#just wait til it’s totally finished you’ll be begging me to shut up

[vanivenivici]

fuck it since instagram sucks and I hate it I’m gonna start posting my cosplay stuff here

Here’s Black Mask Akechi at 95% completion

Apologies to whoever follows me on multiple platforms but I worked really hard on this so you will see it again. I wonder if I can get the sword finished by the next con….

[porcelain-soupspoon4]

You’re Not So Bad (Isaac Foster x Reader)

A/N: I finished Angels of Death a few weeks back, and it was so good! I just had to write a short story about it. I’m not the best writer, but hopefully my first writing of this anime is somewhat close to Zack’s character.  

Warnings: Cussing, Blood Mention (it’s Zack)

You never expected to meet someone like Zack until he arrived on Floor B2. You assisted Reverend Gray, acting as another guardian of B2 after he took you in when he found you as a homeless teen, sleeping on the outside steps of his building. He wasn’t the best father figure you could’ve had, but he still treated you better than the streets did. When hearing the elevator on your floor ding, you wanted to see who was there, but Reverend Gray stopped you, warning you to be careful of the people you may meet. When you asked why, he described the people that held the names Isaac Foster and Rachel Gardner. In all honesty, you didn’t think they were actually as bad as he made them sound, considering that he over exaggerates his descriptions of people to you to keep you safe. Also considering the other psychotic people he had as guardians on the other floors, you could trust your own gut when you met the duo. You stayed hidden in the background while you watched Reverend Gray journey with Rachel to Dr. Danny’s floor. Watching them leave from the end of the hall, you saw a man in a dark brown hoodie and a scythe laying on the ground. That must be Isaac Foster. You could tell that he was bleeding out badly, a pang of guilt and empathy coursing through you. You were hesitant to approach him, remembering that the Reverend said he was dangerous to meddle with and there was a high chance he could react violently to you if you dared to try and talk. But seeing him looking on the verge of death, you couldn’t help but walk slowly toward him. It may seem unreasonable to walk right into danger, but you knew you could take care of yourself. Reverend Gray provided you with a weapon of your own, a basket-hilted sword. He helped you to perfect every swing and stab. Not only that, but you weren’t too bad at fighting hand-to-hand either. Luckily, Isaac Foster appears to be too injured to try and fight back anyway. I honestly don’t think my sword would be able to block his scythe well, I hope he doesn’t use it on me, you thought. As you got closer and closer to the strange man, he fidgeted a bit. You paused your movements, clutching the handle of your sword in its scabbard. He weakly turned his head towards you, his eyes opening slowly. 

“Who the fuck are you? You gonna try and kill me?” he questioned, a sharp tone in his voice. You noticed he made no effort to reach for his scythe, so you let go of your sword’s handle. 

“No.....I wouldn’t try to kill someone if they’re already dying,” you responded. He let out a dry laugh. 

“I hate to break it to ya sweetheart, but I’m not dying any time soon. Monsters are hard to kill. Besides, good ‘ol Rachel’s gonna fix me up. But enough of the chitter chatter, you didn’t answer my first question. Who the fuck ARE you? I thought there’s only one guardian on each floor, unless Reverend Shithead cheated,” he spat. You let out a small chuckle, finding his way of talking a throwback to when you were a teen. Although, he seemed to be around the same age as you, twenty or twenty-two years old. His bandaged face looked confused to your lighthearted reaction. He scowled, “Hey, what’s all that laughing for? I didn’t even say anything funny.” 

“Oh nothing, just thinking of my teenage days. But to answer your first question, I am another guardian of this floor. My job is assisting Reverend Gray on this floor, though I’m not really allowed to interact with the people who come here. But I uh, couldn’t help feeling a bit bad for you, seeing you bleed out like that,” you finally confessed. Letting out another dry laugh, he looked at you with a smirk. 

“Feeling bad for me, huh? Not the best decision. Don’t know if you can already tell, but I’m a cold-blooded serial killer. If I wasn’t feeling shitty at the moment, I’d cut that pretty head of yours off. Seeing you this calm around someone like me really pisses me off,” he said. You only let out another small chuckle, which irked him even more. 

“I’m sure you would, Isaac Foster. Although, I don’t think a fight between the two of us would end so quick. My weapon may be smaller than yours, but I can hold my own very well. If I could survive majority of my childhood and teen years being alone in the streets, I think I could survive you,” you calmly said. His temper apparently sky-rocketed because the next moment, he was yelling. 

“The name’s Zack, you bitch! Don’t go being so confident in yourself, it’s sickening to watch. I bet my ass could ruin all that confidence with just one land of my scythe. I’ll have you begging for your life, just you wait ‘til I’m in a better state to kill ya. Ugh, now I have two bitches to kill!” he groaned, then coughed loudly, more blood oozing out of his wound. You felt guilty again, wanting to at least stop the bleeding for a little while. 

“I carry some bandages and patches with me in case there’s a time I ever need to fix myself. If you need some I can-”

“Just leave it alone, will ya? I already got Rachel getting shit for me back on the other floor, I don’t need your damn help! Why the hell does everyone wanna help me?” 

“M’kay, but you’re bleeding pretty badly, by the time she comes back, you’ll most likely be passed out-”

“I said leave it alone! Stop tryna play nurse, your stuff probably won’t even do shit.” 

“But it’s better to stop the bleeding as soon as-”

“Will you shut up? You’re gonna make me go into shock.”

“I just wanna help-” 

“I said I don’t want any damn help!” 

“Well you won’t be much of a monster by bleeding out all over this damn floor! If you wanna at least live long enough to kill that girl Rachel, you could at least be somewhat decent and let me patch you up before you go all out, getting your own self killed instead! Now shut the fuck up and let me help! Geez! How does that blonde girl deal with you?” you shouted. Your yelling got him to close his mouth and shut up, surprised that he got someone as calm as you to get angry. How can I get her angry, but not scared shitless? It’s like she wasn’t even phased by my damn appearance, he thought. There was a short silence in the hallway, until Zack finally spoke up. “Didn’t know you had all that anger in ya. Heh, to be honest you even got my crazy self startled. I have no clue how Rachel deals with me, but all I know is her messed up head wants me to kill her. So I’ll do it. If I want to keep my promise to her.....I guess you should do what ya want. But don’t be a pervert about it.”

A small smile formed on your face as you took out your supplies in the small medical bag you carried around. 

“How the hell are you smiling after all that? Sheesh, I’m starting to think you’re even weirder than Rachel is,” Zack let out noises of disgust. You scoffed, rolling your eyes at his childlike behavior. 

“Tell me something.....,” he began to say, “why haven’t ya mentioned anything about my appearance? I’m literally covered in bandages and burnt underneath. Don’t I freak you out at all? Why aren’t ya scared?” 

“Well, I’ve seen crazier. I also don’t like to make a judgement about someone based on only their appearance. Sure you’re not ordinary looking, but I know there’s more about you than what I see on the outside,” you replied. Everything that you needed to help him was taken out. You didn’t have any type of alcohol or a sewing needle and thread to fully cover what you believed to be a deep gash in his abdomen, but it was all that could be done for now until Rachel got back. You reached over towards his wound, but hesitated. You looked him in the eyes, as if you were silently asking for permission. He nodded slightly, his breathing hitching a bit when he saw the look your eyes held. You looked so genuine, not one hint of fear in you. Was that.....kindness? No, it couldn’t be. Why would anyone show kindness to him? You unzipped his hoodie, a faint blush on your face. Sure he was an asshole, but it still felt.....somewhat intimate? Not in an inappropriate way, just in a trustworthy way. The fact he had so much trust in one stranger to help him like this.....it was odd. You undid the bandages already on him that were worn out. His wound was revealed, and so was his skin. Wow....is all of him burned? You shook your thoughts away. You grabbed a bunch of gauze sponges you had and grouped them together, beginning to apply pressure to his wound. Zack hissed at the pain, saying almost every curse word you think is in the dictionary. You let out a soft “Sorry” as you continued to clean up the big amount of blood on his body. Once you began to bandage him up tightly, Zack started up another conversation. 

“You’re different from the other guardians.....why aren’t ya trying to kill me? Isn’t that what you guardians do?” he asked curiously. You showed him another small smile. That damn smile, why does she smile so easily at me? It’s not like Rachel’s forced ass smile. What’s up with this bitch? Why is her smile so.....familiar? 

“Well, like I said before, I just assist Reverend Gray on this floor. He’s the main guardian. I’m just someone he happened to take in after he found me sleeping on the steps of this building. Heh, teenager me. Homeless after my parents abandoned me as a toddler. I’m not sure what made Reverend Gray want to keep me. Sometimes he acts like a father, but then I remember how self praising he is,” you sighed, “I know the people on the other floors kill so you expect me to be the same, but I don’t want to kill someone if they aren’t totally out of their mind.” 

“So is that why you didn’t try to kill me? Cause ya think I’m not totally out of my mind? Heh, well I’m pretty sure me killing people for fun isn’t sane either. I hate seeing people happy, sooooo I kill ‘em. What’s not psycho about that?” Zack stated. 

