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inky-duchess · 1 year ago

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Fantasy Guide to Interiors

As a followup to the very popular post on architecture, I decided to add onto it by exploring the interior of each movement and the different design techniques and tastes of each era. This post at be helpful for historical fiction, fantasy or just a long read when you're bored.

Interior Design Terms

Reeding and fluting: Fluting is a technique that consists a continuous pattern of concave grooves in a flat surface across a surface. Reeding is it's opposite.

Embossing: stamping, carving or moulding a symbol to make it stand out on a surface.

Paneling: Panels of carved wood or fabric a fixed to a wall in a continuous pattern.

Gilding: the use of gold to highlight features.

Glazed Tile: Ceramic or porcelain tiles coated with liquid coloured glass or enamel.

Column: A column is a pillar of stone or wood built to support a ceiling. We will see more of columns later on.

Bay Window: The Bay Window is a window projecting outward from a building.

Frescos: A design element of painting images upon wet plaster.

Mosaic: Mosaics are a design element that involves using pieces of coloured glass and fitted them together upon the floor or wall to form images.

Mouldings: ornate strips of carved wood along the top of a wall.

Wainscoting: paneling along the lower portion of a wall.

Chinoiserie: A European take on East Asian art. Usually seen in wallpaper.

Clerestory: A series of eye-level windows.

Sconces: A light fixture supported on a wall.

Niche: A sunken area within a wall.

Monochromatic: Focusing on a single colour within a scheme.

Ceiling rose: A moulding fashioned on the ceiling in the shape of a rose usually supporting a light fixture.

Baluster: the vertical bars of a railing.

Façade: front portion of a building

Lintel: Top of a door or window.

Portico: a covered structure over a door supported by columns

Eaves: the part of the roof overhanging from the building

Skirting: border around lower length of a wall

Ancient Greece

Houses were made of either sun-dried clay bricks or stone which were painted when they dried. Ground floors were decorated with coloured stones and tiles called Mosaics. Upper level floors were made from wood. Homes were furnished with tapestries and furniture, and in grand homes statues and grand altars would be found. Furniture was very skillfully crafted in Ancient Greece, much attention was paid to the carving and decoration of such things. Of course, Ancient Greece is ancient so I won't be going through all the movements but I will talk a little about columns.

Doric: Doric is the oldest of the orders and some argue it is the simplest. The columns of this style are set close together, without bases and carved with concave curves called flutes. The capitals (the top of the column) are plain often built with a curve at the base called an echinus and are topped by a square at the apex called an abacus. The entablature is marked by frieze of vertical channels/triglyphs. In between the channels would be detail of carved marble. The Parthenon in Athens is your best example of Doric architecture.

Ionic: The Ionic style was used for smaller buildings and the interiors. The columns had twin volutes, scroll-like designs on its capital. Between these scrolls, there was a carved curve known as an egg and in this style the entablature is much narrower and the frieze is thick with carvings. The example of Ionic Architecture is the Temple to Athena Nike at the Athens Acropolis.

Corinthian: The Corinthian style has some similarities with the Ionic order, the bases, entablature and columns almost the same but the capital is more ornate its base, column, and entablature, but its capital is far more ornate, commonly carved with depictions of acanthus leaves. The style was more slender than the others on this list, used less for bearing weight but more for decoration. Corinthian style can be found along the top levels of the Colosseum in Rome.

Tuscan: The Tuscan order shares much with the Doric order, but the columns are un-fluted and smooth. The entablature is far simpler, formed without triglyphs or guttae. The columns are capped with round capitals.

Composite: This style is mixed. It features the volutes of the Ionic order and the capitals of the Corinthian order. The volutes are larger in these columns and often more ornate. The column's capital is rather plain. for the capital, with no consistent differences to that above or below the capital.

Ancient Rome

Rome is well known for its outward architectural styles. However the Romans did know how to add that rizz to the interior. Ceilings were either vaulted or made from exploded beams that could be painted. The Romans were big into design. Moasics were a common interior sight, the use of little pieces of coloured glass or stone to create a larger image. Frescoes were used to add colour to the home, depicting mythical figures and beasts and also different textures such as stonework or brick. The Romans loved their furniture. Dining tables were low and the Romans ate on couches. Weaving was a popular pastime so there would be tapestries and wall hangings in the house. Rich households could even afford to import fine rugs from across the Empire. Glass was also a feature in Roman interior but windows were usually not paned as large panes were hard to make. Doors were usually treated with panels that were carved or in lain with bronze.

Ancient Egypt

Egypt was one of the first great civilisations, known for its immense and grand structures. Wealthy Egyptians had grand homes. The walls were painted or plastered usually with bright colours and hues. The Egyptians are cool because they mapped out their buildings in such a way to adhere to astrological movements meaning on special days if the calendar the temple or monuments were in the right place always. The columns of Egyptian where thicker, more bulbous and often had capitals shaped like bundles of papyrus reeds. Woven mats and tapestries were popular decor. Motifs from the river such as palms, papyrus and reeds were popular symbols used.

Ancient Africa

African Architecture is a very mixed bag and more structurally different and impressive than Hollywood would have you believe. Far beyond the common depictions of primitive buildings, the African nations were among the giants of their time in architecture, no style quite the same as the last but just as breathtaking.

Rwandan Architecture: The Rwandans commonly built of hardened clay with thatched roofs of dried grass or reeds. Mats of woven reeds carpeted the floors of royal abodes. These residences folded about a large public area known as a karubanda and were often so large that they became almost like a maze, connecting different chambers/huts of all kinds of uses be they residential or for other purposes.

Ashanti Architecture: The Ashanti style can be found in present day Ghana. The style incorporates walls of plaster formed of mud and designed with bright paint and buildings with a courtyard at the heart, not unlike another examples on this post. The Ashanti also formed their buildings of the favourite method of wattle and daub.

Nubian Architecture: Nubia, in modern day Ethiopia, was home to the Nubians who were one of the world's most impressive architects at the beginning of the architecture world and probably would be more talked about if it weren't for the Egyptians building monuments only up the road. The Nubians were famous for building the speos, tall tower-like spires carved of stone. The Nubians used a variety of materials and skills to build, for example wattle and daub and mudbrick. The Kingdom of Kush, the people who took over the Nubian Empire was a fan of Egyptian works even if they didn't like them very much. The Kushites began building pyramid-like structures such at the sight of Gebel Barkal

Japanese Interiors

Japenese interior design rests upon 7 principles. Kanso (簡素)- Simplicity, Fukinsei (不均整)- Asymmetry, Shizen (自然)- Natural, Shibumi (渋味) – Simple beauty, Yugen (幽玄)- subtle grace, Datsuzoku (脱俗) – freedom from habitual behaviour, Seijaku (静寂)- tranquillity.

Common features of Japanese Interior Design:

Shoji walls: these are the screens you think of when you think of the traditional Japanese homes. They are made of wooden frames, rice paper and used to partition

Tatami: Tatami mats are used within Japanese households to blanket the floors. They were made of rice straw and rush straw, laid down to cushion the floor.

Genkan: The Genkan was a sunken space between the front door and the rest of the house. This area is meant to separate the home from the outside and is where shoes are discarded before entering.

Japanese furniture: often lowest, close to the ground. These include tables and chairs but often tanked are replaced by zabuton, large cushions. Furniture is usually carved of wood in a minimalist design.

Nature: As both the Shinto and Buddhist beliefs are great influences upon architecture, there is a strong presence of nature with the architecture. Wood is used for this reason and natural light is prevalent with in the home. The orientation is meant to reflect the best view of the world.

Islamic World Interior

The Islamic world has one of the most beautiful and impressive interior design styles across the world. Colour and detail are absolute staples in the movement. Windows are usually not paned with glass but covered in ornate lattices known as jali. The jali give ventilation, light and privacy to the home. Islamic Interiors are ornate and colourful, using coloured ceramic tiles. The upper parts of walls and ceilings are usually flat decorated with arabesques (foliate ornamentation), while the lower wall areas were usually tiled. Features such as honeycombed ceilings, horseshoe arches, stalactite-fringed arches and stalactite vaults (Muqarnas) are prevalent among many famous Islamic buildings such as the Alhambra and the Blue Mosque.

Byzantine (330/395–1453 A. D)

The Byzantine Empire or Eastern Roman Empire was where eat met west, leading to a melting pot of different interior designs based on early Christian styles and Persian influences. Mosaics are probably what you think of when you think of the Byzantine Empire. Ivory was also a popular feature in the Interiors, with carved ivory or the use of it in inlay. The use of gold as a decorative feature usually by way of repoussé (decorating metals by hammering in the design from the backside of the metal). Fabrics from Persia, heavily embroidered and intricately woven along with silks from afar a field as China, would also be used to upholster furniture or be used as wall hangings. The Byzantines favoured natural light, usually from the use of copolas.

Indian Interiors

India is of course, the font of all intricate designs. India's history is sectioned into many eras but we will focus on a few to give you an idea of prevalent techniques and tastes.

The Gupta Empire (320 – 650 CE): The Gupta era was a time of stone carving. As impressive as the outside of these buildings are, the Interiors are just as amazing. Gupta era buildings featured many details such as ogee (circular or horseshoe arch), gavaksha/chandrashala (the motif centred these arches), ashlar masonry (built of squared stone blocks) with ceilings of plain, flat slabs of stone.

Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526): Another period of beautifully carved stone. The Delhi sultanate had influence from the Islamic world, with heavy uses of mosaics, brackets, intricate mouldings, columns and and hypostyle halls.

Mughal Empire (1526–1857): Stonework was also important on the Mughal Empire. Intricately carved stonework was seen in the pillars, low relief panels depicting nature images and jalis (marble screens). Stonework was also decorated in a stye known as pietra dura/parchin kari with inscriptions and geometric designs using colored stones to create images. Tilework was also popular during this period. Moasic tiles were cut and fitted together to create larger patters while cuerda seca tiles were coloured tiles outlined with black.

Chinese Interiors

Common features of Chinese Interiors

Use of Colours: Colour in Chinese Interior is usually vibrant and bold. Red and Black are are traditional colours, meant to bring luck, happiness, power, knowledge and stability to the household.

Latticework: Lattices are a staple in Chinese interiors most often seen on shutters, screens, doors of cabinets snf even traditional beds.

Lacquer: Multiple coats of lacquer are applied to furniture or cabinets (now walls) and then carved. The skill is called Diaoqi (雕漆).

Decorative Screens: Screens are used to partition off part of a room. They are usually of carved wood, pained with very intricate murals.

Shrines: Spaces were reserved on the home to honour ancestors, usually consisting of an altar where offerings could be made.

Of course, Chinese Interiors are not all the same through the different eras. While some details and techniques were interchangeable through different dynasties, usually a dynasty had a notable style or deviation. These aren't all the dynasties of course but a few interesting examples.

Song Dynasty (960–1279): The Song Dynasty is known for its stonework. Sculpture was an important part of Song Dynasty interior. It was in this period than brick and stone work became the most used material. The Song Dynasty was also known for its very intricate attention to detail, paintings, and used tiles.

Ming Dynasty(1368–1644): Ceilings were adorned with cloisons usually featuring yellow reed work. The floors would be of flagstones usually of deep tones, mostly black. The Ming Dynasty favoured richly coloured silk hangings, tapestries and furnishings. Furniture was usually carved of darker woods, arrayed in a certain way to bring peace to the dwelling.

Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD): Interior walls were plastered and painted to show important figures and scenes. Lacquer, though it was discovered earlier, came into greater prominence with better skill in this era.

Tang Dynasty (618–907) : The colour palette is restrained, reserved. But the Tang dynasty is not without it's beauty. Earthenware reached it's peak in this era, many homes would display fine examples as well. The Tang dynasty is famous for its upturned eaves, the ceilings supported by timber columns mounted with metal or stone bases. Glazed tiles were popular in this era, either a fixed to the roof or decorating a screen wall.

