Costumes, Cakes, and Creampies

Her voice cut out for just a second, a sudden halt that let her vocalisations be overtaken by her trembling. Her shaking continued unabated, and Pound Cake held his pace, keeping his wrist undulating in a rapid swivel, his lips locked to the girl's. She squeezed more tightly, and her voice rushed back in an explosive burst, stifled by their sloppy kiss. His body pressed against hers, keeping her in place as she squirmed and shifted, slipping down the wall by a few inches, barely able to right herself. With more of her weight pushing down, her mound pressed harder against his palm, increasing the pressure against her pearl.

Even as the pulsing ebbed away, her panting persisted, hitching and fluctuating as Pound's fingers brushed intermittently at the sensitive spots inside her. When he broke the kiss, carefully slowing down his ministrations into a teasing persistence, the girl gasped in air, holding onto his shoulder and pulling herself fully to her feet, wobbling even as she did so. Only when she'd righted herself did he remove his hand from between her legs, pausing to wipe his slick digits on her thigh.

"Use the sink," she huffed at him, shoving away his arm and pulling her panties back up to cover herself. Adjusting her skirt, she checked herself in the mirror, turning around to assess herself from all angles. "Do I look okay? Nothing suspicious? Out of place?"

"Not yet," Pound answered, grinning lecherously as he approached her from behind. He nipped at her neck, breathing in her perfume and letting out a low hum of approval. She shimmied out of his grasp, absentmindedly pushing him away.

"Not tonight," she rebutted, reapplying her lipstick as carefully as she could. He had no idea how many drinks she'd had, but she seemed to be able to control her movements well enough. "We've been in here ten minutes already, and I don't want Brick wondering where I've gone."

Pound let out a grunt of annoyance at the mention of her boyfriend, a man who lacked the awareness to notice her frequent flings. Pound doubted he'd even noticed she'd gone off on her own, nevermind questioned where she was. In truth, he felt bad about doing this, and he tried not to fall victim to the seductress' whims. He and Brick were friends, and he always came to regret sneaking off to play with Venus whenever Brick turned his back and the girl gave him the doe-eyes. It wasn't his fault; she was always the one to instigate it, and she was the one who was supposed to be committed to the guy. Besides, Pound felt the guilt in the morning, once the furious buzz of the alcohol had worn off and the hangover was starting to set in. He doubted Venus felt any guilt about it at all.

"Come on, just a quickie?" he persisted, pressing his tent against her skirt-clad rear. He could already feel the gloriously hot and welcoming wetness, the bliss of her womanhood drawing him in. She was a naughty treat, and it was one of the reasons he ran to her whenever she asked.

"No," she insisted, shooting him an uncompromising glare in the mirror. "Do that again, and I'll find someone else." She maintained eye contact as she smacked her lips together, finishing up her application. The teenage man halted his efforts, yanking on the breaks as his lust tried to carry him forward. Stepping backwards, he sighed, huffing in annoyed disappointment at her refusal.

"Fine," he relented, his erection protesting angrily against his pants. "We'll play it your way, Ms Trap." He received an all-too-sweet smile for his comment, and she puffed out her chest, watching through the mirror the effect it had on her generously proportioned bosom. Content with how her schoolgirl costume looked, she shot Pound a pose, looking over her shoulder and flicking a leg upwards behind her. His manhood twitched at the sight.

"What a gentleman," she cooed, resuming a normal posture and unlocking the door. "By the way, you have lipstick around your mouth. Might wanna sort that out. Buh-bye." Blowing him a kiss, she opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, the thump of the party music barging its way into the open space. Turning to the mirror, Pound spotted the unmistakable red smear of lipstick across his face. With little else to do, he pumped the soap dispenser a couple of times and lathered it up, scrubbing at the stain on his skin. When he washed the suds away, the marks were still present, albeit faded.

"Is anyone using - oh, hey, bro."

The voice drew Pound's attention, and he found himself looking up at a tall, unmistakable figure dressed in a bedsheet wrapped as a toga. A nervous, uneasy grin spread across the former's face.

"Hey, Brick," he replied, drying his hands hurriedly. "How're you doing?"