“Well for starters, I didn’t try to kill you because you were already injured, so it wouldn’t have been fair. And you can’t be totally out of your mind if you let me help you with your injury.” Zack scowled at your reply, knowing you were right. Even as a serial killer, he had morals. He hated lying, and he himself would never tell a lie. 

“You remind me of him too much,” he grumbled. Your head perked up. 

“Did you say something?”

“I said you talk too much.” 

“No, you definitely said something else.” 

“No I said you talk too much.” 

“Doubt it, tell me what ya really said.” 

“That is what I really said.” 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Zack.” 

“Ugh, I said you remind me of him too much,” he said softly. 

“Him?” you questioned. Zack sighed. “There was this man I met when I was younger, a blind man. He let me stay at his place for a couple days. Even after I told him I killed a guy, he still had that dumb smile on his face. He always had that smile on his face around me. It was annoying, him being so calm around someone like me. Pissed me off, but I didn’t kill him. He fed me and everything. I mean he already died cause of something else, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Are ya done with my bandages yet? It feels like it’s been hours!” 

You rolled your eyes at his commentary. “Well, whoever that man is, he had quite the patience with you.” 

“Hey! I was giving you a compliment! Geez, way to be rude!” Zack crossed his arms, turning away from you. You only chuckled once more. You finally finished wrapping enough bandages as you could, making sure it was snug enough. 

“Happy now, angry boy? I’m done. They’ll still get bloody, but at least the bandages are fresh and not worn out,” you said, giving him another smile just to annoy him. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I never caught your name. Since I told ya mine, it’s only fair you tell me yours.” 

“It’s (Y/N),” you said. 

“Well (Y/N),” Zack rubbed the back of his head. “You’re not so bad.....maybe I’ll keep ya alive.” 

[vibraniumwing]

imagine.

a sirius black x reader wherein the sirius discovers the reader’s hidden fear, desire and talent.

WARNING: a bit angsty at first but fluffy at the end. 

A/N: AAAA okay so mia gave me this sudden spark of an idea so i just went with what my brain could come up with. surprise surprise, i chose sirius black for this one which mean that this is the first one i’ve written for the marauders !! pls be kind because i’m a bit new to writing for them. aaa i hope you guys would like it :< this was also meant to be a very angsty blurb but this is where we are now :D

prompt/inspired by: ariana grande’s imagine, “We go like up ‘til I’m ‘sleep on your chest/love how my face fits so good in your neck.”

---

When love was the topic, you would tend to shy away, rather be talking about exams and whatnot instead of the said emotion. It wasn’t because you hated it; you were certain that you longed to be held the same way James does with Lily, but the little monster of fear withheld you from doing so.

Your eyes wandered to the Gryffindor table where you can see the infamous group — as they would call themselves — the Marauders.

Despite all of them being devilishly handsome, your eyes were only focused on one person, Sirius Black. You’ve only spoken to him once, having him partnered up with you during charms as they were forced apart by Mcgonagall due to their rowdiness. Despite him being quite arrogant, he was definitely clever—much to your surprise— and was quite fun to be around.

“Say Y/N, are you going down to Hogsmeade today?” A friend of yours asked, gulping down her pumpkin juice as she looked at you expectantly. You turned your head around and gave her a small headshake, wanting to sit by the Black Lake and read a few books despite the rather cold weather. 

Your friend shrugged and stood up, asking what you’d want back from the small village before heading off with your small friend group. As they walked away, your eyes glanced back at the table only to see the man you’ve been staring at looking your way, sending a not-so-cheeky wink towards you causing you to blush and turn away.

The rest of the day flew by as normal, with you hastily making your way to the tree you’ve made as your little nook during your quiet times like this. It had the perfect view of the castle and wasn’t too far off from the trek yet enough to keep you hidden from the prying eyes of students that wandered around the campus.

Your eyes stared at the sunlight that glistened against the Black Lake, finding it completely calming you down as you decided to sing a little song to entertain yourself. It was a muggle song you’ve heard from a shop you’ve frequented back in the summer before returning to Hogwarts for the year.

It totally captured how you felt with love; the love you’ve always long for. The unattainable kind.

---

You were a half-blood, having your dad as a wizard and your mom a muggle-born. Your home was always filled with laughter, love and just absolute happiness until one day it wasn’t. Your mother had left for a muggle man, longing for a life without having magic in it.

Within that day, you just didn’t lose a mother, you lost your father and the sense of what love really is. He became closed off and distant, leaving you to tend for yourself as days pass by.

---

The one day you wanted to love again was also the last.

It was your fourth year when you had met him, Christopher Medlar, a Ravenclaw just like you. He taught you how to love and be open, understanding you and your hesitant sentiments completely, making you feel the love and affection you’ve longed for since the day you lost your family.

You had found yourself a new found home within him, a safe space that you’ve never really been exposed to growing up. It all felt foreign and new, yet it was extremely comforting.

Everything was going well between you two until you caught him snogging with a Slytherin and made little to no effort to even talk to you. Making your heart shatter, leaving you to your own pain and despair.

And that day was the day you promised to never love anyone again.

---

Unbeknownst to you however, was the fact that the guy you were looking at earlier at the Great Hall was closely listening to your angelic voice ring out through the quietness of the woods.

Sirius was out and about with the Marauders when he had heard a rather soft voice sing, entrancing him almost immediately. James and Remus were about to speak up when he hushed them right away, fearing the fact that they might scare the person away.

“You guys go on without me, I’ll be able to find you anyways.” He whispered, waving a rather brownish parchment along his friend's way. They both shot him a skeptical look before leaving him alone, now placing bets as to what’ll be the outcome of their friends’ change of plans.

“We go like up ‘til I’m ‘sleep on your chest, love how my face fits so good in your neck. 

Why can’t you imagine a world like that?”

Your singing was interrupted by someone clapping, whipping your head to the direction of the sound, you felt your cheeks immediately flush and heat up at the sight of the male you were looking at.

How mortified were you at the moment? Nobody could ever measure that.

“Nice voice you’ve got there, L/N. Say,what song is that?” Sirius asked so casually, leaning against the tree.  You were at a loss for words, not really sure on how you would react to his compliment since no one really knew you could sing. 

“Just a muggle song I heard a few months back, Black. How long have you been there?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him as he just shrugged, shoving his hands in his pocket as his signature lazy grin rested on his lips. ‘Merlin, he’s extremely good looking.’ You thought to yourself.

“That’s amazing. Mind telling me what’s it about then, darling?” He probed, now offering you a rather interested look as he settled down beside you.

Your heart jumped out of your chest at his sudden question, unsure on how to answer. You glanced at him, his eyes were locked on you, the same expression painted on his face as he nodded, somewhat signalling that he was waiting for your answer.

Taking a deep breath in, you faced him and said, “It’s about unattainable love. Somewhat like imagining that in this world, you are loved and is being loved in a picture perfect way; a place where no one can really hurt you, Sirius.” A sad smile rested on your lips as your mind wandered back to the horrid memories, the little monster inside taunting you more than ever.

His expression turned into a mixture of sadness, confusion and pity. He quickly caught on, knowing about how you got played by a boy in your house. Sirius had always watched you from afar, not really sure on how to approach you since you were somehow the opposite of him. 

He also feared that he might hurt you, the one thing he kept as a secret and treasured the most.

“Well, you don’t have to imagine that now, darling,” He spoke up, features now showing one of seriousness despite the erratic pace of his heartbeat. You looked at him with wide eyes, unsure of how to react to his words. “I don’t get what you’re saying, Black.”

A sighed, running a hand through his hair, “What I’m saying is why imagine that when I’m here.” He finished. It was rather flattering that he said that but you are unsure; the fear within you warning about how this would just lead you to repeat the same mistakes in the past. Besides, with his reputation, he had enough girls at Hogwarts swooning at the snap of his fingers.

“I appreciate the thought but I’m passing, Black.” You answered, showing him another sad smile as you stared off into the Black Lake. “I think I’m just not ready to love again nor I think I will ever love again. The one I wish for is unattainable, you know. Something far out of reach.” You finished, glancing at the male who had an unreadable expression on his face.

Silence fell upon the two of you until Sirius decided to break it, “But that’s why I’m here. I’ve seen you from afar, Y/N. Don’t think I can’t remember a time where you haven’t looked at me from the Ravenclaw table.” He humored, causing you to look at him with a horrified expression, surprised that he had caught on to your antics.

“Don’t apologize though, no one ever noticed except for me, of course. “I understand that you aren’t ready, but I’m willing to wait for you.” He continued, looking into your eyes as he spoke, “I’m willing to prove to you that you shouldn’t fear love, even if it means for me to wait on forever.” He finished, sighing softly as he grinned.

The monster inside of you thrashed around, wanting for you to not give a chance to Sirius, knowing that there’s a possibility for you to end up like the past but the side that has been longing for something like this is growing stronger as well, making you wish that you shouldn’t fear love in the first place.

A shaky breath escaped you, eyes shutting briefly to collect yourself as you looked at the male, who was waiting patiently. “Just promise me one thing, Sirius.” You told him, looking at him straight into the eyes as you spoke, “The fear inside of me is begging not to give in, but something about you is making me say yes. Promise me that you’ll never break my heart.”

