Gen puts a lot of thought into her costume. She buys a peasant blouse at Goodwill and some big floofy pants that she cuts off at the knee and hems. Osric lends her his frock coat, bless his reenactment-loving heart. She makes cutlasses out of cardboard and covers them with tinfoil, and she makes tinfoil buckles for her shoes – black tennies, but she’s on a budget, here. She borrows Adrianne’s fedora and ties a few peacock feathers to it with a ribbon. Put it all together, and she looks every inch the pirate.
Misha paints himself green.
“Had to special order the color,” he says. “To match.” He wriggles a tentacle to demonstrate – the only part of him, aside from his eyes and tongue, that’s still natural Misha-color. Of course, the tentacles’ natural color is green. The paint is indeed a very good match.
Gen’s eyes shy away from certain areas; the only things between her and bare Misha is a lot of paint and a pair of Speedos, also painted green. “And your hair?” He hasn’t slicked it back, for which Gen is grateful. In her unbiased best-friend, sort-of-girlfriend opinion, he’s a lot cuter with hair.
He did, however, spray it blue. He pats the spiky blue tips. “It’s an accent color.”
And let’s be real: Misha’s costume may consist almost entirely of paint, but it’s still awesome. “It’s great,” she says, and he grins like her opinion is the only one that matters.
“Shall we?” he asks, proffering a tentacle.
Gen takes it gently and says, “Arrr!”
Jared and Jensen’s Halloween party is loud. Gen pities the neighbors. Jared’s impossible to miss: he’s Thor, cape and winged hat and all. He yells as soon he spots them – or roars, really – and makes his way over. “You need some ale,” he says heartily.
“We need some ale,” Gen agrees.
‘Ale’ turns out to be a choice of beer or, special for the occasion, hard cider. Gen opts for the cider. Beer is gross, and no amount of teasing will convince her otherwise. She cuts the alcoholic cider with the regular kind so that she has a chance of still being upright in an hour. Misha takes a beer. Booze in hand, they take a turn around the house.
They find Adrianne and Aldis making out in a corner. Aldis is gripping Adrianne’s thigh through the Spandex. Gen clears her throat loudly, and Adrianne breaks away. “Gen!” She blushes furiously. “You look really good!”
Gen tips her befeathered fedora. “You’re the perfect Wonder Woman,” she tells Adrianne. Adrianne’s turned just far enough dragon that her crimson spikes show along her spine.
“Frozone?” Misha asks Aldis, nodding approvingly. “Very cool.”
Aldis rolls his eyes. “That’s my pun, thanks. And you’re—”
“A kraken,” Misha says, very firmly, like anyone who’s ever met him since his tentacles first sprung has had a chance to forget what he is. Misha doesn’t let them.
“No no, I get that. You’re the kraken and she’s...?”
“Queen of the pirate fleet,” Gen tells him.
“We’re mortal enemies,” Misha says. “Or lovers. Depends on the day.”
Gen’s cheeks heat. Lovers is definitely not an accurate description of them. In fact, they have not come anywhere near that conversation yet. Gen’s a little frustrated about that, to be honest, which isn’t to say she expected to have the conversation now.
Misha’s not done, though. “I’m the embodiment of the sea, and the pirate queen loves me and fears me and needs me in equal measure.”
“And you?” Gen dares to ask. “What do you care for the pirate queen, sailing around on top of your domain?”
“Oh, lots of people do that. But the pirate queen sends me more sunken ships, more lives than all the royal navy’s cannons. We’re on good terms, she and I.”
“Lovers, even?” Adrianne asks pointedly.
Misha breaks free from whatever spell of storymaking he was under. “Oh, well, you know what they say about the sea. Harsh mistress, and all that.”
“I think that makes you the mistress,” Aldis points out.
Misha rolls his eyes. “Metaphor.”
“Don’t mind us,” Gen tells them hurriedly. “You can get back to what you were doing.” She takes Misha by the arm and drags him around the corner. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
Misha feigns ignorance extremely well, but Gen’s known him a long, long time. “That whole thing that just happened with the kraken and the pirate queen and the sea.”
“Ooh, a threesome,” Misha says. Gen glares. “Uh, I don’t know?” He flushes a little, and that’s genuine. Gen’s certain of it. “You know I don’t plan what comes out of my mouth like ninety percent of the time.”