"Pretty good, pretty good," the large lad replied. "Was looking around the party for you, in fact. The crates ran out downstairs and some older guys are going out to get some more, but I placed these in the fridge when we arrived. Hid them behind the cheese." He smiled easily as he procured a tin of beer, handing it over to Pound. The smaller teen took it hesitantly.

"You didn't have to," he remarked, nodding to the tin he'd brought in with him. "I already have one."

"Yeah, but what are friends for?" Brick retorted with a nonchalant shrug. He tilted his head, peering at Pound's face. "Is that...lipstick?" The shock must've been obvious, because the towering man grinned and let out a hearty chuckle. "My man!" He laughed and offered a hand for the other boy to meet, which Pound did meekly. "Nice to see you getting some action, bro. Enjoy the beer." With a nod and a knowing grin, he turned and walked back into the party, leaving Pound to grimace and stare into the mirror at his lipstick-coated visage.

Drunk guilt somehow felt worse than sober guilt.

Perhaps hours had passed, or perhaps twenty minutes. Pound had stopped caring at some point, focusing on finding alcohol to pour down his throat and people to chat to. He'd hoped that by drinking enough, he'd be able to douse the flames of his lust, but that hadn't worked. While he wasn't erect any more, he was still infuriatingly horny, perhaps even more so as a result of the sheer amount he'd consumed. Beer pong probably hadn't helped, nor a handful of cans from the crates brought back by Button Mash.

The icing on the cake was Venus Trap. The girl flitted between groups like the social butterfly she was, and every time Pound caught sight of her, she was among a new crowd of people, laughing at a joke and smiling beatifically, her soft expression exuding its sickly sweetness. It was a facade, of course, but even knowing that, it looked and felt real. She was certainly fun to be around. A couple of times, she smiled and gave a wave, and he responded with an unenthusiastic half-smile and a tepid wave back. She didn't look awkward, defensive, or concerned when she did so, and she turned back to the group with the ease of someone with a completely clean conscience. Each time that happened, Pound felt a surge of desire and guilt, and sought out another drink to wash away the unwelcome feelings.

It was after the third snatched beer can, walking away from Venus sneakily running her hand along Rumble's biceps, that he caught sight of her.

While it was true this was a Nightmare Night party and was therefore a costume party by extension, the assortment of party-goers had mostly thrown things together; he'd seen a person wrapped in toilet paper in a mimic of a mummy, Brick had used a towel as a toga, and Venus was wearing a schoolgirl outfit, which he was pretty sure was just her outfit from her time in Ponyville's school. He was the only person he knew to have actually put any effort into the costume he was wearing, even going so far as to ask for help at Carousel Boutique. Yona had been happy to sit with him and turn the assortment of cloth, fur, leather, and thin metal plates into the iconic outfit of Yenrich the Barbarian.

This girl, however, was on his level. Beyond it, even. She was almost entirely adorned in winter colours, sporting blues and whites of every description, blended so meticulously that they seemed to flow across her, the patterns appearing to shift as she moved. Her hair, whether natural or dyed, was just a few shades darker than the loose dress, enough to stand out from the glittering fabric without clashing horrendously against it. Even her face was, on closer observation, dusted with a impressively well-blended layer of makeup, subtly giving her a winter tint without being ostentatious. It was, in a word, professional.

"Have you considered working in Carousel Boutique?" Pound asked, sliding over to her and casually swirling his drink. "Or the spa? You've got a talent for fashion and skincare." The girl looked over at him, her expression brightening as she saw his costume.

"You haven't done badly yourself," she replied, smiling at him. "I loved the Yenrich the Barbarian comics as a kid. I thought I was the only one."

"I'm happy to let you know you're wrong," Pound commented, smirking beneath his half-helm. "Always wanted to go somewhere as Yenrich, but there wasn't ever a chance until tonight. Something always got in the way."

"You never gave up on your childhood dream, huh?" the girl guessed. She giggled at his proud nod. "You're such a nerd."

"Hey, I can say the same about you," he teased. "Miss I thought I was the only one." They shared a short laugh together. "I can't quite figure out who you're meant to be, though."

"No one has, yet," she told him. "Though no one's asked, either, so..." She shrugged. "I'm trying to pull off a Windigo."