His grin soon turned into a wide smile, nodding at the promise you wanted. “Until my very last breath, love.” as he opened his arms for you, which you looked at with a confused face, unsure on how to react.

“I’m giving you a hug, silly. Now c’mere!” He told you, pulling you into him. He smelled like sweets, a subtle hint of smoke reaching your nose as you easily melted against his touch. It was all foreign to you again yet this time, something was assuring you this would last.

With a few readjustments, you were now in between his legs, back against his chest as his arms were wrapped around you tightly, making you feel extra safe. Your head turned around and you snuggled up against the crook of his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the ambience of your surroundings eased you. He spoke up once more, the vibration from his voice causing you to cozy up against him.

“Soon, you won’t even have to imagine anything. I promise to give you everything you’ve ever wished for.”

---

TAGS: @andromedaa-tonks​ @whoreforfredweasley​

[copias-thrall]

The Band Onstage

Suey finally gets to go to a show 

(Start at the beginning)

*public sex; rough sex*

Tonight is Mary’s gig at Regency. You’d put it in your calendar, but Mary still had texted you this morning.

Mary [6:12am]: Rgcy 2nite 8

Mary [8:03am]: Guitr 6 pls

You wanted to make fun of him for forgetting the most important thing, but the only reason it’s here in the first place was so he could see you while getting in some extra play.

And it allowed you some extra play.

It’s definitely one of your horny days. No matter what you do, it seems like every position you sit in presses on your clit in a delicious way. You usually just take a nap on your lunch break, but today you’re really going to have to do something about the fact that your focus is throbbing between your legs.

At 11:59am, you slam your laptop shut and hurry into your room. It’s a veritable minefield as usual—Mary always complains about tripping over your outfit detritus (“Can you not tread all over my shit, please?!” “Christ, if you care about it so much, why is it on your floor!?”)—but it’s a controlled chaos. You rummage around for your vibrator, which could be anywhere (Mary has the tendency to just toss it when he’s done with you), but should be on your small table. Or next to your pillow. Perhaps under the bed.

After a hasty search, you finally find it when you shake out your duvet. You go to settle in—then think maybe some porn, too? Which means you have to go back out to your laptop. 

Ugh. Why is everything hard.

You shuffle back out to your living area and quickly get your viewing pleasure set up. The video starts, and you spread your legs, pressing the toy to your clit in morse code bursts. You’re just getting into it when—

bonk!

The neck of Mary’s guitar, which had been propped up on the other end of the couch, beans you in the temple.

“Ow, fuck!”

You set your vibe aside and, grumbling, begin to carefully maneuver his instrument out of the splash zone. You’re pretty worked up at this point—which will be your excuse to yourself later—so when your hand slides down the neck, you can’t help but think of the way Mary’s hands deftly manipulate it when he plays.

And, fuck—you love Mary’s hands.

Sliding your hand back up the neck, you pretend to be Mary pretending the guitar is you.

Doooown twang. Uuuuup, twang.

You hastily reach behind you and fumble around for your vibrator, pressing it in between your clenched thighs so you can grind against it as you stroke the guitar. Mary’s hands, hands on you, tongue in ear, on your neck, on your clit …

Fervently you rut against the buzzing toy, Mary’s guitar now clutched to you, as the stimulation finally sets you over the edge. You cry out—one hand shooting to grip at the couch cushion—as the continuous vibrations make you cum hard and then eke a demi-orgasm out of you before you can reach down to yank it away. You lie there for a minute—one hand still grasped around the guitar neck, the other pressed down on your cunt as you wait for the spasms to subside.

Taking in a deep breath, you stretch languorously … and notice how sticky you are now. Ugh—the crotch of your lounge pants is beyond hope, but you’re pretty sure you have a clean pair in one of the piles in your room. 

You extract yourself from the couch and begin to shimmy off your pants; you realize you’re still pretty slick—fuck, are you going to have to shower or will a baby wipe do?!—when your eye lands on Mary’s guitar, now prone on the couch. Your lips spread in an involuntary grin. Clambering back onto the couch, you straddle the guitar. Tentatively, you lower your pussy onto the strings and start to slide up the neck. 

Ok, you’re definitely going to need a shower.

It ends up feeling pretty weird, so you straighten back up, swipe your hand through your wet folds, and begin to smear that and what’s already on the strings the rest of the way up. You make sure to spread it out evenly all the way up, and—when you’ve exhausted what’s between your legs—you rub the crotch of your pants up and down the back. Only once you’re satisfied, do you climb off and gingerly take the instrument to secure in its case.

You decide to stretch out your lunch break—no sense showering now and then later. Turning on your email sound notifications, you hop into the shower, where you wash your hair with the good shampoo & conditioner and lose the fight against the patriarchy by shaving things.

A little bit of product in your hair, and you wrap yourself in an old, but comfortable robe. No use putting on clothes when you’re just going to take them off in a few hours!

You finish out the rest of your (long, boring) workday with minimal tantrums, though in your mind you’re already fucking Mary post show. Despite having already showered, you’re still running woefully behind to hand off Mary’s guitar to him at 6pm. You wrap your rain trench around you—you’d originally intended to wear your vintage one with the faux-fur collar, but you don’t want Mary seeing your outfit just yet—and head off to the club at a speed prance.

The door to the club isn’t locked, but when you wander in, it’s just a handful of staff—the bouncer leaning on the bar, the bartender counting his till, and some servers wiping down tables. The bouncer straightens.

“Doors at 7:30, honey.”

“Oh, um,” you stutter, “the band?”

“You can meet the band after, just like everybody else. For now ….” He starts to move in your direction, but then Mary appears—stiff and stomping towards you.

“What was it I said to you, Jimmy?” he snaps.  “I said ‘A girl with a guitar.’ Does she look like a groupie to you?”

Jimmy rolls his eyes and puts his hands up before sitting back down. Mary practically rips the case from your grasp.

“You’re late,” he hisses at you. “It’s nearly 6:30!”

“Well ‘hello’ to you too, asshole. I was working til half past 5.”

Mary puts down the case, opening to check the contents—as if you’d bring him an empty case. Satisfied, he snaps it back shut.

“I said 6 for a reason! Soundcheck is in 5, and now I’m gonna have to do tuneups on the fly. Maybe next time skip on the primping, ok?”

You flick his ear.

“Fuck, ow.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Don’t be fucking late then!”

You snap your fingers in front of his face.

“I’m sorry—am I the one who forgot his guitar? Am I the one who begged me to be here with cunnilingus?”

“Well, if you don’t wanna be here, then leave. No one’s fucking forcing you.”

You glare at him, then count to ten.

You go to squish his face between your hands, realize he’s in full corpse paint, and instead rest them on his shoulders

“LOOK at me.” He does, pouting and eyebrows furrowed—your grumpy skeleton. “I do want to be here … but if you disrespect me like that again, I’m fucking walking. I don’t deserve to be talked to like that. Am I understood, Gorrey boy?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

You quirk your eyebrow at him.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he says more sharply.

“Good,” you say, giving him a quick, light peck on the lips. “You’ll do great,” you say in quieter tones. 

“Thanks,” he says, leaning into you a bit. You push him away, playfully.

“Go! You have to go do soundcheck!”

He trundles off—muttering what sounds a lot like Pain in my ass—and when you look up you can see the hard eyes of the band on you from the platform stage. You form your hand into the bird and wave at them before sauntering out of the bar. With an hour to kill, you head to a cafe where you can nurse a tea and plug in your phone.

When 7:30 rolls around, you make your way back to the club. There’s a line, but when Jimmy sees you, he grins and waves you forward.

“You must have magic nipples or some shit to put ole’ Mary Goore in his place,” he says as he lets you in the club.

You wink at him. “They’re beer-flavored.” You hear him guffaw as you make your way in.

Now that the space is filled with people, it seems like a much bigger venue. It’s not at capacity yet, but there are enough patrons milling about for it to be lively. You luck out with a stool at the bar where you can easily see the stage. You shimmy out of your trench and grope around under the bar until you find a hook to hang it on.

You order a wheat beer from the bartender, who winks and tells you that the first one’s on the house. You beam in thanks, making a note to tip him extra when you settle up. As you sip your beer and do some people watching, you become aware of the two women sitting next to you. They’d been talking about “the band” (Mary’s is just the first opener) since you sat down, but you only tune in when it becomes clear they’re discussing Mary’s band.

“… totally slaps, of course, but they’re all so hot,” says the redhead with blond streaks framing her face.

“Ugh, right? But the lead guitarist especially can step on me,” says the bottled black-haired one with red lowlights.

Oh, you think, that’s Mary. It’s not like you don’t know Mary has fangirls. You’re not even particularly bothered by it—but reading comments on the internet is viscerally different than encountering it in the wild. It’s just: surreal.

You scoot your stool a little closer to the women.

“Hello? Hi. Yes, I’m sorry—but I couldn’t help but overhear you guys. That’s who I’m here to see too.”

You mean the band, but Black Hair says, “Oh! So you’re a Dead Girl, too?”

You squint. “I’m a …?”

Red Hair chortles. “Did you just get into them, then?”

“I—”

“I mean … they’re all hot, 10/10,” sighs Black Hair, “but ‘Dead Girls’ are Mary’s—that’s the lead guitarist—girls.”