Romanesque (6th -11th century/12th)

Romanesque Architecture is a span between the end of Roman Empire to the Gothic style. Taking inspiration from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, the Romanesque period incorporates many of the styles. The most common details are carved floral and foliage symbols with the stonework of the Romanesque buildings. Cable mouldings or twisted rope-like carvings would have framed doorways. As per the name, Romansque Interiors relied heavily on its love and admiration for Rome. The Romanesque style uses geometric shapes as statements using curves, circles snf arches. The colours would be clean and warm, focusing on minimal ornamentation.

Gothic Architecture (12th Century - 16th Century)

The Gothic style is what you think of when you think of old European cathedrals and probably one of the beautiful of the styles on this list and one of most recognisable. The Gothic style is a dramatic, opposing sight and one of the easiest to describe. Decoration in this era became more ornate, stonework began to sport carving and modelling in a way it did not before. The ceilings moved away from barreled vaults to quadripartite and sexpartite vaulting. Columns slimmed as other supportive structures were invented. Intricate stained glass windows began their popularity here. In Gothic structures, everything is very symmetrical and even.

Mediaeval (500 AD to 1500)

Interiors of mediaeval homes are not quite as drab as Hollywood likes to make out. Building materials may be hidden by plaster in rich homes, sometimes even painted. Floors were either dirt strewn with rushes or flagstones in larger homes. Stonework was popular, especially around fireplaces. Grand homes would be decorated with intricate woodwork, carved heraldic beasts and wall hangings of fine fabrics.

Renaissance (late 1300s-1600s)

The Renaissance was a period of great artistry and splendor. The revival of old styles injected symmetry and colour into the homes. Frescoes were back. Painted mouldings adorned the ceilings and walls. Furniture became more ornate, fixed with luxurious upholstery and fine carvings. Caryatids (pillars in the shape of women), grotesques, Roman and Greek images were used to spruce up the place. Floors began to become more intricate, with coloured stone and marble. Modelled stucco, sgraffiti arabesques (made by cutting lines through a layer of plaster or stucco to reveal an underlayer), and fine wall painting were used in brilliant combinations in the early part of the 16th century.

Tudor Interior (1485-1603)

The Tudor period is a starkly unique style within England and very recognisable. Windows were fixed with lattice work, usually casement. Stained glass was also in in this period, usually depicting figures and heraldic beasts. Rooms would be panelled with wood or plastered. Walls would be adorned with tapestries or embroidered hangings. Windows and furniture would be furnished with fine fabrics such as brocade. Floors would typically be of wood, sometimes strewn with rush matting mixed with fresh herbs and flowers to freshen the room.

Baroque (1600 to 1750)

The Baroque period was a time for splendor and for splashing the cash. The interior of a baroque room was usually intricate, usually of a light palette, featuring a very high ceiling heavy with detail. Furniture would choke the room, ornately carved and stitched with very high quality fabrics. The rooms would be full of art not limited to just paintings but also sculptures of marble or bronze, large intricate mirrors, moldings along the walls which may be heavily gilded, chandeliers and detailed paneling.

Victorian (1837-1901)

We think of the interiors of Victorian homes as dowdy and dark but that isn't true. The Victorians favoured tapestries, intricate rugs, decorated wallpaper, exquisitely furniture, and surprisingly, bright colour. Dyes were more widely available to people of all stations and the Victorians did not want for colour. Patterns and details were usually nature inspired, usually floral or vines. Walls could also be painted to mimic a building material such as wood or marble and most likely painted in rich tones. The Victorians were suckers for furniture, preferring them grandly carved with fine fabric usually embroidered or buttoned. And they did not believe in minimalism. If you could fit another piece of furniture in a room, it was going in there. Floors were almost eclusively wood laid with the previously mentioned rugs. But the Victorians did enjoy tiled floors but restricted them to entrances. The Victorians were quite in touch with their green thumbs so expect a lot of flowers and greenery inside. with various elaborately decorated patterned rugs. And remember, the Victorians loved to display as much wealth as they could. Every shelf, cabinet, case and ledge would be chocked full of ornaments and antiques.

Edwardian/The Gilded Age/Belle Epoque (1880s-1914)

This period (I've lumped them together for simplicity) began to move away from the deep tones and ornate patterns of the Victorian period. Colour became more neutral. Nature still had a place in design. Stained glass began to become popular, especially on lampshades and light fixtures. Embossing started to gain popularity and tile work began to expand from the entrance halls to other parts of the house. Furniture began to move away from dark wood, some families favouring breathable woods like wicker. The rooms would be less cluttered.

Art Deco (1920s-1930s)

The 1920s was a time of buzz and change. Gone were the refined tastes of the pre-war era and now the wow factor was in. Walls were smoother, buildings were sharper and more jagged, doorways and windows were decorated with reeding and fluting. Pastels were in, as was the heavy use of black and white, along with gold. Mirrors and glass were in, injecting light into rooms. Gold, silver, steel and chrome were used in furnishings and decor. Geometric shapes were a favourite design choice. Again, high quality and bold fabrics were used such as animal skins or colourful velvet. It was all a rejection of the Art Noveau movement, away from nature focusing on the man made.

Modernism (1930 - 1965)

Modernism came after the Art Deco movement. Fuss and feathers were out the door and now, practicality was in. Materials used are shown as they are, wood is not painted, metal is not coated. Bright colours were acceptable but neutral palettes were favoured. Interiors were open and favoured large windows. Furniture was practical, for use rather than the ornamentation, featuring plain details of any and geometric shapes. Away from Art Deco, everything is straight, linear and streamlined.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 10 days ago

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Squeaky Clean 4

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You start work as a maid but you’re not prepared for the mess your client brings with him. (maid AU – plus!reader)

Note: yeah…

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A yawn strains your cheeks but you lock it behind your lips. Your eyes water with the constant glaze of fatigue. It could be the work; it’s a lot more physical than you expected, or it could be your usual insomniac tendencies. Whatever it is, doesn’t matter. You just need to get through the day.

You drizzle the tub cleaner around the brim of the porcelain and watch it trickle down. There’s a hint of something scented still in the air. You note the bag of epsom salts on the little shelf. You guess Steve took your advice.

As you wait for the grime dissolver to do its thing, you turn and wipe down the thing, working methodically around the toothbrush holder and the white cup. You even clean the mirror, making sure not to miss a single inch. If you keep your hands moving, you don’t fixate on how dull this all is.

You grab your sponge and turn to crank on the faucet. You bend over the tub and set to work. Your shirt presses to the brim and you feel the moisture seep through to your stomach. You use the running water to scrub the cleaner to suds. The scent roils in the air.

You reach to the other side, one hand on the edge as you strain. You push your toes into the bathmat to extend further. As you feel you might tip into the deep basin, a firm weight settles along your hips and keeps you steady. You kick your feet into the floor as your head snaps up.

You squeeze the sponge in your fist and lean it against the opposite wall. You twist to see over your shoulder, squirming as Steve stands behind you, holding you as you sputter dumbly. What is he doing?

“You looked like you needed help?” He grins.

Your mind and heart race, competing to the panic line. What the hell? You want to yell at him to get off but your caution chokes the protest from you. As much as he’s overstepping, you need the job. Your landlord doesn’t care that the market is shit, he just wants his money.

“I’m... fine,” you eke out.

“You sure?” He asks.

“Yeah, er,” you nudge his fingers with your yellow glove as you turn back to your task. “I’m sure.”

“Well, let me know,” he loosens his grip and drags it around to your lower back. His touch sends a shiver through you. He draws away and the warm lingers there, another spatter as suddenly a clap stings across your ass.

You grunt and keep yourself steady with the hand pressed to the wall. Your eyes widen in disbelief. Steve hums as his footsteps softly retreat. You shudder as you stare at the ivory tile embossed with lilies. He didn’t just...

You scrub in circles as you wade through the shock of the encounter, trying to convince yourself it didn’t happen. You still feel the impact hot against your jeans. You rinse the tub out and stand. Maybe it’s from bending over for so long or the cleaner but you’re dizzy.

You finish up the bathroom but can’t make yourself leave. Where is he? Is he hiding? Does he realise what he did? Is he embarrassed?

Alright, you guess you can talk to Jan at the agency and get this sorted out. Yeah, you need a new client. This one isn’t working out. You gather up the cleaners and tiptoe out of the room. You stop short as you near your kit by the shoe mat. He can hear you. He has super hearing, right?

You’re further shaken by the reminder of his superiority. Before, you only thought of the disparity of your bank accounts, you hadn’t even considered the most obvious disadvantage. More than just the physical. He is Captain America.

Would he notice if you left early? He could report you first if he did. Then you’re the one getting dumped, not him. Between the two of you, he’d be the one they’d want to keep. You’re just another cleaner. You can be replaced.

So get through it and hope you can get a new placement. Hopefully closer to home. Or maybe further. Anywhere, really.

You wade through the townhouse warily. You wipe down the dining table as your mind wanders away. The table presses into your tummy. You look down and retract. Would anyone believe you? You’re nothing special. Steve Rogers wouldn’t waste his time on you. I mean, he works with Black Widow and have you seen her in a body suit?

Stop. Focus. Just get it done.

You continue your usual path through the house. Knocking on each door, checking that each room is empty before you tend to it. As you find each vacant, your dread builds. You’re not so sure he’s hiding from you out of shame now. It’s starting to feel like a game. Like he’s taunting you.

As you return to the entry way to grab your vacuum and do your final walkthrough, you stop just before the banister post. You stare at the broad set of shoulders as they slowly turn to you. You swallow and clutch the cloth in your hand tight as Steve turns to you in full regalia.

Cowl, suit, shield. He’s dressed to the nines in his Cap attire. It doesn’t look as campy as on the television. You can see the intricacy of the armour along his gauntlets and the way it lines his ribs just so, alluding to the wall of muscle beneath. That's what he is in that moment, a barrier. The door is behind him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his jaw looks sharper as the top of his face is hidden under the cowl. “Looking for something?”

You shake and point to the vacuum. He turns and looks around, grabbing the vacuum by the hose and dragging it around. He raises the flat end and wiggles it toward you.

“There you go,” his eyes shine through the cowl.

You shuffle forward and reach for the body of the vacuum. You squeak as he stops you by poking the vacuum nozzle against your chest. You flinch and reel back. He jabs until you’re walking backwards. You squeeze the cloth in your hand until your knuckles hurt.

You hit the banister post and stare at him dumbly. He pushes the flat attachment down so you feel your chest bulge around it. His eyes follow and he lightly jiggles you with the plastic end. You grab it instinctively to stop him.

“Steve,” you hiss.

He chuckles and flips the end free of your grasp. He taps your chin, just enough to make you flinch, and you recoil, showing your hands defencelessly. The cloth drops to the floor as he raises your head with the firm prod of the vacuum.

“They won’t believe you. Captain’s got a lot more going on than whoever’s scrubbing his toilet,” he steps closer, towering over you. You glower up at him, stomach roiling with disgust. “But hey, Stark’s got attorneys on retainer. He owes me one.”

Your lip trembles helplessly and you shake your head. “Why--”

He tuts and taps your chin again, quieting you. His smile remains as he leans in and brings his other hand up, tugging at the top of your shirt until he exposes your cleavage. You press yourself against the banister and whimper.

“Because I can,” he snaps the tension in your collar before letting go. “But the good cap’s gotta go save the world before he gets his prize.” He backs up and once more offers up the vacuum hose, “and you gotta make sure he comes home to a nice clean house. Like a good girl.”

You grab the hose and he keeps hold of it. You hold his gaze as the urge to rip it away and swat him shakes in your grip. He snickers again. You won’t win this battle.

