present slickness as permission to pump two fingers inside. You mewl for him, working your hips to ride his thrusts as he nips at your earlobe, whispering about what a dirty girl you must be if you’re dripping just from having a dick in your mouth. His words send you reeling, breathy sighs bouncing off the acoustics until you begin to flutter around his fingers.

“Don’t do it,” he warns, and you try in vain to escape his touch, which is of course hopeless. He’s relentless, and you know he’d be just as pleased for you to disobey him as he would be if you listened. His thumb presses against your clit, and it’s the most delicious form of torture. You grit your teeth against the sensations, trying to focus on whatever he’s saying, but all you know is that the steady tone of his voice is infuriating, and you’re about to spill all over his fingers. “Hey – stay with me, angel. I asked you’s where ya cum.”

“Ahhh, your cock, y-your cock! Please, I know I cum on your cock.”

“Yeah? Wanna bend over and show me?”

“Yes, sir, fuck – please!”

Two soaked fingers are slipped into your mouth before you can even register how horrendously empty you are, and you’re shaking as you clean your taste off with your tongue. You maintain eye contact with each other until he moves behind you, nudging you to lean down with your elbows braced against the stage but keeping your ass elevated, and when he pushes inside, it takes barely three skilled drives of his hips to bring you right back to the edge. Jack is mesmerized, honed in on your features as they flush with ecstasy and pure carnal need, and the debauched hunger to feel both men’s touch barely flashes across your mind before you disintegrate, screaming your release.

“Ohhh, good girl, that’s a good little girl for me,” Anthony mutters without letting up, and you need to rest your forehead against the cool wood beneath you or you’re going to pass out. He gives a particularly vicious thrust and stills inside you, grunting as the pulse of your orgasm radiates through his cock, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching down to tease your clit. He continues rocking into you, but at a much slower pace, seemingly trying to stave off his own end. You’re so close to another climax when he withdraws completely, and you whine his name, earning a spank that causes Jack to flinch, and you to suck in your next breath through your teeth. He absentmindedly soothes the red handprint that blooms across your skin as you mumble a sheepish apology.

“What’s that, angel?”

You collapse onto your back in a huff, bringing yourself up to catch him grinning at you in spite of himself. He looks as strung-out as you feel, and it’s truly gorgeous; you can’t help but grin right back.

“I said I was sorry, sir.”

“Gonna show me what a sorry girl you are?”

You’ve barely closed the distance between you when he reclines back, challenging you to be on top, and you give a bitter laugh as you straddle his waist. That’s when Jack suddenly clears his throat, and you gracefully reposition yourself backwards so that Jack can watch the face you make when Anthony takes hold of your waist and guides you down onto him. You hope it’s half as satisfying as the look Jack gives you in response.

It takes no time for your muscles to begin quaking, and things rapidly devolve into Anthony using sheer muscle to bounce you on his dick, simultaneously fucking up into you while slamming you back down, and both of you are coming apart. You implore him to let you cum, and he’s somehow finding the strength to deny you, and you can’t remember the last time you plead so earnestly for something, and it feels as though it takes eons for him to growl and tell you to let go, and the only eyes you can find are dark and hungry and locked on you.

“Jack!”

You choose to believe the reason Anthony is a little rough in shoving you off of his lap is to make sure not to cum inside of you.

He redresses pretty immediately, giving you a tepid smile as he tosses over your clothes. You both tug your garments on in the awkward silence, and it’s when you see him fishing money from his pocket that you find your voice.

“Oh, God – I, I don’t want that.”

He doesn’t fight you on it, just runs a hand through his mess of disheveled curls and looks back and forth between the two of you. The corner of his mouth turns up as he quips, “Listen, I know Jacky’s pretty and all, but I’m gonna assume this means you’s two know each other?”

The way Jack’s eyes flicker in your direction seems to suggest he’s deferring to you, so you nod, stifling the urge to go into further detail. Anthony nods too – more to himself, it seems – then hops down off the stage and makes his way up the center aisle and into the darkness. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from calling out to him, knowing there’d be nothing to say if you did. The slam of the front door seems to shake Jack from his trance, and when he approaches the stage, there are a few dollars in his hand.

“I just said I didn’t want money,” you say, grateful it comes out as matter-of-fact as it does.

“Nah, that’s for the first time – my apologies, didn’t know you’s was a workin’ girl,” he replies, dropping the money onto the floorboards and turning to leave. “Not a plaything, huh?”

Your wit fails you, and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire: “Fuck you, Jack.”

