AN: So I went to Otakon this year dressed up as Hanna, and met up with all of the other Hanna cosplayers. Among the number was Blair!Hanna, whose offering "Tik Tok Tibenoch" can be found on youtube, sung by her but credited to the artist "Ple$ha." The song is a spoof of Ke$ha's song, but about Ples. Enough related conversation resulted in me wanting to write something in which Ples just happens to dress up in drag sometimes for karaoke hour at his favorite bar, to the point of being a local hit. My little brother is so totally responsible for me working Ca$h in here as I did. Feel free to read this as an interpretation of certain spoilery things, although that was not my initial intent. I will warn for the fact that once Ples gets in Ple$ha persona, there are female pronouns and reads rather as if Ples really was a girl. The comic, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name, still belongs to Tessa Stone and no infringement is intended.
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PLE$HA ON THE CLOCK
-by: Lira-
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It was karaoke night at the bar, which meant the room was more than twice as crowded as usual, the stage at the back of the room fully set up. Karaoke was slotted to start at nine, and for the past half-hour various amateurs had been on stage doing their renditions of popular songs from past and present. Ples could hear the latest doing an attempt at Brittney Spears' Baby One More Time. The catcalling and cheering from the audience had started, but Ples knew the party wasn't going yet.
The bar couldn't afford a dressing room, mostly because they simply had no place to put it, but after weeks of the routine the owner knew to close down the men's room when Ples showed up. Ples was a regular at the establishment, so none of the other patrons thought much when they watched him stride to the back with a bulky bag slung over his shoulder. The fact that a bouncer moved into place in front of the door after Ples slipped through the portal surely registered with none.
Ples stood before the mirror, eying the wrinkles on his face, the white in his hair, the neat clothing that was so familiar to him after so many years. With careful hands, he stripped off the items one by one, sliding his suspenders from his shoulders and undoing the arm spats one after the other. His hands were just as steady as they drew back the zipper on his bag, pulling out new articles of clothing one at a time.
His usual shirt was replaced by a ladies' white blouse with girlishly belled sleeves, Ples doing up the buttons over top of a simple white bra with the cups gently padded. He could feel the straps along his shoulders, shoulder blades, the clasp in the back shifting slightly as the blouse settled into place over top. Ples' usual arm spats were replaced with rainbow arm warmers, a few neon-colored bracelets and gaudy rings adorning his arms and fingers as well. The skirt he secured at his waist was a whirl of a rainbow, the heavy belt resting over top bearing plastic studs in the same pattern of colors.
Already the transformation had begun. Ples' shape was being replaced with a more feminine one, the rings and other jewelry making his slender-fingered and nimble hands – used to the steady exercise of piano – look more feminine and pretty. The white knee socks he pulled on bore rainbow elastic bands just beneath the frilly lace at the top, and his rocking horse style shoes were a flashy shade of purple. Balanced carefully on the heels, Ples did his make-up still before the mirror, hand moving with grace born from long practice to cover the wrinkles and more manly contours with foundation, blush, colorful violet eye shadow. No matter how many times he did it, though, the lurid pink color he swiped over his lips looked lewd and unnatural.
But the crowds loved it.
His usual reserved manner might hint otherwise, but Ples really did enjoy being in the limelight. Oh, not all the time, never that, but just one night a week really was nice. It was nice having all of the men he would see drinking around him without a word on other nights cheering for him and urging an encore. It was nice having a veritable entourage, and having people cheer /before/ he sang anything, and not sedately afterward as they did for any other act. Ples /was/ the show at this bar, and the owner knew it. He liked being relied upon to draw a crowd.
The last piece was the wig, a black mess of hair which Ples secured carefully in place over his natural shock of black and white. The waves cascaded just to his shoulder blades, and from the temples two long streaks of silver extended. Everything else about the costume was about trying to appear young and feminine and hip, but those little bits of hair were a hinting at who he was under all of it. There might be little purple stars stuck to the frames of his glasses, and there might be a rainbow flask tucked into his belt, but Ples was still Ples beneath the disguise. He always marveled that no one saw it.
