#rip my carved pumpkin from four years ago

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

ive decided i need a new fucking username & icon bc this was a placeholder username & icon but its still the fucking same 4 years later. the arts probably gonna be one of my own but i have no idea what my username should be so idk. if anyone has any suggestions let me know. im gonna change it [along w my discord icon] after i graduate so in like a month and a half

[tobesobri]

When the Lights Go Out (Halloween fic; 8k)

𝖆/𝖓: first off, happy Halloween yall! This is my second favorite holiday and so I really wanted to get something up in celebration of it! I’ve talked a lot on here about having trouble with writing recently and so I do what I normally do with writer’s block and I just leave what I’m stuck on and go off to write something random, which is what this ended up being. So, my writing style is definitely different and maybe not great, but this is just for fun so I don’t care! I still hope you enjoy! There’s spookiness (not too much), enemies (frenemies) to lovers, pumpkin carving, smut, alcohol consumption, and giant skeletons 💀 (oh and Harry dressed as Tarzan 🥵)

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𝕸ost people’s Halloween traditions weren’t too complicated; usually involving cult-favorite scary movies—ranging from Halloweentown to Nightmare on Elm Street—handing out Snickers and Kit-Kats to tiny trick-or-treaters, or just getting wasted at a friend’s haunted house party down the street. Their friend group, on the other hand, opted for a pumpkin carving contest every year on Halloween at Jason Hallow’s house, and, yes, his favorite holiday is Halloween because of his last name. And so, a few years ago when they were all undergrads together, he began hosting the annual carving contest at his house, in which they all paired up and, at the end of the night, whichever pair’s pumpkin came out the best—as judged by Jason, the resident Jack O’ Lantern expert—won whatever candy was leftover. That and marathons of R-rated horror flicks as well as occasional breaks to go out in the neighborhood and scare some of the kids while dressed in terrifying monster masks and slightly drunk off their asses from too much Tennessee whiskey.

Jason’s house was, hands down, the place to be in their neighborhood. Everyone who came by always wanted to join in on their festivities, and one year, they’d been just drunk enough to let a few of-age neighbors join in. This year, though, it was different. The stakes were higher. They were competing not only for the candy, but also for the much envied twelve-foot tall skeleton Jason had found at Home Depot which currently sat in his front yard amongst his other outrageous decorations. The skeleton was definitely the most noteworthy and had been the center of plenty group photos from just about every one of his neighbors since he had brought it home and especially tonight. In fact, every time the doorbell rang and he greeted another group of kids in his gory doctor costume—because Jason was in med school after all—every one of them squealed about how much they liked his skeleton. And so it almost pained him to have to give it to one of his friends after tonight, but if he’s being honest, he has nowhere to store it—he’d purchased it completely on a whim—and next year they will compete for it all over again anyway.

Tonight is also different because Harry and Y/N are not getting along. They all knew this beforehand, but simply brushed it off until they realized it was much worse than anyone had imagined. They had a horrible friendship—if one could even call it that—ever since they’d met as freshmen pre-law students six years ago. Sometimes they got along, but mostly, they bickered non-stop at each other, which all their friends took as misguided flirting. They got along for about six months once, after a drunken hookup, until, of course, Y/N hooked up with someone else and set off the volcano that was their relationship all over again. It had been calm recently with both of them needing each other’s help through their vigorous law school studies. So, a truce had been made and they tolerated each other at best. Tonight, though, the monsters had truly been unleashed and neither one of them had stopped picking at each other since they’d arrived.

It began on the street, when Harry took the spot Y/N had wanted to park in. Then at the door, when he asked her how her midterms were going and she felt like stepping on his toes until she crushed them. Which was perfectly logical since his was barefoot and mostly naked in his stupid Tarzan costume he’d recycled about four times now since they’d all known each other. He only wore it when the weather was warm, as he claimed, but they all had a suspicion he wore it so that he could watch Y/N drooling over him all night.

She wasn’t innocent either, in his defense, at least not this year when she came dressed in a sexy Beetlejuice costume, something none of them ever thought was possible. But she made it happen. She wore a too-short black and white vertical striped t-shirt dress—which had rips in all the right places, particularly across her chest—and a pair of neon green boots that were Doc Marten knock-offs she had found online. Other than that, she had spray painted the front bits of her hair a grey-green color and did her makeup to match the theme, dark purple smokey eyes and a green color used as contour. It looked good, she looked good, not that Harry would ever say that out loud.

Jason’s entire living room and dining room floors were covered with plastic tarps. He’d set up the usual fold-away tables and chairs for everyone. It was an easy clean-up job that wouldn’t leave pumpkin guts smudged into his hardwood floors or, even worse, the beige carpet in his living room. And, as always, he had a line up of various pumpkins on his kitchen counter—and the necessary kit of carving tools—ready to go. They usually didn’t start until nine-thirty or ten, once everyone arrived and had a few drinks in them and they had all agreed on what movies to watch. This year was a marathon of The Conjuring franchise, because Jason had spent way too much money on a box set and he would not be wasting them. Nobody objected anyway because the movies held a sentimental value to all of them. Every year since the beginning when a new movie came out, they all managed to go see it together, and also cause a horrible ruckus in the theater. Although they’d almost been kicked out a couple times, it was still some of the best memories together they’d ever had.

There was also that one year, when Annabelle Creation came out and Y/N and Harry were getting along on account of the LSATs, that they’d secretly gone home together. And then, of course, pretended it never happened.

That had been the second time they slept together, the second time she’d woken in his bed, with Harry’s annoyingly toned arm wrapped all the way around her, and the last as well because Harry got into a serious relationship their first year of law school and that had been the end of things.

Well… not completely the end. At least not until tonight.

“Okay we’re getting started!” Jason announced over both the music and the television, which someone turned down before Jason continued. He stood, wobbling, on one of the foldable chairs, for no other reason than the bottle of vodka in his hand. He was teetering on the edge sobriety and really didn’t give a fuck if he fell off. “Y’all know the drill! Isa’s handing out the cards. No whining. No trading. Or you’ll be disqualified.”

The cards in question were riddles that they had to match up with the answer. Half of them got the riddle card, the other half an answer card and that would determine who their partner was.

Y/N both wanted Harry as her partner and detested the idea at the same time. She was all for it because, well, he was hot dressed in nothing but his small piece of brown loincloth fabric hanging loosely on his hips. But at the same time, she knew they wouldn’t win together and she really wanted that skeleton.

The riddles were all hand-made by Jason on his computer and then laminated in his girlfriend’s school’s teacher lounge however many years ago. They all knew every answer to every riddle by now, but it was still a much more fun way to pair up than picking names out of a hat.

Y/N read her riddle twice, having absolutely no recollection of the answer to it, however—which was probably due to the alcohol she’d consumed herself within the past hour. She wasn’t all to blame, though, Harry had a lot to do with it too. She was still mad at him, for what she wasn’t sure, but she also could not stop herself from stealing glances at him and the only way to stop feeling so many confusing things about Harry was to drown it all away.

She read her riddle one last time: The person who built it sold it. The person who bought it never used it. The person who used it never saw it. What is it?

Her brain felt like mush after the third read and she hoped someone would find her first and give her the answer. She peeked around at people’s cards as they all tried to find their pair, some of them meeting up immediately and getting the prime pick of the pumpkins. It had dwindled down to just a few of them and she finally waltzed herself up to Harry, grabbed his card from his hand without his permission and read it.

In bold, 16-point Helvetica font, it read: A coffin.

Of course.

She rolled her eyes, shoving his card against his stupid bare chest and groaning audibly. “Figures I’m stuck with you.”

When she finally looked up at him, though, she wasn’t all that upset about her odds as she pretended to be. Not with the way his face set into a devilish, wicked, up-to-no-good look that made her want to rip him from the room and rip his useless Tarzan costume off too while she was at it.

He had also been drinking, which was made even more clear when he opened his mouth. “You’ll always be stuck with me.” And then he leaned in a little bit, his smirk widening and his eyes darkening and the sweet smell of vodka on his tongue strengthening, “Forever.”

She hated the buzzing in her stomach he caused, and hated that she liked knowing they probably would, at the very least, know each other for the rest of their lives. It had already been six years since they met and she still hadn’t managed to shake him off. And now they were finishing up law school together and getting offers to work at the same firm together. There would be no escaping him, not that she really wanted to.

The only time she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him was when he had a girlfriend. She hated seeing him in her classes, in her study groups, her circles, at her internship. He was always there, though, rubbing it in her face as she had once done to him. Hers was just a dumb hookup, partially just to spite him, and his was… well he dated the girl for entire year before they broke up and he seemed genuinely heartbroken over it. It had been serious, and Y/N had been seriously miserable the entire time. Even more so when she found out they’d split up and she just about threw a party while Harry moped around campus. She couldn’t help it, though, she’d liked him ever since they met, but then they just sort of… didn’t get along all the time.

She knew he liked her too, at least a little bit, or he’d never have slept with her twice. How much he actually liked her though was still up for debate, and so she chose keeping their weird hate-love relationship over ruining all of it by admitting her feelings for him. Plus, she liked working with him and getting his help on exams and papers too much to ruin that as well.

Y/N grabbed the third to last pumpkin, an unopened carving kit, and led the way to two lonesome chairs. They sat closest to the door, and farthest from the dining room and Jason, in their own little corner where they had enough room to stretch out given that no else had laid any claim on the other side of their table yet.

“So,” Harry began once they were settled and Y/N began opening the kit of tools, “what are we making?”

Before giving him an answer, she laid out all the tools on the table in front of them, next to their poor misshapen pumpkin, and then reached down into the side of her boot and pulled out a black sharpie; she’d learned a couple years back to start brining one. It might have been cheating, sketching her design beforehand, but Jason never outlawed it.

“I’m making Jason’s favorite Tim Burton character and you’re in charge of the guts.” She dictated confidently, slapping the sawing tool and the large orange plastic spoon in front of him so he could get started right away.

He eyed the tools for a moment, then the pumpkin, and then finally her. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing all the shit work while you do the fun stuff.”

“Thought you’d be used to that.” She half-mumbled, but he still heard her over the rest of the noise in the house. And, frankly, she was right. When they had interned together last year, she always handed off the demeaning tasks to him, like getting the coffee or making copies, while she did the much more interesting parts of the job. What she didn’t know was that she didn’t make him do anything. He always did it so she didn’t have to.  

He sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, arms that her eyes—which were completely out of her control at that point—glued to immediately. He’d been working out ever since the break up and finally filled out the Tarzan costume a lot better. He’d always had a nice body, she knew that, but now… now he made her dizzy.

“I’m not doing it. Least not all by myself.”

She gave up then, mostly because she lost her will to argue against the pout of his lips and the flexing of his biceps—which weren’t ridiculously big, but they were subtle and modest and very much bigger than they had been this time last year when he’d dressed up as a shirtless baseball player. Most all of Harry’s costumes involved some level of nakedness and not much sense, but she didn’t complain too loudly. And his arms were definitely bigger now than they had been the last time she was in his bed and he was over her.

“Fine.” She groaned, grabbing the mini saw tool and then standing to begin carving a hole at the top of their pumpkin, around the stem. She made it big enough for them to be able to stick their hands inside, and then once she was finished, pulled the stem piece off and set it aside for later, chopping off some loose bits of pumpkin shreds first.

Despite his earlier protests, he was the first to dig into the pumpkin, standing as well and going hands first into the thing where he pulled out fistfuls and dumped it into a pile on the table. They went back and forth digging out the insides of the pumpkin until finally, Harry grabbed the spoon and really went in. And she didn’t even bother offering to help, and instead stared, again, at his stupid biceps and especially at his hands, which were slick from the pumpkin juice. She shuddered remembering where his hands had once been, and then pulled herself together remembering how long ago it had been and how very little interest he’d shown in picking up where they’d left off pre-girlfriend.

Once the pumpkin was fully gutted, they both sat again, and cleaned their hands off on the paper towels Jason had set up on each table.

She was the first to begin the process, sketching out the design with her sharpie of Oogie Boogie from The Nightmare Before Christmas. She’d carved the character before, but still needed a reference picture on her phone to get all the details right. And Harry watched her the entire time, memorizing her face for the millionth time while she concentrated, and sometimes he stared at her hands, too, hands he also found himself reminiscing over, to the point of needing to cross his legs so it wasn’t made visibly clear what he was thinking about. He was starting to regret recycling the Tarzan costume.

While they all worked, Jason answered the door and handed out candy about once every five minutes. The best part of their tradition wasn’t the pumpkin carving itself, but rather, the atmosphere. They loved the feeling, the adrenaline rush of it all. How messy everything would eventually get, how loud they all were. The anguished shouting when someone messed something up. The sounds of Thriller playing in the background mixed with the loud jump scares from the horror movies played all night long. It was heaven to any lover of Halloween (and they all loved Halloween).

She’d let Harry start the carving of the design, informing him what parts were staying and what parts needed to be cut away, before she ventured into the kitchen to grab them both a drink. On her way back, she paused for a moment, just watching Harry work over in their corner. The sight of him almost made her want to finally admit how she felt. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if he rejected her, at least then she’d know.

But then Zoe plopped down into her empty chair next to Harry and crushed everything back down like an aluminum can being recycled. She tossed back about half of her Smirnoff after Zoe had scooted closer to Harry and grazed her fingertips across his arm—the one he wasn’t using the carve the pumpkin. And at first, he ignored it, but then he set down the tool, pushed his hair back with his clean wrist and offered Zoe one of his annoying little smirks that Y/N always thought he saved just for her. But now, seeing him use it to flirt with Zoe, she felt stupid and betrayed. And stupid again for feeling betrayed.

She had no claim to him. She just had her memories, as inconvenient as they were at times. But that was nothing and it’d been so long that he showed any interest in her, in anybody, that for her to be jealous now was just pure selfishness. As much as she hated Harry sometimes, she still wanted to see him happy again.

Y/N made her way back slowly, eying what others were doing, until finally joining Harry again just as Zoe went back to her own pumpkin.

She was quiet for a moment, sipping on her drink, watching him as he got back to carving, before cleaning her throat as she finally said something, “What did Zoe want?” And she tried not to sound anything other than curious, but the way Harry glanced at her, with a raised brow, she knew she needed to be so much more subtle.

He took the other cup from her that she hadn’t drunk from and replenished his blood alcohol level. “She just asked me what I was doing after this.”

Instead of opening her mouth and being obvious, she just set her drink down and grabbed both the carving tool and the pumpkin from Harry to take over. He’d already done way more work than she had, so it was about time they switched anyway.

He eyed her curiously still, even though he allowed her to continue where he left off as he leaned back in his chair and took a break, downing what was left in his cup as she worked.

“You’re not jealous are you?” He finally asked, after a few moments to let his brain marinate in the alcohol in order to brave that question in the first place.