“Right.” Gen sighs. “Come on, let’s go find Jensen. I really want to see this Jane Foster costume of his.”
The party has reached that point where the people are making as much noise as the speakers. Gen’s pleasantly tipsy, and Misha’s the same, judging by the way he keeps gleefully tonguing his tentacles down people’s socks. Granted, for most people that would indicate total inebriation, but then Misha is not most people.
“You should stop that,” Gen tells him. “We should go.” Much longer and she thinks she might get drunk on fumes alone. She takes Misha by the hand.
“Have you captured me, pirate queen?” Misha holds out both wrists.
Gen rolls her eyes and tugs.
“I’ll not go unless you shackle me,” he says.
It is Halloween, and they do have awesome costumes, if Gen does say so herself. Gen draws her cardboard cutlass and pokes at his bare ribs. “I’m a pirate, scum. Do you think I need shackles to keep prisoners in line?”
That gets him moving. If not quietly.
“It’s because I’m on land,” he grumbles as Gen prods him down the sidewalk. “Put me in my element and you’d be sorry, my hearty.”
“Would I, then,” Gen says. “If you were in your element, I’d be riding atop it with thirty cannon and a hundred vicious scabs with cutlasses like this one.” She presses the tip to his skin, and he flinches.
“But my eight mighty arms would be the length of your whole ship. I’d crush it and take great delight in drowning your poor sailors one by one. Or all at once, really. That might be fun, like candles on birthday cake.”
“Not that you’d know anything about candles, given you live in the ocean.”
“Ah,” he says wisely – Misha has a particular tone of voice that denotes when he’s being wise – “but I’ve caught sight of many a strange thing since I’ve been ashore.”
It continues on in that vein all the way to the entrance to Misha’s dorm. “I guess I should come up, huh,” Gen says. “You have my clothes.”
“And what would a kraken do with clothes?”
“Get them wet,” Gen says, and pushes inside.
By the end of the long ride up the elevator, she thinks maybe Misha’s drunker than she realized. His tentacles keep pushing into her socks, and she keeps having to whap him with the flat of her cutlass. They get to the door of his room, and it takes him a moment to remember that he has to pull his key out of the tiny pocket inside his Spandex.
Once inside, Gen collects her street clothes and decides she is entirely too wiped to actually change into them. “Okay, then,” she says. “I guess I’ll see – oof.” She lands on the couch next to Misha, one of his tentacles wrapped securely about her waist.
“Do you think you think you can leave so quickly, pirate?” He breathes boozily into her face.
Gen pushes at the tentacle. It tightens its grip. “Enough, Misha.”
“I’ll not have you go.”
Gen’s had fun, but she’s also had yet another long night with a guy she kind of adores but may or may not actually be dating, and now she’s tired. “Why, what are you going to do? Are you going to ravage me, you monstrous tentacled beast?”
The grip loosens. Misha eyes her uncertainly. “Maybe.”
“Are you going to rip my clothes off? Violate all my orifices? Are you going to hold me down and curl your tentacles inside me until I quiver?” Okay, so maybe Gen has given this scenario some thought.
“Because unless you are, I’m going home now.”
Misha doesn’t look drunk now, really at all. His eyes are very wide. He stares at Gen, and she stares back. She waits a good fifteen seconds or so, and then she huffs and pushes away from the couch.
And lands right back on it again. The one tentacle is still around her waist, and another has draped itself over her shoulder. “Seriously?” Misha asks.
“Never mind,” Gen says, hunching to get away from the force of his stare. Honesty is a stupid, stupid policy.
“Do you want to?” Misha’s eyes as blue and uncertain as the sea, and hopeful. Gen knows Misha and hopeful, right back to the day in second grade when he thought he could get the entire giant sucker in his mouth at once. And Gen realizes: this is why he’s never made a move. He wasn’t sure. Maybe he didn’t know if she was even interested, and who wants to risk a lifetime’s best friendship over a little horniness that might not even be reciprocated?
It’s not like Gen can’t relate. She hasn’t made a move before, either. She’s not sure how to make one now. They’re both on the brink of mortal embarrassment; she couldn’t bear to push them over. Not when they’re this close.
She chuckles, a little shakily. She picks up the tip of a tentacle, floppy and relaxed, and says, “I guess I could try just ravaging myself.”