"The mythological creature?" Pound asked, receiving a confirmatory nod. "And I'm supposed to be the nerdy one?" She rolled her eyes and he chuckled. "You did a great job. It looks amazing. How long did it take you?"

"Designing or applying?" she asked, leaning against the wall. "I got the idea this summer and only figured out how to make it work three weeks ago. It took me three hours to get it to look like this."

"Three hours well spent," he complimented. "How'd you do it?"

"You first."

Pound rolled his eyes and relented. "A layer of leather sewn onto an underlay of cloth, Yakyakistani wool stitched to the edges, and tin shaped into pauldrons with a loop of leather to keep them in place. The helmet is just wood with varnish and paint to make it look more worn."

"Fancy," the girl complimented.

"I had a bit of help," he admitted. "Well, a lot, actually. I couldn't have done any of this without Yona."

"You too?" she asked, smiling brightly at the mention of the town's fashionista. "She's the one who made almost the entire costume for me. She insisted on reading into the myth of the Windigos to better represent them, and I actually started to feel bad by the end of it. She really went above and beyond for me. In fact, the only thing she didn't do is the makeup."

"I would've thought that would've been one of the easier parts of the costume?"

"It would've, but she didn't have the right blends and colours, and she wouldn't accept anything less than perfection. In the end, I found a pretty unorthodox solution."

"Which was?" The man raised an eyebrow as the girl grinned and beckoned him closer. He complied, leaning towards her so she could whisper in his ear.

"Frosting." She pulled back and her grin widened, taking joy in his blank expression.

"...frosting?" he repeated, receiving a nod. Learning in close, he sniffed at her cheek, noticing the subtly sweet, sugary aroma that confirmed her story.Too tempted, and too inebriated, to stop himself, he extended his tongue and dragged it across a patch of her skin, bringing into sharper focus the telltale sugary taste and scent. Her breath hitched, and she failed to suppress a soft sigh at the contact. "Wow, it really is. I never knew you could use it for that." It was his turn to grin as he pulled back and noticed her closed eyes and parted lips. "You okay there?"

The girl nodded, opening her eyes halfway and smiling a half-smirk at him. "Yeah. I'm good." She glanced around the room, and then looked back to him. "It's getting pretty boring here, and I was gonna head home. If you want, we could..." She trailed off and shrugged. "You could enjoy the rest of the frosting."

Pound grinned boyishly at her offer. "Upstairs?" he suggested, to which the girl's half-smirk turned full and she started her way towards the stairs. He followed closely behind, weaving his way between the partygoers. It wasn't hard to keep track of her, and when she entered a bedroom at one end of the house, he slipped in right behind her.

She'd only just shut the door when he wrapped his arms around her from behind and planted his lips on her neck, kissing needily and letting the tip of his tongue draw errant patterns. She groaned, uttering some protest about waiting until the lights were on, but he ignored her, his palms working their way over her dress, pressing it against her soft, supple skin beneath. After a few seconds, she relented, leaning her head back against his shoulder and exposing more of her neck for him. His lips grew dusty as he worked across her exposed flesh, each involuntary swipe with his tongue sending a shot of sweetness through his tastebuds.

The further he moved, the more his helmet got in the way, and he pulled back long enough to take it off and toss it aside, unconcerned about the bang it made as it thumped to the floor. It seemed like his ministrations had stoked her lust from embers into roaring fire, and in the time it took him to remove the cumbersome apparel, she turned around and stretched upwards, pushing her lips forcefully to his. He expected she could taste the frosting on them, a reminder of what he'd been doing to her even beyond the desire that was undoubtedly pawing at her aggressively.

Even with the headwear gone, there was too much between them, too much fabric and material. He diverted a hand from her waist to his straps, blindly fumbling as he tried to loosen the costume. He failed multiple times, the girl in front of him demanding his attention even as he tried to expose himself to her. Their dance continued, the two of them too enraptured by each other to slow down to deal with their clothes. When Pound at last managed to pull the pieces in the right way and felt give in his costume, he pulled back, wriggling his way from its confines. She did the same, hurriedly disrobing while he was preoccupied. It took longer than he would've wanted, but he succeeded in stripping down to his underwear, his partner having managed to strip down to hers by the time he'd tossed the jumble of armor to the side.