“No.” It was sharp. A piercing rejection he felt dig its claws deep into his heart. He couldn’t tell if she was lying or not, but if not, it hurt. More than he was willing to admit, even to himself. He wanted her to be jealous. He always did. That was part of the reason he’d gotten a girlfriend. And of course she was also part of the reason they broke up, if not all of it.

He nodded, “So it wouldn’t bother you if I went home with Zoe?”

He noticed her brief hesitation, when her hand stopped moving and she took in a breath of air, but then she settled again. “Doesn’t bother me what you do, Harry.”

Again, he nodded, still watching her just to get a sense of her reactions. Of course he had no plans on going home with Zoe. He just wanted to know. Where they stood. How Y/N felt about him. Whether she thought about their nights together as often as he did. When they were studying together and she’d shift her hair behind her shoulder and he’d get a whiff of her shampoo and be taken right back to one of those nights, and the nights that came after that when he got lost in that scent on his pillows until it eventually dissipated and left him craving more.

He tried again. One last time. If he still didn’t get the response he was hoping for, then he’d give it up and leave her alone. So, he sat forward, crossing his arms on top of the table, close enough to her now that the buzzing in her stomach reappeared even though she never braved a single glance at him. He was close enough that the smell of his cologne overtook the odor from the pumpkin. Close enough that she felt his breath on the side of her face when he spoke.

“So, I’ve just been imagining the way you’ve been looking at me all night then?” His voice was just above a whisper, and soft, caressing her ears as the sound crept its way inside of her. As it seeped into all the places the alcohol had been, although Harry was always something way more potent than whiskey or tequila. He made her head spin, made her feel everything and nothing at the same time. Made her heart flutter so much at times it hurt.

His words sunk in and all her motions stopped as she froze in place. She stopped carving their pumpkin, stopped blinking, stopped breathing. Staring blankly at their half-finished design until he was wrung out from her system completely. That never really happened, though, because he was staring at her, watching her with those glinting, impatient eyes, waiting for an answer. There wasn’t even the familiar hint of a smirk or a bit of amusement on his face anymore, either, that might have calmed her nerves. Because at least if he seemed to just be messing with her, she could play that game with him, but this was different.

He leaned forward a bit, trying to get her to look at him, to say something, anything, really. He’d be satisfied enough with her lies at this point. But he also knew the absence of an answer alone was all he really needed. He didn’t feel like he was getting ahead of himself, seeing the way her body reacted to him, by assuming that she felt, at least somewhat, the same way he did about her. Because if she’d been the one to ask if she was imagining how he’d been staring at her all night, he wouldn’t deny it.

Just as she opened her mouth, just as she had gathered enough words to form a coherent sentence, the room went dark. Pitch black, actually. The lights all around them flickering off, the television going blank, the music cutting out. And once the startled gasps and dramatic, drunken yelling had subsided, they were left in a ringing silence, so completely opposite to what they had been moments ago that it was painful for their ears to adjust to.

“What the fuck?” They heard Jason’s voice in the darkness and then, finally, a bit of light as he turned his phone’s flashlight on.

“Did the power go out everywhere?” Someone else asked.

And while everyone panicked, all Harry cared and thought about was Y/N’s hand wrapped tightly around his own on his lap. He wasn’t exactly sure when she’d grabbed for him, but once he realized she was there, he didn’t really care too much about the lights anymore. What he did care about still, however, was whether she’d ever answer his question now. If he’d ever get to hear what she was about to say just before the darkness cut her off.

A few of them stumbled about, making plans to go outside and check on things while everyone else stayed inside and waited. The room went dark for a few more moments as Jason left, but then someone else turned their flashlight on, and shined them at the ceiling so that there was at least enough light so that they didn’t have to sit in complete darkness.

If it wasn’t Halloween, the power going out wouldn’t have bothered her so much. Outages happened happened all the time. But now, in the middle of the second Annabelle movie with all sorts of other spooky shit around them, she couldn’t help but be terrified and imagine the worst. Like… what if there was a killer on the loose who had cut their power. What if the killer was chopping up Jason and the others and then eventually heading inside to do the same to all of them?

“Hey,” Harry mumbled beside her, inching closer and rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand, realizing she’d grown tense when her grip on him had tightened. “You alright?”

Hearing his voice again, she let out a breath of air and tried to relax. She watched way too many scary movies and this was most definitely not one of them. Just a power outage, possibly due to everyone being home and using lots of extra electricity on their lights and decorations. She had no reason to panic. Although it could be blamed on Harry as well, if he hadn’t made her an astronomical amount of nervous just before.

She nodded until she realized Harry couldn’t even see her very well. “I’m fine.” She finally affirmed, and, to his dismay, took her hand away from his.

They sat in their own silence for a while, listening to the quiet conversations around them, particularly to Zoe and Julie who were trying to look up any information they could even though their phones were slow from the lack of Wi-Fi and service.

After a little while, she found his hand again in the dark, and this time, she wasn’t afraid from the power going out, but rather what she was about to say. Because if there was ever an opportunity to spill your guts to Harry Styles, it was in a dark room where his grassy green eyes weren’t all over you, sucking every ounce of courage from your bones.

Her voice was in a whisper, and she finally looked at him, or rather in his direction. To the outlines of his face, of his nose and his cheekbones. Even though she couldn’t find the green, she knew he was there, waiting, listening.

“You haven’t been imagining anything.”

She couldn’t quite see it, but his eyebrows had hit the ceiling and before he could question her further, she continued.

“I was miserable when you were seeing Liv and so fucking happy when you broke up.” Her voice shook, but she didn’t let that stop her, “And then miserable again because you didn’t want me. And maybe you still don’t, but it would really bother me if you went home with someone else.”

The quiet almost ate her alive for the next few seconds when he said nothing and she didn’t have his features to go off of. But then, she felt him getting closer until, finally, his lips were at her ear.

“I’ve always wanted you.”  

The buzzing was back but this time it was debilitating. Especially when he faced her and cupped his free hand along her jaw. And especially when he tilted her head back slightly to meet his lips, which had pretty good aim given their predicament. She missed the way he felt, she realized, once he was kissing her. Once he had scooted closer and released his hand from her grip on his lap. Once he grabbed up the other side of her face and pulled her closer. And then her hand was left to fend for itself on his thigh, and she, almost unconsciously, drifted her touch closer and closer and closer…

He moaned softly into her mouth when she toyed with the flimsy piece of fabric tied around his waist with her fingertips. And finally, she pulled apart from him, catching her breath before whispering, “Do you think they’d notice if we left?”

He shook his head, “Don’t think I care if they did.”

And so they were off. Trying not to draw too much attention to themselves even though she slightly tripped over the leg of the chair and he tried not to giggle too loudly while helping her. His hand fell into hers again as he led the way out of the living room, down the hall and into Jason’s guest room, closing them both off from any light source completely, not that they really cared too much about seeing each other; they just wanted to feel each other again.

And as soon as Harry had closed the door behind her, that’s exactly what they did. As she wrapped her arms around his neck; as he felt his way around her waist, he kissed her like he hadn’t kissed anyone in years. Like he was a dry, cracking desert and she was a vast river flowing through him.

He took brave steps towards the bed blindly, backing her up further into the dark room and managing to not trip over anything when he finally made it to the bed. They’d both, on separate occasions, spent the night in Jason’s guest room before, which helped when maneuvering around in the dark. For instance, Harry knew that Jason kept his secret stash of condoms in the bedside drawer. Harry had no idea why, but he was thankful for it right now, when, after laying her back on the bed, Y/N had already begun undoing his costume—with such quickness, he was sure she’d studied how the thing was connected to his body so that she knew exactly how to get if off if need be—and, within the next few seconds, tossed the flimsy Tarzan loincloth out of sight.

Which left him in just the black thong he wore underneath. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have even bothered with it. But, when he had first gotten the costume and tried it on without anything, he imagined all the wardrobe slips and potential boners might not be in everyone’s best interests. So, he went out and bought the smallest pair of underwear he’d ever owned, tucked himself inside of them, and called it a day.

Those, too, were stripped from his body in a matter of seconds, or at least pushed down his thighs to where they no longer covered what they were intended to cover. But then she flipped them around, so that Harry was on his back this time, splayed across the bed and she was finally ridding him of the thong all together and not wasting any time getting her hands on him and he wondered, with how quick she was to get to this point, if she had been thinking about this all night. And if she had, then he would definitely have to whip out the Tarzan costume more often.

He seemed to sink into the mattress once he felt her mouth close on him, his eyes fluttering shut and his mouth hanging open involuntarily when he hit the back of her throat. He had no idea how he’d gone so long without her, or why either. Why had he been so stupid? Why did he let her think he didn’t want her? Why did he deprive the both of them of this? Of the way she felt circling her tongue around the tip of his cock, the way he knew she was looking at him even though he could physically not open his eyes or come down off his cloud long enough to tell her how good she felt. How much he missed it. How much he was probably in love with her, even if that might have been crossing some sort of line.

“Forgot how big you were,” she whispered, giggling almost shamefully after wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and giving him a break to actually breathe properly again.

“Think we both know that’s a lie.” He was out of breath already and he was right, although she wouldn’t feed his ego no matter what he said. Although she remembered his cock perfectly fine, she wasn’t exactly used to it. And maybe she had momentarily forgotten what he had hidden under his costume. It’d been two years since they slept together, and the first time it happened they’d been drunk.

She didn’t say anything else, just tried to hide the blush on her face—even though he couldn’t’ see it anyway—by taking a mouthful of him again. She didn’t let him come, though, of course, and he didn’t expect her to either. She never had before. She always led him get right to the edge, to where he was panting and writhing and digging his fingers into her hair, on the verge of screaming her name into the dark, and then she’d stop. Pull him from the back of her throat and leave him a sopping, moaning mess.

He’d somewhat recovered when she crawled on top of him and and sat on either side of his hips with her hands planted on his chest. And now that their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could see the curve of his lips as he smiled up at her and even the sinister little twist of his mouth just before he grabbed hold of the hem of her dress and ripped it off over her head, letting it fall onto the bed next to him. He wished they had just a little bit more light, but at the same time, it turned him on having to see with his hands instead. Having to reach up and cup her breasts in his palms and rely on his memories for a better visual than the one he currently had. And as she came down to kiss him again, there was one thing for sure he didn’t need any light or anything but his fingers to do.

He tossed her bra into the same vicinity as her dress and within seconds had his hands all over her again, and his tongue as well, wishing she was on her back so he could worship her in all the ways he desperately wanted to, but also aware that the power could flick on at any moment and he really didn’t have the time.

Not that she had asked, and maybe she just hadn’t thought of it yet, but he still, while continuing to make out with her, reached over, pulled the drawer open on the nightstand and reached inside to locate the box of condoms.

However, once he did, and he didn’t find what he was looking for, he sat up and pulled apart from her, twisting himself a bit in order to see inside the drawer. His other hand held onto her hips so she didn’t fall off of him as he searched the drawer. But, soon enough, he was laying back again, groaning as if he was in physical pain.

“There’s no condoms.” He muttered between his teeth and just that one little sentence ruined his entire night.

“It’s okay.” She assured, continuing to whisper just as he did so that no one would hear them through the thin walls. “I mean… we’re clean right? And I’m on birth control…”

He ran his fingers through his hair, looking up at her and trying to decide if it was a good idea or not. She was right, of course, but even so there was always a possibility. Even with condoms there was always that same possibility too. He knew one thing for certain. If he remembered correctly. There was absolutely no way in hell he’d be able to pull out, so that really wouldn’t even be an option either.

“If you don’t want to though, that’s fine.” She spoke again amongst his silence. It’s not like he would hate the potential consequences, and of course he would not hate feeling her without a stitch of anything in between them, he just needed to be reassured that’s what she wanted, truly.

“I do, just um… are you sure you’re okay with that?”

She nodded first and then, confidently, “Yes.” As she fell back into place over him, her lips came to his ear this time, “I want to feel you coming inside of me.”

His whole body shuddered, needing her more than he quite possibly ever had. And as she tucked her panties to the side and guided herself onto him, he would most definitely go outside and cut the lines himself if the power decided to come back on before they were finished.

“Forgot how wet you are…” He whispered, heart fluttering at the way she laughed while fucking him. He never forgot either, not quite. But feeling her again now, pooling around him, warm and snug, he again wondered why in the living hell he kept himself from her for so long. Sure, they didn’t like each other most of the time, but their first time together had been hot, drunk hate sex and ever since then he’d chased that feeling with other people, none of them ever quite adding up to her. He wondered if she thought the same. No one ever making her feel the way he did either. If, when she was with someone else, she thought of him instead.

He knew he wouldn’t last long the second she put her greedy hands on him, and so her being in control now was slightly dangerous. He wasn’t ready for it to be over, even if he was racing the clock, even if he could just take her home from here and do it all over again, properly. He didn’t want it to end as quickly as it started.

So, he flipped them back over, getting her on her back like he’d wanted to earlier. Slipping a pillow under her backside to get a better angle and letting her sink all the way through the mattress this time. He remained inside her the entire time, only making quick, shallow movements to avoid the sounds of their skin slapping against each other. But he gave up being careful about their noise level after she begged him to go faster, after he reached between them and rubbed his fingers over her clit to catch her up with him.

She tugged at his hair while he kissed her, breathlessly and without much of a second thought this time about how loud they were being. He assumed all their friends knew about them anyway, even if she chose to be ignorant to it. They all speculated about the secret hookups and the mindless flirting that was disguised as harmless bickering. So, he just stopped caring the closer and closer he got.

That was until he buried himself as far as he could inside of her, his hand wrapped around her throat the way he remembered her liking, and he felt the scream building beneath her skin, beneath his palm. Quickly, before her noises led to everyone barreling into the room to find out what was going on, he clasped his hand from her throat to her mouth instead. Holding tightly as she let it out, his eyes pouring into hers like a lake of shining emerald waters getting her to stay there in the room with him. So that she didn’t close her eyes and float away like he had before.

He titled her head to the side, kissed up her jaw to her ear. “Mm, I missed the way you sound.” He wanted to tell her how he thought about her pleads and her moans and her yells late at night when he was feeling particularly alone. When he wanted nothing but her, to either be inside of her, or to just have her there next to him. But all of that got caught in his throat, and instead, as he continued burying himself into her, he whispered like a growl in her ear, “Missed how well you take me.”

And although it made her moan, made her eyes cross and her fingernails scrape across his shoulder blades, he wanted to tell her that he missed how they fit together. How where he ended she began so seamlessly no one else could hardly compare. There had always been a seam with everyone else, with Liv, a visible divide between him and them, soldered together haphazardly. But with Y/N, it was smooth, flowing together as if they were the same person.

His hand slipped from her mouth as he began losing control, and soon she was the one having to cover the noises. Though, this time, she just simply pulled his lips to her own and felt all the vibrations escape from his throat against her skin, her teeth, her tongue. She breathed in nothing but the air from his lungs, and held onto his tightly as she began to unravel.