Ples bundled all of his things back into the bag and slipped out of the men's room. The bouncer waiting took it from him with a little salute, and Ples blew the man a kiss. His guard mimed catching it, and winked in return. Ples couldn't help laughing, and strode to the side of the stage. The girl finishing up her song surely wasn't cheered by having the attention of half her audience diverted by the presence of Ple$ha.
There were more contenders in line to do their thing on the stage, but all were diverted to follow after Ple$ha's performance. Everyone crowded out of the way, and Ple$ha mounted the stairs to center stage with a confident swagger. A spotlight snapped on as Ple$ha moved into place, and if anyone wondered why no other performer had been done that honor, they didn't dare asking. Ple$ha took the microphone from the stand, and in the background the beginning strains of her song began to play.
The beat was cheerful and infectious, and Ple$ha was moving back and forth in her spotlight, eyes closed but hips swaying. The instruction she had been given in dance told her exactly how to move without giving the motions conscious thought, and she opened her mouth and popped her eyes open with a flash of violet, beginning to sing.
"Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Tibby," she began, the words as familiar as her silly butchering of that name she inherited from the man whose body was just then hers.
She'd done the song so many times, the words were as familiar as breathing. She flashed the hip with the flask at that line, and everyone standing nearest the stage moved forward with arms extended, offering to fill it and buy her a drink. Sashaying back, she disconnected it from her belt and tossed it into the crowd, all of the men grasping for it like it was some honor. She flashed them all a smile and continued with the song.
"Don't stop, make it rock, Ple$ha's clubbing in this spot," she sang when she reached the chorus, to cheers from her loving audience.
As she looked out over the crowd, Ple$ha saw a familiar orange shock of hair. With mild surprise – and still continuing her routine – she realized it was Hanna. Hanna, the zombie man, Conrad, Veser... So many familiar faces at her performance. Perhaps Ples would have been worried about the risk of discovery, but Ple$ha knew she could handle this. She was far too pretty a lady for little Hanna to resist, and was certain even Veser's cocky certainty would have to take a back seat if she flashed him a smile and told him to go get her another beer like a good little boy.
And when the song was over and her adoring audience was calling for an encore, Ple$ha winked and waved just at where Hanna was standing, stepping down the short stairs to the stage with confident strides. Her flask was pressed back into her hands, and Ple$ha seated herself at a table just beyond where the crowd was standing.
For a few minutes people watched her, calmly taking drinks from the rainbow bottle of liquor, but after that point they reluctantly turned their attention to the teenager who had taken her place on the stage. Ple$ha thought she was going to get some peace, and turned slightly away from the stage because she really didn't care for the performances beyond her own. But just then someone pulled up a chair at her table, and she noted with some displeasure that it was Hanna.
"That was really great," Hanna told her. "Have you had professional instruction?"
"Would you be surprised if I said I hadn't?" Ple$ha asked, smiling wide like she was smug about it.
"N-No," Hanna stumbled. "But you're really good!"
"Why thank you," Ple$has said, with a kinder smile.
She wasn't really looking for company, just wanted to show some cursory enjoyment for the rest of the performances, and yet she wasn't going to tell Hanna to go take a walk. Veser pulled a chair up on her other side, and Ple$ha raised her eyebrows as she turned to see what he could possibly want.
A hand on her knee gave her a pretty good idea. Well, well.
"And just what do you think you're doing, darling?" she drawled in that throaty voice she had perfected by then.
"You wanna party, right? Veser asked, the words clearly meant suggestively.
"You're supposed to wait until I'm done drinking, sweetie," Ple$ha told him. "Didn't anyone ever tell you how to take advantage of a girl?"
For just that split second, Ple$ha could see the shock in Veser's eyes. Then Veser edged his hand higher up her leg, a leg she knew was perfectly, girlishly smooth.