“Yeah, you did,” he calls without looking back, but suddenly turns on a dime and storms back in your direction, taking the stairs two at a time until he’s in your face. Your instinct is to put up your hands in case there’s any chance of defending yourself, but when he grabs them, holds them, you recognize something other than anger is spurring his intensity. “What are you doin’ with yourself, for Christ’s sake? You’re usin’ these guys for, what, their money, a place to stay?”

“And what’d you use me and every other girl for, to forget about Katherine?” He releases your hands, and you make an effort to soften your tone. “People do what they need to do to get by.”

He stares at you, and you use every ounce of resistance you have to avert the tears preparing to spill down your cheeks. Despite the strength of your will, one rivulet escapes, and he doesn’t hesitate to reach out and erase it with his thumb. You turn your head, blinking rapidly to do away with the others, but they break through, and you break down, and he’s hugging you tighter than maybe anyone, maybe ever, maybe because he’s not sure what else to do. What ultimately calms you down more than anything is the consistency of his heartbeat as you rest your cheek against his chest: rational, steady, certain.

“Getcha coat, kid,” he says, and you almost wish you had more tears to cry if it meant staying like this a little longer.

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper.

“You’re not.”

When he takes you outside, the dirty streets have been adorned with a fresh coat of white, and you both leave footprints in the snow that lead to his place.

[stagekiss-xx]

Part 3 is en route!

If anyone happens to read this, I just wanted to reiterate that I've really appreciated everyone's kind words and support in the midst of my first story, and the third installment should be up by tonight if not sooner - and I've got a title and everything! Keep an eye out. 💗💕

[lipstickandsunflowers-deactivat]

Reblog if you're NOT Tumblr famous and you appreciate your followers

[stagekiss-xx]

💗💕

[stagekiss-xx]

Chionophiles (2/?) Jack Kelly x Reader

Chionophile, noun: 1) one with a love of snow, 2) one capable of thriving in cold winter conditions

Rating: PG-13, for language / acknowledging that sex exists? Word Count: 2,400+

Thank you so much to all who showed love and support for this story, and to the fandom in general for such a kind welcome, be it via messages or otherwise. I had anticipated this chapter to be just as NSFW, but I got tied up in character development and some angst - oops! Stay tuned for more smut in the next installment.

Sleeping away the majority of the day is a guilty pleasure, but one in which you occasionally allow yourself to indulge – today is shaping up to be one of those days, for a myriad of reasons. The frost decorating the corners of your window hints that it’s frigid outside, it’s not as though you have the money to do much of anything else, and reserving energy for the evening’s performance seems like a reasonable enough course of action. It certainly has nothing to do with the way in which your fingers insist on drifting between your thighs, trying in vain to recreate the magic of rough touches and dirty words, because that would be scandalous.

Twilight begins tingeing the skyline when the peal of the downstairs parlor clock drifts up to stir you from your half-asleep state. The boarding house’s shared bathroom holds to a rigid schedule, and you slide out from beneath the blanket to cover your bare curves with a thin, cotton robe. You pile your hair atop your head with a barrette to avoid soaking it with pumped water, fearing the creation of icicles the moment you step outside. A few disobedient tendrils escape the clip to frame your face as you navigate the hallway, slipping inside the bathroom and disrobing. A thin but full-length mirror catches you in its filmy glass, featuring a reflection that takes your breath away.

The constellation of bruises on your hips represents a perfect map of his fingertips, indigo stains that spread rumors to the faded bitemarks on your stomach. The smudge of a hickey marks the crux of your shoulder, and you swivel to take in every piece of colored evidence that last night was exactly as you remember. He’s left his signature everywhere.

You love it.

The bundle of fabric that is your coat patiently awaits the completion of your preparations, remaining strewn across the floorboards until you snatch it up on your way out the door. Just as you step across the threshold, you turn back and steal away to your nightstand, impulsively folding his sketch and stuffing it into your front pocket. You hate to crease it, but the paper had been wrinkled to start with, and you don’t want to chance it slipping out of your coat and onto the cobblestone street. Your rising performance anxiety insists that you continuously run your hand across it as you make your way to the theater.

The organized chaos of the dressing room is a welcome distraction from your nerves: costumes and air-kisses and rambunctiousness and makeup and warm-ups and swigs from metal flasks. No one is paying enough attention to notice you wedge the scrap of paper into the lower corner of your lighted mirror, and you make a valiant effort not to stare at it too obsessively. You’ve been able to assimilate with the lively troupe of performers over the course of rehearsals, and they seemingly enjoy your company, including you in conversations and chortling at your dry but sharp wit. The girl stationed beside you, sitting backwards in her chair and half-dressed in a bralette and bloomers, is in the middle of a bawdy anecdote when Medda’s exuberant shriek is heard from somewhere down the hall. Soon after, another dancer barges into the room, closing the door behind her and pretending to faint against it, reveling in the expectant silence she’s caused for a few delicious seconds.