There wasn't much to make out in the dark of the room, but neither of them gave each other much of a chance anyway. They clashed against each other, even more invigorated by the greater and unrestricted access they now had. Her arms wrapped around his torso, and his palms slid up and down her back, feeling the tantalising softness of her skin. Their lips met in unrestrained pushes and brushes, their movements darting and swift. Her fingers passed through his hair, pulling him deeper, and her calf rubbed longingly against his shin. He lowered a hand to her hips, and then slid over the comfortable cotton of her panties to explore the roundness of her ass, groping her unabashedly.

They ended up on the bed. Pound didn't realise they'd tumbled until he felt the bounce of the mattress and the change of orientation. She pulled him onto her, leaning up to trap him in another lip-lock, until he took over again and pushed her down, deepening the kiss and dominating her tongue when she tried to respond. His hands sought out hers, intertwining their fingers and clasping them together, feeling her react in kind. Inflamed with passion, he ground his crotch against hers, driven onwards by instinct and need. She whimpered into the kiss, squeezing his hands tight and pushing her breasts against his chest as she tried to draw them closer.

Pound let go of her hands and sat back, pulling her upwards just a little to reach back and fumble with her bra. She sat more upright and reached back, pushing away his impatient hands so she could deftly pinch and separate the clasps, shrugging the straps from her shoulders and tossing the garment away carelessly. As soon as she had, the man kissed her fiercely once more, smashing their lips together and slowly working his mouth downwards, breathing in her sweet scent while exploring every curve and dimple on her body. Over her chin, down her neck, across her collarbone, swiping his tongue across it and swirling it downwards until he reached the valley of her cleavage.

With one of his hands holding the small of her back, he slid the free one up her stomach, gliding over her front until he reached the swell of her breast, cupping her as his fingers danced upwards to seek out her nipple. Finding the pert little bud, he pinched at it, squeezing and rolling as his mouth travelled to her other tit, latching onto her and suckling while his tongue lashed at her. His actions were rewarded with breathy whimpers and sighs, her hand resting on the back of his head. Gentle nips and grazes with his teeth evoked gasps from her, her sultry noises prompting him to continue his playful nibbling.

She pushed down on his head, urging him to move on to her more immediate needs. He was more than happy to grant her what she wanted, kissing his way down her stomach in a winding swerve. His lips brushed against her skin, gliding short distances before stopping to offer a firm smooch, and then continuing on to his eventual destination. Her fidgeting hips had grown impatient by the time he arrived, demanding satisfaction from him.

Even with her panties in the way, he could smell her arousal. His chin brushed against the fabric and he felt the heat radiating from her, the wetness already starting to seep through. With a single kiss against the damp, he reached up and pulled at the waistband, tugging it downwards in sharp, hurried yanks. She lifted her hips up, helping him as he worked the crumpled fabric down her legs, unable to resist lightly biting and kissing at her inner thigh as he did so, working his way upwards until he felt the unmistakable contact from her loins against his cheek.

Worked up as he was, Pound wasn't in the mood for subtlety or buildup. He dragged his tongue upwards, pressing between her lower lips as he pulled up to her hood, drawing a prolonged groan from her. The taste of her hit him immediately, cutting through the fleeting flavour of frosting and the lingering memory of beer. Her sourness sat on his tastebuds, demanding that he dove in for more. He did.

His arms locked around her thighs, keeping her legs in place and bringing his head closer to her nethers. The surface of his tongue drew over her quim, brushing and rubbing and earning more needy groans and hums and hushed huffs. His fingers gripped at her, depressing her supple flesh as he greedily lapped at her garden. He wanted more. Adjusting himself, he searched for her entrance, probing across her soaked honeypot with his tongue. A brief moment later, he found it, and wiggled his tongue between her walls, worming into her canal.

The audible exhalation from her was a welcome response, his tongue delving into her depths. The tang washed over him, and he hungrily sought out more, wiggling his face in an effort to push himself ever deeper, his nose rummaging in the shallow patch of hair coating her mound. He breathed in her scent, the tickle against his nose only serving to encourage him to explore her more deeply. She smelled and tasted good, and he couldn't get enough of her, no matter how hard he tried to tonguefuck her, or suck at her engorged little clitty. The more he drew from her, the more demanding his desire became, and the less her nectar satiated him.