His moans quickened and quickened until she felt his release, warm and deep inside of her, just as her own gave way, until his body began to give out, until he was panting and no longer able to hold himself up over her. And so once they both descended from their cloud, once their wave had crashed onto the shore, he planted himself beside her, their chests in rhythm as they cough their breath.

And before either of them even managed to open their eyes or breathe steadily again, the surge of the power coming back on dimmed the haze. Their room was still dark, but light seeped under the door and the rest of their friends cheered from the other room as the music began again. And for a brief, stupid moment, Harry thought about fucking her again and letting her scream all she wanted, but that fantasy was cut short when he remembered their friends would soon realize they were missing.

“We should get back.” She mumbled. Although she made no sudden movements to get up. She even closed her eyes again, still off in another world.

And so Harry risked it, just for a few more moments, anyway, where he rolled closer to her and slid his hand up her jaw softly, pulling her attention toward him again as her eyes fluttered open, waiting.

“I was miserable when I was with Liv too. And we broke up because she knew I spent all my time thinking about someone else.” He swiped his thumb across her cheek, realizing for the first time that he’d probably royally fucked up all her makeup and then hoping she wouldn’t come to her senses and kill him for it.

“And who might that be?”

He smiled, sweetly this time unlike all his asshole smiles, and just as he glanced at her lips, ready to kiss her again, he was cut short.

“Yo, where are Harry and Y/N?” It was Jason, loud and clear and possibly headed their way to investigate his missing party guests who had snuck off together in the dark. Jason didn’t know that yet though, and as much as Harry would like none of their friends to find out, it wouldn’t exactly look great the two of them waltzing out of the guest room together. Harry’s curls in shambles, fresh scratches all across his back, and Y/N’s makeup smudged. There was simply no use in hiding what they’d been up to, it was written all over them.

Harry grabbed her clothes and handed them off while he went on a search for his own tiny pieces of costume. And just as they got decent again, there was a knock on the door.

“You guys in there? You better not be doing what I think you’re doing.” Jason warned and Harry and Y/n looked at each other for a moment before busting out laughing.

Harry got to the door first, throwing it open to a very surprised Jason, who then narrowed his eyes when he saw Y/N come up behind Harry.

“God, not in my guest room!” He whined as Harry pushed pass Jason, a looking Y/N following shortly behind, “Now I have to clean the sheets again! I just did them yesterday.”

“Sorry, mate!” Harry called over his shoulder, glancing down at Y/N quickly to give her one of his cocky little winks. And once they had reached the main room again, as he fell back into his chair, she realized just how many scratch marks she’d left on him, and wished he’d worn a costume with a shirt to cover it up.

She drowned out all the whistling and the comments about how everyone knew she and Harry were up to something, about the bets won and lost. All she heard was Harry’s voice in her ear, telling her how much he missed her and she wondered if it was real. If he really did miss her, or he just missed fucking her. If, when it was no longer October 31st, they’d just go back to normal. Like the horse-drawn carriage turning back into a lumpy, ugly pumpkin.

Harry noticed this, of course, because he’s a law student and notices everything, but just as he leaned in to ask if she was okay, she pulled away.

“I just, uh, need some air.” And then she was gone before he could do or say anything. She used through the front door, abandoning their poor pumpkin and headed toward her car. She’d left the keys and her purse inside, but it didn’t matter. She just leaned against the passenger door and gazed up at the stars, thankful for the clear night and warm weather.  

And, of course, he was beside her not too long afterwards. She’d heard his footsteps against the pavement, knew he’d probably follow her out anyway.

He cleared his throat, half watching the same stars she was and half glancing at her. “Did I do something?”

“No, it’s um…” she faltered, her eyes falling to her feet. “Think I just had too much to drink.”

“Oh… I’m sorry. I—” she cut him off before he got too far in the wrong direction.

“No, I mean…” she pushed off her car then and faced him, “Are we just going to go back to how we always are after tonight? Because I don’t know if I can do that. But I never know what you’re thinking, Harry. Do you even like me or do you just like sleeping with me sometimes and arguing with me all the rest of the time?”

He continued to watch her for a moment, almost waiting for her to tell him she was kidding. But when she just ran a nervous hand through her colored hair, he realized she wasn’t.

He waited for a group of kids all dressed in various Star Wars outfits to pass by them before he began. “I guess I thought I was clear, but obviously not enough… I don’t just want to sleep with you every couple of years and pretend we don’t like each other in between. I think we’ve already wasted enough time, don’t you?”

She nodded once his words sunk in.

“Can we go finish our pumpkin now? And win the stupid skeleton. So I can take both it and you home with me?”

Again, she nodded, but this time it was matched with a smile. “Who says I want to go home with you?”

He rolled his eyes and threw an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close enough to kiss the top of her head as he steered them back toward the front door. “Guess it’ll just be me and the skeleton then.”

They both glanced over at the giant thing stuck in the middle of Jason’s front yard, still attracting every young person like it was a princess at Disneyland, and then she looked up at him again. “On second thought, I might like to see that.”

He shook his head, opening the front door for them, “M’sure you would.”

[caps-lockdown]

32 Days Later

32 Days Later (One shot)

Enjoy this piece of October Fluff! It’s my first real attempt at writing from Steve’s perspective, so sorry if it isn’t amazing. I also wrote this at four am after being up since twelve p.m the prior day.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Rating: PG (All fluff!)

Words: 2,245

Summary: It took exactly 32 days for Steve Rogers to fall for you.

No beta, only own mistakes and the reader. Again this is Y/N format but it is also from Steve’s point of view. Well sort of anyway. I TRIED PEOPLE.

Also if you’d like to be tagged for future fics just send a quick message, ask or comment!

32 Days Later

You were trouble. That’s what Fury said.

October first came in a blink and Steve Rogers walked out of his room ready for his morning run to find you in your pair of skeleton pajamas. Your feet tapped barefoot against the hardwood floor of the kitchen as you sipped from a giant bat shaped mug. No doubt you had been waiting to pull it out, and by the smells of it you had just made a batch of Nutella hot chocolate. It was seven in the morning.

“No time to sleep when it’s October!” You had exclaimed gleefully, sitting on the couch in the joining room and proceeding to fold yourself into multiple layers of blankets. Steve rolled his eyes as the start of some horror movie began, shaking his head as he stepped outside. You’d only joined the team five months ago, per Fury’s orders and Tony’s headache. Sure, everyone fell in love with you within the first month. Well everyone except Steve of course. Keep your friends close and all that. He couldn’t peg you. Usually he was a good judge of character, but he was continually finding himself plagued by not being able to figure you out. He wasn’t an idiot though. He knew how great you were in the field. How you rivaled Nat’s marksmanship and Tony’s sarcasm. He knew that Bucky and Sam protected you like you were their adopted little sister. Hell he even knew Thor took to calling you “The small and mighty Y/N”. And just like now he knew you had been looking forward to this particular month, as you had mentioned it precisely eighty-six times during the course of this week.

He knew you were trouble. He just didn’t know what kind yet.

On October third you asked him what day it was.

“It’s October Third.” He replied back simply, your giggling fit ringing in his ears as everyone else joined in. He quickly learned that it was a movie reference, having being forced to watch said movie that same evening. He came to understand why you always shouted “She doesn’t even go here!” when you found something out of place, and why everyone (including Bucky to his shock) were wearing pink articles of clothing as the film played.

The wink you sent him from across the living room made his face heat up.

He distinctly recalls the night of October seventh when you nearly begged to get him to accompany you to a new horror movie playing at the theater downtown. “Tony and Pepper are going and I don’t want to be a third wheel!” You whined, “I need big strong arms to hug when I get scared!” You pleaded. “I’ll make you snickerdoodles for a week!”

He didn’t have the faintest idea what was happening amongst the bloodshed and screaming victims being mutilated, but he would never forget your floral scent of perfume taking over his senses. How your hands felt on his skin as you clung on for dear life to his arm and attempted to hide just a sliver of your face in his shoulder. The snickerdoodles were delivered outside his room for seven days straight after that, always wrapped and his name written in beautiful, careful script.

“Come on man, it’s just a pumpkin! It isn’t going to bite cha!”

Steve stared in discontent at the large orange gourd in front of him on October thirteenth. The team decided it would be in their best interest to carve faces and designs on them. Team Building. Tony called it.  Festive you called it. Disgusting chaos would have been his chosen words. The tarp covering the floor was no match for everyone’s hacking carnage, Sam’s complaint of splattered pumpkin guts on the wall in the kitchen causing everyone to roll their eyes. You said you’d get Parker to clean it up. Everyone laughed at your perfect humor. Again.

Steve was never much for gawking or ogling, but watching you put your “carving skills” (he had no idea those were actual skills) on your own vegetable, fruit, whatever you had called it, made him worry about ever making you angry. You were so calm while you worked, blades shaving off top layers and poking holes in artistic ways. Your fingers were lighter than air the entire time, yet he was growing more and more afraid for his personal safety. And his progressively growing attraction to you. It was only when you were nearly done painting yours in glow in the dark paint that he came to the realization that he hadn’t carved a single feature into his own. He worked haphazardly in a frenzy after that, almost losing a finger in his rush to complete it. Maybe you wouldn’t put together that he had spent his entire evening watching you. He had to hope right? The poor thing came out looking so uneven and lopsided he almost wanted to accidentally push it out of a nearby window to put it out of its misery.

“I think it looks wonderful Steve.” You cooed, his blood pressure rising as you went to place your masterpiece in between his and Sam’s puking pumpkin. Yours was an extremely well done adaptation of “Starry Night”, carved and painted with such precision Steve didn’t know if you were real for five whole seconds. Bucky said you put his art to shame. He had to agree, thrown off for just a millisecond when you brought him down into a strong and grateful hug.

“I know you didn’t want to be here. Thank you.” All he could do is make a small “Sure” as you parted ways, watching you and Nat link arms as you headed back into the Compound. He was too busy in his own thoughts when Sam gave him a long look. His mind was occupied with how your breath had felt against his neck when you hugged him, and the way you said his name.

You were definitely trouble.

October twenty fifth was the annual Stark Industries “Trunk or Treat”. It was a wonderful night filled with young children dressed as the Avengers and various other things, visiting trunks of employees and Stark himself to get their yearly candy. Thor and Bruce along with other security stood watch, while Nat and Clint passed out candy as Elsa and Kristoff from Frozen. Bucky and Sam were Ghostbusters, your head nearly exploding when the former and Steve both had said they’d never seen it. You had demanded Sam and Tony’s “Movie Buff” cards, mumbling something about “failing this city.” Whatever that meant.

And what was he doing this fair and crisp autumn night? He could ask himself the same thing, reaching to tug at the itchy orange ascot that clung to his neck tightly. The bell bottoms were a bit tight, the sweater vest threatening to pop at the seams at his wide shoulders. Your ex boyfriend had told you to keep it when he broke your heart right after you joined the team. It had been your dream to go as Daphne Blake and Fred Jones, certain you’d clean house at costume parties with your previous beau. That was until Fury got you the job and the jerk you had been dating for nearly three years told you he couldn’t deal with you making more than him and being stronger than him. Steve leapt, dived at the chance when you asked for his help, agreeing without knowing much about the Scooby Gang. You fixed that too, staying up til three in the morning with him the day of the event watching reruns of the famous cartoon. He pretty much had your laughter locked in his memory now, the way your hair moved when you threw your head back when Shaggy made another absurd food concoction. Your ex was a fool.  How lucky this guy had been to have you in the first place, only to mess it up royally later. It made his blood boil how much of your time he had wasted in the past. Steve would never treat you like he had, you deserved so much more than that. He admired you for your opinions and strength, how you could shut him up with cold hard facts when you got into heated debates. What a fool he was to lose you. You kept telling everyone you were better off, but he heard the crying on the other side of his room wall. Late at night. When you didn’t think anyone was awake to pity you.

So he helped you pass out candy from the back of your cousin’s panel van, the happy children scurrying off with their candy as he had to remind himself not to move to quickly lest his costume rip in a non-flattering way.

He asked you to Tony’s Halloween party that very night, saying he would get a bigger costume. You asked if it was a date to which he sheepishly confirmed. Your smile nothing short of blinding him, the kiss you placed on his cheek burning into his skin when you accepted. He was branded by you, instantly craving your attention and affection and conceding he would stop at nothing to earn it. He was a goner.

Halloween night came, you spending all day in a hurried disheveled mess as you baked countless treats for the party guests. Tony had insisted that the event could be completely catered but you were having none of it, busying yourself and not accepting any help. How you managed to pull it off in such a time crunch was beyond him, and he felt a certain sense of pride as you received dozens of compliments during the evening, your arm interlaced with his.

“I knew you could do it Doll, my ma would have killed for your recipes.”

“She brought you into this world Steve,” you beamed at him as you adjusted your own scratchy ascot, “She wouldn’t even have had to ask.”

The two of you won the contest, coming in second was Thor and Bruce’s in their absolutely wretched attempt at going as each other. He was addicted to your laughter about the whole ordeal though, Bruce’s wig specifically causing a riot throughout the night with everyone. Thor said he was flattered none the less. After the party he helped you back to your room, your inebriated nature meaning you needed assistance. You swore and stumbled out of your clothes on the way down the hall, the scene endearing to say the least. Steve could only shake his head, picking up your heels (torture devices you called them), purple thigh high stockings, red wig (and wig cap) as you went, tipsy and carefree.

“Does this mean we’re a couple now?” You asked, shoving your room door open with comical effort. “Cause we won the couple…couple contest. It’s only fair.”

“Sure sweetheart, I think I’d like that. But I would prefer to hear you say you’d like that when you’re sober, alright?”

“But I asked you already…” You looked so confused and he wanted nothing more than to kiss you senseless. Make you see how completely smitten he already was with you. But he just repeated himself and smiled.

You asked him to stay which he politely declined, only to be smacked in the face with a lime green ascot in response to his quest to remain respectful. All you had to do to win him over was give him a sad look, batting your eyes up at him and making all of his resolve cave. He stripped down to his white tank top and boxer briefs while you got comfortable under the sheets.

“You can sleep on top of the covers. Buck said you super soldiers run hot.”

He smiled while snuggling into you, hoping you wouldn’t pick up on his racing heartbeat when you shifted your weight, leaning your head back against his chest. “Why’s that Y/N? Afraid I won’t be able to keep my hands to myself?”

“No,” You mumbled, already half asleep when his arm came around you. “I’m one-hundred percent sure I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself.” He stiffened slightly, hearing you chuckle cheekily before falling into an easy slumber. He’d get even in the morning he decided.

November first came in a blink, Steve stretching at the first sign of sunrise. The bed was empty. Your bed was empty. He could faintly hear noise coming from the kitchen, throwing on his pants from the night prior and shutting the door behind him. The dark and sinister decorations were gone, replaced with bright and incredibly gaudy holiday lights and décor. He didn’t know they had twelve nutcracker statues, each eerily looking a lot like their real life Avenger counterparts. He chuckled at the sight of you, braid a mess and green and red striped pajamas covering you. His heart caught in his throat when you turned from the counter to face him, your beauty always managing to make his heart stop momentarily. Your feet padded across the floor as you sipped from your obnoxiously large ceramic mug shaped like a reindeer.