"That wasn't an invitation," Ple$ha clarified, sliding her leg to the side so Veser's hand fell free.
Veser blinked once in disbelief, mouth dropping open to say something. Ple$ha could see every one of his bizarrely pointed teeth, and knew it was going to be a loud protest if she didn't cut him off.
"Why don't you buy me another drink?" she suggested. "When a girl tells you she isn't drunk enough for you to grope her under the table, the answer is more alcohol, not increased fondling."
The added benefit of publicly telling Veser to improve his game was that now Hanna and Conrad were both looking at him with what might have been accusation. Like asking how he could possibly have done that to a lady. Ple$ha found it hilarious that they were so righteously offended on her behalf.
Perhaps so he wouldn't lose face in front of his friends – Veser might have realized that if he grabbed any higher on Ple$ha's leg, she was going to kick him in the groin – Veser hopped up and strode over to the bar. Ple$ha carefully recrossed her legs, careful not to damage anything that a lady shouldn't be used to having.
The rest of the interlude with Hanna was pleasant enough, although Ple$ha missed the usual bubble of calm she enjoyed after her performance. Yes, a few of the regulars would always come up to her and say hello and complement her on her singing, but none were as persistent as Hanna when he's had two drinks in him. Veser, thankfully, did not try and put any more moves on her, and at the end of the karaoke hour – which now lasted nearly three due to popularity – Ple$ha went back on stage to do another number before the night was over.
The bouncer was hanging around the men's room when Ple$ha walked off stage for a second time, and she took her bag from him with a cheerful wave and a quick kiss to his cheek. Inside the bathroom, she dropped the bag on the floor and stood before the mirror. Her eyes were still bright with excitement behind half-moon spectacles bearing their temporary purple stars. It was so difficult to reel it in, to pull back the popularity and take it off like clothing. To an extent it was clothing, the feminine garments that allowed Ple$ha out of this husk of a man. But it was more than that. It was a second personality twined with the first, a person with the sass and daring that Ples could not summon without her help.
As she raised one hand to start wiping the make-up from her face, she heard the door to the outside swing open behind her.
Ple$ha thought it was the bouncer, and so when she turned around her expression was still open. When she saw that it wasn't him her face started to close down, shut off the surprise and confusion the other side of her felt at setting eyes on a fresh, familiar face. The cashier from that liquor store, where they would buy their alcohol. What was his name? So many of the other patrons, people younger than her, simply called the male "Ca$h," like it was his name.
Ple$ha supposed she could understand that.
"What are you doing in here?" she asked, sounding merely calm but curious.
"This is a bathroom," he said with a little chuckle. "Didn't you think anyone would ever have to take a piss?"
"I thought they would wait outside with the bouncer until I was done," Ple$ha told him, with some disdain.
"No one thinks it's weird that a girl has to change in the men's room?" he asked. "Or that she can't just show up at the bar in costume?"
Ple$ha made a small noise of displeasure. She was the star attraction of karaoke night, and they would make what concessions she asked for. But it wouldn't do for a lady to be anything other than modest, which meant she couldn't flaunt her popularity and tell him to get out of her bathroom.
"Some things are necessary," she offered with a little smile. Be mysterious. Distract him with something so she could change and let Ples deal with this mess.
"Come on, mister T," he said next. "Did you think I didn't know it was you? I mean, I sold you that flask, even though it wasn't rainbow when you bought it. What did you do, paint it?"
Ple$ha glanced down at the flask by her belt, needing a moment to decide how to deal with this. She supposed it was to be expected that someone would connect her with the man who usually controlled her body. It didn't mean she had to enjoy it when it happened.
"Is there a reason we need to be having this conversation in a bathroom when I only wished to change?" she asked, going for the honest route.
"Yeah," he said. "I wanted to see you while you were still a lady. You really change your voice when you talk, too."
Ple$ha crossed her arms over her admittedly fake chest, not wanting to ask why that was so.