“Tell Jan I say ‘hi’ and I’ll have that client survey done soon,” he lets go and turns away with a sigh. He turns to the door and puts his hands out, cupping them emphatically as he looks from one to the other. “You sure are a handful.”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #drabble #maid au #squeaky clean #mcu #marvel #captain america #avengers

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mistydeyes · 1 year ago

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hiiiii I LOVE YOUR WORK!!!!!!!! Can you please do 141 with a model reader who does Chanel,Versace etc and she gets an invite to do Victoria’s Secret runway and they see her down the runway how would they react

she’s not any model shes and icon,sex symbol,brains,she is the moment

big inspo for me ( I want to become a model)

AHHH I LOVE THIS! anon i feel you tho, every time i look on pinterest i just want to be a model! thank you for requesting <3

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summary: The 141 has always had an odd connection of friends, allies, and connections. However, they can't deny that they don't enjoy your luxurious life as a model and the perks that come along with attending one of your shows.

pairing: Taskforce 141 x fem!reader

warnings: swearing

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A series of events in Milan allowed the 141 to cross paths with you. Staying in a lavish French penthouse was far from what they had expected on a mission dictated by Laswell but her connections with your retired INTERPOL mother had brought them the extravagance of your home and lifestyle. Laswell had to threaten to have their court marshaled if they delayed their arrival home any longer. You thought of that brief moment in summer fondly as you left Gaz a voicemail. "I have a runway in New York coming up, let me know if you'll be on leave," you spoke on the phone, examining your manicured nails, "accommodations and champagne are on me."

"This is nice," Price said, dropping his duffle onto the marbled tile of their hotel room. "Are you kidding, Cap?" Gaz said as he opened every door into the massive suite, "This is fucking amazing." When they got off the plane at JFK, they had not expected a private driver who brought them to the ornate hotel. The room itself had four separate bedrooms with two bathrooms filled with the best amenities. Soap had taken the opportunity to run over and open a bottle of champagne while Ghost pilfered the small shampoo and conditioner bottles. While the men explored the vast rooms and fought over the beds, there was a knock at the door. Price opened it to reveal a well-dressed bell-hop boy, holding a tray with an envelope. "Four tickets sent by one of the models," he spoke and Price handled the black envelope with embossed pink lettering. "Hell of invitation," he muttered before he looked at the runway time and shared the details with his team. "Wonder what she'll be wearing," Soap mused as he turned to take over one of the bathrooms.

Behind the stage, there was organized chaos with models running around in their silk robes in between the stations. The chatter roared as they chatted with the various hair stylists and makeup artists. "First VS show?" your makeup artist asked as she applied glitter delicately to your primed lids. "Yes, but not my first modeling gig," you smiled as you felt the pressure on your closed eyes, "Versace was beyond a mess compared to this." The artist laughed as she continued to prep your look. You could see mixes of pink and gold applied to your lips and the apples of your cheeks. "We think an olive green liner would look stunning on you," she said before holding a green eyeliner pencil in hand. You nodded in response as you shifted a bit in your robe. You gently closed your eyes again as you envisioned your latest outfit for the night.

Weeks prior you had visited the city to see your outfit for the night. A sage green bra and panty set decorated with pink and glittery flowers to resemble a meadow. Your wings were made of a delicate rose pink chiffon that was reminiscent of a fairy. "Do you like?" the designer asked as you walked around the stand and examined every stitch and detail. You smiled as you nodded happily, feeling the soft fabric under your fingertips. "Any particular inspiration?" you questioned as you made sure to feel the weight of the wings. "The newest line of Victoria's Secret," she spoke dreamily, "the delicacy of nature."

With your makeup and hair done, you walked over to change and receive the final touches from the design team. The group walked rapidly around your figure, assuring every detail would shine when the lights hit your walk. "Have anyone special here tonight?" one of the designers asked as he cut a few loose stitches. "Just a few friends from Europe," you spoke, hoping you didn't sound too entitled. You wanted to talk more but your odd friendship with a small special forces group would definitely reach some tabloids. "You look perfect darling," another designer spoke and you nodded before beginning to walk in your heels. "You can mingle with the others. Your collection is after the classics set," she reminded. You took a deep breath and made some facetious conversation with the other women. They were in awe at your previous shows but you just simply talked as if each was a mediocre experience. "Alright ladies, walk begins in five," a voice called over the comms and you lined up accordingly. As you watched the excited group in front of you, you wondered what you would treat the 141 to for dinner. You were sure if someone knew this is what you thought of before a show, they would laugh.

"Move up, Y/N," the stage manager directed, pulling you out of your food-related musings, "almost time for you to go on." You moved forward, getting into the comfort of your model walk you had done so many times before. You took a deep breath as you heard the live music stream through the curtains and the ethereal light peek through. You looked down at your attire one last time before the model ahead of you returned and it was your turn to awe the show. "Go, go, go," you could hear the stage manager command as the bright lights and menagerie of faces met your gaze.

"I think this is her!" Gaz commented, leaning forward in his chair. "You've been saying that for the past four models," Ghost corrected before he turned to see who was coming out next. As the men directed their gaze to the stage, you confidently strutted onto the platform. They were glued to your figure, perfectly accentuated by the flirtatious lingerie set. The details were delicate and encapsulated your aura. "Fuck." Soap whispered under his breath as the glitter and flower additions to your ensemble shimmered underneath the light. Your wings bounced and looked like they flittered in the air as you made your way in front of the watching crowd. "She's a natural at this," Price commented as he watched the way you walked in a straight line with an air of elegance in each step. He also couldn't deny the way you shined on stage and how the cameras clicked in rapid succession. As you reached the end of the runway, you took an opportunity to look over at the seats you had picked for the 141. You gave a small wink before blowing a kiss in their direction.

Upon your exiting, there was a clamor amongst the group as to who the kiss was directed to. Primarily, Soap and Gaz were at odds thinking you made eye contact with them as you puckered your glossed lips. Price attempted to put a stop to them before Ghost spoke up. "I'm sure that was for me," he spoke quietly, leaving everyone to shelf the conversation and bring it up later over dinner.

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bugthingsdaily · 1 month ago

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I did a metal embossing project of a woolly chafer beetle a while back, if it’s worthy of being on the bug blog I’d be honored! I’m a huge fan of all the tiny bug items, seeing what new bug things are here in the morning makes my day :)

it is definitely blog-worthy!!! this is beautiful!! metal embossing looks so neat i would love to try it. i'm imagining a wall tiled with these...

#bugmission #art #buganswers #woolly chafer beetle

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korpuskat · 22 days ago

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Cadence [Michael Myers/Reader]

[Ao3 Mirror] Summary: It's been a long time since Michael found his way into your life, beaten and bloody. With Michael's possessiveness and unpredictability, you haven't been able to reach out to you family in a while. A wedding invitation from a distant aunt has presented you with a unique problem- the only way you're attending is if he comes with you. On the bright side, you get to see him in a suit. Rating: Explicit (citrus, implied violence) WC: 18K. Warnings: dubcon, choking, violence, unhealthy relationship, it's Michael Myers come on, y'all know This is a sequel to Rest for the Wicked. It's readable without context, but better with.

You bite at your thumb and look between the fancy, pressed and textured paper and the masked shape who sits on your couch. “You don’t have to go, but I do.” Hidden behind the mask, you feel it more than see it: his gaze darkens, grows heavy.

Normally you would wilt, let Michael’s boundaries- restrictive and possessive though they were- guide your activities. Easier for everyone, really. Defying him usually ended with blood loss for someone, sometimes you. Sometimes not. But you haven’t seen your family since you met him, have been avoiding speaking with them about... everything that happened. You avoid speaking with them on principle, but it was nothing short of a miracle they had all somehow missed the cascade of murders (and your role in them) last fall.

If you didn’t show up to a wedding- granted you barely remember the bride, a distant aunt, you suspect you’re invited only because of her want of a large crowd- would only raise their suspicions more. How could you ever explain your way out of a wedding? What possible explanation could you give?

You bite your lip, look askance. “If you came with me you’d have some free time.” The mask’s expression does not change. He’s unreadable and distant. You don’t... love what he does to other people. But you know what he is, know what happens when he disappears on the nights he can’t sleep.

It’s greedy. Not the trade of someone’s life for your ability to attend a wedding (he’d kill no matter how much you could distract and entertain him), but wanting him to come. That occasionally lingering desire for some kind of normalcy, for those rare, genuine moments of intimacy. You wonder if he knows why you try to engineer them, if it even occurs to him. Without in-depth conversation, you’re still usually left out of the machinations of his steel trap mind.

You hesitate to continue. “Nobody would be looking for you out there.” If he did walk out in the night at least you wouldn’t have to worry so much. You thumb at the edge of the postcard, feel the thick, embossed paper resist your touch. “Just... nobody at the wedding.” The hair over the mask slides sideways and he tips his head slowly. You wonder how well he can actually read other people’s emotions when his own range is so stunted. Does he know all that you’d offer him? “Like I said, you don’t have to go with me…. But you might like it.”

He doesn’t acknowledge you more than that. Turns away and resumes watching midday television. You bite your cheek and leave the invitation on the kitchen counter. You have to go.

Two weeks later Michael stumbles into the house covered in blood that is not entirely someone else’s.

A slash cuts deep in his arm and has soaked through the sleeve, pouring blood over your floor. He collapses in the laundry room, red spilling across the white tiles. You hold back tears as you wrap white gauze over his arm, too familiar with the shape of a knife wound. You peel off the latex and find Michael’s face pale, his icy eyes half-lidded and slightly glazed.

Someone had fought back.

You rub his hands, squeeze the fingertips. Stroke your thumb over his prickly beard. His head lolls uncontrolled and he blinks slowly. You whisper to him, voice low and soft and will him to return to consciousness. You press a kiss to the scar over his right cheek, the one you’d sealed with skin glue so long ago. He stirs, bloodied right hand- not his own blood, you’re sure, it’s cool and tacky to the touch- grabs weakly at you.

You curl his left hand between you, raised to minimize the bleeding, and press into his lap. Despite the bloodloss he’s still warm. You press your face into his neck and say over and over, “You’re okay. It’s okay. I love you, you’ll be okay.”

When sunlight peaks through your back windows Michael stirs and pushes you off his lap. You stare at him, watch as he disappears into the hallway. You’re barely up to your feet before Michael reappears. The cream-colored paper is stained under his fingers, but he holds out the invitation.

The plastic cover crinkles as you hang Michael’s suit in the backseat of your car. You had to guess at his size in the end- every time you tried to measure him he’d step away, snatch the tape measure from your hands. Even when you tried plying him with sweets and sex. The latter had nearly worked, managing to get the breadth of his shoulders while he had floated in post-orgasmic bliss. Until he’d knocked your hands away and pinched your clit until he was hard again and could properly punish your wrongdoing.

You don’t ask again. Though you’re moderately sure you’re safe from Michael’s knife, the cold glint in his icy eyes was warning enough to drop it.

You don’t even know if he’s going to the ceremony. You honestly don’t expect him to, he’s never given you a nod when you ask. Perhaps it’s only a hunting trip for him, which you can’t even be upset about when you yourself had pointed out the advantages. And you’d both be doing something fun in your own ways- enjoying a wedding and slitting someone open was the same thing, right?

You bite your lip and straighten out the fabric, only a little disappointed you won’t see actually him in a suit. Way more than a little relieved that you won’t have to explain his existence entirely on your own. Yeah this is my vaguely defined life partner, Michael Myers, serial killer.

Imagine the headlines. You’d definitely show up the bride with that.