Your kiss tasted of peppermint mocha, the world drowned out as he returned it tenfold, tugging you close and spilling a hint of coffee onto his tank top.

“We’re so a couple Rogers,” You grinned after breaking away slightly, “So buckle up.”

You were trouble. But he definitely didn’t mind.

The end.

Tag List: @kaytizzle @cuffski @giggleberts @pies-wands-and-more @zombiepotterfour @chrisevansfanfic @patzammit 

[lirusstories]

Once Upon A Dream Chapter 1: A Close Call - Re-Uploaded

A/N: Here is the Re-uploaded version which is now Third Person next will be the First Chapter of TKATQ or No Place Like Home.

(Word count: 2534)

        Henrik is in his office frustrated and muttering “Nein” under his breath as he scribbles out another bad equation before ripping it out of the notebook. The desk was covered in crumpled papers as he ripped off another page tossing it to the side, the sounds coming from the computer causing him to look at it. He quickly writes down what's being shown on the screen before flipping the page and writing more.

        His head snaps up to one of the monitors as it starts up and he quickly begins to scribble down what it was showing him, my eyes flicking to it every few seconds before I rip out the page tossing it to the side. He picks up one of the papers he set aside before leaning back in his chair, setting it down again and staring at the screen, trying not to let his frustration overwhelm him.

        He holds back a wince as the soul-mark that looks like a tear in space grows warm. Not to burn but more like something big is happening. He pulls his focus away from it as he begins to write more notes down. He’s muttering “Nein” under his breath repeatedly as he rips out another page and throws it to the ground. He keeps writing down what he can until the equations change again, muttering “Nein” again. He rips that page out and throws it to the side with the rest.

        He winces suddenly, my hand flying to the soul mark on my forehead, A red Heart and Diamond and a black Spade and Club, as it suddenly burns making his vision go white for a second and he can hear a faint voice sounding like they're saying his name. He quickly shrugs it off, getting back to work hastily scribbling down what he can, becoming more and more frustrated as he rips out more pages continuing to mutter under his breath, louder than before. 

        He finally manages to get something that works again and he flips the page over, writing more down as the meter on one of the monitors suddenly fills up with orange bars before beginning to glow letting out a high pitched whirring sound before beginning to glitch. He snaps his attention to it, heart jumping to his throat as panic begins to brew. At the same time, one of his soulmarks around his waist, a set of beautiful Emerald green wings now covered in a smokey black cloud of… something, begins to feel like someone lit them on fire and he gets the feeling someone was screaming at him to run. He forces himself to ignore it muttering, 

        “What is this?” Henrik whispers under his breath as he scrambles to try and stop it, the monitor continuing to glitch as he does.

        “Nein.” He panics quickly sifting through the crumbled papers until he finds the keyboard and quickly typing in code hoping it will stop the glitching. He stares into the monitor hoping to fix what was going on. The screen flickers slightly before showing a swirling vortex of blue’s and orange, forcing him to freeze in place. 

        ‘Nein.’ He thinks, panicking now despite the fact that his mind was becoming foggy.

        ‘Bitte, nein, nein.’ He begins to involuntarily lean forward towards the swirl of colors.

        ‘Ich-ich brauche, I ... need, I need to...’ The door to his office opens, a familiar feeling of dread that leaves as quickly as it appeared as the vortex forces his mind to go blank. And before anything else could happen, he feels a warm cold hand touch his back, above his heart, before everything goes black.

        He can hear someone screaming. He’s not sure who but they sound familiar, He sounds familiar. There’s a woman yelling now, yelling for the man who's screaming. Flashes of a man with a slit throat laughing like a maniac with his hand through Henrik’s stomach. No. No not his stomach… but… who is it? Who is Anti-

        No. Nonononono. Not him not again. Please not again. The woman is behind He- the man yelling his name. Henrik can’t make it out but she’s getting closer at a rapid pace. He can feel the man become engulfed in dark green and red flames and a scream rips from Henrik's throat as he’s pulled away, a gold and silver swiping down at the demon before everything turns to black.

        “It’s time to wake up Henrik.”

        The man jolts awake at the soft but commanding voice.Taking in a deep breath of air, he reaches up ripping off the surgical mask as he quickly moves to his knees, dry heaving. When nothing comes up he slowly stands up, taking off the cap and shoving both the mask and cap into one of the pockets before looking around. 

        ‘I’m in a forest?’ He looks around seeing he’s definitely in a forest, it looks to be around right before the sun begins to set as well even though it was just midnight a second ago. He’s standing in a patch of green grass surrounded by trees and they all seem to have moss making some shapes on them, and upon closer inspection he could see that shapes were in the form of Spades, Hearts, Diamonds and Clubs, all pointing in the same direction.

        He goes to touch one, a Spade, when the sound of the earth shifting behind him causes him to snap around and reach for a scalpel in his lab coat pocket before realizing he forgot to grab one when he left work. There’s a path way now, in the direction the shapes are pointing. That definitely wasn’t there when he woke up a minute ago. He takes a deep breath and nearly chokes on the overwhelming smell of just… home. 

        Lemon cake with Lavender glaze in the spring, a garden full of more flowers than he could count in the summer, pumpkin pastries baking in the oven while we ‘we?’ sing at the top of our lungs, ‘Our?’ in autumn, and hot chocolate with freshly baked cookies of all kinds, my brothers, ‘I don’t…‘ and I just sit by a fire after being in the snow all day, ‘I’ve never…’ Listening to our wife sing songs softly. 

        ‘I-I don’t have- not anymore- no brothers-’

        “But you could.” A soft Irish voice with a bit of french speaks in his head feeling like it’s coming from the soul-mark on his forehead. It’s familiar, from a life before that ended to early and a new life interrupted by a monster.

        “All you have to do is keep walking. I promise.”

        ‘Keep walking?’ He hadn’t even realized he started and when he manages to force himself to focus long enough to see that he had indeed started walking and must have been for a few minutes by the looks of it.

        “Just follow the path Hen and I promise everything will be okay.” The voice whispers, bringing him a comfort he hasn't felt for a couple years.

        ‘Promise?’ The thought is barely a meek whisper, sounding much like a lost child, as visions of what could be, fills his head.

        “I promise.” And all at once, he snaps back to reality nearly passing out as he does so. Looking around frantically, he takes my surroundings seeing that the sun has set a bit more and he’s in a relatively well kept garden if not a bit overgrown, what looks to be hand laid stones cover everywhere that isn’t where the plants and flowers are, which smells exactly like the memory vision. He shivers slightly from the cold summer breeze as he looks at the manor in front of him, more of a castle really but he tries not to focus on the sheer intimidating size of the building as he cautiously approaches it.

        When he gets to the doors he can see that the carvings in the door are soulmarks, A phoenix, a splatter of yin and yang that looks like it might be two rather than one, a pair of feathered wings and now that think about it both the one that it reminds him of and the tear in space one where rather sore. The last soul marks are a Heart, Spade, Diamond and Club with all of them seemingly surrounded by three pairs of wings, obviously from the rip in space one if the stars carved into it were anything to go by.

        He takes a deep breath and he goes to knock but something stops me. He has no fucking idea why he does it but he grabs the handle to one of the doors and pushes it open. He’s immediately greeted by a small gust of wind as he walks in, the entrance room is huge, bigger than a house he’s sure, the floor seemed to be made of black, grey and white marble in star patterns all over, the walls were covered in knick knacks and paintings in some form of ordered Chaos. 

        There was a large staircase that led to two different directions with a painting of the carvings on the door only more realistic. He goes to walk to the stair from the center of the room but freezes when he feels two pairs of eyes staring at the back of his head. He quickly turns around, looking frantically for the source of the feeling before looking up in the rafters and for a moment, he swears he could see two people there, an adult male squatting in a red hoodie and jeans and a teenage girl(?) with a katana in her hand, staring down at him.

        He swallows nervously and he goes to call out for someone when the same voice that woke him up speaks.

        “Hello Henrik.” The doctor jumps, turning towards the stairs and at the top of them, there’s a woman wearing a black suit with crystals that form a skeleton four rings, two on a necklace and two on her ring finger. She had a sort of head piece, with the gem seeming to glow and swirl softly in the last bit of sunlight, half encasing her in shadow and a cane with one hand resting on it infront of her with one hand behind her back. 

        He can’t help but feel she looks familiar. He’s trying to remember where he’s seen her before, while trying to figure out why she’s here before he gets a flash of the furious women he saw in his dream(?). 

        ‘She’s the one who attacked Anti…’ He realizes before asking,

        “Who are you?” He tries his best to keep his voice calm while he watches her. She tilts her head to the side ever so slightly and he can see her eyes moving over his form. She pauses on his face for a second before speaking.

        “I am Death. And you are in my home.” She finally answered after a full minute. He feels both confusion and a sense of dread wash over him with her answer.

        “Your home?” He manages to get out although he quietly curses himself for the slight squeak in his voice. She nods her head once in confirmation, her eyes never once leaving the man.

        “Yes, I… brought you here. I suppose.” 

        ‘Why? Why in the hölle would this woman, who calls herself Death, bring me here.’

        “Why?” He manages to ask through all his confusion, mind racing a hundred miles an hour.

        “Because you were in danger.” She answered. What? How was he in danger… oh. Anti had found him.

        “You were searching for something that Septic wanted. Something that you, let alone it shouldn’t have.” How the hell does she know what he was looking for. Wait. Septic? He goes to ask her who Septic was but she interrupts him before he could.

        “Come with me. You’ve had a long day.” She begins to walk down the left hallway and he quickly rushes up the stairs to follow her.

        “Wait! Where the hell even am I?” She pauses for a second and he can see she has moved the hand behind her back in front of her, preventing him from seeing it. His first thought is she has a weapon but the ache on my back, part of where the rip in space ‘wing?’ rest, right behind my heart begs to differ.

        “You’re in Oregon doctor.” He feels my heart fall. How the hell is he going to explain this to Chase.

        “But don’t worry, you can still go back to Brighton in the morning.” Wait what?

        “Don’t worry about it.” She says as she begins to walk again just as he catches up with her. How did she-?

        “Your thoughts are very loud. You best keep them quiet if you don’t want me to hear them.” Now he’s even more confused. She can read minds? What kinda-

        “If you wish to keep your tongue I wouldn’t finish that thought.” Her tone holds a clear warning that sends a shiver down the doctor’s spine although that might be from the fact that he still feels as though he is being watched. He decides to just stay as quiet as possible as not to piss the woman who he vaguely remembers knowing Marvin in some way. She leads him down long hallways that are now lit by candles that barely seemed to melt. Although why candles and not something else is beyond him.

        He looks around a bit trying not to make it obvious as he looks at the knick knacks and paintings and mirrors lining the walls occasionally passing dark wooden doors with carvings in Greek in them along with what they are probably associated with. She finally stops in front of a door with nothing on it. 

        “You can stay here for the night.” She opens the door before letting him go in first and he does so hesitantly, not wanting his back turned to her. He looks around the large room decorated in browns, reds and golds, with a large four poster bed with what look to be heavy red curtains with different shades of gold sewn into intricate patterns, surrounding said bed. There is a large dark wood desk across the other side of the room with bookshelves on either side and by the windows was a sitting area most likely for reading and eating.

        He yawns finally realizing how tired he was and notices that he no longer feels the two pairs of eyes watching him anymore although he feels as if one of them had left before he walked into the room.

        “Get some sleep. I’ll bring you some food in the morning.” She states from behind him. He turns to her but she has already left closing the door and for some reason that leaves an aching hole in his chest and he doesn't know why. He looks around the room one last time before walking over to the bed, kicking off his shoes and sitting on it. He looks around the room before muttering to himself as he lays on the bed,

        “Worauf hast du dich eingelassen, Henrik?”

A/N: So the reason why paragraph(?) 17 is in first person is because they’re talking to Henrik.

Henrik’s translations:

Nein = No

Bitte, nein, nein = please no no

Ich-ich brauche = I-I Need

Hölle = Hell

Worauf hast du dich eingelassen, Henrik. = What have you gotten yourself into, Henrik.

What Liru was wearing.  shoplook.io/outfit-preview/1572509

Tags:

@kittican

@antis-gauge

@flowers-zombie-rob

@trixie8264

@animallover4000

@i-maybe-exist

@nightanjel

@thegamerbook

@smolbean-pma

@the-chemist

@therealtiger77

@immabethehero

@miblogowo

[dinoswrites]

Clothed in Light || Chapter 6: Corona

Arranged Marriage AU. Asra/Apprentice/Muriel. Ongoing.

| Previous | Masterpost | Next |

Content Warnings at the bottom of the post.

—

Kai stays with Muriel for four days before he’s well enough for her to return to her shop.

The whole first day she’s pretty sure he won’t even remember. After she cleans his wound he sleeps in fits and starts, until the yarrow starts to work and his fever breaks, sometime in the blackest hour of the night. She watches him sleep while she sits on the floor, her weak magelight catching in the lines of sweat that have run down his brow, a bowl of water on the floor beside her and the lepidolite pendant in her hand.

She thinks of Asra, over and over, clutching it so hard her knuckles are white. I want to speak to you. I want to speak to you. Please.

The bowl of water only shows her own reflection.

By the fourth day, Muriel is lucid. When there is a break in the rain, he mumbles something about checking on his chickens before going outside. As she packs up her belongings, and some shirts Muriel needs mended, she hears him chopping wood—even though she had explicitly told him not to strain himself. But she can only shake her head, wrap herself in her shawl, and throw her bag over her shoulder.

She hesitates in the doorway when she sees him. He’s shirtless now. The shirt he’d worn—the last one without any holes in it—had been so soaked through with his own blood that she had just burned the damn thing. She can see the long, jagged scar running across his side, pink and new against his skin. She couldn’t help the scar—he’d gone too long without help that she suspects even Aisha’s healing spells couldn’t have avoided it.

Muriel claims he doesn’t remember what made it, and she doesn’t know enough about healing to even guess. She doesn’t like it—she’s spent the last few days thinking of the oils she makes to reduce stretch marks for a few of her customers, and wondering if her aunt had anything written down about scars, and how to treat them.

As she stares at it now, at how it pulls at his skin when he moves, she can only think of finding him, curled up next to his weak fire, Inanna trying to keep him warm…

He turns, suddenly, and she hurriedly looks up at his face. He’s reaching up to wipe the sweat from his brow, his breathing heavy after only splitting a few logs. But he doesn’t look dizzy, she thinks, even as her gaze drops to his lips—slightly parted, as he catches his breath.

A thought occurs to her, rogue and unbidden—she knows exactly how they feel against hers.