Growling, he removed his face from between her legs and crawled back up to her face, ensnaring her in a deep kiss once again, forcing his tongue into her mouth. She whimpered at his aggression, her zest still strong on his lips. He made sure to make her taste herself, batting her tongue down and running the tip along her teeth. Her mouth belonged to him. Her body belonged to him. Her desire belong to him. The pawing at his back, her hands desperately trying to drag him closer, confirmed it.

His boxers were in the way. Cursing to himself, he pulled away, fiddling awkwardly to try and remove them. He could feel, rather than see, the dark stain that had spread from its nidus near his left hip where his glans was tenting the material. Growling in frustration, he fidgeted more, shifting from leg to leg to try and wiggle them over his hips and down his legs, but to no avail. He was too preoccupied with his own struggle to notice the girl sit up and push him onto his back, yanking down the troublesome clothing like he'd done to her.

And just like he'd done to her, she lowered her mouth to his nethers and began to explore his body with her tongue.

Pound inhaled sharply, her wet, tender touch electric against his skin. The way her tongue dragged across his surface, the gentle friction and perfect amount of pressure, left a pervasive warmth where she made contact, a slick trail recording her path. The young man huffed and panted, struggling to keep his hips from bucking upwards out of instinct. The barest brush of her lips against his underside caused his cock to throb, flexing and squeezing out a bead of pre that she lapped up readily, giggling as he let out a desperate groan.

"Get on top," he spoke up, pushing aside the thick pressure of lust and the delight of the sensations. "I wanna fuck you."

"So impatient," she teased in a whisper, her weight atop him in an instant. She wasted little time straddling his waist, his drooling cockhead pressed into her thigh by her movements. She shifted, his pride dragging closer towards the source of her spring, glazing her outer lips in a lewd gloss as he passed by.

Their lips met as he entered her. It was impossible to tell who had moved, but it didn't matter; the pressure, the slow, welcoming envelopment, the slow exhalation of breath they shared, it was total. There didn't need to be anything else. Not until her cunny kissed at his base, at least, his sword properly and proudly sheathed. Only then did they start moving, their bodies sliding against one another's, skin gliding over skin and their loins grinding passionately into each other. His hands moved to her hips, feeling out the firmness and grasping to better guide her. The girl's hands gripped his shoulders and trailed down to his chest, feeling out his pectorals and bracing herself to better bounce on his adamantine pride.

The door opened and the sounds of the party flooded into the room. The girl squeaked and pressed herself flat against his chest, burying her face in his neck. Pound growled at the interruption.

"Fuck off!" he called out, barely hearing the retreating scampering of footsteps and the slamming of the door. He was far too consumed in rolling his hips upwards, picking up where she'd left off after her brief fright. Her exposed neck, presented right before him, caught his attention, and he suckled softly, drawing a whimper from her as he moved up and down to find where she'd be most sensitive. His suckling soon transitioned into nibbling and nipping, and then biting, pulling back with her pincered between his teeth. Her whimpers turned to moans and squeaks, the noises serving to spur him onwards.

"You sound so damn cute," he whispered to her, his tone husky and low. "Keep making those sounds." It didn't matter if she'd listened to him or couldn't help himself, so long as she kept up her nonverbal praises. He rolled both of them over, switching his mouth to the other side of her neck, eager to ravage as much of her as possible. Her groans and mewls began anew, reinvigorated, and he snarled as he began his steady thrusts once more.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped, unable to hide her pleasure. Her breath rushed hotly past his ear, her hands gripping at his head and back, pulling him closer. "Fuck!" Her legs clamped around his waist, driving him to plow her harder and faster. Every time she tried to hold him still, to keep him inside her, he doubled his efforts, shoving himself deep inside her clenching quim.

The pattering of squeaks she made when she came was adorable, and Pound delivered a batch of hard slams to the orgasming girl, powering through her climax and forcing her contracting walls to let him through. The demanding clenches and pleading ripples along his length was maddening, beautifully and wonderfully maddening, but it didn't push him over the edge yet. If he'd been sober, that might've been a different story, but he was far too engrossed by the idea of just claiming her, using her until she was completely exhausted, that he didn't even think about stopping. She was just too good, and there was no way she would've wanted him to stop, besides.