The door squeaks, old stairs creaking under Michael’s boots. He wears a black shirt that was a size too large and loose gray sweatpants. His coveralls (freshly laundered) are stuffed into a dark duffel bag along with his mask, the bag hanging lifelessly in his hand. You made sure it also held two changes of clothes and not a single one of your knives. You’d politely suggested some ideas to minimize police attention and with a miracle Michael agreed.

He drops his bag in the trunk and waits, stares at you with empty eyes. It’s strange seeing him unmasked and out in the daylight; sunshine makes his graying hair look positively silver, reflects handsomely in the cornflower blue of his iris. He doesn’t have a clue, stares at you passively- probably only interested in getting on the road as soon as possible. You know what will happen if you kiss him; Michael’s concept of physical affection will only lead to biting and bruising and fucking you here against your car, so you withold the desire. He must see something in your eyes, written on your face because he tips his head slowly- you smile and shake your head, dismiss his unspoken question.

With your suitcase already in the car, Michael’s bag and suit ready, all you had left was the twelve hour drive. You tried not to feel too giddy that Michael had all but jumped at the chance to take the wheel.

You slide into the front seat, Michael wastes no time in adjusting the passenger seat to slide as far back as it can for his long legs. You’ll never get used to seeing him in such a casual setting, stretched out in your little car, wearing such pedestrian clothes. Even if he does stare at you with those same mismatched blue and white eyes that send chills cascading down your spine- even after all this time, his power over you has not faded. You struggle to look away, ignore the Pavlovian tingling between your legs and turn the key.

The car sputters to life, rumbling loudly, the radio clicking on to the last station you had playing- now spitting stuttery soft rock. It’s preferable to the road sounds outside your car so you leave it be- and watch as you back down your driveway, your peaceful cabin shrinking as you reverse to the road. There’s a patch of grass next to the old country highway that’s yellowed and dying where your guests had been parked for weeks, but now fresh, tiny sprouts of green have emerged in the promise of spring rebirth.

You take the back way, opting to follow the highway east out of town instead of cutting straight through; It’s been some time since his face and mask have been plastered on every street corner, sent on alert to every phone registered to the county, but you can’t shake the paranoia. It would only take one alert citizen, one good Samaritan. And with Michael’s refusal to lie down in the back seat and wait for you to hit the city limits, it’s a small sacrifice for the illusion of safety.

Besides, it feels good to look to your side and see him. Michael stares out the windows now, watching cars and passengers as they pass. As much as it spikes the anxiety deep inside, you enjoy being able to see him maskless- even in your house he prefers the anonymity of the white latex. From this side you find only his unseeing eye, the deep, curved scar across his face, the slight droop of his eyelid from decades of muscular atrophy- and you see the masculine, strong shape of his nose, the gray of his recently trimmed beard that you know is more prickly than soft, but still feels nice when you stroke your thumb over it. Michael turns his head ever so slightly, not even enough to compensate for his blind eye, but you know you’ve been noticed.

You still find it in you to blush; Michael’s intensity has not changed and for as many times as you find yourself staring at him, the dark current of your subconscious always speaks up. Cruel and unwanted and flooding you with shame: murderer.

It’s easier to push that little voice down when Michael silences it with his mouth and hands, when he consumes all other intelligent thought through lust or intimidation, which are not mutually exclusive. But your hands are at ten and two, white striped lines blinking past you on the highway. Though you imagine Michael would have no problem distracting you now if you so much as squirmed in the driver’s seat, you’d rather not test your concentration.

Instead you make it nearly an hour outside of town before you feel the pointed, prickling on your skin of someone’s eyes on you. You pull over at the next rest stop- you do not think of of a black truck with peeling paint or the guilt you carry. You stretch as you step out of the car, revelling in the last time you’d get to really extend your legs for at least a few hours. Michael circles the car and you step out of his way so he won’t push you aside. Again he has to adjust the seat to accommodate his height, but the extra room he’s made on the passenger side works well for you.

Michael’s long months without driving make the start a bit bumpy, but he regains control with only mild frustration. You watch him as you’re nearly turned sideways in your chair, find something interesting in the shapes of his knuckles curled around the steering wheel. You want to be able to hold his hand, to touch his face without sparking something primal in him. So rarely are you graced with the softness behind his eyes, but you chase it anyway.

“I’m probably going to fall asleep fast.” You warn him and settle into your seat. You selected your driving attire nigh exclusively on sleepability, with Michael’s stunning conversation skills you’d opted for unconsciousness over trying to read in the car. “Is that okay?”

The highway changes, the car jumping slightly over the new terrain. One blue eye slides to you, his head bobbing, though you can’t be entirely sure if it was the car or him. You shrug, accept that he’d wake you if he wanted you. You lower your seat back and fuss with trying to get comfortable.

You face towards him, settling on using your arms as pillows, and watch how he drives, his little glances to the mirrors- having to turn slightly towards the driver’s side mirror. Every so often his good eye flicks down to you, aware that you’re watching him. You smile and snuggle into your arms. “Wake me if you need anything.”

You wake from a very nice dream to hands pulling at you, sleep dissipating fast- awareness surging forward as you’re nearly dragged over the center console. You land awkward in Michael’s lap- his seat already pushed as far back and down as it can. You blink and your eyes itch, your mouth is dry and Michael’s hands are pushing your pants down your legs until they tangle at your ankles. He doesn’t even bother with your underwear, merely pushing it aside.

“Wait,” You mumble, before you can piece together what’s going on. Michael’s cock pushes at you and, oh- you’re already wet. He slides in and in and you’re so full again, the familiar stretch makes you moan. He hardly waits at all before his hands bite fresh bruises onto your hips and he grinds you down against him. The tip of his cock presses hard against your cervix, makes you gasp and see stars. Even with you on top, Michael dominates; you don’t even get the chance to ride him. He lifts you by your hips until you’re just high enough for Michael to meet you with brutal snaps of his hips, fucking up into you hard enough to make your breath stutter on each impact.

You lean forward, press your cheek against his chest. He’s harsh, even compared to his usual pace and as your thighs begin to quiver, Michael’s brows just starting to draw in, you know he’s not going to be so generous today. You whimper, shift so you can slip one of your hands between yourself and him, seeking out your clit.

Each thrust draws a fresh whimper from your lips as he knocks the air out of your lungs. He reacts as he always does to your little pleading noises: Michael’s grip tightens and he thrusts harder, determined to chase that sound, to force you to cry out everything he makes you feel. With his brutal pace set, your fingers work deftly over your clit- and between the angle and the soft pants that dare to escape Michael’s iron control, you’re tumbling over the edge and clenching hard around him.

Michael growls low in his throat and takes to shoving you down in cruel counterpoint to his hips- all semblance of pace lost as he chases his own ends. Each movement sends another shock of residual pleasure through your body- starting as pleasurable, dragging out your orgasm, and turning sour, painful, every nerve electrified as you dig your nails into Michael’s shirt. You dare peek at him and find his mouth just barely open, a pink flush over his cheeks, sweat dotting over his forehead. He stares, transfixed at where your body meets his, watching as his cock spears into you again and again.

Your broken moans turn to sharp whines, each motion burning inside you until your thighs ache and you plead, “Please, Michael,” Icy blue lifts, pierces straight through your soul. “Cum inside me, please, I-”

It’s all he needs, his eyes snapping closed, head tipping back- and you watch him. He always looks so angry as it begins- his brow pulled down low, his jaw clenched so tight to keep from making any noise. And you feel his cock twitch inside you, the first wave of heat spilling deep inside. The muscles of his face relax- eyelids lifting just enough for you to see the mismatched colors of his irises, barely visible around the wide expanse of his black, empty pupil.

You lean forward again and take advantage- you shove your nose up under his chin and into the scruff of his beard. He pants, breathes hard through his mouth and you already feel the chill of sweat cooling on your back. You listen to the rhythm of his breathing, close your eyes and lose yourself in the warmth between your bodies- until Michael’s tolerance wears thin. His hands tighten around your waist and just as you had been hoisted onto him, he lifts you. You wince, moan softly as his cock slips free, his mess dripping back onto him in thick strands. He drops you unceremoniously into the passenger seat again. Only then do you look around.

It’s a rest stop that is thankfully very empty, at least Michael seems to agree with you on the benefits of privacy. You shimmy your pants back up, at least enough so you can make it out to the trunk to get a change of underwear--

The car stutters and the engine turns over. Michael’s hand is on the keys, his pants already pulled back up. You whine, “Michael, no. I need to change, I can’t just…” You cringe, feel the wetness between your legs.

But Michael has already made up his mind and the cool slide of his gaze onto you-- something just a little too keen in his eyes-- is all it takes for you to sigh and wilt. You’ve put up with worse and in truth the reminder of Michael’s lust for you is not entirely disgusting, but rather brings a fresh warmth to your cheeks.

He manages to get through the rest of the drive without fucking you again. You’d prepared for at least two stops just for that purpose, but the need to get there, the anticipation of murder must’ve kept the appeal of short-term satisfaction at bay. His patience has won out today.

You swap back into the driver’s seat about half an hour out. It crosses your mind to change your underwear while you have the chance, but stripping down on the side of an old country highway with a serial killer in the passenger seat does not seem wise. So you grimace as you sit and navigate out to the venue. You pass the first sign for it, carved wood with lacy lettering, Stone Mountain Manor. There’s nothing visible out here; acres and acres of tall oaks casting shade over the road, only flickers of light scattering over the car.

It isn’t until you crest a hill that you actually see Stone Mountain Manor. Holy shit. It’s stupidly massive, split into two buildings, all covered in a gray stone facade, lined with carefully manicured hedges and bushes and ivy creeping up the sides. The road gives way to a fancy roundabout at the front of the first building- one low and long- with sides leading off to behind the building and one to the other building.

You pull around back just to be safe- and immediately deflate at the dozen or so cars in the parking lot. It’s a long trek back to civilization and there are a lot of people right here. Witnesses. If even one recognized your companion your little idyllic life would be destroyed, all that time spent in quiet isolation, in the comfort of your cabin…

Your hands shake on the wheel as you pull into the spot furthest from the doors. You could go home. Create some excuse, send her money to make up for it. Hell, maybe you could just move. No nosy family members to come harass you, just disappear out into a different county, your dangerous shadow in tow. Would be easy enough to give a believable reason to the cops. He attacked me in that house. That would sell, you think, enough to not have them crawling all over you for weeks and then-

The car door opens. You blink, turn, and watch as Michael steps out of your car, closing the door behind him.

“Michael!” You hiss, scrambling out of your side. “You should stay inside; what if someone sees you?”

Nothing. Michael is already looking far out in the distance. One blue eye scanning the trees, following an ornamental wood fence that peaks between dark trunks. The muscles of his jaw flex, making the scar on his cheek strain. He’s already made up his mind. He’s already hunting, waiting for something.

Shit.

“Stay here.” You say weakly, already preparing for him to vanish before you return. “I’ll go check in…”

Michael makes no noise, either in confirmation or refusal. With complete confidence that he’d make his refusals obvious, you head back towards the building. You pass by at least a half-dozen double doors with little sitting areas outside each, curtains drawn carefully over the glass. It’s so unbearably upscale there’s even little statues along each doorway, cement wolves and foxes watching as you walk by.

You enter the main door, decorated with white draped fabric and little red fake flowers. Inside there’s another decorate sign, a pale gray wood with more cursive text burned into it, Our happily ever after, Janice & Bill. Of course. Someone’s happy day and you bring a murderer. Past the sign is a huge, winding staircase, leaning up to a balcony overlooking the lobby, a little sign labeled Bridal Suite hangs off the railing. She’s probably already up there freaking out.

“Oh, can I help you?” You jump half out of your skin, spinning around to a little counter- where a middle-aged woman blinks back at you. She raises an eyebrow, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…?”

“It’s okay,” You laugh, approaching the counter. “I’m here for the wedding, my aunt- ah- Janice said my family had a suite reserved.”

