#halloween fic

For@celticwildechild and a lovely anon who requested Athos/Aramis (and on such an obvious prompt too, you stereotypes!) <3 

I haven’t written the Musketeers boys in a while; a little NSFW, ‘cause why not.

6.  “You call that a costume? It’s like three tiny pieces of fabric!”

“Honestly, Aramis, I think it counts as streaking,” Athos commented off-handedly, having a hard time looking away from legs that never seemed to end and a smile that he hoped never stopped.

In his defence, when Aramis had appeared at the top of the stairs in what could only gratuitously be called a fancy-dress costume, he wasn’t sure whether to encourage or deny the sly smile that had graced Aramis’ lips. The supposed outfit was somewhere between a pair of underwear and a grass-skirt - although Athos had a very strong suspicion that Aramis was definitely lacking the former.

“It does not!” Aramis stomped his foot, coming dangerously close to revealing something that might very well derail the entire evening, and the movement came with a shower of sparkles.

Athos raised a brow. “Are you wearing more glitter than actual clothes?”

“Glitter counts as a body covering,” Aramis said airily, refusing to dignify Athos’ smirk with anything other than his nose in the air.

It came down rather happily when Athos held out a hand to help him down the last few steps. Aramis flowed into his arms, cattail-lined eyes falling shut on a contented sigh as Athos let his fingers see just how much the outfit covered - or didn’t cover, in this case.

It was second-nature to seek out the places his hands liked to rest, at the angelic slide of his waist and the sinful furrow of his hips, and Aramis rather quickly decided that he didn’t mind being late to the party as long as Athos kept doing that thing with his tongue.

As it turned out, glitter didn’t last long against a determined onslaught, and the costume put up even less of a fight.

Athos had been right, there was no underwear to speak of.

“I really don’t think glitter counts as clothing, mon coeur,” Athos drawled, thoroughly enjoying watching Aramis put himself back together again. “What does Porthos call it? Nature’s herpes?” 

Aramis strolled past him as if he hadn’t just been desperately whispering Athos’ name and crying out for the whole street to hear, and left a cloud of fairy dust in his wake. “Porthos dressed as youfor Hallowe’en, I don’t know why you’re defending him.”

“I’m not defending hi– he did what?”

Aramis pulled him into another kiss, his smile a satisfied thing. “You have glitter on your lips, mon cher.”

For@inkquery​ who wanted half-naked rockstarDeacon up to his usual mischief in a Hallowe’en-y Goodneighbor. Featuring Pen (my F!SS from Death in a Duster), Hancock, and Fahrenheit.

Three disguises to hand: half-naked rockstar, slick vampire, and one damn good ghoul mask.

He had been making the rounds all evening, picking up drinks on someone else’s tab, stealing snacks from the few traders looking to make some caps on one of Goodneighbor’s busiest nights, and even coming first andsecond place in the costume competition.

There were a couple of pumpkins around, but most of the carved fruit tended to be of the melon variety – and most of those were being used as target practice in the next street.

Overall, it was a good time, not a single person had recognised him, although he hadhad to swap masks with a very lovely young lady when a blonde attached to the mayor’s waist sent a narrow-eyed look his way.

Here, amidst the noise and the drinks and the laughter, he was invisible. He was basically the best spy in the world, he was brilliant, he was fantastic, he was invincible—

“Deacon?”

Now, Deacon had often heard his name sound like a threat, as if his very existence was an affront to some people, but then most of those people were Desdemona and she preferred a small pistol in a calf holster.

The memory of a minigun shoved against his spine made him wince.

“Fahrenheit,” he called cheerily, turning on one foot to see a scowl the size of the Glowing Sea. “Lovely to see you!”

“It’s not,” she replied flatly, chewing on a cocktail stick with some glow-in-the-dark dye in her orange hair. “Although, I’ve been meaning to have a word.”

“Huh,” Deacon replied very eloquently, and made a mental note to run for the nearest exit. “Are they of the four-letter variety?”

Fahrenheit tilted her head to the side in thought, and just when Deacon thought he was going to get away with this scot-free, she aimed a very small smirk over his shoulder that said, look who I found.

“Well, well, well, look what the kitten dragged in! Pen’s not here to save you now, Deacs,” Hancock taunted, using the nickname that Deacon would forever maintain he hated – and he did, but only when Hancock used it.

Fahrenheit gave him a smile full of teeth – and whendid she start looking so menacing? That was definitely new. Had she grown? That hardly seemed fair. “Well, seems he’s been treating himself all night.”

Hancock tutted loudly. “Bet he’s not paid a single cap either.”

Deacon took a step backwards and found that, somehow, he had been cornered, and the brick wall at his back rudely refused to let him through.

Well, shit.

If they killed him, he was going to be so angry.

Fahrenheit looked past him to raise a brow at Hancock, and Deacon read the expression as clear as day, get it.

“Get what,” Deacon asked, enjoying Hancock’s frown when he could understand their silent conversation. “What is he getting?”

“Stop doing that,” Fahrenheit muttered, glaring when he offered her a smile. Amazingly, she was completely unmoved. Crazy. “I think you’ve pulled enough tricks today, time for yours.”

Deacon managed to get the word trickout of his mouth before a bucket of destroyed pumpkins was dumped over his head. The cold, slick mess sliding down his neck and making him shiver. If that wasn’t it all, Hancock topped it off by putting half a pumpkin on top of his head.

“Make a scary face,” Hancock said, disappearing with a bark of laughter.

Deacon raised unimpressed eyes to see Fahrenheit smirking at him, and then, of all things, she chucked him on the chin and murmured, “Cute, now clear off.”

Deacon reeled back with a vaguely affronted frown when she walked off without a backwards glance, but as he dashed his pumpkin helmet to the floor, he rolled on his heels and hummed.

She definitely liked him.

It was the work of seconds to break into the State House and slip past the few on-duty guards – most of them were celebrating out front, and the others were already a few too many sheets to the wind.

Following the blueprints he had committed to memory, he’d only managed to get his soaked shirt off of his head when he heard footsteps outside the double doors of Hancock’s room, and absent-mindedly congratulated the ghoul and his shadow for having trained their people so well.

Annoyingly well.

“If you’re going to prank him, my side’s next to the wall—” Pen cut herself off with a strangled noise when she saw him, somewhere between aggrieved and amused.

“Uh, what are you doing?”

Pen wouldn’t look at him, hand shielding one side of her face. “I don’t know, seeing you like this feels like looking behind the curtain, it’s all wrong.”

Deacon snorted, wiping the rest of the pumpkin seeds from his head with a frilly shirt, and then pulled his jacket back on. “What’s funnier, me pretending to be you in your bed, or just getting into Fahrenheit’s?”

Pen opened her mouth as if to roundly deny both ideas, but then she saw him trying to get seeds out of his ears. “Both, I’ll stall Fahrenheit. Do you have a blonde wig?”

Deacon pulled his jacket open to expose ten pockets, two masks, and a fake nose. “What do you think?”