Ca$h took a few steps closer, until the distance between them was polite but only just that. He offered what must usually be a very disarming smile, but Ple$ha's only response was to raise her eyebrows higher. The smile faltered slightly, and then Ca$h frowned.
"Come on, Ples- Ple$ha, you saying no one's ever tried to follow you back here before?" Ca$h asked.
"Usually the bouncer keeps them out," Ple$ha told him flatly.
"Look, I'm not going to do anything to you unless you want me to," Ca$h told her, pushing his hair back from his face with one hand. "You don't have to keep acting like that dude's gonna pop in here any second. You could just tell me to leave."
Ple$ha pouted before realizing she was doing it, and stopped. It had been one thing when Veser was trying to grab a piece of her, and all she'd wanted to do was shake him off and return to her evening. But aside from breaking into the bathroom while she was trying to change – and what /could/ Ca$h have told the bouncer? – Ca$h was really being quite polite. Ple$ha was still uncertain if he wanted something from her, or if he really just wanted her.
"Do you want to stay?" Ple$ha asked, turning the pout into a quirky little smile.
She leaned closer, pushing out her chest.
"Fuck, Ple-Ple$ha, I did lie to a bouncer," Ca$h said.
Ple$ha smiled wider, and brought a hand up to gently brush the side of Ca$h's face. He smiled back, and she caught hold of the side of his neck, kissing him on the mouth. She'd never really kissed anyone before, not as herself, and wasn't used to the slight slide of her lipstick before Ca$h's lips parted slightly. She slipped her tongue in then, a light caress that he was not hesitant about returning. And the entire time she was still smiling against his mouth, unable to quash her amusement.
When she broke away, fingers trailing back across his cheek, she could see his face still so close to her own. "You are still aware of who I am, yes?" she asked. "We wouldn't want you to get just a little too deep."
"Yes," Ca$h said simply, no hesitation.
Ple$ha bumped him up against the door to the bathroom, her mouth on his again. It was really quite exhilarating, now that she was thinking about it, because normally Ples would never let her do anything like this. Normally he would be so worried that they would be caught, and ruin the secret, and just what would he do then? But Ca$h already knew who they were, and Ple$ha was certain he was just as curious as she as to how this would play out. She was bolder, though, and after a happy minute of earnest kissing one of her slender hands moved to Ca$h's groin, cupping gently.
He gasped into her mouth, and she pressed harder.
That time Ca$h's response was to kiss her more furiously, mouth moving wetly against hers, pressing up against her body and into her groping hand. She could hear Ples' voice in the back of her head cautioning her, telling her not to lose her head, but she pushed him aside as she moved nimble fingers to undoing Ca$h's fly. She knew dear Ples' fingers were experienced even if the rest of him wasn't, imagining he could pleasure himself quite well from all that time he spent alone, even if it did not translate well into being with other people. She was certain she could put such things to work.
Ple$ha slipped her hand inside Ca$h's pants at the same time his fingers caught on the edge of her belt. After closing fingers around his erection, Ple$ha realized that the snug fit of the belt along her waistline was defeating the boy. She laughed against his mouth and broke away again, her hand staying within his pants but going unmoving.
"Do you need a little help?" she asked, a teasing lilt to her tone.
She thought Ca$h flushed a little, although that might have just been because of having a hand curled around his dick.
"I'm fine," he told her, and she could feel his hands searching along the belt for the buckle.
"Suit yourself," she told him, hand tightening and jerking faster.
Ca$h's hand stuttered so she could feel it as she resumed, but then he found the buckle of the belt and Ple$ha could feel the heavy length of it sliding down her body as it came loose. She was more surprised when Ca$h found the zip at the back of the skirt, because the material tended to bunch gently over its length so that even she had to grasp for a moment before undoing it. He lowered it only halfway, enough so that a hand sliding around to the front could reach inside, find the panties that had never been less comfortable than then and dip inside those as well.