“Can I have your information?” She asks, turning towards an ancient-looking computer.

You lean on the counter to tell her- and immediately flinch back as your underwear clings tackily to your ass. This time, she doesn’t notice, too busy looking up the reservations. “Ah, yes you’ll be down at the end, left side. The doors are operational if you want to bring your bags in, I know it’s a bit of a walk.”

“Thanks.” She hands you an electronic door key, the kind with a magnetic strip. You start to step away, to go down the hallway and find your room when a thought occurs to you. “Do you know if the rest of my family has arrived yet? Same last name.”

She blinks then looks back to her screen. “Ah, no, I don’t think so.”

Weird.

“Okay, well, thank you.” You turn the card in your hand. The front has a green-gray decal of the main building, underneath is your room number labeled in a thin, slanted font #19. You suppress a snort, because of course the universe would give you nineteen. What a different place, a fancy hotel for a wedding venue in low Appalachia that you don’t even want to guess the price for, and a run-down hourly motel in the middle of fuck nowhere Illinois that cost you a grand total of sixty dollars.

The door opens on the first try and you have to hold your breath. It’s huge. Half your house could fit into the room, sparsely populated with two queen beds, nightstands, a dresser, wall-mounted TV, and standing closet. Painted all in that same gray-green, it’s… nothing at all like home. One wall has a door to the bathroom, the cheapest looking part of the room- but inside is anything but. The shower alone has room for four people with a fucking rainfall shower head, and a completely separate tub with water jets.

What the actual fuck. Janice doesn’t have money money, how the hell is she paying for all this?

Whatever, you’re not really here to speculate on your distant aunt’s finances. You head over to the double doors and find much to your relief that room nineteen faces the parking lot, not the street and main building. The simple deadbolt lock turns and the doors sweep open, letting that chilled early spring air into the room. From the little porch you can still see him, standing between the cars, the evening sun cutting through the trees. He turns as soon as you find him, meeting your gaze from twenty yards. Your heart races; he looks so normal. Just a regular man at his car- he could almost pull it off if it weren’t for that magnetic presence, that feeling of suffocation that just edges into your throat. A shiver and you’re off towards your car, walking as quickly as you can.

“Hey,” You huff, half out of breath. “The ceremony isn’t until tomorrow night and then we’ll head out the morning after. I’m still set to share a room with my parents, so I can leave the car unlocked if you want to stay there. Otherwise, just try to be back.”

Michael doesn’t respond, just stares down at you with those mismatched eyes. Fine enough, he can usually handle himself.

You unload your bag from the car. Michael’s suit hangs from the coat hanger, mocking you with its pristine plastic covering. He probably won’t stay, no reason for him to actually come to the wedding- he’s here for selfish reasons. For blood. Be honest. He’s here so you won’t have to worry so much while he hunts. So he can have his bloodletting far from home and maybe you’ll find some peace in your cabin for a while. You leave the suit in the car, but as promised leave the car unlocked and head back to the room.

With a second set of bootfalls following behind. You turn and watch as he shadows you, blank gaze betraying nothing. Usually his following meant he wanted something, but Having him follow you into the hotel does not feel like a good idea. “What’s wrong?” Michael does not answer, not even with a nod or intentional look at something- which only makes your fears heighten. With no other good options to usher him into the room.

Like you, he looks around, takes in the very strange scenery. Had he seen anything like this before? You leave the suitcase at the foot of one bed and close the doors behind you, just so no one can immediately see him standing in your room. “What’s up?” You try again. “Just curious about the wedding?”

A wedding.

He’s probably never been to one. He looks at you, expressionless and blank. Maybe when he was a little kid, or perhaps the occasional jailhouse insane asylum marriage… but nothing like this. Fanciful and expensive, a dream wedding. A peculiar feeling settles in your gut- you glance to his left hand.

No place to put a ring even-

knock knock You jump, stare wide-eyed at Michael. He steps back, away from the door, stands over by the armoire, out of sight from the door. You touch the knob with one hand, feel the tremors all the way up your arm. it’s not the cops, you tell yourself. There’s no way, you would’ve seen them, were so cautious to avoid them. You turn the knob.

“Aaah, you made it!!!” Janice’s excited squealing takes you by surprise. She halfway barrels into the room, her half pinned-up hair swaying around her as you meet her at the door frame, guiding her back out into the hallway. “I’m so glad you’re here, it really means a lot to me.”

You grimace through a smile and hug her back. You hardly remember her, had never really been close to begin with, but she must have seen it differently. “I’m glad to be here. Do you know when my parents will get here?”

Janice pulls back and blinks owlishly. “They didn’t text you?”

“No? What’s going on?”

“They managed to get lost and get into an accident- they’re okay!” She’s quick to interject. “But they’re still stuck dealing with insurance and doctors and maybe renting a car. They said they probably won’t be able to make it in time.” Oh. That changes things. “I’m sorry, were you hoping to see them?”

That has you pausing, struggling to find the right answer. It feels rude to say no, I desperately wanted to avoid them. But if you lied about wanting to see them, she might be more inclined to tell them. “Kind of, but it’s alright.” You settle for a vague answer. “I’m sorry they won’t be here, I know it’s only a little important.”

“Only a little,” She grins, then breaks into another squeal, hugging you again. “Oh, I can’t believe I’m getting married, I’m so excited and Bill has just been so wonderful.”

“I’m really happy for you.” And for once, it’s completely honest. Janice is ecstatic, and you’ve no complaints about her mate. Unlike the ones she’d have for yours.

“Okay, okay, I know you just got here so I’ll let you unpack and settle in. Love you, sleep well!” She backs off after one more hug, waving and trotting back down the empty hallway, turning towards that huge staircase.

You step back into the room- and curse. Michael has taken the opportunity to get closer to the door, listening in on your conversation. “I guess that changes things. You could sleep here if you want, I guess. And if you left while it was dark out, I don’t think many people would notice.”

That earns you a head tip. Which makes your brow furrow in turn- the few cues Michael gives you have become crucial to your limited communication. Head tilts are second only to nods, a clear sign of his interest. But there wasn’t much to be intrigued by- would he sleep here or be out the full time? Or was there something else he’s trying to find, staring at you with that electric gaze. Your stomach flips, clenches as he raises his hand, the knife-calloused pads of his fingers settling over your throat. His thumb rests against your pulse point, your heartbeat throbbing under his touch.

Any pleas for him not to leave bruises would only incite more, so you melt into his touch, wait quiet and compliant as he wordlessly searches for something. There’s no sign either way- without even the slightest bit of choking, Michael’s hand falls away. It’s still as gentle as he can be, demanding touches that don’t quite bring blooms of purple with them. It’s not much, but it’s at least practically helpful, no need for extensive makeup or scarves- so you express that affection as carefully as you can. One hand touching his bicep, light and gentle, a single stroke.

You want to touch more. Want to stroke his arms in real appreciation, to touch his face without it being some kind of challenge.

It’s not fair.

You avert your eyes, pointedly look to the floor and make your way back to your suitcase. From it you extract a pair of pajamas. No point in being dressed anymore, you just want to shower and clean that stuck-in-a-car feeling off your skin.

You don’t bother closing the door behind you. In the bathroom, white, fluffy towels are rolled up into logs, stacked in a pyramid on a shelf over the toilet. You drop your sleep clothes onto the lid and begin to turn the shower’s knobs. Overhead, water begins to pour out, a first shock of cold then warming as you fidget the handles into a good temperature.

In the corner of your eye, Michael stands in the doorway. Impassive, unmoved as you peel off your shirt. With a wince you pull your pants and well-stained underwear off. The remnants of Michael’s outburst clings to the fabric and your legs in an unpleasant mess. You hold them under the spray first, rinsing the worst of it off, then hang them over the top of the shower to dry off.

Then, you step in and close the shower’s glass door behind you.

It seems Michael has decided against taking advantage of your nakedness- which is fine, considering the light ache that still lingers between your legs. For now you have the gentle reprieve of only having him spy on you, lurking as though unseen. You still haven’t figured out what he prefers: for you to acknowledge that he’s there or to pretend you don’t know.

Fuck, the water even smells good. Did they put something in the water tank? It’s soft, almost floral. You lean in under the spray, let the warm water soak into your hair, wash over your face. It’s soothing, maybe lavender. You pick up the little squares of soap and inhale- and there’s the culprit. Another inhale- and up close it’s maybe too strong, the smell of soap leaving a tingle in your nose. Hopefully it’s not too strong. Michael has never seemed particularly sensitive to smells, but still… It’s hard not to care about his comfort. Even if he doesn’t tell you, even if he doesn’t know himself.

You lather up your hands, rub the bar across your chest. Does he know? It’s a question that plagues you; how much does Michael Myers know and feel, how much is what the newspapers paint him as- the completely shallow, emotionless murderer. You want to believe- want so badly, desperately, blindly- that the truth is somewhere in between. You move on to your legs, absentmindedly scrubbing his his cum from your thighs, rinsing whatever else remains from between your legs-

A rush of cool air. You halfway turn- “Michael?”

His palm finds the back of your head, smashes your cheek into the ceramic tiles. Pain shoots out from your face, radiating across your nose, down your neck. Even under the pouring water, his breaths come hard and even, interrupted only by your soft whimpering. Michael wastes no time, not in the mood to drag out your terror this time. His free hand drags your hips back- and he’s so damn tall he grinds more on your low back than ass.

Still clothed.

Face pressed to the wall, you strain to look from the corner of your eye to confirm it. Water soaks into the fabric, black shirt clinging to his chest. A boot kicks your legs apart as the hand on the back of your neck retreats- just enough to feel wet cotton rolling down to your thighs. You don’t fight- just squeeze your arms between you and the hard tiles, desperate for any reprieve for your throbbing cheekbone.

The hand at your hip wraps around- circles all the way around you, locking into the dip between your stomach and hips and lifts. One-handed, he pulls you off the ground, legs dangling, hands scrabbling over wet ceramic to keep your balance- and his free hand finds your throat. His cock finds your still sore entrance, prodding there, just the barest hint of pressure. Waiting.

Held up as you are, there’s nothing you can do but whimper. Any twist of your hips is near useless, only teasing your entrance more with the head of his cock, the pleasure all his. The best you can do is gain any stability- hooking your legs backwards, catching the tops of your feet on the back of his clothed knees. Even this earns retaliation; Michael surges forward again, traps your whole body between his now soaked chest and the freezing wall, only your hands keeping your cheek from being bruised even more. The water beats down from overhead and now your hips are truly pinned, caught between his iron forearm and the hard bones of his hips.

The hand at your throat squeezes, just a little pressure to make you whine, to make your pulse race under his palm. He could kill you so easily. He could crush your windpipe, smash your head into the wall- if it was anyone else in his arms he would. For you his fingers twitch, his nostrils flare with each breath, a careful balance of self control.

It’s all you can do to repay him, “Michael…” It comes out hoarse, rough through the hand choking you. It’s all he’s waiting for.

He lowers you down, agonizingly slow. The muscles of his shoulders jump with the effort. He splits you open again, the ring of muscle crying out, already rubbed raw from his earlier assault. Now that’s left is for you to grit your teeth and scrape your nails along the grout.

He doesn’t wait this time. It hurts, stings as he thrusts, taking that too-sharp pace he’s fond of. He knows- you hiss and he chokes you for it, pressure closing in around your throat, stars popping in your eyes- he knows it’s too rough, but the angle is perfect. He drives into you, strokes over that spot that makes your legs wobble, your clit ache with jealousy- and though it burns with soreness, your body quickly catches up to Michael’s pace.