Muriel’s brow furrows.

Her face grows warm, and she busies herself with the strap of her bag. “I’ll mend your shirts for you,” she blurts, “though I think you’ll need new ones soon.”

It takes him a moment to respond. “Don’t bother. They’ll just rip again.”

“You need to wear a shirt, Muriel.”

He ignores her. She hears him grunt, and when she glances up he’s bending down to set another log for chopping.

“I’ll tell Asra you’re feeling better.”

He lets out a short breath.

She wrings her hands together. She can’t stop looking at his lips.

“Do you. Um.”

He does not look at her. He just raises the axe over his head, and cleaves the log in two. “What?”

She bites her lip. “Nothing. I’ll—I’ll bring you something for that scar tomorrow. Okay?”

Muriel looks like he’s about to say something. But he glances over at her, and his expression softens. He meets her gaze for a moment—just a moment—before he looks back down. “Thanks.”

“I can come back tonight if you want. You can—you can come with me, now. If you want.”

He looks down at the axe. And then he bends down, picks up another log, and places it on his stump. “Have to chop wood.”

“Oh. Okay.” She grips the strap of her bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He does not reply.

It’s a long, lonely walk home. The rain picks up again when she reaches the city, and Cinis cries until she lets him ride on her shoulders, under her barrier.

When she finally reaches her shop, she can feel the full effects of sleeping on the floor for the last three nights—when she’d slept at all. She locks the door behind her while Cinis jumps off her shoulder to the counter.

He makes a curious mrr noise, low in his throat. Then she hears him pawing at something, making it scrape across the glass.

When she turns, he’s knocked a little wooden figure over. She shoos him away, and ignores his chatter of complaint as she reaches down to right it. A bear, she sees—and with it a jaguar, with a delicate tail and intricately etched spots. Both of them sitting next to the note she left for Asra.

She looks around, but there’s no fox figure to go with them.

“Oh, Asra,” she says, softly. She runs a hand through her hair, and takes a long, deep breath.

She takes the figurines upstairs with her. She places them on her dresser, and then makes Cinis promise not to knock them over. She finds the uneaten pumpkin bread Asra dropped on the floor, and Cinis chases the mice it’s attracted with glee while she gets rid of it. She gets water from the garden and scrubs herself down, and combs oils through her hair, and then dresses herself in a clean nightgown before she collapses into her bed.  

She doesn’t fall asleep right away—Cinis curls up at the small of her back, and she lies on her side and stares up at the figurines. How they were carved to fit together, so perfectly…

And she can’t help but think of a conversation she had with her aunt, five years ago now. Jay had been leaning on the windowsill, Zaru on her shoulder, and Kalani had been searching for scissors to clip the aloe plant.

That Muriel’s awfully protective of you and Asra, isn’t he?

What do you mean?

Oh, you know. He and Asra have known each other for so long, they must be very close.

Close?

And Asra plays the doting spouse better than most married couples I know. They’re good kids, Kai. You’re luckier than you know to have fallen in with them.

All of Muriel’s lingering glances, why he would stick around Vesuvia at all if he hated the city so much… She had thought her aunt was telling her that Muriel was in love with Asra—it had seemed so obvious at the time.

And he is. In love with Asra. Beautiful Asra, who looks like moonlight come to life, and laughs like a bubbling stream. Brilliant Asra, who invents spells she’s never heard of and married her to save her from her father when he barely knew who she was. Asra who is perfect for Muriel in every way, so much that it makes her heart hurt that she can’t just tell him.

But Muriel kissed her.

She thinks of Asra’s face, the way he looked like he had so desperately been trying not to cry… She tugs at the lepidolite pendant, but it’s still cold in her hand.

“I think I screwed up,” she whispers to Cinis.

He stirs a little. Then he stretches, and gets up, climbs over her and burrows under her arm to stretch alongside her chest, tucking his face into her neck.

Think too much, he tells her, sleepily.

She sighs. “Easy for you to say.”

It is, he agrees. And then he burrows a little closer to her, and starts to purr. He keeps purring until her exhaustion catches up with her, and she finally closes her eyes and slips off to a deep, dreamless sleep.

 --

The next morning, she does not light the lamp outside. She gets right to work on a salve for Muriel—she has an oil for him to work into the skin, and she’s just pouring the last of a salve she thinks will reduce the appearance of the scar into a jar when she hears someone banging on the door.

“Miss Kai!” Trevor calls through the door. “Miss Kai! Are you in there?”

She screws the lid on the jar with a sigh. “If I were his mother I’d have migraines too,” she grumbles to Cinis.

Cinis quickly jumps from the bookshelf to his favourite spot in the rafters, chittering in excitement the whole while.

“Don’t jump on him,” she scolds, skirting around the counter to head to the door. She opens it, and Trevor stands on the doorstep, hand raised to pound on the door again.

“Miss—Miss Kai! Oh good, you’re home! I came last night but you weren’t here, I was so worried!”

“Hello, Trevor. Did your mother run out of tea again?”

“Oh—oh no, it’s not my Mom. It’s Em, my sister? She’s got this fever, and her nose is running, and she’s not eating…”

He looks beside himself with worry. So Kalani smiles, and steps aside to let him in. “It sounds like something the dock kids all caught last week. She’s made some new friends?”

“You… could say that. She keeps trying to fight them, Miss Kai, it’s making my mother tear her hair out.”

She can’t help a laugh. “She’s definitely making friends. Hang on, I think I still have something left…”

“Thanks so much. You’re a lifesaver.”

She finds the appropriate drawer, and opens it to find it still well stocked—she’d made a bag batch, expecting a second wave of sniffly-nosed dock kids sheepishly knocking on her door. Though she supposes Trevor won’t be the only hand-wringing big brother knocking, if his little sister has spread it to the other children.

“Brew this like your mother’s tea,” she tells him, handing over a small satchel. “Shouldn’t need more than that, the other cases all cleared up after a couple days. Make sure she drinks lots of clean water, and that she gets plenty of rest until she feels better.”

He clutches it to his chest, and then digs around in his pocket. “I will, definitely. Listen, I sort of don’t have any money on me…”

“Bring me an apple sometime,” she tells him, fondly.

Before Trevor can reply, Muriel bursts through the open door, Inanna hot on his heels.

Trevor scrambles backwards to get out of his way, while Muriel looks directly to Kalani at the counter, his eyes wide, his face pale.

“Muriel?” she blurts, looking him up and down. He’s just thrown his cloak over his shoulders, and he’s still not wearing a shirt, so she can see his chest heaving, as if he’s been running. “What’s wrong? I told you not to strain yourself—”

“We have to go,” he says, coming around the counter to take her hand. He holds it tighter than normal, and his hand is shaking. “Now.”

“Go?” she parrots, while Cinis yowls in irritation from the rafters. “Go where? Is Asra in trouble?”

He starts to gently, but urgently, guide her towards the door. “We all are. We have to get Asra and go before it’s too late.”

“Muriel—what?” She stands her ground, and resists his tugging when he tries to lead her out the door. “What is going on?”

He tugs again, gently, but his eyes are wild. He’s terrified, she realises, more than she’s ever seen him.

“The helmet,” he says. “I found it. He—the man who attacked me. He’s coming this way.”

Before she can shake her head and ask Muriel for any more details, the lepidolite hanging around her neck grows warm. She reaches for it, and Muriel’s eyes grow even wider.

“Asra,” she says.

She tugs Muriel back into the shop, and leads him back into the garden.

Even before she casts a barrier over the reflecting pool, she can see Asra’s image trying to form in its rainfall-distorted surface. She and Muriel crouch over it, hearing Asra’s warped voice slowly settle as the water draws still.

“… been ignoring you please I need to talk to you.”

“Asra!”

“Kai! Muriel!” He glances over his shoulder, and Kai can hear the clamor of voices rising from somewhere behind him. She can make out the council chamber behind him—the colour of everything is off, though, and it takes her a moment to realise that he’s talking to her through a cup of tea.

He leans in closer, so close his breath casts tiny ripples all over the image of his face as he whispers, “You need to get out of the city as soon as you can. They’re going to close the gates and I don’t know how much time is left—”

“Asra, what’s going on?”

“There’s an army heading this way,” Asra says. “They’ll reach the city before noon. There’s—there’s so many, Kai, please, you need to go.”

“We have an army too,” she starts to say, but Muriel puts a hand on her shoulder.

“They’re marauders,” he explains. “They… they leave nothing behind, Kai. Nothing.”

“Marauders?” Trevor calls. When she looks up, he’s standing in the doorway, wringing his hands. “That uh. That sounds bad. Coming here?”

“Go into the woods,” Asra says. “You and Muriel. I’ll—I have to stay with Mom and Dad, but you—you have to go, please.”

But she just keeps looking at Trevor. His face pale, his eyes wide, his throat bobbing as he swallows, the satchel clutched in his white-knuckled fist.

They leave nothing behind.

“I’m not leaving,” she says.

“Kai, I didn’t hear you—”

“I’m not leaving this city.” She turns back down to Asra’s projected image. “We’re coming to you. Stay put.”

“Kai—”

She splashes reflecting pool as hard as she can, and Asra’s spell falters, and fails.

She hurries back inside. She goes under the counter and pulls out the crate that holds all her bandage and poultice supplies, puts it on the counter, and grabs the blue fabric someone had traded her too for good measure. She grabs everything that could be used to wrap a wound or stop bleeding, and then she thrusts it all into Trevor’s arms.

“Uh? Miss Kai?”

“Go straight to your mother,” she tells him. “You get her and you get home, and you do not open your door for anything. Right?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Right—what’s all this for?”

She takes a deep breath. Then she pulls a key out of her pocket, and hands it to him. “This key will get you in the back door. You’ll have to climb the back wall, but Asra’s got hand holds carved out. Look for those.”

“I thought you said don’t leave—”

“Your mother’s tea is in this drawer, here—see where I’m pointing?”

Tears are starting to form in his eyes. “But—I can’t grab that, not without paying…”

“All my records are here,” she continues, pointing to a slim shelf Muriel had built her. “Bring someone here who can read. They can help you figure out how to mix more. This—” she pulls out a slim book, in her own neat handwriting and filled with Asra’s meticulous diagrams, and tucks it into the box, “is full of wound treatments. It tells you how to stop bleeding, how to keep a wound from gangrene, and how to keep a fever down. Are you listening?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand—”

“When the fighting stops, I need you and your mother to help as many people as you can. When you run out of supplies, bring them here, and get more where you can. Okay? Can you do that for me, Trevor?”

He goes still for a moment. He considers her, and she considers him—fifteen, she thinks, and it breaks her heart a little.

“Only until you come back,” he says, his voice breaking. “When—when you come back, you’ll show us how to do it right. Okay?”

She throws her arms around his shoulders, tugging him into a hug so fierce that the box he’s holding digs painfully into her chest.

“Now go,” she tells him. “Tell your mother everything I told you. Go!”

Trevor bolts into the street while Muriel hovers uncertainly over her shoulder.

She takes a deep, shaking breath. Muriel takes her hand again, and she returns his grip, tight and firm, before she steps out into the street, and locks the door behind them.

 --

Asra doesn’t think it’s ever been this loud in the council room.

Everyone is talking over each other all at once, constantly. Messengers are running in and out at a frantic pace, and someone keeps bringing tea but Asra’s had three cups already and he’s too jittery by far to drink any more. So he stands to the side of everything, his back to windows and the plains that stretch beyond the palace, and tries his best to stay out of the way.

His hand keeps going to the lapis hanging from his throat—and he hopes beyond all hope that Muriel has talked some sense into Kai, and they have left.

Faust is hiding in his scarf, trembling with worry.

His mother and father are looking over a map of the palace she’s conjured from air. The Courtiers have been huddling over it and dealing with the messengers as best they can in turns.

But the count only stands next to Asra at the window. He does not face the chaos in the room; instead he looks out at the mercenary army assembling in the fields in the shadow of the palace. His hands are clasped behind his straight, straight back, his expression utterly blank in a way that strikes Asra as strangely, hauntingly familiar.

“The shield spells haven’t been tested,” Salim is saying. “And we only have enough repeaters for the palace, not the city.”

The Pontifex is pacing, and he’s chewed his thumb nail down to nothing. “What is the progress on the installation of the repeaters we do have?”

“We are at fifty percent,” Aisha replies. She waves her hand, and a number of spots on the map light up.

“And how many hits could the shields take?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” Salim pushes his glasses further up his nose with a shaking hand. “We don’t know. Magical attacks? Physical attacks? I don’t have an answer for you because there isn’t one. This shield system is purely theoretical, we have no idea if it will even work at all at a large scale—”

“Then why are we building it?”

“Because you demanded it!”

“Enough,” Aisha snaps, right as the Pontifex and Salim look about to descend into a new wave of bickering. “We don’t have much time. Have the citizens been alerted?”

The Consul, in the middle of accepting a report from a messenger, speaks without even looking up. “Lady Aisha, we have sent runners telling people to return to their homes. All entrances to the city and the palace have been barred and are under guard, and our troops are assembled and awaiting further orders.”

The messenger gives a shallow bow, then leaves—and Asra can see them reach the door out of the corner of his eye, and can see them pause, then step aside and hold it open with another, more formal bow.

His breath catches in his throat, and he turns just as Kai and Muriel walk through the door.

Kai is wearing one of her formal gowns—deep blue, with ivory accents—and has hastily tied up some of her hair, and just enough makeup not to look suspicious. The only visible jewellery she wears is a pair of ruby earrings, though he can spy a brief shimmer that must be the silver chain of the lepidolite necklace where she’s tucked it into her dress.

Muriel stands behind her, in that guard’s uniform he wears every Masquerade. He appears to have slicked back his hair with water, in a hurry, as it’s already starting to revert to its usual messy state. He does not wear his mask, and Asra can read how overwhelmed Muriel is as clear as day as he surveys the rooms with wide, panicked eyes.

“Oh good,” the Pontifex exclaims. “The spineless one finally decided to show up.”

Kai narrows her eyes at him. She looks about to say something cutting, but she bites her lip instead, her hands balling into fists.

Asra can’t see Cinis, as he’s not riding on her shoulder, but he can hear the cat’s low, angry growl.

“I’m here to help in any way I can,” is what she finally says, her voice shaking.

The count tenses, for half a heartbeat—and then his shoulders droop, ever so slightly, his eyes slipping shut.

“You can help by staying out of the way,” the Pontifex snaps.

“You’ll not speak to my daughter in law like that,” Aisha informs him icily.

“Kalani, I’m glad you’re here,” Salim says. “Could you show me that trick you did with my work lamp? I need to make it work on a much larger scale, very quickly.”

Kai’s eyes grow wide. She takes a deep, steadying breath, then nods. “Of—of course. I’ll try my best. Does anyone have paper?”

As Kai and Salim huddle over the table, Kai drawing on the back of a map with charcoal and Muriel hovering nearby, Asra feels his uncle’s hand clasp over his shoulder.