“Jack Kelly’s here.”

Every female present – and, yeah, a few of the boys – reacts in a similarly animated fashion that you find legitimately entertaining. They giggle and titter and jokingly fan themselves, and one of the girls who is already laced into her corset jacks her tits up a little bit higher, and you’re immediately drawn in to the energy of it all.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” you state, and the ensemble dissolves into another fit of laughter. “He must be quite the looker.”

“Are you kidding? He’s a fucking god,” answers a young member of the male chorus.

“I don’t know what she was thinking,” retorts a redhead, and now you’re only more bemused.

“Who?”

Your mirror-neighbor twirls back around in her chair, shooting the others a look of martyrdom as she leans forward, speaking conspiratorially to your reflection in the mirror via her own.

“Jack used to go with Katherine Pulitzer,” she declares, pausing either for dramatic effect or because she mistakenly believes you’ll glean whatever information you need from that singular detail. Either way, she gets a raised eyebrow and a trailed-off summation in response.

“Pulitzer, as in … ?”

“Yeah, Joseph Pulitzer, the guy who runs -”

“The World,” you conclude, and it’s not until you’ve spoken the words that you realize it’s the second time you’ve discussed the newspaper in only a day, the first time being when you were conversing with …

Break a leg, kid - JK

“She’s his kid. Jack met her when he was handling all that union business, and they were real hot and heavy for a while – like, I’m talking years here. Still works for her dad, which must be a ball; anyway, I won’t bore you with the details, but –”

“Oh, don’t act like you have any details to bore her with,” ribs someone from across the room, which she deflects by sticking out her tongue.    

“As I was saying, she broke his heart,” she finishes with an exaggerated pout.

“We’ve, uh, been putting it back together,” chimes in another vivacious dancer, illustrating the innuendo with a heel-stretch that draws whistles and catcalls from the troupe.

“Not all of us,” quips a male voice, and you force yourself to laugh along. The topic of conversation moves on for everyone other than you, who is sending all of your available energy into not looking at that stupid rose. You don’t need to. You know what it says. At this point, you could probably identify his handwriting out of a lineup, a masculine scrawl that’s legible enough to get its point across if not a little rough around the edges.

“‘S late. Dark. Lemme walk you home.”

You slide into your costume, fastening buttons and snapping hooks and tying ribbons until there’s nothing left to do but try to rejoin the chatter. If you’re being truthful, it really doesn’t matter what they’re talking about because you know how to play this game; your inner musings have swept you away to somewhere else entirely, and you go through the familiar exercise of projecting whichever emotion seems socially relevant. It isn’t until the stage manager calls places – which elicits an “Oh, shit!” from your neighbor, who has yet to put on any real clothing – that you feel yourself revive, which has been the case for as long as you can remember.

You follow along with all the other girls who give themselves a once-over in the mirror before heading upstairs, vaguely recognizing that you look like a complete bombshell, but really only being able to focus on your mouth. Your lips are masterfully shaped into a delicate bow, painted in a deep shade of crimson red.

“Fuck, I wish I could hear ya scream for me.”

Backstage, you begin to feel the intoxicating effect of adrenalize buzz through your system, overhearing the din of the audience as the barker-esque voice enlivens them with the announcement of a new featured dancer. When he names you and invites the crowd to “make ‘er feel at home,” there is an absolute roar of clapping, whistling, stomping that causes you to literally squeal with glee. The girl entering from your side of the stage gives your ass a playful tap as the two across the way blow kisses, and when the band kicks in, you make an entrance onto a New York City stage for the first time. You take your rightful place in front of a backdrop featuring his gorgeous, swirling mess of midnight hues … 

The first song goes off without a hitch until the final verse, when your mind decides to electrify a neon sign notifying you that you haven’t seen him in the audience. You try to refocus – you are not going to distract yourself from lyrics and harmonies and choreography by searching for a man you barely know, especially since the lights dash any chance of seeing past the front three rows or so – but then you’re focusing on refocusing and you wind up in the wrong ending pose. One of the girls expertly counters without missing a beat and no one is the wiser, but you’re in your head for the entirety of the second number. All you know is that you’ve got to keep this cheeky smile plastered on your face, and you do, and that your fankicks start to the right, and they do, and that –

“You wanna fall apart just for me, don’tcha, gorgeous?”

And you did.