With each thrust you grow slicker, the resistance lessening until pleasure begins to win out over the pain. Darkness edges into your vision, makes your head loll against his grip, but finally your body begins to sing for him. He knows you too well not to, has had enough practice, your body only becoming another tool in his arsenal of self-amusement. Another stroke and he’s deep inside, grinding against something that makes your eyes water in amazement- and in perfect tandem his hand lets go of your throat. Where you would moan out, you’re left gasping in air- and you can’t take it anymore.

One hand leaves its brace position, sliding down the wall and wiggling in between Michael’s arm and the ceramic. You get one mind-numbing circle around your clit- and all Michael’s weight comes down on you. Pain lances up your arm, wrist caught between his forearm and the wall. He leans his entire body against you, squeezes your chest until your ribs creak, and through it all only fucks you harder. You whimper, open your mouth to acquiesce, to submit- he’s in control, he owns you- but his hand is already closing around your throat again. Tight, then tighter still- primal fear floods your veins, the kind that makes your blood run cold. It would only take a moment’s lapse of concentration, a half-second loss of control-- he won’t. There’s no doubt; you’ve done this dance too many times. Heat gathers in your face as blood pools, pounds against the unbreakable seal of his thumb over your carotid. Your unpinned hand grabs at his wrist, weakly squeezing; your mind fuzzes, struggles to keep sight, provides a useless be careful of the scar.

Michael huffs, breath hot over the back of your neck, teeth finding your shoulder as he bites. Hypoxia keeps the pain dulled- until his incisors sink in, a noise muffled into your shoulder. His hips stutter, then slow- and finally he lets go. You suck in huge gulps of air, coughing against his still-lingering hand.

He lowers you to your numb feet. His hand lingers at your throat, fingers tracing down to the dip in your collar bone, prodding at the sore skin- and then he steps back. Without his support you sink down to your knees, then to the floor of the shower, still wheezing. Water cascades over you, the sound even and predictable and ever so slowly the rushing of blood in your ears dies down, the heat between your legs idling out as the water just begins to run cold.

The hinge of the shower door squeaks and another gust of cold air passes over you, cools you even further. There’s nothing in you, no energy left to look behind you, to meet his gaze as he stares down at his handiwork. So you take deep breaths, rub one hand over your aching neck, feel the warmth of forthcoming bruises, and listen to the wet splat of Michael peeling off his now soaked clothes.

He’s long gone when you finally manage to re-rinse yourself, wet footprints on the tiles leading out into the room. You’re more contentious, drying off in the bathroom before changing into the clothes you’d picked out. The watery prints lead right up to the further dresser, where… Michael has set down his duffel bag. You look at it, blink. When had he gotten that? Did he… walk to the car naked? He’s already changed into the coveralls, freshly laundered and free of as many incriminating stains as you could reasonably remove.

You swallow, bite your tongue. That was the purpose of the trip, afterall. Would make sense for him to go tonight, pick out a few people he likes. Or hates. You still haven’t figured out how that works for him, if the people matter at all.

likes, an unhelpful little part of you whispers, he wants to kill you. You smother it down with the simple reminder: he hasn’t killed you yet. He lets you touch him, lets you be near him at all. And when you feel close to him, when you tell him that- there’s something about him that changes. The subtlest tip of his head, like he doesn’t understand.

He probably doesn’t.

Michael sits on the nearest bed and- and Michael’s face is no longer his own. it desperately needs to be washed, grime sunken into the crevices, making it look older than he is. Black eye holes stay trained on you as you take him in. Was it because he felt safe enough to not be seen? Or was he preparing for a fight? Could always ask. Maybe you’ll get a response.

He’s always nicer after he finishes, not immune to the pleasant buzz of oxytocin and dopamine… but as your still-warm neck reminds you, his earlier display was particularly violent. The anniversary is close and that ever-present need of his is rising under the surface, threatening to boil over. You want to sit with him, to find the soothing warmth beneath those coveralls. At best- or perhaps worst- he could still entertain himself with you until his body catches up again- or does he need space now? There’s no good answer. He’s already pursued his usual alternative: fucking you until that itching in his skin eases.

“Anything I can do?” You offer, already aware of the answer- a heavy breath that whistles through the mask’s holes. Not even a tip of the head or nod to guide you. Maybe space would be better, at least until he disappears into the shade of night. Hesitantly, you sit on the bed closer to the double doors. When he doesn’t move, you begin to lay down, reaching over to the nightstand to turn off the light. That, however, must be the wrong move.

You’re too aware of him, of his little mannerism. His fists tighten in the duvet- and he stands. Your stomach drops, immediately beginning to sit up- but Michael is faster. His long legs cross the small space between the beds before you can even form the words to ask what’s wrong. His arms force their way under you and you barely have the presence of mind to half lift your legs, to ease the burden on his damaged left hand.

Michael scoops you off the bed, turns around, drags the blankets of his bed down, and sits onto the sheet. Oh. You don’t even get an opportunity to help; he’s under the blankets before you can do anything. He’s particularly stiff, every joint locked in place, held stiff even flat on the bed. You glance at the mask in question, hoping to find answers- if this is just the building tension of the year- or if it’s something else. The hand anchored to the small of your back makes it awkward to adjust the blankets, but you manage to wiggle into your usual position, straddling one of his thighs, your ear pressed to his chest.

Warmth radiates out, soaks into your skin, chases off the autumn chill. Weakly you rub at his sides, thumbs stroking over his ribcage, smoothing down the thick material of his coveralls. There’s not much you can do, but at least you have this, a tiny offering to give: the even, unhurried brush of your fingers. At least until the furnace of his body lulls you to sleep.

It’s cold when you wake. Early October is not shy, leaves you curling harder into the blankets, burying your face into a pillow. A pillow. You reach across the bed blindly- and find only more disrupted sheets, chilled and empty. You blink awake, squinting into the room; the double doors are still cracked open, curtains fluttering.

You extricate yourself from the mess of blankets, rubbing your arms to fight off the chill. From the pile of brown leaves that have collected along the border to your room, he must’ve left some time ago. Your stomach clenches- you peer out from the door, scan the line of the parking lot and the trees beyond. No white mask waits for you.

It’s as unsettling as it is relieving. He’s out there killing (and you’re alone, no shadow to stalk you through the halls, careful, watchful eyes on you every time you so much as look at a stranger)... but he’s not here, waiting to be found out by the first doesn’t he look familiar…?

Not that he hasn’t proven himself capable of slipping through your town unnoticed.

Until he wants to be, of course.

But he’s gone now, off into the chill of early morning fall. You scrape most of the leaves out and close the door, but leave it unlocked. Instead, you go to the mirror- and wince at what you find. A perfect imprint of Michael’s teeth rings your right shoulder, still red and inflamed, warm to the touch. Of course. Must’ve known you were hoping not to have to cover any marks.

You look to your suitcase, consider your formalwear. The collar should be high enough… maybe you wouldn’t have to use any makeup. A little spark of heat settles in your stomach. Even while he’s out hunting, you’ll still have his mark. Nobody will know you’re the one who has tempered the Boogeyman’s urges. A thrill runs down your spine, makes your shoulders raise and clench. No makeup it is.

A glance at your phone gives you time to plan your pre-ceremony time. It’s only just after nine o’clock, the ceremony doesn’t start until two on paper- probably more like three with a healthy dose of skepticism. Plenty of time for breakfast.

You throw on a more-concealing shirt and skimper down the hall to the hotel’s breakfast station. Two people you don’t recognize sit at a little window table and talk, smiling at you as you pass. Probably someone from Bill’s family, if you had to guess. Maybe one of Janice’s work friends…? They return to their conversation and you are already forgotten. The food has been well picked-over by other guests, two metal trays shining and empty.

But there’s still eggs and hashbrowns and tiny pancakes, which is more than enough. You take a plate, lift one serving spoon- and wonder if Michael’s eaten yet. You don’t really know what he eats when he’s out. Probably nothing as nice as this, if MIchael even pays attention to that kind of thing.

Probably not; he certainly doesn’t complain when you get distracted and your cooking gets a little crispy.

You balance your doled out plate and get a cup of coffee as well, ready to wake up, be nice and alert for what will definitely be the most expensive wedding you’ll ever see. The people pay you no mind as you hand back to your room, thankfully no one’s around to watch you struggle to hold your plate and cup and unlock the door at the same time.

With a bit of alone time you crawl back into bed, find your own warmth still half-preserved under the hotel’s fancy blankets. You click the remote at the TV, novel at the fancy screen- and can’t help but smile at the early morning children’s programming that pops on. It’s comforting, reminiscent of home, and makes a warmth settle in your chest. But you have no personal interest in Sesame Street, so you scroll through the guide looking for something more interesting.

Like the news.

Like if he’s killed already.

You bite your tongue and select it, then take a fortifying sip of coffee (it’s too bitter, should’ve added more sugar). A man in a suit motions at a greenscreen map of the area, mimics a cold front coming in from the west. “No rain!” He declares cheerily, “Just windy and cool this week, and that should hold out until Halloween.”

That’s nice. It cuts back to the main anchors. “Governor Wallace’s new Green Energy Initiative plan will go into effect…” You tune it out, go back to the guide. There must not have been a kill yet, or at least not found. You think of the blood stain on your front porch, of the wet, heaving breaths. Your stomach flips and suddenly breakfast no longer smells good.

You power through it anyway. Maybe he was unlucky, maybe he couldn’t find anyone to satisfy his particular interests. No need to worry too much about… you shiver, shovel down a bite of eggs. Either he did or didn’t, and if he did then he’s safer out here. If he didn’t, that’s a later problem.

Without preamble you switch the channel; a ghostly horror movie plays, an early celebration for the holiday. It’s easy to go on autopilot from there, eating and drinking and staring blankly at the screen as a white-skinned phantasm rips open a man’s chest. Perfect to set that wedding atmosphere.

You end up watching the whole thing. The blood’s all wrong, runs too thin, too scarlet, but it’s a Hollywood mistake you can forgive. Afterall, it does show up on screen better and serves as a nice mental buffer, a pleasant mindless thing to observe, no real thoughts to concern yourself with.

bzzt. You blink and open your phone- a notification from a game. The mascot informs you of a new event, the Halloween Haunt finally starting- they’ve been plagued with technical issues, it’s a little shocking they even managed to get this update out and holy shit how is it already one o’clock?

The ghost pops up on screen just in time for you to escape the bed’s warm blankets. Your clothes flung off as you rush through dressing yourself, almost tripping as you pull on pants and hastily button your shirt. A good ten minutes burn just fighting the buttons on the cuffs which have somehow come undone. You check yourself in the mirror, feel the heat gather in your cheeks again. With the top button undone, a tinge of red is still visible on your shoulder, but as you hook the plastic through the eyelet, the silvery gray of your shirt covers it entirely. No one will know, no one will find out.

With shaking hands, you tie your tie, only having to consult your phone and start over once. Even if it’s a little lopsided, it still cuts a fine shape. You fix your hair last, keep it simple and easy to keep the attention off you. It’s not a bad look, all in all. Not many chances for you to get dressed up and formal- you almost wish Michael was here. He probably wouldn’t have much of a reaction to it, appearances and clothes not meaning much to him, but you do want to show off.

It’s a nice fantasy, being able to get that rare rise out of him just because you look different.

But there’s not much time to spare, so you stuff the room key and your phone into your pants pocket and shuffle out the door.

The main room of the hotel is empty, but as soon as you emerge out into the daylight, there’s buzzing activity. You’re not the last person to head over to the actual ceremony hall; dozens of people you don’t recognize chatter in the parking lot and on the lawn, pleasant voices and laughing echoing across the open field. A man that looks familiar but you can’t place smiles at you, gives a little wave so you awkwardly reciprocate and try to remember him. Probably someone from your extended family, maybe a cousin you haven’t seen since he was little.