His uncle is trying to smile—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Count Sahir,” someone yells from the door. “I have—I have a message from the mercenary army.”

Everyone turns at once. There’s a messenger standing at the door, holding a missive. She hesitates, as the cacophony in the room dies down to an utter silence, before clearing her throat nervously, and looking back to the count.

Sahir nods. “Speak. Please.”

“It’s—it’s the leader. Their… warlord, he calls himself. He says he wishes to enter the city with a small party, for an audience with the court.”

“Interesting.” Sahir’s eyes narrow. “And did he say what he wished that audience for?”

The messenger swallows. “He… he wishes to challenge you to a duel, my lord.”

The room erupts into a cacophony of noise. Everyone seems to be shouting all at once—the Pontifex declares that they will fight in the Count’s stead, and actually moves to draw their sword before the Consul yells to think about where they are. Salim seems to be trying to get everyone to calm down, and Aisha looks to Asra, her face drawn with worry.

Kai is holding Muriel’s hand in a white-knuckled grip, looking at Asra with a frightened expression.

Muriel, however, is looking at the Count—his brows furrowed in confusion.

“That will be enough,” Sahir says, loud enough that everyone stalls, and the noise starts to die down again. “Pontifex, send your most trusted soldiers to escort this warlord to the great hall.”

Aisha looks stricken. “Sahir, you can’t mean—”

“I mean to resolve this with as little bloodshed as possible,” Sahir interrupts her, his hand falling from Asra’s shoulder. “If this warlord wants a duel, then he shall have it—if it means Vesuvia is spared any amount of violence, then that is the course we will take.”

“But, my lord,” the Pontifex starts. “Our armies can handle this. With no danger to you at all—”

“I have made my decision.” The count finally steps forward, and crosses the room in quick, even strides. He hesitates a moment as he passes Kai, though Asra can’t see his expression.

Sahir leans in, a hand on her shoulder, and whispers something in her ear.

And then he pulls away, and walks right out of the room, without looking at or saying anything to anyone on his way.

Cinis jumps up on Kai’s shoulder—and she pets his fur absently, frowning, while Asra makes his way over to her. She doesn’t notice him until he very gently touches her arm, and then she reaches for his hand, squeezing tight.

She’s still holding Muriel’s. Luckily, everyone seems too busy to notice as they file out of the room, following the Count.

“There’s a back way out,” Asra whispers in her ear. “It’s magic, I don’t think anyone knows about it. I can lead you out.”

Kai takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Her hand is shaking in his.

Muriel shifts his weight, leaning closer. “These people… they chased my family away from our home. The Count can’t win against him. We have to go.”

Asra shoots Muriel a grateful glance. “Muriel will protect you, it’s okay—”

“Can you get every single person in this city out your secret back way? Every servant in this palace?”

Asra stalls.

She opens her eyes, and meets his gaze directly, without hesitation. There’s a determination in her eyes he can’t remember ever seeing before this moment—and it burns in her aura like a spark, like a match struck in the dark, a single flame growing brighter with each passing moment.

“This city is my home,” she tells him. “I won’t abandon it. Not when I could have helped.”

She drops his and Muriel’s hands, and in a whirl of navy and ivory fabric she storms off after the Count.

 --

The warlord named Lucio arrives at Vesuvia’s court with two of his own warriors, flanked on all sides by city guards.

He wears a bright red coat, with a dramatic cape hanging over his left arm from a heavy cowl of fur. He grins at everyone he sees as he is led into the room with a too-large smile that does not reach his eyes.

The court is silent as he approaches. No one whispers—no one says anything at all.

Asra keeps looking over at Kai. She’s sitting on her chair next to his, fingernails digging into the armrests. Cinis is perched on its back, and the little cat seems to grow a little larger, his shadow a little darker, and his eyes a little brighter with each step Lucio takes closer to the Count’s throne, and the chairs of his family around him.

Muriel stands off to the side, just in Asra’s line of sight—he had tried to stand behind Kai’s chair, but the Pontifex barked at him to stand with the other guards. He sticks out among them, easily the tallest in the room by far, and every time Asra glances at Kai he can see Muriel too, and he looks terrified.

“Let’s get down to business, then,” Lucio says without preamble, standing before the count.

“I believe expediency would be prudent,” the count agrees.

Lucio flashes that eerie, utterly unfriendly smile. “Alright then, here’s the deal—you have a city. I’ve decided I’d like it. I’m prepared to slaughter every man, woman, and child in it to get it, but I’ll settle for a friendly duel with you. That expedient enough for you?”

Asra’s stomach twists. He glances sideways at his uncle, but the count only nods sagely, and smiles politely.

“Of course. However—as you might have noticed, I am not precisely in as such peak physical condition as yourself.”

Lucio just keeps grinning. “Few are.”

“Would you permit, perhaps, duelling someone from my family in my stead? Any of them would be willing to stand against you in battle—each a talented magician, an equal match for your sword.”

For the first time since walking into the room, Lucio pauses and takes them all in. His gaze sweeps over Asra’s family, one by one—the count, on his left Aisha and then Salim, and then to his right Asra, then Kai.

His gaze rests a moment longer on Kai. His eyes narrow, and he tilts his head slightly before looking back once more to Sahir.

“And I would choose?” he drawls, low and calculated.

A chill runs up Asra’s spine. Faust curls tighter around his neck.

Uncle Sahir’s polite smile has not faltered once. “Certainly.”

“And when I win, you agree to give the city over to me?”

“In the event of your victory, the rest of my family would leave the city immediately and you would be free to do with it as you wished. However, in the event of our victory, you and your army would agree to vacate Vesuvia and its territories entirely, harming none of its lands or people.”

Lucio doesn’t even seem to be giving a thought to the possibility of losing. “And the duel will be to the death?”

At that, his uncle hesitates. Only for half a heartbeat, and his eyes narrow slightly, as if finally pausing to take the measure of the man before him.

“You don’t want to do that, son,” Sahir says, softly.

Lucio’s smile twists, just enough that it almost looks like a snarl of rage, before shifting back again. “To the death. I insist.”

Sahir sighs. “Very well,” he says, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. “Which of my family—”

Lucio draws his sword and, with a grand flourish, points the tip directly at Kai. “That one.”

Asra launches to his feet. “No!”

“Absolutely not!” Salim shouts.

“Coward!” Aisha spits.

Cinis hisses, all his fur on end and appearing nearly twice his normal size as he arches his back. Kai doesn’t even move—she just stares at Lucio with an expression that reminds Asra of when she was brought to court by her father, all those years ago.

Lucio’s grin only grows. “I suppose her little cat can help, too.”

“I’ll fight in her stead,” Asra insists, looking Lucio dead in the eye. “Unless you’re scared of a real challenge.”

“Sit down, Asra,” Sahir says, not even glancing away from Lucio.

“No—”

“Asra,” Kai says, and he immediately turns back to her.

She’s standing, slowly, a growling Cinis already stepping onto her shoulder. She reaches up to touch his fur with a trembling hand, and he gives up on glaring at Lucio a moment to rub his face against her cheek.

“He gets to choose,” she continues, her voice shaking. “Those are the terms.”

“They’re bullshit,” Asra starts to say—but Kai reaches for his hand, and pulls him close so she can tuck their joined hands against her chest.

He can feel the frantic beating of her heart under her skin. He reaches, instinctively, for the small of her back, guiding her closer still—as if this is another masquerade, and they’re just dancing.

She rests her head against his chest, and he buries his face in her hair. She’s not wearing her perfume—she smells like sweat, and dust, and fear—but he closes his eyes and breathes her in all the same, his fingers curling into the small of her back, his heart racing to match the pace hers sets, under their joined hands.

Faust pokes her head out of Asra’s scarf, and tries to nuzzle Kai’s cheek.

“Faust,” she says, her voice breaking, “look after Asra.”

“Don’t do this,” he whispers.

She takes a shuddering breath. “Asra, I—”

Lucio’s voice rings out in the utter silence of the room. “I’m waiting.”

Whatever she had been about to say, her courage seems to have vanished. She shakes her head, and whispers, “Take care of Muriel,” before pulling back with great reluctance.

He tries, desperately, to hold her hand. To keep her close—he tries to say her name but there are so many people watching, both her names just catch on his tongue and he can’t say either. So he just stares after her, uselessly, as his fingertips catch on hers for half a heartbeat before she slips away.

“Finally,” Lucio drawls with a smile, lifting his sword to rest the blade on his shoulder. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Asra perches on the edge of his chair. His fingernails dig deep gouges into the armrests.

Kai stands uncertainly across the marble floor from Lucio. Cinis rubs his face against her cheek, and she takes a deep, unsteady breath, before nodding once.

When the duel is called, Lucio launches himself at Kai without a moment’s hesitation.

She raises a barrier—Lucio’s sword collides against it, sending sparks of magic flying through the air, but it holds.

Cinis darts around her, unnoticed by Lucio as he takes another swing.

Kai’s knees buckle, but again the barrier holds. Asra can see her mouth twist in determination, and her barrier flares as she pours more magic to it.

But Lucio only grins—and he lurches forward, reaching with his left arm, previously covered by his cape. The moment his arm comes in contact with the barrier, Kai’s magic flares—and his cape blows backwards from the force of it, exposing an arm made of metal instead of flesh, and glowing brightly with magic.

It’s hardly elegant. It’s an ugly thing made of large ungainly cogs and unfinished iron. But it is enchanted, and it does function—and each finger is tipped with long, pointed claws, which dig into the surface of Kai’s barrier, no matter how bright it flares.

Kai must see her barrier about to fail, because she sidesteps as she drops it.

Lucio turns on his heel and reaches for her. She scrambles backwards, and his claws tear a long gash through the sleeve of her dress.

As she stumbles away, clutching her arm, Asra sees drops of blood on the white tile at her feet.

Lucio laughs.

“Is that all you have, little magician?” he taunts. He starts to circle her, swinging his sword in a lazy arc. “You’ll have to do better than that if—”

Cinis, nothing more than a tiny streak of black fur and angry orange eyes, launches himself at the back of Lucio’s head.

Lucio screams. He nearly drops his sword, and reaches up with his metal hand to try to get Cinis off—but the cat’s too fast, moving over to Lucio’s right side and shredding the side of his neck with his claws, spitting and snarling.

Kai throws her arm out, and the ground below Lucio begins to shift. The tiles tremble, then crack, and then burst open entirely to reveal old, gnarling tree roots. They snake out of the floor at an unnatural speed, winding around Lucio’s legs. He tries to slash at them, furiously, but the roots snake up and around his arm, surprisingly resilient, and he is forced to let the weapon go as it is slowly, steadily, encased in a living prison.

Cinis sinks his teeth into Lucio’s ear, and tears half of it clean off.

Lucio howls in rage and pain. Now that both his hands are free he reaches for Cinis, but the cat only leaps off his shoulder and dashes away. He spits the ear out on the floor, and Asra swears he’s never seen that cat look so smug in his life, blood dripping from his mouth and claws.

The roots start to wind up Lucio’s sword arm—and he curses, yanking hard, as the roots curl tighter and tighter around him, trying to pin his arm to his side. He claws at them with his metal arm—iron claws raking into the roots, yanking and pulling, but he can’t seem to tear them apart fast enough. They keep growing, and curling, and winding tighter around him, no matter how frantically he tries to free himself.

Cinis jumps on the back of his neck again, tearing into his exposed skin. Lucio snarls, swiping with his claws—but the cat only jumps away again, skidding on the floor, and darting around to Lucio’s back, his tail flicking as he waits for his next chance to strike.

“Yield!” Kai shouts, as the roots finally pin Lucio’s sword arm to his side. “I don’t want to kill you!”

But Lucio only barks out a low, frantic laugh. He holds his iron arm out—and a strange, cold white light begins to seep out through all its seams, casting Lucio’s face in twisted, gnarling shadows.

“You think this is over, little girl?” he taunts. “We’re just getting started.”

He tears through the roots pinning him in place with one mighty swipe of his claws.

Kai takes a step back, startled.

Lucio lunges for her.

She throws up a barrier—but Lucio slams his now-gleaming fist into it, and Asra watches as it simply vanishes. Lucio’s fist carries through, striking Kai square in the jaw. She hits the floor with a cry.

Asra launches to his feet.

Uncle Sahir grabs his wrist. “Sit down, Asra,” he hisses.

Asra yanks once, hard, unable to tear his eyes from the fight—but his uncle does not let go.

Lucio stalks after Kai—and Asra watches as Kai tries to scramble backwards, roots popping up between the cracks in the tile and trying to tangle around Lucio’s legs, but he’s moving too fast for them to find any purchase.

Just as he reaches her, and raises his arm, Cinis leaps up at the back of his neck again.

This time, however, Lucio whirls, striking Cinis with the back of his iron hand.

“Cinis!” Kai screams.

Cinis flies backwards and hits the ground, hard, sliding across the tile. Asra watches, heart in his throat, as Cinis scrambles to his feet, a low and pained growl building in his throat. Louder, Asra thinks, than any cat he’s ever heard before.

Lucio pauses to look down at the cat. And then his face splits into a wild grin, and he starts to walk over to Cinis with heavy, angry strides.

“No!” Kai shouts. She grabs at his heel to try and stop him—only for Lucio to kick back.

Asra hears the crunch of her nose as his metal boot collides with it. She cries out in pain, but tries to hold on anyway—until Lucio stomps on her hand, hard, and Asra hears the bones of her fingers snap before she screams.

The count yanks hard on Asra’s wrist. “Sit down!”

Faust is a writhing mess of wordless panic and misery in his scarf.

Asra watches as Lucio strides over to Cinis—as the cat’s growls grow lower, and louder, and all the fur on his tiny little body seems to stand higher, and higher, and his eyes glow brighter, and brighter.

“Nothing personal,” Lucio tells Cinis. “But you’re putting up a much better fight than the girl.”

Lucio raises his arm, claws splayed.

Kai screams.

Cinis’s eyes go white—and then all of a sudden, he bursts into flames.

It’s like the entire room grows smithy-hot in the space of a single heartbeat. Asra can feel every single person in the room reel back from the intensity of it, of the flame burning where Cinis once stood.

And, as Lucio takes an uncertain step back, that flame grows, starts to take shape—and then launches itself at his face with an ear-splitting roar.

Lucio hits the floor, and there is a massive, white-hot cat pinning him there, flames rolling off his fur as he bares his teeth, molten spit dripping down onto Lucio’s face.

Asra can see Lucio’s armour start to sizzle and melt under the heat of the cat’s paws.

Cinis? Faust whispers with awe, peeking her head out of Asra’s scarf.

Lucio’s grin has only gotten wilder, and more frantic. He swipes at Cinis’s side with his claws, and the cat has to shift to dodge it—giving Lucio the space he needs to roll out from under the cat.