When it’s over, the men are on their feet, which you’ve already been warned is usually more a reaction to the revealing boustiers than a commendation of the actual performance, but you still feel a small thrill as you sashay back into the wings. You’re quick to move into the recesses of the theater, avoiding being the cause of any traffic jams for the following act, and when you turn a corner to find him leaning against a concrete wall, you almost breeze right by without your brain processing what you’re seeing. It’s him, complete with dark, sparkling eyes and charismatic smirk, but neither of them are directed at you because he’s not alone. A cabaret singer is essentially draped across his chest as they speak in hushed tones, as one would expect backstage. He’s leaning down to whisper directly into her ear, and she’s standing on tiptoes to reply, and you only notice the small nosegay of flowers in his hand when he begins to dislodge one of the blooms to tuck it into her blonde curls.

All you want to do is head downstairs and wipe this stupid lipstick off your face.

He sees you before you can move, sees you seeing him, and disentangles from whatever her name may be. He somehow keeps you frozen in place with an unwavering gaze, even as he whispers to her once more. She tosses a glance your way and nods with a smile, pecking his cheek and continuing on her merry way, flower in place, completely at peace with his dismissal. You wonder if you could ever be like that.

“Hi, Jack Kelly,” you mouth almost inaudibly, which stops him for a moment but results in a half-smile. He cocks his head to the side and leads you into a back hallway where you’re able to speak with at least some volume.

“I told ya you’s knew the dances,” he says, drinking you in. His free hand finds the small of your back, tugging you into him before traveling down to squeeze at your ass, and you let him because you’ve been fucking craving him all day. “I was watchin’ from backstage but, Christ, now I think I shoulda been lookin’ atcha from the front.”

He teasingly places the bouquet in your cleavage, and you tug it back out, examining it with feigned curiosity: “Pretty, thank you – but, uh, I think there’s one missing … ?”

His smile never falters, but his forehead creases just slightly and his grasp on you loosens. The man is a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them, and he’s more than astute enough to know what you’re referring to.

“She’s a friend of mine,” he delivers plainly, without a trace of defensiveness. Now it’s your turn to offer a smile, understanding and wistful. You casually press the bouquet into his hand, and he accepts it without looking, eyes searching yours. “Hey –”

“N-no, I don’t want to do that,” you interrupt, and the words come so quickly it’s as though you’re trying to convince yourself of them as well, giving them a chance to escape before you change your mind. “I don’t know how to be that kind of friend. I’m not going to be a plaything.”

He blinks, nods, rubs at the back of his neck. You’re both well aware that you’d be at his mercy if he decided to charm his way out of this, not-so-white lies and boyish charisma and empty promises. It would take nothing for him to spin you in his arms, corner you against the brick, remind you of the sheer relief of completely submitting to another person. He doesn’t. He lets you awkwardly murmur something about a costume change and give a hurried goodbye. There’s no meaningful eye contact, no frenzied kissing. You leave him there, willing yourself not to imagine what transpires when the next pretty thing wanders through.

You show up the following night to see the flowers at another girl’s mirror.

The disillusionment surrounding Jack Kelly seems to settle into your bones, branding you, signaling to the universe that you’re marked for disappointment. The novelty of your newness rubs off within a matter of weeks, the emcee no longer singling you out in his introductions. Ascending the ranks isn’t as simple as you’d anticipated, and no one bangs down your door to feature you on bigger, better stages. The money is good but it’s not great, and your bedroom is drafty in the face of a harsh winter. You’re rehearsing more and eating less, and it feels as though your corset is always loose, regardless of how often it’s relaced. It’s during one of these frequent tightening sessions that a fellow dancer asks if you’ve considered working after-hours. You brush her off, too drained after performances to consider taking on any custodial duties, and she gives a quiet, knowing snicker before growing more explicit in her definition.

That’s how you end up on your first date. It’s a hot meal and some close dancing and a quick rendezvous in an expensive hotel room. The gentleman leaves a few bills on the dresser and explains that the room is paid for if you’d like to stay the night, but he hopes you’ll understand if he excuses himself for the evening. The bed is so luxurious that you don’t even mind sleeping alone. Each subsequent time is some variation on the same theme, and it’s tawdry, and it’s “wrong,” and it’s the closest thing to glamorous you’ve ever felt. The men begin to blur together, each of them bricks in an invisible wall you build around yourself that no one is allowed to scale.

Ultimately, when they dismiss you, you don’t feel a thing.

[stagekiss-xx]

Chionophiles (1/?) Jack Kelly x Reader

Chionophiles, noun: 1) one with a love of snow, 2) one capable of thriving in cold winter conditions

Rating: M? R? ... smut, it’s just smut. Word Count: 3,900+

So, this is wicked long and pretty smutty. I have somewhat of an idea of where I’d like it to go, so leave some love if you’d like me to continue? Thanks for reading whatever just happened here.