Ple$ha smiled tighter when she felt him touching her, the rhythm of her hand steady and unrelenting. She could see in his face the challenge to pace him, to try and make him come before he could ever get her off. The challenge was tantalizing, the motions of her hand refining so that her hand twisted with precision over the head of his dick on the upstroke, thumb pressing against the vein along the underside with varying degrees of pressure.
Whether or not Ca$h's movements were as concerted as Ples' time-honed techniques for himself, they did happen to be doing a little something for her. She watched him through eyelids that were fluttering lightly, breath coming in little gasps as the feel of him teased her. She knew that her gaze, as steady as she could make it, was an acceptance of his challenge, an agreement to acknowledge him if he could only push her as far as the edge and over, and only to her most complete satisfaction.
"I wonder what you're thinking," she told him, hand still tight on his flesh. "Is this still ladylike enough for you?"
"You're just you," Ca$h said, with a slight shrug that caused him to pull a bit harder on the upstroke than before.
"You're still interested in him?" Ple$ha asked. "Even more than me?"
Ca$h gave a little grunt, and she loosened her hand once again. "Does it matter?" he gasped out then.
She supposed it didn't.
After that they were both quiet, quick sure motions mirroring each other with synchronicity. The only sounds were her little gasps, his groans, and the short moans they would exchange like trading secrets. The closer she got the harder she pulled, her grip becoming more and more like a vise until she realized and let up once again. Her thoughts were flickering in and out of clarity, her focus so caught up in the pleasure spiraling out from her dick like coils unwinding. She was so focused on her own pleasure, practically disconnected from what she was doing to Ca$h, that she was completely surprised when she felt him pulse in her grasp and spill his seed over her clasped fingers.
Ple$ha was still focusing on his face, although whether or not she really saw him was debatable, and the contortions of his expression as he came registered somewhere in the back of her head. Somehow he kept going, his hand still moving over her flesh, coaxing her forward until she was coming as well, sparing one quick thought for her nice stage clothes. After that it was just shudders of ecstasy as she slumped forward slightly against Ca$h.
"Ple$ha," Ca$h said after a minute, tilting her face up with his free hand.
Ple$ha remembered that she could not afford to be doing this.
"Time for you to get out of my bathroom," she told him briskly, taking his hand by the wrist and thrusting it away from herself.
"That's all?" Ca$h asked. He didn't actually sound especially put out.
Ple$ha offered him one last appraising look. "I have another performance next week," she said. "If you wish to see the geezer, I'm sure he'll be in your store by then. And quite embarrassed, from the sound of things."
She smiled with appreciation for the thought. Poor, poor Ples.
Ca$h was just there for a minute, tucking himself back into his pants and smoothing down the front of his shirt. His hand he wiped on the side of his pants, as if he had no concern for what anyone might detect or think. After doing so, when all Ple$ha was offering was an amused little smile, Ca$h consented to leave. He cracked the door and slipped outside, and then Ple$ha was alone at last.
Again she moved before the mirror, able then to see her smudged lipstick and the belt that was hanging askew out of the way. With careful fingers she slipped it free of the skirt entirely. She knew it was the end of her allotted time, and that she had pushed things farther than she'd ever expected to be able to. She could feel that dear Ples greatly wanted his body back.
"All right geezer," she said to the mirror. "Have at it."
Ples' hands came up to the sides of his head, and it one motion he dislodged the wig of hair that had been framing his face. That one change had a profound effect on his appearance in the mirror, the true gray to his hair now visible again, the more masculine contours to his face reemerging. He didn't want to think what the next week looked like. If he wanted to replenish his supply of alcohol, he had to either find a new liquor supplier he liked as much as the first, or deal with Ca$h.
Ca$h couldn't possibly understand what Ples' situation truly looked like, nor how he had come to be there.
Thinking dourly of the forthcoming conversation, the possible inconveniences Ples might have to deal with, Ples began undressing again. If his face was a little flushed and his thoughts a little unbalanced, well, that was just an occupational hazard of living with Ple$ha. When he emerged from the bathroom, he would be himself again.