Cinis starts to circle Lucio, growling low in his throat. Lucio scrambles to his feet, and spares a glance backwards towards where the roots still have his sword trapped—close to Kai, out of reach.

Kai has pulled herself up into a sitting position, clutching her hand to her chest, blood streaming down her face, her eyes wide with wonder as she stares at Cinis.

“Alright,” Lucio says. He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “That’s a first.”

Cinis snarls—and launches himself at Lucio.

Lucio brings his iron arm up—and he staggers under the weight of Cinis as the great cat locks his jaw onto Lucio’s wrist. Cinis starts to burn brighter, and Asra watches the metal under his teeth begin to burn, orange to yellow to white hot—

Lucio turns as he falls back, swinging his arm hard to the side with a yell. Cinis lands on all four paws, raking great burning claw marks in the tile as he skids to a halt.

Lucio is already on his feet—and as Cinis launches himself again, Lucio grabs the clasp of his heavy red cloak and throws it at Cinis before turning tail and bolting for his sword.

It gives Cinis only a moment’s pause—the heavy fur cowl of the cloak takes a precious minute to burn as Cinis claws at it, snarling. The skin at the back of Asra’s neck rises at the smell of burning fur filling the room, just as Cinis knocks the smoking cowl aside and chases after Lucio.

Lucio reaches the sword. He rips it out of the roots, and whirls to face Cinis again.

Lucio takes a swing—Cinis deflects it with one massive paw, and advances.

Lucio claws at Cinis’s face—and Cinis catches his metal claws in his teeth, clenching down with his massive jaw. He yanks, hard, digging claws into the smoking tile. Lucio falls, sprawling on the ground, and Cinis lunges for his throat—

And Lucio thrusts his sword into Cinis’s side.

Cinis roars in pain.

Kai screams.

Lucio throws the cat off him—and Asra watches an arc of white-hot blood in the air as Lucio pulls the sword out, and he watches as Cinis falls, tries to get up, and then falls again. His flames weaken, then flicker, and then die out—leaving only a black panther on the floor, his side rising and falling in desperate, steadily weakening gasps for air.

Lucio’s sword is twisted beyond recognition—the edge dulled by the heat of Cinis’s blood, and then the rapid cooling as the temperature room in the drops as the cat’s flames fail. Lucio doesn’t look much better: there’s blood smeared all over the side of his face from his ear, down his neck and onto his armour. The armour looks like it’s been crushed and then tossed into a fire it’s so dented and burnt, partially melted in places, and looks to be physically paining him as he rolls his arm, then his neck.

He pants for breath as he stands over Cinis, his eyes wild, his grin splitting his face nearly in two.

“Nice try,” he spits out, raising his sword above his head.

The tiles beneath his feet split open, knocking his balance off-centre, and more tree roots start to grow through the cracks.

As Lucio stumbles back, trying to catch his footing, Kai throws her whole body at his side.

They both go tumbling, sprawling onto the floor. Kai tries to grab his sword, but her broken hand hinders her, and Lucio uses the pommel to hit her in the forehead. It collides with a crack, and she’s stunned enough for Lucio to simply grab her with his metal arm and throw her to the floor.

Asra tries to yank free of his uncle’s grasp—but Sahir is steady, his grip on Asra’s wrist unflinching.

Kai rolls a few feet, before lying still.

Lucio digs his sword tip into the broken tile. He leans on it as he stands, breathing heavily. He’s not so much grinning now as bearing his teeth, as he takes the few unsteady steps that separate him from Kai.

“Bravo,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Bra-fucking-vo. Made me fight for my goddamn city, didn’t you? Made it hard.”

Kai doesn’t move. Lucio kicks her shoulder, and she rolls onto her back with a pained whimper.

Cinis tries to move—his muscles twitch in an aborted attempt to stand, and he lets out a low, ragged breath that sounds like it was supposed to be a growl.

“I was just going to cut your head off,” Lucio says, reaching down and closing his iron hand around Kai’s throat. “But I think I’ll make it hard for you, too.”

“Kai!’ Asra screams.

Lucio lifts her in the air by her throat.

“Hang on!” Asra cries, finally breaking free of his uncle’s grip. “Kai I’m coming hang on—”

Someone grabs him from behind—and he throws out a burst of energy, a wild and unformed spell, trying to throw them back. But they are unaffected by his attempt, only gripping him tighter as Asra’s magic slides off their armour.

“You interfere and you’ve killed us all, idiot child!” the Pontifex hisses in his ear.

He hears a commotion off where Muriel stands, cursing and shouting and scuffling and swords being drawn, and he hears someone big collide with the floor. Muriel, he knows, his heart racing in his chest—but he can’t look away from Kai, her legs dangling in the air, tearing her fingernails on Lucio’s iron arm as he holds her, as her face grows darker, and darker, as her breaths begin to wheeze and her attempts to pry herself free grow weaker—

“Kill me instead!” Asra screams. “Let her go, kill me instead!”

The magic in Lucio’s arm burns brighter, and he tightens his grip.

Asra can’t look away. He doesn’t want to see this but he can’t look away—

She takes one last ragged, wheezing breath. And then her expression falls slack, and Asra can see her eyes turn from umber to orange, to red, to yellow, to blinding white—

Lucio grins and grins—holding her without pause, without remorse, as her limbs go slack and her arms hang useless at her sides. But still she meets his gaze, her eyes burning, holding her breath as Lucio’s expression twists, and his feral smile begins to falter.

“What—” he starts to ask, before he chokes. His free hand goes to his throat, his expression rapidly shifting to confusion, and then alarm, and then terror.

He drops Kai on the floor, and starts to frantically claw at his armour.

Kai hits the floor, gasping for breath. Without hesitating, she starts to crawl over to Cinis, her whole body wracked as she coughs and gasps and tries to breathe, in between choking on her own sobs.

Lucio stumbles backwards. He tries to get off his breastplate, but it’s melted shut. He claws so furiously at his neck that he draws blood—and Asra can see his skin there start to light up, as if there is some light source just under its surface…

He tries to scream—but only smoke pours out of his throat, and light from a flickering flame burning somewhere inside him.

Burning him alive from the inside out.

The entire court watches Lucio claw at his skin. They watch him try to stumble towards Kai, only to fall onto the floor in a heap of metal and writhing limbs.

Kai has reached Cinis, and is halfway through curling protectively over his side as she turns, and meets Lucio’s gaze.

Asra cannot see the man’s expression as the flames burning his insides start to consume his whole body. Asra cannot see what passes over Lucio’s face as his armour melts into his flesh, as the magic in his iron arm burns brighter and brighter before faltering, and growing dark. As the arm itself begins to break in the heat, and twist, before it, too, melts. As the flames course over his entire body, and his skull caves in, and the fire consumes him, down to his last shred of clothing.

Kai does not look away. She doesn’t even blink.

When the fire dies, all that is left of Lucio is melted iron and ash.

Cinis twitches, trying to rise. Kai turns back to him, finally, pressing her shaking hands against his wound, but she does not try to heal him. “It’s okay,” she tries to say, her voice ragged and scraping. “You did so good, I’m so sorry, it’s—”

Asra shakes free of the Pontifex’s hold. He bolts down to Kai, scrambling over tree roots and broken tiles, and he kneels on the floor and reaches for her.

“Kai,” he says, softly. “Kai—”

“Help him,” Kai blurts, her tears mixing with the blood on her face. “Asra, please, help him.”

She takes his hands and presses them to Cinis’s wound. Asra’s stomach turns—it’s a lot of blood, and it feels hotter than blood should be. But Cinis is still breathing—so Asra closes his eyes, and tries to calm his racing heart.

It’s almost a relief, the feeling of healing magic passing from his hands to Cinis. Like a cool wind on a hot day, it steadies him a little. And when he opens his eyes, Cinis gets to his feet and shoves his face right into the crook of Kai’s neck, as if he was still a tiny little cat. He doesn’t really purr—it’s kind of a soft growl, the noise he makes, as if he’s trying to purr but can’t.

Kai throws her arms around Cinis’s neck, weeping openly. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Asra knows he should give her space—but he can’t help himself, but reach for her. He can’t help but put a hand on her shoulder, and try to offer her some measure of comfort.

That’s when she reaches for him with her good hand. She reaches for him, taking the hand in his lap and pulling him closer, so that his hand rests over her heart.

He lets himself be pulled. He tucks himself alongside Kai and Cinis, close enough to feel the heat rising off Cinis’s massive body, and buries his face in her hair as she weeps into Cinis’s fur, and tries to stop his own shaking, his own trembling.

She’s alive. He didn’t lose her.

She’s alive.

—

Content warnings:  extreme violence, stabbing, blood, bones breaking, choking, violence against animals, character death.

[abadoodlesss]

A Hunter’s Halloween

A/N: I got Day 4 of @winchesters-favorite-girl ‘s Halloween Writing Challenge - Halloween Costumes. So glad I joined this challenge, it was a lot of fun! 

Pairing: Winchesters x Friend!Reader (she’s like a lil sis) 

Summary: A fellow hunter, (Y/n), tags along with the Winchester Brothers to hunt down a ghost haunting the house where the town’s Halloween party is held. Ready for a quick ganking of a ghost, the three set off but run into a minor problem: No costume, no entry. 

Warnings: Few swears and a very brief description of Dean getting stitches (I thought it was gross so I thought I’d warn other squeamish people)  

Word Count: 2500+

A/N Part 2: (Started off short and cute and then my brain was like: Hey what if you added character arcs and personalities and a real plot so I tried meeting myself halfway and not get too into the story but kinda I couldn’t help it.)

The Impala raced down the empty road. Dean sat in backseat beside (Y/n), a young hunter that the Winchesters met a few years back who joined the boys on their latest hunt as Sam drove them back to the motel. They were heading back now from a vampire case that they just barely managed to survive. (Y/n) was currently stitching together a deep gash on Dean’s upper arm.

The boys met (Y/n) on a hunt a few years prior, when she was only nineteen. (Y/n) and the Winchester’s were trailing the same Vampire case separately and wound up running into each other and decided to work together. They were an amazing team and now three years later, they called upon (Y/n) again for assistance. She was more than happy to oblige, meeting the boys and taking out another nest. However, this time things didn’t go as smoothly.

Dean downed some more whiskey to numb the pain of (Y/n) driving the needle in and out of his skin. Sucking in a quick breath, Dean closed his eyes and downed more whiskey.

“Oh, stop being such a baby.” (Y/n) teased.

“You try getting stitched up in the back of your car while your brother drives like a maniac.” Dean cried. Sam just grumbled from the front seat and continued to drive towards the motel.

(Y/n) pulled the thread tightly, tying in a knot and ripping away the excess. “There, good as new.” She said with a smile.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Dean said, grateful she took the time to make the stitches as even as she could. He took another swig of his bottle only to find it was now empty. “Pull into the closest liquor store.” Dean ordered.

“We have beers at the motel.”

“I’m tired and in pain and I need something a little stronger than a beer, we’re stopping.”

And with that, Sam kept an eye out for a liquor store.

The three climbed out of Baby and waltzed into the quaint liquor store. Dean went straight for the bottles whiskey set up further in the back of the store. (Y/n)’s eye was caught by two clearly underage boys attempting to buy alcohol at the cash register.

“I.D.” The cashier asked blankly.

The boys confidently handed over his fake ID.

“It’s fake.” The cashier replied, somehow even more blankly than before.

“No, it’s not. How dare you ev-”

“Get out of here or I’ll have to call the police.” The cashier interrupted, taking away the bottles of vodka and cutting the fake I.D. with a pair of scissors, tossing the remains in a nearby trash bin.

“Sir please, I don’t think you understand. We promised this girl that we’d bring alcohol to her party.” The first pleaded desperately.

“We can’t go disappointing her.” The second one said in a sly voice, sliding across a twenty dollar bill to the cashier.

“Tragic, really.” The cashier said, taking the money anyway. “I know what you’re up to and I can tell you boys that you don’t want to be messing around Adwell Manor.” The cashier said, pocketing the money and returning his attention to the book of crossword puzzles in front of him.

That last bit of information made (Y/n) curious. Dean came back towards the store’s front with two bottles of Jack Daniel’s and (Y/n) followed him up to the cash register

“What’s so bad about Adwell Manor?” (Y/n) questioned. “Sorry, but I was eavesdropping a bit, but I noticed you sounded very serious in telling those boys not to go there. What’s so bad about it?”

“Bit of a town legend, has been ever since I was their age. Lady Diana Adwell killed her husband and three children, then she offed herself. Every Halloween kids try to break in the place, throw a party and try to come in contact with her ghost or something.” He explained, putting the bottles in a paper bag. “I’m not much of a believer myself, but those kids shouldn’t be messing around on private property.” He said, handing the bag to Dean.

The three finished up their business in the liquor store and walked back towards the Impala.

“You think checking out Adwell Manor is worth our time?” (Y/n) asked.

“We just finished a case, (y/n/n).” Dean said, slightly irritated.

“Oh c’mon old-timer, it would be such an easy case. Let me at least research how legit that story was.”

“Knock yourself out.” Dean said, throwing Baby in drive and speeding off to the motel.

“Four newspaper stories on the murders, evidence that the family in fact existed and lived in the Manor and a Facebook post by one Brooke Abbott telling everyone about the party she’s having there tonight.” (Y/n) said, turning around the laptop so the boys could get a closer look.

“Okay, so it’s legit.” Dean admitted.

“Alright let’s head over.” Sam said, grabbing his jacket.

“Little problem,” (Y/n) announced, pointing to Brooke’s post. “‘No costume, no entry’.”

“Who cares, we’ll just walk in.”

“We don’t want to look suspicious. If two grown men walk into a teenager’s party, it’ll be super noticeable.”

“(Y/n/n), we’re not buying costumes just for this, let’s go and get it over with.” Dean said, grabbing his car keys.

“(Y/n/n), do you think a Ghostbuster costume is a little too on the nose?” Dean asked.

“You’re a Ghostbuster everyday, Halloween is a chance for you to pretend to be someone else, so use it.”

“We pretend to be other people on a daily basis. Two days ago I was pretending to be an FBI agent.” Sam complained, not wanting anything to do with the cheap Halloween costumes.

“Have fun for once in your life Winchester, be creative.” (Y/n) said, turning back towards the women’s costumes. “Ugh, why do women’s costumes have to be so sexualized?” (Yn/n) cried. “I mean ‘Sexy Nurse’, ‘Sexy Nun’, ‘Sexy Cheshire Cat’!? This is ridiculous!”

“Well, you aren’t hearing any complaining from the male population.” Dean joked, calling from the next aisle over.

“At least you have options, I can’t find anything.” Sam complained.

“Oh c’mon Sam, they’re plenty of costumes.” (Y/n) said as Sam joined her. “Like this one,” She said, holding up a child’s Rapunzel costume. “You don’t even need to buy the wig, your hair’s the perfect length.”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Sam said dryly with the roll of his eyes.