The silence of the otherwise vacant theater is punctured by the clack of your heels as you ascend the staircase leading up from the dressing rooms to the stage, which you are surprised to find illuminated by anything more than a ghost light. Medda must have arranged to have the lights kept on when you’d asked to stay after hours, unsurprising considering how generous she’d been in every other aspect of your recent employment. The expanse of the stage is empty save for a portion of scenic canvas jutting out from the opposite wing, and you stand for just a moment, familiarizing yourself with the scars and scratches in the hardwood, the way the dust performs a slow whirl in the beams of the stagelights.

You try to imagine what the voice of the emcee will sound like when he announces your debut the following evening, choosing to push away the paranoia of sporadic, tepid applause from a hesitant audience. You emerge from the wing and carry yourself downstage, mindful of achieving but not imitating the way the other dancers had sashayed to their starting positions. Your hand rests daintily at the inset of your waist, which in costume will be exaggerated by the boning of a corset, but for tonight is draped with a simple camisole. You offer your nonexistent audience the closest thing to a flirtatious smirk you can muster while silently counting yourself in - 5, 6, 7, 8, and …

You mark through the vocals, half-singing under your breath as you take yourself through the initial steps: hip, hip, shimmy left, shimmy right, step, step, step and chasse, ball change, chasse, ball change, pivot front, pivot back, hip, hip, pose. You know halfway through the combination that you haven’t been smiling, and immediately start yourself off again - 5, 6, 7, 8, and …

It takes maybe half a dozen passes before you allow yourself to move onto the next portion: hip, hip, shimmy left, shimmy right, step, step, step and chasse, ball change, chasse, ball change, pivot front, pivot back, hip, hip, pose and left arm, right arm, up, down, shimmy and -

“’Scuse me.”

You’re not sure if you’re more humiliated by how dramatically you jump or by the squeaky yelp that escapes as you falter, but everything pales in comparison to the knowledge that a darkly handsome man just witnessed you do both, which you discover as you whip around towards the source of the interruption. The apron he wears is splattered with multicolored speckles of paint, as are the forearms currently folded across his chest. His dark hair peeks out from the sides of a well-worn cap, the brim of which he tips to punctuate the apology he offers for startling you, although the smirk that goes along with it diminishes its authenticity just a bit.

“Sorry, miss, I was just wonderin’ if you want I should wait ‘til ya done to turn out them lights.”

“I didn’t know anyone else was here,” is your reply, which doesn’t really answer his question and only leads to him continuing with the smirking and the handsomeness until you feel the urge to speak again: “Medda said it would be alright if I stayed behind to rehearse.” He nods slowly and you conclude with a lame, “I’m new.”

“Yeah, I figured. I don’t know who ya is.” There’s a warmth to his voice that almost stops the response from coming across as rude - almost - and you decide you’re intrigued enough to share your name. He echoes it back to you as his eyes methodically take you in, as though evaluating whether the title matches your aesthetic. When you ask his name in return, the smirk transforms into a grin. “You are new, huh?”

In spite of yourself, you chuckle quietly at his cheekiness. “I go on tomorrow, for the first time. I just wanted to prepare.”

“I don’t think Medda’d let you go onstage without you’s knowin’ ya dance,” he says. “Looked pretty good from where I was standin’ …”

“It looks better with the other three girls here too.” You dodge the compliment, gesturing to the empty spaces beside you as if to comment on how pathetic it is that you’re up here alone, save for this man whose name you still don’t know. “It’s more about getting used to the space, I suppose - and the shoes.”

You jokingly strike a pose to showcase the footwear that goes along with your costume, not hating the added benefit of drawing his attention to your elongated leg, the shape of your calf, the cushion of your thigh leading up to the curve of your ass. It’s a small victory when you catch his teeth digging into his bottom lip for just a moment. “Could I get a little more time, or - ?”

“Whatever ya need, darlin’,” he agrees with a shrug, tossing a nod towards the canvas behind him, which you fully take in for the first time; it’s a gorgeous, swirling mess of midnight hues, jewel-like blues and purples that fade in and out of each other in a rendering of some stardust-flecked night sky. “I can always find somethin’ more to fiddle wit’ on a backdrop.”