Before you can say anything, Red Hair leans in conspiratorially.

“But don’t get your hopes up—I heard he’s got a girlfriend.”

Black hair tilts her head back and rolls it back and forth “Why. So unfair.”

You hide a smile behind your hand, wondering if you should say anything. Maybe you can get Mary to sign their … whatevers. 

Red Hair pats her arm and leans in to stage whisper, “Don’t worry—I heard she’s fat and ugly. I’m sure you have a chance.”

“Ugh, why do they always go for the fat chicks? Is their self-esteem that low?”

“He probably feels obligated to her or something. Doesn’t know he’s got options now.”

Their casually cruel description of you leaves you stunned and feeling cold for a minute. And ok—your arms aren’t the firmest and maybe spanx are a lost cause

—which is as far as you get before you remember that you’re actually awesome and that this particular self-loathing train lost the caboose full of fucks a long time ago. 

You scoot even closer to the women.

“Do you want to know something?”

The two of them look at you expectantly, heads tilted.

“It’s just—I know who his girlfriend is, and she’s such a bitch.”

You have their attention now, and they bring their stools in, too.

“Really?”

“Do tell!”

“OMG,” you say. “You are way skinnier, um … ?”

“Molly,” says Black Hair Molly.

“Katrina,” says Red Hair Katrina.

“Suey,” you say, introducing yourself with Mary’s pet name for you.

“So, what’s the tea?” asks Molly.

“Well … she thinks she’s amazing, and she bosses him around like whoa. I don’t think his bandmates like her very much.”

“Ooo,” squeals Katrina, “the salt!”

“Oh shit!” exclaims Molly. “Is she here?”

You exaggeratedly scan the room. “Hmm. I don’t see her in the crowd.

“So you think I have a chance?”

You scan her up and down, as if appraising. 

“You can give it a shot.”

Katrina and Molly look at each other and start giggling.

Suddenly the lights dim, and everyone screams as Mary’s band takes the stage. The lead singer introduces them, yelling, and they dive into their first song. You don’t get to say much to the women after that—Mary’s band is loud, and some of the die-hard fans are screeching along in unison. 

You’re not sure, but you think you can see Mary searching for you. You suddenly curse your spot at the bar. About 15 minutes in, however—as the lead singer is introducing the band members—Mary finally looks over your way. You give a small wave and he locks eyes with you; you give him the middle finger and suck it into your mouth seductively.

He doesn’t get a chance to respond before it’s his introduction, and he’s playing a complicated riff.

“OMG. Was he looking at us?”

“He was totally looking at us!”

You roll your eyes and turn around to order another beer. 

Their set lasts about 45 minutes before they’re thanking the crowd and packing up their gear. The bigger bands will have roadies, but Mary and his bandmates have only themselves and the techs from the venue to rely on, so you know you’re in for a bit of a wait. Katrina and Molly are clapping and screaming their heads off, which—you can’t fault them for. People should appreciate Mary’s band.

“Do you think they’ll come out and mingle?” asks Molly.

“They’ll have to if they have a merch table,” says Katrina.

“Should we go wait there, or … ?”

“Just chill for a bit. You don’t want to seem so thirsty! Hit them up after the initial rush when they’re bored.”

Way sooner than he should be, you see Mary stalking over to you. You can hear the excited utterances of the women next to you as he comes close, but they fade into the background as Mary crowds into your space, leaving no room for the Holy Ghost. You gasp as he winds his hand into your hair.

“Fuck. Look at you,” he murmurs into your lips. “Look at this tight little number you’re wearing—I might have to ruin it later.” You’re wearing an electric blue halter dress with a neck collar. Your tits need a little help staying up these days, so instead of being backless, the lace of your razor bra is showing.

He steps back. “And what the fuck are these?” he says as he runs a hand up your stockings and under your dress. You’re wearing dark blue, wide-net tights that have felt flowers sewn on. They were a present from a college friend one Christmas, so they have a few holes due to the passage of time and chub rub—but you just tell people that makes them punk rock. 

When his hand brushes between your legs, he feels your naked cunt. The pièce de résistance of your ensemble is a pair of crotchless panties you have on that were a gag party favor from an anti-Valentine’s soirée a friend-of-friend had thrown.

“Oh shit.” He crowds in close again and spins you 180º so that he’s between you and the bar. His finger traces your slit. “You make me so hot, do you know that?”

He takes your hand and presses it to the growing bulge of his crotch.

“Do you feel that? Do you feel how hot you make me?” He leans down to bite your neck as his finger slips between the lips of your cunt. Your head lolls to the side and you catch eyes with Katrina and Molly, who are quiet and looking pale.

Oh. Right.

You smile at them. “Such. A. Bitch,” you say at them.

Mary brings his head up, one hand still fingering you. “What?”

You smirk at him. “I was telling Kat and Molly over there that your ‘fat and ugly’ girlfriend is a fucking bitch.”

He looks over, seeming to notice them for the first time. He doesn’t even falter.

“She fucking is,” he says as he pulls his hand from your cunt and outstretches it toward them as if to shake their hands. “Hi.”

They don’t answer. They don’t return the gesture.

“No? Ok.”

He turns back to you and puts his other hand on your neck.

“You put your fucking pussy all over my guitar.” He squeezes a little. “I’m supposed to be doing fucking soundcheck and tuning my strings and shit, and the only thing I can think about is how much my instrument smells like sex with you.” 

He leans in to whisper in your ear. “I’m going to fuck you so hard, little girl.” 

To them he says, “Excuse me. I have to go fuck the shit out of my girlfriend now.”

As he’s pulling you down the back hall, you look over your shoulder to wink at Katrina and Molly. Mary follows your gaze.

“Thanks for coming out!” he yells back. “Buy a t-shirt!”

His grip around your wrist is insistent—sure to leave a bruise—as he leads you into the greenroom.

A chorus of “Mary, where were you?” and “Mary, what the fuck” ring out as he maneuvers you through the room. You grimace at them as Mary all but pushes you into the adjacent bathroom. He locks the door behind you and ignores the banging and shouts behind it.

“Come here,” he demands.

You move, but not fast enough to satisfy him, so he grabs your arm to pull you to him. He licks his lips before diving down to assault your mouth. You open readily for him as his tongue shoves its way in. He tastes like his bitter makeup.

“I’ve been on edge for goddamned hours because of you,” he says when he comes up for air. “Our big gig,” he continues as he molds your pliant body stomach down and sideways over the sink, “and I have to spend our entire fucking set smelling your juice on my guitar.”

You giggle and look over your shoulder at him. “You’re welcome.”

He rucks up your dress and gives your ass a swat. You gasp, and he swats you twice more.

“You fucking bitch,” he says, but there’s no heat to it.

He drapes himself over you and mouths at your ear.

“Tell me I can fucking have you,” he snarls as he ruts against you. “Tell me I get to fuck you now.”

You turn your head again, straining to have your lips touch his.

“Fuck me, Goore,” you rasp.

Magic words spoken, he’s spreading your legs wider and ripping another hole in your stockings. You hear him as he fumbles to undo his belt buckle and drag down his zipper—and then he’s pushing into you without preamble. You gasp at the sudden intrusion as he breathes an Oh fuck into your skin. He wraps one arm around your middle and the other he braces against the wall as he begins to pound into you.

You scrabble at the wall for leverage as you squirm to find the right angle. Mary doesn’t let up at all.

“You feel so good. So tight, so wet. Fuck, is this what you wanted? Me half-crazed out of my mind?”

Well yeah, you think, something like. What comes out of your mouth is a long moan, and you squeeze your muscles hard around him.

“Shit, fuck!” he cries out as he almost stutters to stop. You push back into him, your clit throbbing and desperate for pressure. 

“You asked for it,” he growls, He grabs the meat of your hips—fingers digging into your love handles—and begins to slam himself into you faster and faster. The new angle is hitting your G-spot deliciously and you cry out,

“Oh fuck, yes Mary—RIGHT THERE DON’T STOP.”

He’s making little grunting noises as he slams into you, and you know you’re going to be pretty sore later—but right now you’re trying desperately to get a hand between your legs so you relieve the heavy pressure pooling between your legs.

He’s wheezing when he says, “I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking cum. Ughn, take it, bitch.” And then he thrusts into so hard he hits your cervix and you cry out. He’s growling Uhn uhn uhn as he empties into you, thrusts slowing. When he’s done, he drapes over you, kissing behind your ear. The shift  stings a little, and you flinch slightly.

“Shit. Did I hurt you?” he asks, as he straightens up and eases his soft cock out of you, petting down your back.

You turn your head so he can hear you. “Maybe a little?” you say. “But I’ll forgive you if you finish me off.”

He complies quickly, sprawling under you so he can lap at you with his tongue while a finger gently enters you and presses at your G-spot. You let out a loud, shaky moan at the sudden dual sensation—you’re still pretty worked up and you see bursts behind your eyes. He works you up to a full precipice—while you clutch against the sink and pant into your arms—until your climax sparks and breaks. You clench around his finger, and your pussy pops against his relentlessly flicking tongue. 