“Nah, Sammy, I found the perfect one for you.” Dean said, jumping out in front of the two with a creepy clown mask on. It took all of Sam’s willpower to not shriek like a little girl in the middle of the store. Dean burst out into laughter at his brother’s reaction, (Y/n) trying to not join in and embarrass Sam.

“Shut up.” Sam said, punching Dean in the arm but Dean didn’t cease his laughter. “Well here’s the perfect one for you.” Sam said, pulling out a Sexy Doctor costume. “An homage to your little man crush, Dr. Sexy.”

(Y/n) stopped dead in her tracks. “You watch Doctor Sexy M.D?” She asked. “No, more importantly, you like Dr. Sexy?”

“Sexy is in his name, it’s not an opinion it’s a fact no one can deny!” Dean defended, ripping the costume from Sam’s hands. “And I would be honored to wear this.”  

Adjusting her black and white striped tights, (Y/n) followed the Winchesters up the steps to Adwell Manor. Sam had opted to dress as a ‘Swashbuckling Pirate Captain’ as it was the only costume that was big enough to fit him. Dean proudly strutted to the front door in his Dr. Sexy costume. (Y/n) decided on the least scandalous costume she could find in the women’s section: a witch, much to Dean’s dismay.

“Let’s make this quick, get in, gank old Lady Adwell and get out.” Sam said, scratching at the uncomfortable material his pirate pants were made of.

“Oh stop being such a party pooper.” Dean said, walking in the doors.

The doors opened up to a foyer, covered in cobwebs, a few fake spiders, a few real spiders and carved pumpkins lined the grand staircase, the candles being the only source of light. Music came from further in the house, which the three followed, leading them into the party.

Teenagers dressed in half-assed costumes crowded the room, everyone, with a solo cup in their hands as they swayed to the music playing over the speakers.

A young blonde girl dressed as a cat, if you could call a tight black dress and a cat ear headband a cat costume. She looked (Y/n) up and down, letting out a little scoff.

“Um, do I know you?” She questioned like she had some sort of authority over Adwell Manor. (Y/n) was about to come up with an excuse, anything that wouldn’t get their cover blown but the girl turned her attention to the men standing behind (Y/n).

The girl glanced at Sam and Dean, looking much less aggravated by their existence than she was by (Y/n)’s.

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know you. I’d remember a face like that.” The girl said, twirling a blonde lock around her finger, biting her lip as she looked at Dean.

Dean widened his eyes, looking to his brother for assistance, Sam had none to offer.

He let out an awkward laugh. “Yeah, we’re not from around here. I’m Dean.”

“Brooke.” The girl said, introducing herself as she continued her intense eye contact with Dean. “Why don’t you and I go grab some punch and get to know each other a little better.” She asked, a bit suggestively, tugging Dean away.

Dean sent a desperate silent plea to (Y/n) and Sam, begging with his eyes for them to rescue him.

“Take one for the team.” Sam mouthed as Dean was dragged through the dance floor by Brooke.

With Dean reluctantly distracting the hostess, Sam and (Y/n) snuck away from the party. At first, they found no sign of Diana Adwell. Sam was very quick to give up, most likely due to the fact he was finished with being dressed as a pirate.

The two walked into a study, walls lined with shelves filled with books and a fireplace, void of any wood. Around the fireplace was a mantle, adorned with pictures and trinkets and a few silver boxes. The picture depicted a rather happy looking family, a mother, a father and three young children all dressed in Victorian-era clothing. (Y/n) grabbed the photo, inspecting it further as Sam reached for one of the small silver boxes.

“They were all cremated.” Sam said, reading the fancy cursive on the boxes of ashes.

Suddenly the fire roared, illuminating the room as (Y/n)’s EMF reader began beeping.

The apparition of Diana Adwell formed before the two, dressed in a white nightgown stained with blood, especially around the gash in her chest. She had a kitchen knife in her hand and, raised and ready to attack. Sam jumped in front of (Y/n), protective big brother mode activated.

The ghost flung Sam across the room, causing him to crash into one of the bookcases. (Y/n) used the moment that the ghost focused on Sam to grab an iron fire poker and drive it through Lady Adwell’s form.

(Y/n) bolted over to Sam, helping him to his feet. “Get up sasquatch, she won’t be gone for long.”

“She was cremated, what’s left of her?” Sam asked with a groan as he stood upright.

Grabbing the picture frame once more, (Y/n) scanned the image. Diana Adwell’s hand clutched a locket was hanging around her neck in the photograph.

“Her locket?” (Y/n) theorized.

“It’s our best bet.”  Sam agreed. The two dashed to the master bedroom, the room where (Y/n) remembered seeing a jewelry box upon a dresser.

Sam dug around the jewelry box, (Y/n) joking that he was stereotyping all other pirates by stealing valuables. (Y/n) stood with the fire poker in hand, ready to strike the moment Lady Adwell reared her ghostly head again.

Suddenly she appeared, behind Sam. (Y/n) cried out for him as she swung at the apparition.

“I got it!” Sam yelled, clutching the locket in hand, ducking out of the room to burn it in the study’s fireplace. (Y/n) ran close behind, watching out for Lady Adwell once more, no doubt even more pissed off than before.

“Wouldn’t you rather stay downstairs?” They heard Dean say from further down the hallway. He came into view, following Brooke as she stormed the hallway, trying to persuade her to turn back.

“There they are!” She exclaimed, noticing Sam and (Y/n) barreling down the hall. “What are you doing?” She asked, barricading the rest of the hallway with her body, hands on hips.

“We don’t have time to explain.” (Y/n) said, pushing past Brooke.

“Excuse me but-” Brooke started but she was cut off by a chilling scream. Lady Adwell’s ghost was barreling down the hallway towards the group.

“C’mon.” Sam yelled, taking off towards the study, Dean in tow. (Y/n) grabbed onto a petrified Brooke, tugging her along.

Once in the study, (Y/n) threw Dean another iron fire poker as he forced Brooke to stand behind himself and (Y/n) as they awaited the ghost.

Sam dug into the satchel that came along with his costume, reaching for his lighter and tossing it into the fireplace. It erupted in flames just as the ghost caught up with them.

She made a motion with her arms at the fire pokers were ripped away from Dean and (Y/n)’s grasp. Brooke continued screaming as Sam tossed the locket into the fire, Diana Adwell burst into flames at the same moment.

“What the hell just happened.” Brooke cried.

“Long story, just- just go back to your party.” Dean said, too exhausted to even try explaining.

“But-” Brooke started.

“Go.” Sam said, equally tired and even less willing to go through the whole explanation.

Brooke started to leave when she turned back to Dean. “Call me sometime?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Finally!” Sam exclaimed, ripping off the blasted pirate costume he was confined to all night.

“You are so overdramatic.” (Y/n) said, taking off her witch hat.

“Don’t even start with me, (Y/n/n).” He said, promptly tossing his costume into the trash can in the bathroom.

“I thought it was kind of fun.” Dean mused, checking himself out in the bathroom’s mirror. “I mean we’re always dressing up, but we never get candy out of it.” Dean said, dumping out loads of candy from the deep pockets of his doctor costume onto the motel bed.

(Y/n) attacked the pile of candy, picking out all the best treats for herself. Sam reached down to grab a Snickers from the pile when his hand was smacked away.

“I don’t think so Mister I-hate-Halloween, no costume no candy.”  

“Why do you love Halloween so much? Everyday is Halloween for us, it’s just not special.”

(Y/n) was taken aback for a second, Halloween might not have been the most fun time for hunters, but it was special.

“Look, I get why you don’t like it. When I was younger, we didn’t celebrate Halloween either because there was nothing to celebrate, it’s just another night of hell for us.”

“Exactly my point.”

“But, we were wrong back then. There is something to celebrate. True, we don’t get to take part in all the fun and we can’t be oblivious to the dark shit that goes on like everyone else but we should be celebrating Halloween because it means we’re doing our jobs right. People feel safe enough to mock monsters and go out on the most dangerous night of the year. They feel safe because we’re doing a damn good job of protecting them. Isn’t that worth celebrating?”

“Well, when you put in such a dramatic way, yes.”

“I’m just saying, our Halloween might not be like everyone else’s but that doesn’t mean it’s not just as good.”

Dean grabbed three beers from the case beside the door, handing one out to (Y/n) and Sam. “To a job well done.”

“To a hunter’s Halloween.” (Y/n) said clink her bottle with Dean’s.

The two looked at Sam expectantly.

“To Halloween not sucking so bad.” Sam said, defeated, clinking his bottle too.

[allofbeercom]

Why Halloween Is The Single Most Overrated Day Of The Year

Ah, Halloween—innovative costumes, chilling haunted house-inspired decor, and that crisp, cool weather we look forward to all year. Haaaa, I fucking wish. Idk if it’s the incessant articles about fall that I force my 59 followers friends to read or the pure rage I develop when my attempt at a slutty Poison Ivy costume somehow always ends up looking like Shrek, but what we think of Halloween actually only exists in places like Pinterest or borderline demonic Disney films. And yeah, it might sound like I’ve become a bitter bitch, but that’s only because I’m actually a bitter bitch. 

Anyway, I’m not here to throw all my problems on you—my therapist frowned upon that. There’s a lot that goes into Halloween that never actually happens, and that’s honestly way too much work for an attempt at record-breaking Instagram likes on a night you probably won’t remember anyway. Thankfully, I’m here to let you down easy and tell you what to really expect come your boyfriend’s sister’s grand big’s monster bash, and why I think Halloween is the most overrated holiday (sorry, Satan, but I’m going to hell anyway). But if you’re one of those idiots who lives and breathes Halloween because you hate yourself so much that you have to be someone else to feel good, you can go shave your back now drown in your own bowl of Mini-Twix.

Actual convo we’ll have if you disagree with me:

Fall Weather

EXPECTATION: You’re already planning your pumpkin patch-inspired Instagram complete with that fall sweater from Nordstrom’s annual sale (BACK IN FUCKING JULY) that you’ve been harboring for like, seven years now. Once September hits, you’re about to rip the tags off your new leather boots, so you can eagerly mask your post-summer bloat in the cutest cozy fall attire, because you know what they say: boyfriends come and go, but leggings are forever.

REALITY: Don’t even get me started. Actually, never mind—I’ve already been triggered. I despise our garbage president for many reasons, but mostly because he’s apparently unaware of this thing called Global Warming that’s causing me to freeze my ass off, and then sweat my dick off all in the short amount of time it takes me to get to the bar after work on a Friday. Nothing tastes as good as baggy clothes make us feel, but no amount of likes on a fall OOTD pic is worth the buckets of boob sweat generated by this incessant heat stroke.

Halloween Decorations

EXPECTATION: This will be the year you finally give in and line your mantle with those annoying sticky webs that literally cling to everything you own. You’re so ready to go full Grandma Cromwell and deck the halls with boughs of horror—oh, and HELLO, stupidly over-priced adorbs accent pillows!

REALITY: You know when you take your headphones out of your bag after just putting them in 30 seconds ago and they’re in just as big of a clusterfuck as your life is? After going through the entire bag of web, congrats—you’ve successfully covered about three square feet of wall space in what looks like a heap of unrolled cotton balls. Stick a skull head on your table, and leave the decorating to your parents from now on.

Pumpkin Carving

EXPECTATION: Getting my friends together to do dumb activities no one cares about, like carving pumpkins, as an excuse to get shitfaced on a Wednesday is the one LinkedIn skill I pride myself in being endorsed on. The excitement of chugging pumpkin beer and watching throwbacks like while competing to see who can carve the best pumpkin without anyone asking “Wait, what is that?” is thrilling.

REALITY: Don’t get me wrong: pumpkin carving is the best—besides the part where you actually have to carve the pumpkin. It’s like painting a room: the movies make it look like it’s as exhilarating as sending a hoe-ish text at 2am, but in reality, it’s so much more than that. Three minutes into regretting trying to carve a Cheshire Cat, you’ll make the slightest wrong cut, only to knock a whole row of teeth out and fuck up the entire thing. Not only will you be stuck cleaning pumpkin goo off the table, but your jack-o-lantern will probably look like it just went on a 3-month alcohol bender and woke up with a half-opened eye and four teeth missing. Whatever, that’s why the devil invented alcohol.

Buying Candy

EXPECTATION: You hit up the Halloween aisle for the best and most frowned-upon candy and in the process, you even selflessly think to bag some up for your besties! Side note: when tf did tiny bags of candy become so expensive? Tbh, my friends aren’t that great.

REALITY: It apparently didn’t occur to you that you either live on the 27th floor of a city complex or a tiny dorm room, and that the only children you’ll probably see all day are the ones dressed in fugly ‘90s getup in the Dannon Yogurt commercial. You’ve gotta get rid of the candy somehow, so you decide to take one for the team and experiment with the Wonka Nerds and craft your own witches brew of flavored hangover vodka, but like, it could be worse… Also, you’re welcome for that million-dollar idea.

Making Your Costume

EXPECTATION: The absolute best part of Halloween is crafting up the most original, not-too-slutty-but-pretty-fucking-slutty costume. For once, you got ahead of the game and began the planning process even before October came around. And to top it all off, you found the perfect YouTube makeup tutorial you’re about to watch like, 12 times in order to get the perfect sexy zombie bride face. No really, this is about to be some next-level shit.

REALITY: Spoiler alert: It’s October 30th. You’ve achieved nothing but an overloaded Amazon shopping cart filled with items that are 100% guaranteed to overdraft your checking account. Your party is tomorrow night, so you should probably just try Sears. Lol JK, I’m your friend, remember? You knew this would happen again, so you should really just order the best effing costume you’ve ever worn from our Betches store (yeah it’s a plug, fucking prosecute me) to save yourself time, money, and a year’s worth of embarrassment when you think about showing up in last year’s bumble bee leotard.

The Halloween Party

EXPECTATION: The night has finally arrived. You and your friends are planning on getting inappropriately drunk before arriving to the party—for precautionary purposes, of course. You’ll be sipping on whatever the fuck is in that witches brew concoction, while yelling “OMG that’s so good!” to your friend’s unoriginal Khaleesi/possibly-also-Elsa-from-getup. You managed to get that one Instagram you’re about to fully dissect and edit when you’re alone later on, so yeah, life is good. 

REALITY: You show up only to lay eyes half the party wearing your typical run-of-the-mill fuckboy Halloween staple: A white tee with some sort of dumb fucking saying like “Error 404: Costume Not Found” sharpied on it. Nobody told you that a “horror” theme was actually because of your ears bleeding from hearing “Monster Mash” play on repeat 87 times. Oh, and that witches brew? I’d steer clear unless you’re into the kind of thing that is chugging the leftover middle cup ingredients from King’s Cup. But it’s ok because if all else fails, there’s always some Freeform marathon to binge while also bingeing Snickers and tequila.

Happy haunting, witches.

  from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/why-halloween-is-the-single-most-overrated-day-of-the-year/