He cedes the stage, walking backwards with a few heavy steps that, if you’re flattering yourself, suggest that he needs to will himself to break away from you. He finally does turn his back, exiting out of eyesight and into the wing that you now realize originally concealed him from view. You force yourself to focus on your task - 5, 6, 7, 8, and …

Redirecting the energy zipping through your body proves to be possible for only a short length of time, and eventually you stop trying to fight whatever magnetic pull has you wandering off in the direction of the man and his canvas. You watch in silence for a few stolen moments as he works, scanning his own painting for patches of inspiration that urge him to streak here or blend there. In searching for a particular can of paint, he notices you in his periphery. He grants himself a surprised double-take, but otherwise is much calmer about your intrusion that you were about his.

“Finished already? I just got my brushes dirty again,” he voices, completing a few strokes.

“Is this what you do, paint scenery?“ you inquire, fishing for confirmation that he’ll be here regularly, whomever he may be. It doesn’t come.

“Ah, not really - not as much as I used to. I kinda do ‘em as a favor to Medda. She been real good to me, so I find time when I can. I’m - uh,” he falters for a moment, bringing a paint-stained hand up to rub at the back of his neck, and his next words come out in the form of a question. “I’m an illustrator for The World? Y’know, like the comics about the government and all that?”

You can’t stop yourself from cocking a brow in disbelief, or from blurting out, “You are? How’d you land that?”

The muscles in his shoulders literally tense before your eyes, and he barely finishes moving his brush across the backdrop before turning to discard it in a bucket of water. He fishes around in the murky liquid for a rag, and wipes at his hands and forearms while asking, “You all set?”

The shadow overtaking his features suggests you’ve done something to offend him, but you’re not sure what to apologize for. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. I really didn’t know anyone was here.”

“Who’d ya think was gonna lock the place up? Keepin’ them lights on all night, you’s tryin’-a burn the place down - give the newsies somethin’ to sell in the mornin’ but’d screw you right out of a job, huh?”

“Sorry, I’ll get out of here,” you offer before retreating down to the dressing room, throwing your street dress on and changing out of your still-unbroken dance shoes. You slide them under your assigned section of the costume rack, beneath your corset and bustle, before stepping into your everyday shoes and tossing on your coat, ascending the staircase once more. You pause for a moment at the side-door to chance a glance across the stage, but the lights are off, and you can tell from the dim glow of the ghost light that he’s gone. You push the door open and grimace at the bitterness of winter that whips at your face, squinting against the cold and almost missing the figure leaning against the base of the closest lamppost.

“‘S late. Dark. Lemme walk you home,” he calls out, which somehow translates to an apology for snapping at you. Still, you shake your head in the negative, telegraphing the polite decline that common courtesy dictates, despite your soul imploring you to accept the invitation. He wears a nice peacoat, navy blue draped with a charcoal scarf, and gloves that weren’t inexpensive. You wonder why he doesn’t replace his cap, which has clearly seen better days.

“It’s a ways,” you respond as you start off in the direction of where you’re staying, meaning for it to be an explanation for the refusal although it comes out as more of a dare. “I couldn’t afford anything closer.”

“That’s perfect,” is the cool reply. “I was just goin’ this way.”

“No, you weren’t,” you challenge, unable to stop the amusement from coloring your words.

“Nah, I wasn’t,” he chuckles, falling in step comfortably beside you.

The conversation revolves around you entirely, and you’re admittedly not sure if he’s being gentlemanly or evasive by turning everything back around to you. He asks where you’re from, commenting on an accent you didn’t know you had, and you tell him about your life in Massachusetts. You certainly don’t intend to discuss working in the mills as much as you do, but his face lights up when you mention the unionization, of all things, and that topic carries you through a good portion of your travels. Somewhere along the way, his scarf ends up around your neck, his lapel tugged up towards his reddening ears, and you’re almost surprised when you find yourself standing on the stoop of the boarding house; you’d swear that stroll was shorter than it’s ever been.

He keeps himself on the sidewalk, evening out the height difference. Maybe that’s what emboldens you to ask, “This is when I invite you up, yes?”

His eyes sparkle with something you can’t identify, although his outer response is a casual shrug and the effortless smirk that’s rapidly becoming his trademark. He doesn’t move as you unlock the heavy front door, tugging it open enough for you to slip through. You barely hesitate before tossing a look over your shoulder and motioning for him to follow you, a finger pressed up against his lips.

You sense his presence behind you although neither speak as you navigate through the shadowy foyer, illuminated only by persistent moonlight and the dim glow of the streetlamps creeping in through dingy lace curtains. A few stairs tattle on your antics, squeaking as you make your way to your rented bedroom. You struggle to unlock the door with trembling hands you choose to blame on the cold rather than the way he’s deliberately pressing himself up against you, resulting in both of you essentially tumbling into the small room when your key finally decides to rotate in the lock and the door gives way. You stifle your laugh and try to collect your senses, a pointed but otherwise unintimidating finger greeting him when he finishes closing the door.