Pound had to help her onto all fours, pulling out with only a little difficulty and rolling her onto her front before lifting her hindquarters in the air. She raised herself up onto her arms, knowing what he wanted to do, and he took the time to grab ahold of her hips and rub his slick member between her thighs, drinking in how impossibly supple they felt. She grumbled something about needing him inside, and he reluctantly pulled back from the wonderful sensation of flesh against flesh, the spongy grip and exaggerated warmth of her skin against his own femlube-coated cock, and guided himself to her valley by hand. She was tighter from behind, and once he was sure he'd found the right hole, he unceremoniously threw his hips forward, shoving his way into her in a single stroke.

The teen's hand roamed everywhere. His palms slid up and down her back, feeling how smooth and toned she was. He gripped her waist and plowed her mercilessly, and when she buried her face in the bedsheets to muffle her wails and yelps, he grabbed a fistful of her thick hair and yanked her head back, forcing her to shout her pleasure to the world. Sometimes he let their bodies close the gap, pressing his chest plush against her back while his fingers sought out her nipples, pinching and tweaking and pulling sharply, evoking sharp gasps and hisses from her. While he was there, he'd nip at her ears and bite at her neck, telling her what a perfect little slut she was. She whimpered and whined and kissed him, her mouth sloppily meeting his in distracted couplings.

Her ass had to be red by now, if not from the persistent clapping of his hips and groin against her buttocks, then certainly from the walloping open-palmed slaps. Each strike resulted a sharp crack, followed by a wail from the girl. Normally, he'd be able to see the bright red handprints left on the globes, and feel the heat left by her reaction to the impacts, but everything was starting to blur together. The radiance from her skin and her inner walls, from his own engorged cock, all of it melded together into a blur, a general pleasantness to accompany the embrace of her insides and the friction that he relished so much. The pressure in his groin was omnipresent, something he couldn't measure. He didn't know if it was rising, or growing, or intensifying. He didn't care. He just wanted to keep pumping into this girl, to grope and spank and squeeze her, to pull at her hair harshly and dominate their open-mouthed kisses.

Then he came.

Ramming balls-deep into the girl, one hand on her shoulder and one at her hip, Pound stuffed her so full of his manhood that it was like there was no gap to fill in the first place. He grunted as he let loose, a burn spreading through his turgid staff as his muscles clenched and squeezed, pulses of pleasure and intensity spreading through his lower body. He was numb, and it felt like a thick, oozing flow more than anything, but he didn't care. He needed this. He'd been denied it all night, and now he was cashing it in.

There wasn't a cut-off point. It just seemed to keep going, his legs and loins buzzing and twitching, and his senses struggling under the thrums and throbs that could only be aftershocks. The hand gripping her shoulder slunk down, squeezing at her neck, and then clasped at her throat. She gasped and gargled, and he quickly pulled her upright, ensnaring her in a shaky kiss. She whimpered, returning his aggressive affection, and shook in his grip. The hand not holding her by the throat sank down, rubbing at the point where the two of them were joined. Maybe she came again, maybe she didn't. He was too preoccupied marking her neck with his teeth, his ears drinking in the sounds of her praise, their bodies drizzled with sweat and probably other fluids.

At some point, they separated, panting and huskily throwing lewd comments to one another. The girl purred something affectionate, and he complimented how cute she was as his cocksleeve, his fingers already making their way back inside her. She started to protest, making weak complaints about being sore or that she should head home, but his teeth grazing against one of her nipples soon stopped that argument. He probed her furrow, his own seed slickening his journey, and she told him to let her get on top again. How could he say no to that?

Ow

Light wasn't supposed to hurt.

Ow ow ow

And yet...

Son of a - OW!

Pound groaned long and loud as the thumping in his head got worse, rolling over to try and face away from the sunlight assaulting him. When that didn't work, he pulled up the duvet, taking cover beneath the safety of its canopy. Only then did he try to open his eyes fully. They felt dry, almost as much as his throat did. He let out another groan, cradling his head, his fingers scrunching up his hair.