He slows down when your body slumps and you start twitching at the feeling of his tongue on your now oversensitive nub; then he wraps himself around one of your legs—stroking your inner thighs—as he waits for you to come down from your orgasmic high. When you do, he stands up and peels you off the sink. After that, the two of you hurriedly clean each other up—there’s a green room full of annoyed people bitching at you through the door, after all. 

“Hey,” he says as you allow him to kiss the back of your neck. “I’m in so much shit. I really need to pull my weight with the equipment … but I’ll see you back out there in a bit?

You turn to kiss him; his paint is smeared all to hell, which means it’s probably all over you. Smoothing down your dress, you spin around with arms wide.

“Do I look like I lost a fight with the makeup section of Hot Topic?”

He snorts. “You do, actually,” he says while crowding into you. “But don’t ask me to clean it off. I want everyone to know who fucked you.”

You push him away. “You’re fucking gross, Goore.”

He gives you a vulpine smile. “You adore it.” 

(You do.)

You steel yourself to the walk of shame through the greenroom—more than just Mary’s bandmates are in there—putting on a devil-may-care attitude like a cloak. Head held high, you leave the bathroom, smirking at the men particularly like the cat who got creamed. There’s some eye rolling, a few wolf-whistles, and an ironic slow cap. A woman in another group raises her hand up, and you high-five it, before spinning around to curtsey as you leave the room.

When you get back to the bar, the two women are gone and there’s someone in your spot. You make your apologies as you retrieve your stuff, and you order another beer for yourself and a whiskey shot + chaser for Mary, before settling your tab. The next band has been playing for a bit and your beer is half empty by the time Mary and his bandmates materialize again. They’re smiling and talking to the fans who begin to mob them. Mary shakes a few hands and signs a few CDs before making a beeline to you.

“You’re a mess,” he says as you hand him his drinks. He shoots the whiskey immediately, slamming the shot glass down onto the bar.

“Well, someone, got impatient,” you retort.

He leans in close. “Can you blame me? Fuck. What did you do to my guitar. I should be pissed.”

“I did exactly what you think I did. Got hot thinking of you, decided to show my appreciation.”

“Fuck,” he rumbles in your ear. His free hand starts to slip up your thigh again. “Do you wanna—”

He’s interrupted when one of his bandmates comes over.

“Christ, Mary. Leave the poor girl alone for a second. We gotta man the merch table. Amps don’t pay for themselves.”

Mary sighs, his hand slipping from under your dress to around your waist.

“C’mon,” he says as he leads you to their table with his very put upon-looking bandmates. He arranges you on his lap, much to their consternation.

“The girls are our biggest fans, Mary! We need to keep up the fantasy that we’re available!”

“She should be with the other girlfriends!”

“I don’t give a shit,” Mary spits. “This isn’t a fucking K-pop group. They can deal with us having actual lives. If they only like our image, then what’s the point?”

You’d wanted to beg off at first—feeling a little like ornamentation for all to see—but you’re pretty pliant from the beer and the orgasm, so you let Mary keep you where you are. You have a few more shots and lite beer chaser as the night wears on, and you get into joking around with their fans and even one or two of his other band members—your ribald humor fits right in. You’re well into a lengthy discussion with the woman from the greenroom about pockets when Mary taps your arm for your attention.

“We’re gonna pack it in for tonight, Suey.”

“Ok. Do you wanna head back to mine, or … ?

 Mary sighs. 

“We’re apparently having a ‘band meeting,’ so I might not be able to tonight … but tomorrow?”

You feel a stab of disappointment before pushing it down. “No, I get it. Duty calls.” You lean down to whisper in his ear. “I’m going to go home and touch myself while thinking about you. I want you to think about that later when you’re alone.”

His hand squeezes your thigh hard.

“Can you do that for me? Can you be a good boy?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says softly.

The next morning when you wake, you check your phone to find that you have a text from Mary: it’s a blurry picture of his half-hard cock drooling cum. You text him back full of praise.

When you get yourself set up for the day on your laptop, your first order of business is to make a folder entitled “SueysSpankBankFodder” next to Mary’s.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “On the Two” (Chapter 5/9) (au)

Summary: He’s one bad trip from ending up in AA, and she’s one performance away from a solid job and moving closer to home. Their paths were unlikely to cross until Camp Hope brought them together. How and why they meet and intertwine is against the odds, and definitely against the rules, but will that really stand in their way? A Dirty Dancing inspired modern au.

Rating: E

Content Warnings: Borderline alcoholism, very brief mentions of past relationships, mentions of the loss of a limb - this fic is primarily tame but I’ll do my best to tag anything that might need tags.

Chapter Specific Warnings: None! Sadly, back to business this chapter. Well... there’s the loss of something very specific. But I cannot spoil the surprise. Be warned, and don’t hate me!!

A/N: I’m supposed to be grading. And honestly, I’m not even sorry for editing and posting instead. This is another chapter I am extremely excited to share, since it’s getting closer to the actual dance. Also, it has one of my absolute favorite scenes that y’all are gonna throw shit at me because of. Onward!

Catch it on FFN & Ao3! Or find the previous chapters here on Tumblr!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | 

Emma doesn’t waste time when she gets back to her cabin, stripping and going directly to her shower, turning the knobs to cold, and stepping underneath as soon as she can. It’s a mistake, even though it feels like heaven, because the sound she makes when her breath hitches, the way the air backs up right into her lungs again, makes her think of the way Killian had looked at her while she was cleaning the mirror. His eyes had darkened in a way she can only think was arousal, and he had sighed something like want and regret at the same time and she imagines she pictured the same possibilities he did at that exact moment.

After only a brief second, she adjusts the temperature until it’s tepid. She diligently showers off the sweat and exertion, only staying in long enough to wash herself so her mind doesn’t stray to things less innocent and definitely not clean.

Slicking back her hair, she wrings out the extra water before wrapping it in a towel, drying herself with another one before slipping on her robe. Thankfully, her cabin’s AC is just fine and she’s surprised she hasn’t done something dumb like suggesting they practice in her cabin, in her bed… horizontally.

With another noise of irritation at herself, she storms out of the bathroom, and is immediately proud of herself for not screaming when Ruby greets her from the same bed she was just imagining defiling.

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to see my dance buddy. I was finally cleared for moving as long as I don’t overdo it,” Ruby responds brightly, pointing at the air cast around her ankle. “Now, what the hell are you up to?” It’s not just an inquiry; there’s accusation in the words, like she knows what Emma was thinking before she walked back into the room.

“What do you mean?” Emma’s voice is all nonchalant innocence, and she ducks into her closet to change into shorts and a tank top since her idea of lounging around in her robe is now out of the question. “I’m teaching – twice as many lessons and classes, I’d like to add – and trying to get ready for this performance.” She pokes her head out to give her friend a pointed look at this.

Ruby hums in response, shifting to lean back on Emma’s bed. “And how’s that going? You came to see me once right after I hurt my ankle to ask which dance was better and you’ve been shut up in the studio ever since.”

“I’m not a shut in,” she says, disappearing back into her closet.

“You haven’t gone to staff dances for the last two weekends.”

“So? I haven’t been in the mood.”

“Which is totally like you, and I would buy it, if it weren’t for Mulan saying the studio was lit up like the Fourth of July last Friday night with music. What are you hiding, Emma Swan?”

She takes her time coming back out, waffling between telling the truth and trying to lie through her teeth. This way, Ruby doesn’t see the war going across Emma’s face while she wrings her hands. Taking one last deep breath, she walks out and tries her best to not fidget as she starts to explain.

“Okay, so I did find a partner for the Mills Regency trial run thing.”

“Really? But that’s great news! Why wouldn’t that be…” She trails off, her head cocking to one side as she considers Emma again. “Who is it?”

“It’s a man named Killian.”

“And where did you meet Killian? Because I know for sure he’s not in any of our shared social circles.” When Emma still refuses to spit out the fact that he’s a guest at the camp, Ruby finally must surmise it on her own. “Emma Middle Name Swan!” Emma snorts, because she doesn’t have a middle name so this is how Ruby has always taken to yelling at her, but then she remembers that Ruby is yelling at her and she cringes as her friend continues. “Tell me he’s not a guest. Please, I am begging you, tell me this partner is not paying to be here.”

Emma groans by way of answer, dropping onto the bed dramatically, face down, continuing to groan as she does. “That’s not the worst of it,” she says, though it’s muffled by the mattress and blankets beneath her. She’s already gone this far; she might as well tell Ruby everything at this point. With a deep breath in as soon as she lifts her head, she continues. “I kissed him.”

Ruby’s screeching answer is totally deserved, and Emma listens to approximately thirty seconds of her friend berating her before she shifts again to sit up on the bed. “Okay, okay. I deserve all of that. But Red, wait ‘til you see him. You’ll understand everything after that, I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh, now I’m gonna see him? After you’ve made bad decisions?”

“You have to. I’ve just decided that you need to sit in on our practices and help me coach him. It’s not like you’re doing anything else.”

“I’ve taken up pottery, thank you very much. But I’ll agree that you need a chaperone to be alone with this man if you’re going to jeopardize everything with dumb actions like kissing him.” Ruby emphasizes the last two words by smacking Emma’s arm with each syllable. “So you’re going with Mambo?”