In waves, everyone walks to the main building, taller than the hotel and surrounded by rustically manicured hedges. Huge (and probably meticulously placed) boulders dot the vibrantly green grass, leading you towards the main walkway. White garlands wind around the front door, wave lightly in the wind. The double door itself is stupidly massive, easily ten feet tall, propped open by two more of those little animal statues. Here, they’ve managed to find two graceful looking swans to match the wedding.

You step inside; the entryway is mostly empty, a few people idling on a set of stairs to your left. Bridesmaids in dreamy blue dresses, fretting over their hair and if Janice will be ready soon. One holds her shoes, dangling over the garland-wrapped banister, looking terribly bored.

You move into the main room, still staring at all their decorations. The back, southern wall is nothing but wide windows, showing off a balcony, all covered with sheer white curtains. A stone fireplace on the north wall is done up with white and blue flowers and satiny ribbons. In rows in front are little wooden folding chairs, lanterns and tiny pots with ivy cap each row. In the sea of faces, you don’t recognize anyone. It’s for the best, you decide. Just in case.

So you take a seat and wait.

An organ plays over hidden speakers. The entire crowd stands in one motion as Janice enters from the outside balcony. Her dress is beautiful. White and shimmering with soft glitter, huge and round like something from a fairytale. She’s stunning, grinning and blushing, switching between scanning the crowd and looking down to the floor, carefully avoiding knocking over any of the decor with her layered white dress.

Halfway down the aisle her gaze lifts, centers on Bill. Something in your chest clenches; he’s about to cry. Completely glossed over, his eyes crinkle in the corners with how hard he’s smiling- and trying desperately not to. Janice herself covers her mouth with one hand- and when she makes it up to the front she’s desperately trying to preserve her make-up, dabbing at her eyes before the tears can roll.

Love, that genuine bubbling feeling takes the room as Bill stifles an awkward little laugh of shock, his lips curling into a weird and genuine shape, trying so hard to reign himself in. Which, in turns, gets a little laugh from the guests. The officiant starts his monologue and your stomach hurts, a hollowness settles down in your gut. Tears well in your eyes as he goes on, voice sweet and thick, going on about compassion and commitment.

It’s so… normal. They can barely stop from shaking- in joy, in excitement- and as soon as they stumble through their I dos he’s laughing again. She wraps her arms around his neck and the tears do fall this time as she pulls him down for the kiss. His hands cup her cheeks, holding her lips to his as they continue on. It’s long and sweet and when they break apart there’s a long, tortuous moment where all they do is stare at each other, grinning.

A tap to your shoulder makes you turn- an older woman offers you a tissue. She smiles sweetly and whispers, “Weddings always make me cry too.”

“Here, you look like you need this.” A man says, offering you a fluted glass. You take it, offering a tight-lipped smile in return. It’s hard not to take offense, but you probably do look a little miserable. Despite your best efforts, the tears continued on as they moved all the guests into a little side room, rearranging the main room for the reception. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom to clean yourself up and minimize the blotchiness of your crying.

Still, it feels too rude to just leave. So from your secluded little corner you school your face into something more neutral- it’s her wedding, don’t cause a scene- and sip the drink you’d been given. It’s a pink champagne and isn’t awful, just strong enough to take the edge off.

Alright. You take a deep breath, press the cool glass to your cheek, listen to the bubbles pop to the surface. You don’t have to stay long, can make up some excuse about having to leave early in the morning. Just enough to not seem like a complete ass, then you can hide. That’s it- maybe a pleasant little conversation here and-

“Hey!”:

You startle so hard champagne spills over your hand. Janice, now in a much simpler white dress, steps back, stares wide-eyed. “Sorry, are you okay…?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine!” It’s rushed and probably doesn’t sound very honest. You deflect by dabbing at your hand with napkins. “Weddings just- just always make me cry.”

“Aww. I’m the same way,” She smiles, lays a well-moisturized hand on your arm. “Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time to find someone.”

It’s from your lips before you have time to think. “I already have.”

Shit. Joy takes over her face as fear lances your heart. “Really? You should’ve invited him! I gave you a plus one just for that.” You’re so fucked.

“I- I know. He just works a lot and I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make it.” The napkin thins and tears, leaves strands of cheap paper along the back of your hand. It’s not… entirely a lie.

“Do your parents know about him yet?” She leans in, eyebrows high on her face, as though you’ve already divulging your secrets. “Is it serious?”

“Um. Yeah, I think so. I don’t…” Heat returns to your cheeks. A weight slides from your shoulders and your next smile is entirely genuine. Like an exhale on a breath you didn’t know you were holding, it comes out in a rush. “I don’t really see myself without him.”

“Aww,” Janice coos, touches your forearm. “I hope he’s good to you.”

Just as quickly, the relief turns to dread. The socially correct response is he is, not I’m lucky his only bite mark is hidden by a collar. Not he’s pressed a knife to my ribs and fought to desire to drive it in. Not he kills people who look like me.

All the words you should say are gone, left with a tight-lipped smile- a quiet “Thank you,” and- and- your brain misfires. You’re hallucinating. The champagne was spiked, had to have been because- “Michael?” because standing in the doorway is Michael Myers in his suit.

Janice blinks and turns and sees exactly the same thing. It’s… it’s like one of those bad photoshops of celebrity nudes. His face on someone else’s body. He’s not wearing the tie, but it’s no less absurd, no less of a fever dream. The only measurement you got was his shoulders, and it has thoroughly paid off; the suit jacket sits perfectly at his collar, narrowing at his waist, all of it leading down into well-shined, unscuffed dress shoes. Like he hasn’t been out at all. Your eyes scan back up; the buttons on his sleeves are undone, leaving them a little loose around his wrists, in turn they slightly hide his missing fingers, the other various scars along his hands from broken knives and desperate victims. Over his chest the white shirt is a little rumpled, but is buttoned neatly, save for the top two. And his face-

His gaze is... quiet. Simple. Not the predatory beast that threatens to pull you in with his hypnotic stare. He’s… observing, returned to his passive state; he glances around the room, taking in the massive displays of romantic opulence with significantly less wonder and longing than you. He looks at Janice’s reception dress, still white and layered and swaying with glittery specks, completely impassive. His gaze shifts to you- and anyone else would’ve missed it. His face darkens, pupils expandings a hair’s width, eyes dragging obscenely down your form before meeting your gaze.

Heat settles between your legs, makes the bite wound throb at your shoulder-

“Oh! Is this him?” She’s so chipper, so truly excited to meet the beau you had only just confessed to having. Leaning over, her voice drops to a whisper, “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he…?”

What can you say? “Yeah, this is Michael…!” You cross the room quickly, as though proximity alone will defuse whatever is about to happen. He follows you with his eyes, paying no mind as Janice also comes closer. You hand slides along his back, squeezes at his side. Please, please, let your presence stop whatever it is he’s doing.

“It’s very nice to meet you, we were just talking about you.” There’s just an edge of suspicion in her voice, but it has nothing to do what she should be worried about.

She waits- and after a moment her face quirks and. Oh. Right. Most people don’t know. “Michael doesn’t talk. He ah,” You look up to his face, dare to hope to find any kind of support in his eyes. There’s none, of course. He watches on indifferently, just curious as to what your plan is. “He was in a- an accident a long time ago... motorcycle skidded out.” You motion vaguely towards your own left eye, as though being polite and subtle. Michael, however, tips his head at the display, completely missing Janice’s little oh reaction, quieting immediately. Her clamming up presents an opportunity that you don’t pass up. “I need to run to the bathroom before dinner, though. I’ll catch up with you at dinner, okay?”

“Sure!” Something like relief passes over her eyes- and drains back out. “Oh, gosh, I should go make sure the kitchen is all ready…”

She turns back towards the main room while you drag Michael off towards the hallway where you first came in. This part of the building is nearly empty, most everyone concerned with food and the good smell emanating from the kitchen. Up near the doors, it’s quiet, all noise reduced to a low rumble that echoes through the heavy stone walls.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper, his only response is a miniscule cant of his head. Real fear twists at your belly, the possibility settles in harder than ever as you rephrase: “what if someone recognizes you?”

His face does not soften, does not betray a single thought behind those mismatched eyes.

This is what you wanted.

Some semblance of normalcy, a date to a wedding. Michael Myers in a suit, escorting you. And he does look good- sleek black jacket cutting such a nice shape on his shoulders, even if the cuffs aren’t done up right. Even his beard looks as though it’s been trimmed, which has to be impossible- but the impossibility of it does nothing to stop your hand from sliding up his chest to stroke at the stiff, white little hairs along his jaw.

“You won’t leave, will you? Even if I asked you to?” The hairs are too even, too clean. He must’ve broken into someone else’s room just to use their clippers. He says nothing, only moves with each breath as you waver under the weight of this. Your voice comes out small, almost inaudible. “I don’t want you to get caught.”

That gets a reaction. Michael’s huge hands settle at your hips, keeping you close as you fight to read his eyes. They’re too opaque- but the answer is simple. He’s here because he wants to be. Like one of his scenes left behind, it’s his own entertainment he’s engaging with- even got all dressed up for the part.

“Be careful.” You murmur, with one final stroke to his beard. “Please.”

His hands squeeze at your hips, the pressure familiarly asymmetrical. Glancing back towards the main room, the smell of hot food has only gotten stronger. With a final sniffle you lean away from him, rubbing your eyes with your sleeve and then downing the rest of your champagne. “It’ll be weird if we’re gone for too long.” That earns another head tip. It crosses your mind to explain She’ll think we’re off fucking somewhere, but that will definitely make it happen.

If anyone notices, if there’s even a hint of fear and not well-intentioned suspicion, you’re out. Not that it will matter. No matter how attentive you are, Michael will sense it first. He’ll hone in on it like a hunter- it matters more if his response will be fight or flight. He could slip out unnoticed, you’re absolutely sure, he’s escaped much tighter situations than a wedding in the middle of fucking nowhere… but you won’t swear by his ability to do so without bloodshed.

Your stomach clenches. If he wants to stay he’ll be here, all you can do is keep him to the corners, away from people, minimize conversations. So… you lead him back towards the main room. The previous archway and aisle and rows of chairs are all gone, replaced with long tables with baby blue table cloths. The little pots of ivy and lanterns have been relocated to decorate the tables. Most people are sitting, chatting away as the staff bustle around to bring out plates and glasses and more gold-leafed bottles of champagne.

Nobody notices your entrance. The rational part of your brain is screaming of course. In a real suit, maskless, not a single soul in attendance knows who he really is. He’s just an older man, here to celebrate a wedding. Your plus-one. Nobody knows, you tell yourself as you navigate towards the back wall. Nobody knows. It doesn’t settle your nerves at all, no matter how many times you repeat it.

Other people smile at you as you pass; you hope your face is at least close enough to a smile to not cause alarm. The table closest to the wall of doors is open, so you hastily sit there. Michael stands a moment before taking a chair to your right, his good eye closer to you. While you fidget with the tablecloth and sweat bullets, Michael is entirely still. He looks around the room, the only display of his interest at all. You do the same, albeit with much more fear.

“You missed her dress,” You say quietly, just as something to do. Anything to take your mind off the sea of faces. “It was huge. A big ballroom-style one. Little ribbons trailing off her veil.” He doesn’t care. You know, of course, but still his head turns towards you, a miniscule display of interest. “It was beautiful, but I can’t even imagine how much it cost.”

It’s so mundane, hell, it should be exciting little gossip, murmuring about their finances and how they could afford something so expensive, so beautiful. With Michael Myers next to you, it’s boring, mind-numbing. They could all be in danger, he could be in danger-- you don’t dwell on which of the two you’d prefer-- and nobody has the slightest fucking clue.

A young server in a vest apologizes about the wait, it’ll only be a minute more, and sets down two glasses of pink, bubbling alcohol. He smiles at Michael, who definitely does not return the look, but the server is already off, delivering more glasses to waiting people, not a care at all about the weird older man who didn’t smile back.