"I'm never drinking again," he vowed, mouth curled into a grimace as he tried to sit up, bringing the duvet with him. He grunted at the strain of pulling himself upright and swinging his legs out of bed, the majority of his body reacting sluggishly as though offering solidarity to his tortured head. In a slow, pained shuffle, he trudged out of his room and down the hall, reaching the bathroom after a what felt like a nature hike; all the discomfort, overheating, and effort, without any of the beauty or enjoyment.

The shower allowed him time to think, the initial cold blast kicking his body into something resembling functionality. He'd made it home, obviously, but he wasn't sure how, or when. There had been plenty of drinking, and some party games. He'd chatted with Brick, and made out with Venus. Then there was something else...a girl? He remembered her being blue, for some reason. Or was it unnaturally white? She'd looked mysterious, and beautiful. That couldn't possibly be right. Was he imagining that? He pushed aside the thoughts, unable to discern fact from fiction, and focused on making his hands work enough to scrub his hair and his body.

He left the bathroom feeling cleaner, and more awake, but no less groggy. It was a different sort of grime, this state. Internal. Immovable. Just something he had to bear and hope he'd recover from, some day in the distant future. If he ever did. It wasn't like many ever recovered from the dreaded disease that was the hangover.

It took another ten minutes for him to get dressed, the prospect of falling back into the bed far more tempting than it had any right to be. Every piece of clothing wiggled into place on his body was a victory, and each one was celebrated with a grunt and a curse to life itself.

The curses stopped on his way down the stairs, but the grumbling and groaning didn't. He had one goal in mind, and that was the only thing keeping him going - coffee. He needed coffee. Or something stronger. He didn't know what, so coffee it was. If only it could be ready made for him, rather than requiring him to stumble into the kitchen, grind the beans, add water, strain, and pour. It was easy on normal days, but his pounding head stretched every second into a year, and why should he have to wait a lifetime for coffee? He grumbled some more as the coffee brewed, grunting in quasi-appreciation once he could actually pour the dark concoction into a mug and take it to a table.

"You're looking perky," a voice commented, interrupting his miserable reverie. He lazily glanced over to acknowledge the speaker, a twinge of envy coming across him at her relative alertness. He was too fatigued to truly care, though. Besides, he'd gotten used to it. His sister always recovered more gracefully from alcohol and the like than he did, but he could afford to gorge on sugar and fatty foods without the cost. She hated him for that, so it balanced out in the end.

"Morn'," he replied gruffly, leaving the word unfinished and sipping his coffee. The grounds were burned, apparently, and he grimaced at the heightened bitterness.

"Afternoon, actually," she replied, taking a seat across from him and pouring herself a mug of his coffee. He didn't try to stop her, and smirked when she gagged at the taste. "Ugh, what is that?" she asked. "How do you always ruin it?"

"Why do you keep drinking it if I always ruin it?" he posited with a smirk.

"Maybe I'm being supportive and having faith that you'll get better," Pumpkin retorted, glaring down into the cup and taking another tentative sip, barely containing a grimace.

"You could always make your own coffee," Pound suggested, drinking his own mixture. Ugh, maybe she should. I wouldn't complain. Too much. "Not that you look like you need it."

"Trust me, I need it," she assured him, getting better at holding back her distaste as she grew used to the brew.

"Heavy night?"

"Pretty much."

"You don't look like it."

"You do." She looked him over. "Covering for the both of us?" Pound didn't have a witty enough response, and so just shrugged as if to concede her point. "Where were you last night, anyway?"

"Pipsqueak's house party."

"You too? Huh. I didn't see you all night." He quirked an eyebrow at that.

"I didn't see you either," he replied. "When did you get there?"

"Pretty early in the night," she answered. "I wasn't exactly hard to miss, either. You would've known me if you'd seen me. I went as a Windigo, and the costume was amazing."

"What?"

"Yeah," she answered proudly, continuing on, unaware of his quirked eyebrow or concerned expression. "I made sure it stood out. I wasn't gonna half-heart it, you know? I went the whole nine yards; hair dye, frosting as face and body paint - don't tell mum and dad I used the frosting - and Yona helped with-"

"A Windigo?" Pound interrupted, earning a curious glance from his sister.