“We’re going with Mambo,” Emma responds. With a noise, she pulls out her phone and opens her pictures. Internet and cell connections out at camp are spotty at best, but she made sure to save a bunch of pictures of her ideas for what Killian should wear for the performance. “You need to help me get some costumes for him.”

Ruby makes grabby hands at Emma’s phone, flicking through the choices with glee. “Do you have shoes for him yet?”

“I had Graham overnight a pair after we first started. He’s been breaking them in for about two days now.”

“When is the next time you’re practicing?”

“Tonight. He’s coming back after dinner and we’re gonna run through what he’s learned. You up for a visit later?”

The smile Ruby gives is one Emma knows well, full of power and teeth, and that special Ruby glint in her eyes. “I can’t wait.”

If Killian is bothered by Ruby being in the studio with them, he doesn’t show it. In fact, Emma might even say he looks a little calmer. Maybe the fact that they’re not alone is a good thing for his mind, too. Whatever the case, the two of them start working on getting Killian into better shape. With her friend’s directions, Killian is improving faster, which is also beneficial since they don’t have to run the same steps over and over again.

Ruby’s not always able to come to the practices, but she tries to be there as much as possible. When she starts some light physical therapy on her ankle to strengthen it, she mostly schedules her appointments for right before or after Emma’s lessons with Killian so she can stop on her way to and from the small medical building.

Killian adjusts quickly to the two of them instructing him. Ruby calls out tips and reminders as they move through the different sections of the routine, which builds his muscle memory stronger than it was developing before.

She stops them at one point, readjusting in her chair next to the stereo to fix them both with her gaze. “Okay, it’s good. But it needs to be better. Regina will expect this to set the room on fire. I want the audience to look at either one of you and be jealous of the other. So, while I know Emma is fine with turning up the heat, let’s focus on you, Killian.”

His eyebrows climb up his forehead at Ruby’s words and Emma has to stop herself from chuckling. She remembers this method, and Ruby is probably enjoying herself way too much. But she also wants to see how Killian handles this.

“What do you mean, lass?”

“To really sell a dance, I need to want to be up there dancing with you. So make me want you. Make me jealous that it’s Emma there in your arms instead of me. Sell it.” She emphasizes the last two words, turning them from a simple direction to a challenge, and Killian is the kind of guy that enjoys a challenge, if Emma were to guess.

His whole visage is blank, but he seems to be considering the words and how to go about following directions. When the music starts again, Killian’s hold feels different. It feels… incredible, and somewhere between tender and possessive. It’s somewhere in the second section of steps that Emma sees that uptick of his lips, the flirty little smile that sends a pang into her stomach and beyond that makes her want to stop the dance altogether and kiss him until she’s breathless.

She’s unable to stop the soft noise escaping her lips when they finish, their foreheads pressed tightly together and his lips so close it would take barely a movement to touch. Killian’s eyes widen a bit, his own breath sucking into his lungs as his hand tightens on her waist.

They’re both pulled from the moment by Ruby clapping her hands and a sound of glee calling to them. “Excellent! Yes! That is the kind of spirit you want to take with you.”

When her eyes meet Ruby’s again, there’s a knowing glint in them – the look says everything she’s feeling isn’t as hidden as she hoped it would be. She’s going to kill her roommate, of that she is certain. With an indulgent sigh, she walks over to Ruby and snatches the remote out of her hand. Instead of the comment Emma is expecting, though, Ruby tugs her close.

“You were right about all this. He’s damn good.”

Emma smiles then, a quiet “I know” her only response before she reaches for her towel and blots along her neck. “One more time,” she says to the room at large, catching the barest hint of a smug expression on Killian’s face that lets her know he heard the compliment. Good. Maybe he’s finally letting go of the insecurity they’ve been working to eradicate this whole time, then.

As far as the practices where they’re alone, the time is much better utilized and it’s all business. Because of that, she’s spending less time with him, even if the way he holds her is starting to feel more intimate than a lover’s tocuh, more so than the way they kissed each other, and so it’s definitely a case of one step forward, two steps back… pun not intended.

Whatever the case, Killian is the very image of professional when they’re together. He does his best to keep eye contact (which he’s passed with flying colors since their first trust exercise) and not look at his feet. It’s all vast improvement, but they’re still not quite to the level of quality that Emma wants to present at the Mills Regency.

The date of the performance is starting to loom in the near-distant future, and Emma realizes, quite startlingly, that she’s more nervous about this performance than she thought she would be.

A week before their performance date, she gets a text from Granny that a large parcel is waiting for her at the diner, and Emma immediately leaves to go pick it up. She knows the studio is empty the rest of the afternoon due to Tink moving her yoga class to the main lawn thanks to a break in the weather, so Emma takes time to hang all the costumes that Graham sent to her. Killian can run the whole number with minimal problems now, so she doesn’t mind taking an afternoon to play dress-up instead. It’ll certainly be an interesting change from their normal schedule.

-x-

When Killian shows up, Emma is all alone. This isn’t uncommon, as her friend Ruby isn’t always in attendance (and wasn’t that a surprise the first time she was there, sitting in a chair with her ankle propped up on the stereo casing with a slow, nearly-feral grin spreading across her lips as she beckoned him over to introduce herself), but then, Emma also seems to be nervously fussing with the partition screen that’s usually in the corner hiding all the yoga gear.

Today, it’s dragged to the opposite corner that doesn’t have any windows behind it, and Emma is just finishing hooking a hanger onto the top of it on the side facing the corner.

“So, Ruby has physical therapy and can’t be here, but since we’ve just about gotten the dance down, next comes making you look like a dancer in appearance. I’m very lucky to have a friend in the city willing to overnight male costumes to Granny’s, so we just need to find which one works best for you.” She turns as she finishes speaking, a smile on her face that looks half-predatory – much like a smile he’d expect on Ruby’s face instead of Emma’s.

“Excellent,” is all he can really respond, because Emma’s still giving him that look and he doesn’t know what else to say.

He doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary with the costumes, except that they look a little tighter than what he’d normally choose to wear. That is, however, until he slides on a pair of the trousers. He’s admiring the elastic waist and the satin band at the top of it when he turns to grab the shirt and stops in his tracks.

“Emma?”

“Yes?” She draws out the word, like she’s been waiting for his question since he walked behind the partition. He grabs the hanger with his prosthetic and moves around the screen.

“You seem to have forgotten to explain the order in which my clothing should go on.”

“Yeah, about that.” She reaches out and grabs the sides of the fabric, bringing the bottom portion of the costume into better view. “All of the shirts have these attached so your shirt doesn’t come untucked as you’re dancing. It’s really stretchy. You won’t even notice it!”

Skepticism is an understatement for how he feels. He still tries them on over his boxer-briefs, unsure of etiquette procedures when trying on things that will be intimately touching him if he’s not even going to be wearing some of them. And it’s just as well, since it takes until the third one for Emma to nod approvingly at the option. The first two, as she claimed, just didn’t match her vision.

While she likes the third one, she still urges him back to try on the last one so they’re sure. Before he’s even finished putting it on, he likes it better than the others. There’s a zipper down the front of it that ends at his sternum, and he has to be exceedingly careful while pulling it into place so as not to catch any of his chest hair in it.

He doesn’t feel exposed until Emma is walking around him in a circle, looking at the fit and humming in thought. The arms are made of solid material, but the fabric along his sides and down his back is blocked in a way that thin strips of his bare skin are visible from every angle through the nearly-mesh material. The big positive he can pull from this choice is the fact that the sleeves come down far enough on his wrists that it covers the hardware for his prosthetic. It definitely makes him feel slightly more confident than he was the day Emma kissed him.

“We have a problem,” Emma says suddenly, and Killian looks at her in alarm.

“Don’t tell me I have to lose the trousers or something because I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just that,” she starts, pausing to move forward and touch the very hair he was afraid of getting caught in the zipper. “We’ve got a bit of a hairy situation going on here.”

He looks down at his chest, and back to Emma, and back down to where her index finger is still resting on his breastbone. “You don’t mean…”

The grim line her lips make answers the question for him.

“I have to…shave it?”

“It might be easier to go to the spa and have them wax it.”

“Pardon?” If his face was the picture of alarm before, he’s not sure what level his expression and his voice pitch would indicate now.

“There’s a great salon in Storybrooke. We can pop out around lunch time in a couple days when no one will notice and have them do it. For now, we practice!” She pushes the screen against the wall again, leaving everything else as is and handing him his shoes. “It’ll help to know how you feel wearing this, so we’ll just do one quick run-through with the costume.”

Emma is wearing the same leggings she normally does, but there’s a sheer skirt swishing around over top of them, and the shoes she’s wearing are in much better condition than the ones she’s been wearing as they’ve been training. He wonders if her nicer shoes are because he’s getting better.

“New shoes?” he asks as he ties his own.

“Nah, performance shoes. I figured now that you’re not stepping on my toes that we can put these ones into rotation.”

“And the skirt?”

“So you can get used to the way my dress will move the day we perform. Ready?”

She doesn’t really wait for his answer, instead grabbing the remote and moving into position as soon as she’s done talking. He’s not the only one that came to the studio extra caffeinated today, it seems.