Misha’s breath slips out of him in a long, slow sigh. For a moment, nothing happens, and that mortal embarrassment creeps deeper into Gen’s vitals. Then the three tentacles Gen’s in contact with – waist, shoulder, hand – rustle against her skin, and the fourth wriggles up to her belt buckle and starts working at it. She helps; the grip and flexibility of those things is impressive, but opposable thumbs still sometimes win the day. The shoulder tentacle slips down and presses her against the cushion, and the one at her belt is sliding tip first under the waistband of her panties. The tickle and the anticipation of it makes her gasp.
The tentacle’s progress halts. “Gen, are you sure...?”
Gen pulls herself together and gives Misha a close look. Screw all this mincing around. “I’m sure. Are you?” She struggles to sit a little more upright. “You won’t be sorry about this tomorrow?”
“I mean, I can’t promise you,” Misha says. The corner of his mouth curls up. “But I find it extremely unlikely.”
It’s so Misha and Gen’s strung so tight that she can’t help herself. She grabs his shoulders and pulls him in and kisses him like she’s been aching to for, oh, about as long as she’s known what puberty was for. And then pulls back, because that wasn’t really part of the bargain. Experiments with tentacles are one thing, and making out is something else. Something... sweeter.
But Misha’s grin is huge and bright. Before Gen can make too much of that or get beyond the simple relief of still okay, the tentacle lying on her belly slides all the way down her clit one smooth motion. She gasps again. Misha inches the tip farther down at a pace that is deliciously, infuriatingly slow, tickling and gently prodding as he goes. “Jeez, get on with it,” she says. Or whines.
Misha leans into her, balancing on his arms while that tentacle teases at her cunt. “I think, pirate,” Misha says, biting off the last consonant, “that you are confused about who is the prisoner of whom, here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gen says, a little breathless. In goes the tentacle, just the tip, just a wormy little finger pushing in, and sure, Gen’s had fingers up there before, hers and other people’s, but they didn’t tickle that way, and they didn’t—“Oh,” she breathes.
“Yeah. Yeah, you can do that again.”
“Oh, can I,” Misha says, once more lord of the sea, but the tentacle presses further in – the stretch of it pulls another gasp out of her – and curls in on itself again, bunching into a knot that bulges against her in all the best places. Another tendril slides in alongside the first, and Misha looks more ridiculously pleased with himself with every sound Gen can’t help but make. Then she’s gripping his arms with both hands and tightening up around those tentacles as she comes.
She lies against him after, waiting for her heart to slow down and something like a brain to come floating back into her skull. Then she’ll do something about Misha, whose enthusiasm for the proceedings is pretty visible through his Speedos.
“So that was good?” he asks.
She slaps his arm. “Yes, dumbass, that was good.” It wasn’t quite ruin a girl on regular guys for life good, but she could see Misha getting there, oh yes she could.
“Well, I’ve never done it before,” he says, sounding injured.
She wriggles around to look up at him. “What, seriously? You and Caroline never...?” That was a bit of a tense period in the Gen-and-Misha relationship. Not that she begrudged him Caroline, or that he ever said a word against Jensen, but it felt like something had washed clean the day they were both single again.
Misha looks vaguely embarrassed. “We mostly just made out.”
“So she never did this?” Gen slides her hand into his shorts.
It’s tough to get much leverage against the resistance of the Speedos, so she pulls them down just far enough to get Misha’s dick free.
“Is it always that color?” Gen asks, and then immediately feels horrible.
Misha rolls his eyes. “It’s part of the costume.”
“You were planning to show people your green dick as part of your costume?”
“I was being thorough.”
Gen can only shake her head and take a grip. It doesn’t take long, getting Misha off. Apparently poking tentacles into her warms him up quite nicely. After it’s over, she lies back on the couch with Misha draped mostly on top of her.
“Good?” she asks, poking him in the rib.
A tentacle lazily slaps her hand away. “Good,” Misha affirms without opening his eyes. “I guess that wasn’t so much of a ravaging, was it? What I did?”
“You’re not as ferocious a monster as you say you are.”
“Well, next time...” Misha trails off and opens his eyes to look sideways up at her. “I mean. If...?”
“Next time,” Gen says firmly, and tugs a tentacle a little more snugly around her.