"Yeah," she answered, looking nonplussed at his question. "You know, the evil winter spirit? The stories from when we were small? Be nice and kind to each other or the Windigos will come and bring the cold winds, freeze you in your homes?"

"Yeah, I know," he answered back, a little too brusquely. She balked at his tone, but he was too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice or care. His mind was somehow clearer and hazier than it had previously been, and he found a newfound strength in his limbs. "So...you went as a Windigo to the party...and you were dressed in frosting-"

"Not just frosting," she tutted, annoyance at his simplification of her costume seeping into her voice. "I put so much more work into it than frosting. A lot of it was innovative and required a lot of time to perfect."

"Blue frosting?" Pound continued. Pumpkin nodded, unsure where he was heading with his questioning. Rising to his feet, he walked around the table, each step sending a deeper chill through him. When he'd rounded the table, he reached out with a hand, moving it towards his sister's hair. She tried to pull away, but he dipped closer and pulled a poofy, bushy bunch away so he could see clearly.

Her neck was tattooed purple with hickeys, still fresh enough that some still boasted the raw redness that hadn't faded yet.

Ice dropped into his stomach, spreading like a flood and settling like cement. He felt the colour drain from his face, even as Pumpkin slapped his hand away and pulled her hair back over her love bites.

"Hey!" she complained. "Mind your own business!"

"Sis...you-"

"Yeah, I hooked up with someone last night, okay?" she huffed. "Not that you should care. It's not like it affects you." She raised her mug to her lips, grimacing as the coffee battered her tastebuds again. While she stuck her tongue out in disgust, Pound felt his headache fade, and then rush back in, stronger and more forceful.

"This guy you hooked up with-"

"Who says it's a guy?" she cut in sharply, her face set in a defensive pout. "Maybe I got lucky with a girl. More girls in this town than guys."

"Was 'she' dressed as Yenrich the Barbarian?" he asked, frustration creeping into his words. Pumpkin's defiance froze on her face, and her mask slipped. He could see the battle she was fighting with herself, and then she glanced to the side.

"Maybe," she muttered. "Why do you care?"

"Because..." He took a deep breath, and tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. His mouth dried out. His tongue felt heavy. "Because I..."

"Because you what?" Pumpkin demanded. "You came to the party as Yenrich the Barbarian and dicked me down?" She glared at him for several seconds, holding his stare, until she noticed the dread and shame etched onto his face. Like there was a circuit between them, it passed on to her, the sheer weight of the situation settling on her. "You...you're joking..."

"Red, I..."

"This isn't funny, Pound."

"I-I know, I'm not-"

"Pound, knock it off right now! I'm being serious! This is gross!"

"I'm not joking!"

A dense silence settled over the room like a fog. Sound seemed to retreat, the birds and insects outside pausing their daily routine to let the tension thicken and boil. The walls pressed in around them, pulling closer to observe and leer. The only presence in Pound's awareness was the heady pounding of blood blasting in his ears, a dreaded THUMP THUMP THUMP to contrast the static pain of disgust and horror pooling in his belly. Pumpkin was staring at him, her eyes wide and her countenance a quadripartite of shock, denial, terror, and confusion.

The scrape of her chair against the floorboards shattered the silence in a cacophonous shriek, and she ran from the room, heading up the stairs in a rush before he could stop her. Pound heard the clomp of her footsteps on the floorboards above, followed by the slam of her bedroom door. Another silence followed, but this one he was left to deal with alone. In some ways, that was better.

Leaving his coffee on the table, the young man slowly took the same route up the stairs that his sister had done a couple of minutes before. He wasn't ready to deal with Pumpkin just yet, but he couldn't stay in the oppressive silence alone. He needed something to do, and with it being a Sunday, there was practically nothing to do. Not that he wanted to do anything in particular. He just needed something to make him feel less...well, less.

Closing his bedroom door behind him, Pound headed for the one loose floorboard just behind his cabinet. Prying it open, he reached inside, searching until his fingers brushed the cold, smooth surface of the glass he was looking for. Grasping it and pulling it out, he reset the board and retreated to his bed, slumping onto it gracelessly. Letting out a dejected sigh, he unscrewed the cap from the bottle and raised it to his lips.

"I never should've got out of bed," he decided as the first splash of whiskey hit his tongue.