He wanders around the campgrounds while Emma teaches classes during the late morning a few days later, waving to Liam without even hiding his bemusement as his brother follows a group, all of them carrying kayaks by the ones and twos as they go. They disappear down the beach while Killian wonders if there are any activities that Liam hasn’t tried since they got here, but it certainly seems like the summer away is more beneficial than Killian initially gave it credit for. That goes for both of them.

Checking his watch, he starts to make his way up towards the dance studio so he can meet up with Emma. She’s just coming around the side of the building, her keys in one hand as she slips on a pair of sunglasses.

The yellow car he leads her to gives him pause, however.

“Couldn’t drive anything less obvious?”

“It’s so common to see me around town during the summer that it would be more suspicious if I was driving anything else.”

“And this thing will get us there?”

“Are you insulting my car?” she asked, a raise of her eyebrow and a smile on her lips.

“I wouldn’t dare. This is quite the vessel you captain, Swan.”

“That’s what I thought,” she responded, her tone matter-of-fact as she released the emergency brake and shifted the car into reverse.

And it is quite the car, filled with quirks he’d expect from an old model Volkswagen, but it’s more the way Emma drives it, like she was born to drive nothing else. With the route in her capable hands, Killian leans back and enjoys the scenery, content to watch it pass by like he did on his initial drive in.

After so long of being at the camp, Killian had sort of forgotten that there was a world outside the wooded grounds. Sure, he’d found a new second home in the studio and discovered that there was life outside his rum and cabin, and he’d had the ultimate experience of going with Emma to the staff’s lodge after hours, but things like streetlights, on streets, and storefronts are damn near alien to him at this point. It’s been almost two months since they drove through Storybrooke on their way in, and already his life feels totally different than when they ate lunch at Granny’s.

Since he lost his hand, this is the biggest shift he’s had in his life, and he’s loathe to find any problems with it. As an apprentice in building boats, he dedicated his whole being to crafting the perfect vessel for the customer.

Similarly, learning to dance is just learning a new form of art. He’s aware of every bead of sweat that gathers along his forehead. He’s in tune with every guiding gesture Emma gives him, and the way her breathing always seems to stay even while they’re dancing. He reflects on all of this, trying to acclimate this idea of “new” to his mind and body before they actually arrive.

Currently, he notices the way his heartbeat races just a little bit faster when Emma parks her car along the main stretch of the small town that felt so comfortable and homey to him. She beams at him, instructing him out of the car as she swings open her door.

“I grew up here after David’s mom adopted me,” Emma offers up as she looks up and down the street. “If anyone asks, you’re new staff at the camp.”

He doesn’t mention that he’s already been here, but it hardly seems relevant as she’s leading him down a walkway in the opposite direction of the diner. Her arm loops easily through his, and Killian feels his heart turn over painfully in his chest with the realization of what he’s feeling. It’s attraction. He’s attracted to her. And it’s beyond the idea of physical gratification. The kiss was eye-opening, but this easy affection and compatibility is the real thing.

The kiss can be explained away as a heat-of-the-moment event where the humidity overwhelmed them, the long hours tricked them into an impulsive moment of passion. But as they’ve spent time together and he’s become so harmonious with her movements, he’s also noticed the itch to hold her in his arms. There was no thought behind the kiss, but he’s done plenty of thinking about doing it again.

Even with all the agitation his early foibles caused during her lessons, she would regroup and find patience, and in no time at all he had her laughing at his jokes and smiling at his own special blend of self-deprecation. She’d shake her head and roll her eyes and get them back on track. He also understands that it’s not because she agrees with whatever he claims about himself, but because she can see past whatever he sees in the mirror when he looks at himself. Plus, there’s no pity, even though she now knows much more of his sad backstory than he meant to let on.

She’s never treated him with kid-gloves.

The jingling of a bell over the door Emma opens brings him back to the present, and he relaxes when he discovers they’re just in an ice cream parlor.

“Hi Ingrid,” Emma greets, a wide smile crinkling her eyes as she greets the woman behind the counter. “One rocky road and one rum raisin, please.”

As the older woman scoops the requested flavors, they catch up in a series of quick back-and-forth statements, clearly a ritual honed with time and experience, with Killian’s introduction thrown in there somewhere. Ingrid spends plenty of time shifting her focus between the two of them, but if she has anything to comment about the way Emma is standing close to him, she doesn’t say so.

With cones in hand, Emma motions him back outside and calls out a farewell on her way.

“Let’s call this a preemptive apology for what’s about to happen. But no dancer, no professional one – which is what we’re trying to pass you off as – would have this much chest hair.”

“So this is bribery ice cream,” he clarifies as they stand outside of an innocent looking spa.

“Sure.”

“How’d you know I’d like rum raisin?”

“I had a hunch and hoped for the best,” she admits, smiling between bites of her cone.

With a warm breeze ruffling her hair and her sunglasses perched on her nose, Killian takes a moment to pretend that this isn’t what it is, that it’s something closer to a first date, where they’d take a walk to the docks he can just see in the distance and their fingers would link together. The swooping of his stomach lets him know exactly how he’d feel about such an event, so he releases it from his thoughts to dance away on the summer air. It’s just as well, as he takes the last few bites of his cone and accepts the napkin she hands him. Once they determine there’s no ice cream on either of their faces, she pulls open the door and gestures for him to enter.

“Emma! It’s been too long!” the blonde behind the counter greets Emma much like Ingrid did – with familiarity and years of encounters such as these. The girl, only introduced as Goldie, shakes his hand when they walk up to the counter. “Hot date?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows at both of them in turn.

Emma laughs, accepting the form and pen that Goldie gives her and starts filling it out. “Yeah, because all good first dates include an appointment at a salon to have chest hair waxed off.”

“Sounds better than some dates I’ve been on,” he comments, raising his eyebrows and looking away again as he looks over the spa options. “Admit it Swan, it’s just further reason to have me shirtless in front of you.”

She squints hard at him, trying to suss out something from what he’s said. “You flirt harder when you’re nervous. You know that?”

He has no response to that, especially when Goldie comes back to the counter and directs them back to a room with a padded table. There’s a chair set up next to it, and a counter displaying a wide variety of products he has no knowledge of.

“Emma, why don’t we wait out in the hallway while Killian undresses?” Emma smirks and nods, heading back out the door while Goldie explains that he needs to get fully naked. “There’s a sheet over there. Just drape that over your waist and I’ll be back in a moment.”

Following directions, he folds his clothes and places them on the chair, hopping up onto the table and spreading the sheet over his waist and legs. He’s comfortable in the knowledge that at least there will be no wax below the belt. Lifting the sheet briefly, he purses his lips. No, no wax. But it could stand to see a set of trimmers. Just as he settles it back down, there’s a soft knock before Goldie edges the door open.

“All set in here?”

“Aye, as I’ll ever be.”

She starts to laugh, but when she enters and gets a look at him it abruptly cuts off. “You were not joking,” she says to Emma as the other woman enters.

“Told you so.” Emma moves his clothes to her lap as she takes a seat, scooting as close to the side of the table as she can. “I’m here for emotional support as long as you need me to be. I’m going to prop my elbow right here, so if you need to hold my hand, it’s there for you. Remember to relax as much as you can, and keep breathing.”

“You’re not helping, love.”

“Yeah,” she says, flashing him a wide grin. “I know. But it’s fun to watch you squirm.”

Goldie surprises him by taking a stick and swiping on a long stripe of what she explains is a hard wax. “We have to let this set up so I’m going to do a couple spaced out swatches and we’ll go from there. How are you at handling pain?”

Lifting his left arm, he raises an eyebrow at her. “I’ve lost a hand, lass. I think I’ll be fine.”

For the record, he’s not fine. It hurts. And even after the wax is ripped from his skin, the pain has him reaching out without realizing it and grabbing Emma’s hand. She’s trying so hard not to laugh that she’s almost turning as blue as the wax Goldie is applying to his skin again.

“So glad one of us is enjoying this,” he whimpers out, gritting his teeth as another section of wax is deemed dry enough and Goldie unsticks an edge to get a grip on it.

“You’re doing great,” Emma says, ruffling her free hand through his hair.

He doesn’t notice the next three strips come off because he and Emma have both realized exactly how close they are, how little distance there is between their faces. Her hand pauses in his hair and her other hand relaxes at the same time his does, moving from a gesture of support to one of… is this affection?

The moment is broken when Goldie announces she needs to grab a bottle of lotion from the front room and leaves them alone. He’s so tempted to pull her closer, to taste her lips once more. But he can tell by the rigidity her stance takes on that she’s not on the same page right now. And even if she is, she’s too scared or holding back or hiding from it.

“This alone should be repayment for throwing up on you the day we met,” he says to break the tension. When Emma laughs, he sort of melts on the table. He grins in response, turning to look down at his chest and he makes a noise of disbelief. It’s all gone. “Bloody hell.”

“Wow. Shit you’re pale. Oh god we’re gonna have to tan your chest. Why didn’t I think of that?” She stands, placing his clothes back on the chair to take her place. “I need to make another stop in town. You okay to finish up here? They’ll do clean-up services on your facial hair, too, if you’d like. Just tell Goldie what you want and she’ll take care of it.”