“My bed creaks and the walls are paper-thin,” you instruct, and you think he might have nodded but there’s really not enough time to register before he’s using the ends of his scarf to pull you in for what may be a legitimately perfect kiss. He releases you only to remove his gloves, and the warm strength of his hand slides alongside your cheek as the other fiddles with the buttons on your coat. You follow his lead and begin pushing at his as well, urging the thick fabric to free itself from his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, tossing his cap onto the pile of discarded outerwear, and groans into your mouth when you seize the opportunity to rake your polished nails through his hair. His grip relocates to your hips, pulling you against him to ensure you feel the way your touch makes his cock twitch.

You try in vain to retain enough faculties to help him undress, but end up just futilely tugging at the front of his shirt as he smiles infuriatingly against your lips. He takes over from there, stripping away his first layer to reveal suspenders and a long-sleeved undershirt, and suddenly you don’t care how cold it is - fuck layers because please, God, you just want to see this boy naked.

At some point, you wordlessly agree to sacrifice kissing in favor of more efficiently doing away with the other’s clothes, compromising by trailing lips and fingertips across newly exposed skin until you’re bare in each other’s arms. He seems as obsessed with the softness of your curves as you are with the way his muscles flex as he holds you, and you both relish the similarities of heated skin and shallow breaths. He suddenly brings you up to sit around his waist, your legs tightening for security, and then again when you feel the head of his cock teasing your clit. You stiffen and he snickers into your shoulder, scraping his teeth against the skin before mumbling, “I gotcha, I gotcha.”

Your hips move against him, chasing the sensation that sends an electrical charge straight to your core, and he allows you to work yourself up, kneading at your ass with strong hands that hungrily pull you into him. Your head lolls back with a throaty sigh, hair tumbling down the naked expanse between your shoulder blades, and he leans in to kiss a line of fire across your collarbone.

“You gonna fall apart for me already, kid?” he teases, not waiting for the answer before gently transferring you onto your mattress with a playful toss. The bedframe squeaks under your weight, and you shoot him what would be an intimidating glare if not for your glazed eyes and kiss-bruised mouth.

He brazenly meets your stare with an unfaltering hunger that blows his pupils as he takes in your figure on display against your crocheted quilt. He’s the personification of lust, as though he’s never seen a woman in the nude before - which can’t be the case, because look at him. The shadows cut a prism of angles across his muscles, gaze smoldering and jaw clenched as he closes the distance between you; he’s an absolute predator.

He kneels on the mattress, situating himself at the end of the bed, hands sliding up your inner thighs before unceremoniously yanking them apart. The sensation of being held open, completely exposed and vulnerable to his whims, makes your head swim. You lay back against your pillow and stare up at the cracks in the ceiling, as you have every night you’ve stayed here, only tonight there’s a complete stranger between your legs, and his middle finger is sliding inside of you, and you might be dying.

“Oh, good girl,” he encourages, experimentally corkscrewing in and out a few times before adding his pointer finger with a tad more difficulty. You try to steady your breathing as he bottoms out, but then he’s crooking his fingers and listening for the telltale hitch in your breath that tells him he’s found whatever he’s searching for, something you didn’t even know was there. When he does, you reward him with a sharp inhale, and he barely gives you a moment to bask in the deep, primal tingle before he’s mercilessly fucking into you, two fingers conjuring some kind of magic you’ve never experienced, and your vision is whiting out. He decides it’s a good idea to bring his mouth down to tongue-kiss your clit, and you’re writhing and whining when he murmurs “Mmm, what’s-a matter?” against your cunt.

Nothing, the answer is that exactly nothing is wrong at this precise moment in time, because you’re cumming hard around his fingers and against his lips and under his gaze, and your own hand is flying up to stifle the font of profanities spilling from your mouth. He coaxes you through your initial spasms, but tugs his fingers out too soon, and you consider murder until he replaces them with his tongue, setting off an aftershock that has you tugging at his hair.

He scatters open-mouthed kisses and lovebites along the inside of your thigh, hip, stomach, chuckling darkly as he moves up your body to kiss you, the first sweep of his tongue delivering the sweet aftertaste of your orgasm. His thickness is straining as he ruts against you, bumping your overstimulated clit every so often, and you don’t know how many times you’ve strung the word “please” together when he finally says, “What, my greedy little girl, whaddaya need so bad from me, huh?”