With barely another glance back at him, Emma nearly sprints from the room. He can hear her say something to Goldie and then her voice disappears from range and the door is pushed back open as Goldie enters. “Emma said she’d be back in about a half hour. Want anything else taken care of while you’re here?”

Thinking for a minute, Killian scrunches his nose. It’s not ideal. He’d rather be at home in the privacy of his own bathroom for such things, but he still nods. “I can think of a few things.” Reaching for his shorts, he grabs his wallet and hands over his credit card. “Put the total on there,” he says, grabbing the services sheet from Goldie when she hands it over and tallying up what he’d like.

It’s a while before he slides into his own clothes again, but even when he does he ends up in another chair to get his hair trimmed and his beard clipped. He didn’t realize quite how much all his hair had grown since they got to camp. By the time he’s all done, everything feels clean and crisp, and he’s just starting to get used to the way his shirt feels without the barrier of hair that usually comes between his skin and the fabric.

“Now, apply this lotion again later on. No sweating or swimming for the next twenty-four hours, and come back again in three to six weeks. Okay?”

As far as the “three to six weeks” portion goes, Killian scoffs. His skin is burning in so many places he can’t keep track anymore, but he feels neat and well-kempt and about a stone lighter than when he walked in. He keeps all of the swear words that want to escape to himself though, and just signs the charge slip that Goldie prints and hands to him.

He knocks his sunglasses back onto his nose as he exits the spa, calling out a farewell as he goes, only to nearly collide with Emma.

“Oh! All done?”

“Yep, all taken care of,” he tells her. If his voice is a little tighter than it was when they got to the spa, he’s sure she won’t take it personally. He did just rip off all his chest hair for her.

“I grabbed some food at Granny’s for the ride home. Goldie said you wouldn’t be able to run through the number again today, and I figured you deserve something more than camp food for once.”

“We had food from her on our way in. Best lunch I’ve had in ages.”

“I’m not surprised. Granny’s is basically a rite of passage on the way to camp, even if you’ve never heard of it. Probably has something to do with the fact that she’s the only casual dining place for miles.”

He takes the food from her, setting it on the floor by his feet for the drive back. When he goes to take the small shopping bag from her, however, she quickly throws it into the back seat.

“I’ll give you what you need from that when we get back,” is all she tells him.

They amble their way back through the grounds once they return, with Emma finishing the last of her onion rings and Killian still working through his French fries. She has two plastic bags looped over her wrist, and he waits patiently while she separates the items and hands him one after she’s finished her food.

“Will you need help with the self-tanner?”

“No, I should be able to manage all right,” he says, instilling himself with false-confidence over this matter. It’s not like he’s ever used tanning lotion before. But he’s just as stubborn as she is in many ways, so he decides he’ll figure it out on his own.

“Well, you can take the rest of the day off,” Emma says once they get to a point where she’ll go left for the studio and he’ll go right. She hesitates for a moment, shuffling her feet for just a second before she speaks up again. “My… my cabin is right behind the studio. It’s a little hidden by the trees but if you walk to the back and follow the stone path, you’ll find it. If you need anything and I’m not at the studio, that’s where I’ll usually be. Okay?”

“Aye. Thanks, love.” They stand there in silence for a minute more, not moving closer, not moving away, until voices on the path send them both turning and scurrying away.

The next day, there’s an undercurrent of stress running through both of them. He spends much less time trying to look at the mirror than he thought he would at this point, and looking at his feet is the furthest thought in his mind. He knows from muscle memory when he’s not doing something correctly, but now he doesn’t derail the whole number just because he did one small thing wrong. Instead, he makes a mental note to fix it on the next run-through.

“Stop looking like someone is going to beat you up if you don’t dance the right way,” Emma murmurs as they work through the steps.

“You mean you won’t?”

She snorts, fighting to keep moving with him after that comment if her suddenly jerky turn is anything to go by, but she saves it and they move into the next turn smoothly. “But seriously, just play off my facial expressions so you look like you’re enjoying yourself. Think of what Ruby said.”

The next time they run through, he does his best to smile when she does. He listens when she tells him to relax and have fun, to pretend they aren’t getting ready for a possibly life-altering dance, and he flirts with her through the number, through their movements. It earns him more than one delighted smile and laughter.

When the choreography ends this time, they’re both breathless and smiling.

“Good. You’re good. You got it. I’m not pushing any more today. But I need to ask, how’s the tanning going?”

Killian grimaces. He’s supposed to be putting the lotion on his chest, hand, wrist, neck, and face. Mostly everything is already tanned, so it doesn’t need much. His chest, on the other hand, where all the hair came off is so close to his horrifying winter white.

“It’s… It’s going poorly,” he admits. He purposely left his shirt on for the whole practice for this very reason.

“What? Why?”

He mumbles his response, turning away and probably making it harder for her to hear, but that’s kind of the problem. He doesn’t want her to hear how much he’s struggled with the self-tanning lotion.

“Killian?”

“I can’t apply it alone,” he finally spits out, staring hard at his prosthetic as his fingers pick at the flesh-colored attachment.

“Oh,” she responds, clearly putting the pieces together and then, “oh. Okay. Well, um. Bring it with you. Ruby will be here later on and she and I can help. Nothing we haven’t done before, you know.”

And it’s fine when it’s Ruby, even if she’s leering the whole time she’s buffing the lotion across his chest. He rolls his eyes, avoiding eye contact with her the whole time while Emma calls out commentary reminding her to get some of the other parts to even out the color.

When he’d shown up with the bottle of lotion, they had a whole area prepped for the tanning experience, including buffers and gloves, sponges and a sheet to spread on the ground just in case. It was more than he was expecting, and he’s not quite sure how Emma trusted when he said he would do it on his own if it took all of this for them to do it for him.

The next day, when it’s Emma applying the lotion, neither of them speak the whole time, nor make eye contact. She fixates on the work she’s doing while Killian stares at the ceiling, pretending that it’s Liam doing the work to stop his body from reacting.

He’s never been as relieved as when Emma declares on the third day that he’s as even as he’s going to get, and that if he wants to add a little more to his chest on his own, it should be much easier.

“Just apply it before you go to bed tonight, and you should be good,” she tells him, handing over a bag with the mitt and lotion inside. “Remember to blend it upwards into your neck, like we’ve been doing.”

“Aye, I think I’ve got it.” He raises an eyebrow and tries to reassure her the best he can with just that look because as the week has gone on, she’s gotten more and more outwardly nervous. He can relate. It’s a big deal, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever done before, but all he wants is to put her mind at ease that they’ve covered everything they possibly can.

“I can always even it out with makeup tomorrow when we get there,” she tells him, apparently still running through worst case scenarios.

“Emma, love, it’ll be fine. The least of our worries is my sad tan,” he says, smiling and flipping her ponytail back over her shoulder to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Okay. I’ll see you in the morning for another run-through.”

Before he can understand that time has moved so quickly, it’s the day of the performance. Emma meets him after lunch to check that everything with his costume fits well and to do a final run through. She’s still in her practice skirt, and she tells him she’s waiting until they get to the Mills Regency to change into her dress so it doesn’t wrinkle on the drive over.

“You can wear this when we leave or you can change when we get there. Your choice.”

“I’ll leave the outfit in your capable hands and change there.”

He rolls his shoulders, marveling at how different the costume feels without his chest hair. The fabric is silky smooth, as everything has been recently, and he zips and unzips the shirt a few times without fear of injury, grinning as he does so.

“Oh, for the love of… You’re acting like you’ve never used a zipper until today.”

“Swan, I’ve not seen this much of my chest since puberty. Let a man have his fun.”

She mutters something, wandering over to the stereo to grab her remote before coming back to stand in front of him. “Okay, your fun has been had. Let’s run it once.”

It’s odd to run the dance in the costume as he’s meant to be wearing for it. Last time he still had on his boxers. Now, the fabric sticks close to his body, not moving like his t-shirts or button-downs do, not moving like his shorts do. There’s something sleek about it, making him feel like this is a real thing. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see Killian Jones: lost and broken man with baggage dragging behind him as he moves. He sees a version of himself he thought he had lost. This is Killian Jones: determined and ready to pass as a professional dancer.

He’s almost loathe to take it off, but there’s still time until they even perform and he can’t exactly wear it around camp. He changes back into his clothes and helps Emma hang the dance outfit, slipping the garment bag over the whole thing with his shoes in the bottom so it’s all ready to go.

“I’ll see you back here right after dinner?” she asks.

“Aye. I’m sure Liam is so caught up in whatever he’s doing that he won’t even notice I’m gone.”

She nods, cleaning the space in what he now recognizes as a nervous gesture. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Ruby’s going to oversee a couple that’s been learning together. She’s not allowed to dance, but she can coach them from the sidelines just this once. They’ve taken enough classes by now.”

“Good, then I’ll see you later,” he says, giving her a reassuring smile and moving towards the door before he can do something affectionate again, like hug her to expel all her nerves and fears. He has no idea how he’ll handle his emotions when it’s all over, but he’s already dreading the end of this adventure.

Chapter 6