“Please fuck me,” you implore in a hasty whisper, fingernails already digging into his arms in anticipation. “Oh, God, please - I need you to fu-”

He makes sure his mouth is covering yours when he sheaths himself fully with one thrust, swallowing whatever was left of your words along with the scream he pulls out of you. He stills himself for a moment, gritting his teeth to stave off the urge to tear you apart, and lets you adjust to the size as he strokes your side with his fingertips, hushing you.

“Shhh, be good for me now, babydoll, you don’t wanna get me kicked outta here without makin’ you feel so good again, do ya?”

You desperately shake your head, and he continues to shush you as he thrusts back and forth as though he’s testing your ability to control your volume, gradually building up to a rhythm that has you seeing stars while he growls in your ear.  A high-pitched whimper occasionally escapes your lips, but you stay as silent as can be hoped considering a beautiful man happens to be working you into your mattress. He seems to read your mind, and finds a deeper angle as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, I wish I could hear ya scream for me … wanna hear all them pretty little sounds when ya take my dick - ah, fuck, baby, take it for me - do you know the kinda filthy things I’d do to ya if I could chance you gettin’ loud on me?”

You squeeze your eyes closed as tight as you can, as if that will somehow block out the diatribe that has you hurtling towards another climax. You don’t know how you’re possibly going to keep quiet when you inevitably slip over the edge, and your efforts are bringing tears to the corners of your eyes. He rapidly brings you to a new plateau, and you can’t help but emit a choked sob of desperate frustration that brings his eyes up to take you in.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh … I know, baby, I know - you just wanna show me how good you’s can cum for me.”

The hand that was on your side drifts up to stroke away the tears on your cheek, the other staying on your ass to keep you angled just so. His thumb journeys towards your lips, and you tilt your head to the side to take it into your mouth, sucking on it naughtily in an attempt to pacify yourself. He curses, bottoming out in your tight heat, and your thick lashes flutter open to blink at him through a blissed-out fog.

“Christ, lookatcha … You wanna fall apart just for me, don’tcha, gorgeous?” You do, and you’re going to, and he must know because he takes his thumb away, and you feel its wetness against your cheek as he covers your mouth with his hand. “C’mon, do it - fuck, fuck, do it, baby, cum for me, c’mon.”

You feel yourself shatter beneath him, downright screaming against his palm, and the fact that you don’t know whose name to scream may even make you cum a little harder.

He continues fucking into you until you’re a trembling mess in his arms, and only then does he pull out, fisting his cock once, twice before he growls, exploding onto your tummy, marking you with his release. The bedframe gives another irritated creak as he collapses beside you, and you’re instantaneously in withdrawals. You reach out for him and he catches your wrist, lacing your fingers together and pressing a kiss against the back of your hand. Everything is silent now, save for your deep exhales as you both try to regulate your breathing, and you’re useless for any polite conversation under the given circumstances. You’re not sure how much time has passed when you feel him disappear, but a cold panic settles over you.

“Hey,” you murmur, turning over to observe his movements in the room. He makes his way to your nightstand, and you watch as he carefully pours some water into the wash basin.

“Hey,” he replies, dipping a washcloth into the bowl and squeezing it out again. He returns to the edge of the bed, smirk back in its rightful place. “Gonna be cold, sorry.”

He does away with the mess on your stomach, which clenches under the frigid touch of the water. His hand is warm as he coaxes your legs apart, gently running the washcloth along your slit. His free hand lifts the corner of your quilt, gesturing for you to slip underneath, which you do. Your combined body heat has seeped into the bed, and you haven’t felt this warm, safe, comforted since you’ve arrived in the city. You struggle to keep your eyes open as you watch him rinse the cloth before cleaning himself off, and he turns back to witness you battling against sleep.

“Close those eyes,” he whispers as he approaches. “You want I should stay?”

You nod, and feel the mattress sag under his weight as he joins you under your blanket. His arms locking around your waist is the last thing that registers before you fall asleep.

He’s gone by morning.

You’re not sure how to feel, and you curl up in whatever is left of his warmth, staving off any feelings of abandonment threatening to sink their claws into your heart. The movie flickers in your mind, playing through the events that lead to some cocky boy charming his way into your bed, and wonder if you fell prey to dark eyes and a handsome smile. The negative emotions begin to settle in just as your eyes hit a stray piece of paper on your nightstand, tucked under the wash basin. You wrap your quilt around your naked frame, crossing to snatch up what turns out to be a pencil sketch of a rose. Some of your lipstick has been used to tint the petals a deep shade of red, and the message scrawled along the stem banishes any pang of regret.

Break a leg, kid - JK

[stagekiss-xx]

i made a tumblr.

i don’t know how this works.

i don’t know how to get followers.

i don’t know what i’m doing (do i ever).

i just wanna write good stuff. <3