No clue.

They don’t know.

You blink and look around. As though a fog clearing, they don’t know. Everyone’s preoccupied with the event, with catching up with relatives, with the sweet gossip at Janice and Bill’s expense. With their hunger and excitement and chit-chat and nobody remembers what Michael Myers’s face looks like, they only ever remember the mask.

You lean back in your chair, feel the weight slide down your spine, out onto the floor. “How do they not know?” It’s more to yourself, but it earns another glance from Michael. You meet his gaze, but find no electricity there this time. He’s still lightly guarded, but it’s so faint you can barely find the tightness around his good eye. No, it’s mostly curiosity now. Like a birdwatcher observing the chittering, the songs and rituals, completely unnoticed in the trees.

You drink the champagne, let your eyes slide over the crowd, settle onto the table up front. Janice and Bill are chatting with someone in a crisp blue suit, maybe their coordinator. They’re somewhere between exhaustion and frustration- held aloft by the occasional glances at one another as their reception slowly takes form around them. You finish the glass, then take the one in front of Michael-- an inebriated Boogeyman is not what their wedding needs.

“Sorry for the wait!” The same server announces, returning a tray of plates. He sets down two plates, not even waiting for you to explain we didn’t order yet. It’s too much of a madhouse to correct him, he’s already skittering off to another table, setting down plates and bowls and sprinting back to the kitchen. Pasta with a light sauce sits before you- and honestly, you’re hungry and tired enough it wouldn’t have mattered what he’d given you.

Michael picks up his fork- and stiffens. A glance to his direction, and he’s scanning the room. A slow exhale- and he begins to eat. Quick as always, not a care at all for table manners, it’s for the best you’re in a far corner. Your own stomach flips unpleasantly, so you take it slow, watch as the dinner comes into being around you.

Eventually Bill stands, dinging his glass obnoxiously long before continuing into his speech. A long, winding monologue comes after, that you can’t quite follow- especially after someone delivers another two glasses of champagne. Michael snatches his before you can stop him- only to purse his lips at the taste and set the flute back down in front of you. Bill’s speech concludes with Janice looking teary-eyed and guests cheering. Someone toasts to the newly weds and you obligingly raise your glass. Michael’s eyes track your raised arm, linger over the crowd- but if he’s actually processing the words, the confessions of love and devotion, none of it reflects on his face.

He says nothing, shows nothing, merely eats and looks and occasionally tips his head at a phrase, at an emotional, happy sob. Things he doesn’t understand. You pick at your food, applauding when others do so, but you end up looking elsewhere. It’s a rare opportunity to see him process the whole scene. Now you are the birdwatcher, taking in each flick of his eyes, the subtle tightening of his lips, how his gaze narrows when Janice stands and shuffles over to a makeshift DJ station. She talks with someone there for a while, presents her phone, then goes back to her table with Bill. Someone at another table breaks out into laughter, Michael’s head turning, compensating for his blind eye, to look towards them. He reacts to each new stimulus with the same near disinterested look, no matter how novel it must be. Not a single hint as to what he’s thinking. Is it murder related, contemplating how he could escape unnoticed? Is it on the strangeness of human emotion? Just plain not understanding what’s happening?

You want to ask, want to know what it is he thinks about.

Any questions will be met with a head tilt, that little glint in his eyes that he knows something you don’t. The tiniest power he holds over you still elicits the same response.

He jerks towards you so violently you jump- first in fear, thoughts racing by- did someone know? But he doesn’t leave, doesn’t make any motion of aggression- and instead you’re left with the tiniest one-sided lift of his lip. They may not have a clue you’re dining with a serial killer, but he just caught you watching him. Your cheeks heat as you turn away, forcefully take a bite of pasta, ignore the weight of Michael’s eyes on the side of your face. Once, your watching of him would’ve warranted his own head tilt, curious on what it was you saw. It’s been long enough that he knows- that same affection that makes you touch him gently and seek his touch in return. Now, it’s just another way for him to make you shyly turn away.

“Can we move these tables back?” Someone asks from the front of the room- the best man, you think. All at once the people at the middle tables are up to their feet, extracting chairs and pushing everything out towards the walls.

Oh. That’ll probably include you. You’re up, joining the crowd and motion for Michael to stand. Thankfully, he’s compliant. Causing a scene now would be… motifying, first, and likely deadly, second. He does not, however, assist with dragging the table even closer to the walls. You manage to only stumble a little, laughing at yourself as your fingers slip off the plastic. It does earn you his attention once more, his hint-of-cockiness turning to air-of-inquisitiveness.

When you sit again, now only a foot from the stone-covered wall, the world continues right on spinning. It’s not awful; bad enough to have you pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes, but nothing unmanageable. Just… just a little tipsy. A few too many flutes too fast on a near-empty stomach. Michael stands for a long moment, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. He must be burning up in that suit- too inside himself, too curious to voice any displeasure.

Music starts up again- this time it’s slow and melodic, soft piano- and you finally look up from your hands. Janice’s simpler white dress swirls around her as she sways, hand in hand with Bill. Speakers pulse with the lyrics, but the room is otherwise silent, everyone held quiet with each of the couple’s steps. She lays her head on Bill’s chest, tucks her face into his neck, but when she pulls back to look at him, her makeup has just begun to run. This time, Bill doesn’t stop his own tears, joining her in ecstatic sobbing.

A series of awws pour from the room- but your voice is caught in your throat, swollen shut by the same unexpected emotion as during the ceremony. You can say nothing, make no noise at all as they finish their first dance and motion for everyone else to come to the floor. A new song starts, synthy with a quick-beat. Young couples stand quickly, giddily rushing to the center of the room. In the new rush of movement, Michael stands, hard enough for his chair to scoot back and knock into the wall. Not to dance, please, not to dance- but Michael only moves along the wall, pushes the white curtains, and slips out the doors onto the balcony.

With everyone preoccupied with dancing and drinking, you slip off to the bathroom, the pulse of music covering each sniffle.

You don’t really mean to go back to the main room. After several minutes spent blotting your eyes with a damp paper towel, all you want in the world is to go home. Return to your own bed, curl up with your pillow as you do on those nights he’s out. Going back to the hotel room would be good enough- getting lost on the way out of the bathroom took you to the kitchens, first, then spat you back out to the gallery.

In the time you’ve been gone your plates have been cleaned up, replaced by someone else’s half-drunk glasses. The owners must be up dancing, because nobody else is in your little corner of the room. People fill the dance floor, the crowd waving, undulating with the rhythm of the music- now moved on to pop music, half the room singing along. You turn to leave-

A flash of silver and white and black- you raise your hands-

“Oh! Sorry!” The same server backs up, holds up his tray. Without pause, he grabs a plate and pushes it into your hands. “Cake’s here! Does your dad want some?” He looks around, eyebrows furrowing down.

Dad? The gears turn, leaves you puzzling as the server shrugs and continues on with a “There’s a lot more, just tell him to wave at me, okay?” He turns way, leaves you with a handful of sweet-smelling white cake and- oh for fuck’s sake, do they really think Michael is- ugh, nevermind. Another turn and you’re facing the table again. You can just leave the plate there, maybe someone else will eat it- all fancy and probably stupid expensive.

Would be a shame not to try some.

The design is simple, a chic white base with a tight grid of glittery white icing. Tiny silver balls decorate some of the intersections. Probably vanilla from the smell; classic, timeless, worth more money than your phone. You cut a bite off with your fork, turn the sponge in front of you-

Michael would enjoy this.

The thought comes unbidden, utterly intrusive and unhelpful. He’s already left, cut out at the worst possible time- as he always does. That’s a good thing, you angrily remind yourself. He leaves because he needs to kill, if he didn’t it’d be you or… or anyone else here. That’s the trade.

It doesn’t change the fact that now you’re thinking of Michael’s sweet tooth, his unending appetite for anything remotely sugary, devouring down all chocolate and candies and pastries, no matter how well you think you hide them. He’d love this. It’s another… another experience you want to share with him, another little shot at normalcy that comes so close, circling the rim before falling off into disappointing nothingness. You don’t even realize you’re moving until your hand is on the cold knob, turning-

A gust of cold early October air makes you pinch your face, the air cutting right through your nice clothes, not a hint of warmth remaining. It’s a stupid idea- but it feels good to be out here. Not in a physical way; no, you’re immediately freezing, shiveringly miserable, but in some way that makes your chest feel tight. You’re out here- and Michael, too, is out here somewhere. Probably long gone by now.

You walk on, out to the edge of the balcony, gazing out onto rolling waves and lumps of tree tops. The moon has half-risen, casting silvery light from one side, warm yellow leaking out from the main hall’s incandescents. Completely invisible from inside the building, there’s a little set of stairs down on the right side, following along the side of the building, down the hill towards the carefully manicured trees and bushes below. It’ll keep you away from everyone else’s prying eyes, from any other half-drunk wedding goers. Maybe the path winds around, leads back towards the hotel. You can get some sleep,

The wood whines pitifully as you descend, so you keep one hand on the railing, your eyes on your feet and when you lift them-

He’s already turned towards you, nearly fully facing you to compensate for his blind eye. He’s even more ethereal in the moonlight, silvery beams bleaching out his dark suit, casting shadow over half his face, obscuring the scarred half. There’s no sign of shock, but surely he must be. There’s no way for him to think you’d follow him, no way for you to know he was still here. No sign of shock, but there is something else. An extra layer of flatness to his expression, neutrality edging onto… you’re not sure. His presence alone extends outwards, a pressure in the air that surrounds him like a storm.

At the back of your neck your hairs stand on end.

And- and you’re not sure how you feel. You… you feel like you’ve overstepped something. It should be fear, cold and immutable, the very chilling realization that he’s been itching to feel blood all day, only for you to wander back into his sightline. No, no it’s… it’s something else that swirls in your chest, too tipsy to focus on the real terror lurking.

“I’m sorry,” You say quietly, half-slurred. “I thought you left.”

He only stares at you in return. You’ve already surpassed your worst expectation. He stares- and his eyes drop down to your hands.

“Oh, it’s the wedding cake.” You extend your hands before you even ask, “Do you want some?”

There’s a long moment- Michael does not move except for the minute, rhythmic rise of his shoulders on each inhale. The coveralls hid most of the movement, now exposed with much better-fitting clothes. Still, he does not move, eyes locked onto the layers of pale sponge and icing. Fear had only just begun to curl its hands around your heart- when MIchael’s arms finally lift, forcibly unfolding his fingers to take the offered plate.

He holds it, continues staring- he must be contemplating something, weighing the pros and cons of some unspoken decision. By all means, taking the plate alone should’ve answered the question: would he like some? But with that murderous itch under his skin, maybe nothing was that straightforward for him now. Sooner or later he does land on a decision. He takes the little plastic fork- so tiny in his big hands- and takes a bite.

One eyebrow twitches.

He sets the plate onto the wide wood railing and that sugar-chasing sweet tooth takes over whatever urge he’s fighting. Michael has managed to avoid killing you so far, so you’ll push your luck just a little: you edge in closer to him. His eyes slide over towards you, but he does not stop his hurried pace of cake eating. More importantly, he doesn’t move away. So you inch in even closer, close enough your arm bumps his- and he’s such a radiator.

Through at least three layers of clothes, Michael’s heat burns through to your skin, a safe refuge from the brisk wind. You can’t stop yourself now, leaning in ever more until your head rests on his shoulder. The suit is crisp, smells of detergent, the tiniest hint of sweat beneath. Lifting your head up towards his and you find that same floral soap as the shower; he must’ve cleaned up here- was it an empty room or yours?

He stops as he gets to the outer edge of the cake, the white icing like a rind to an orange wedge. He takes no more bites, but instead holds the fork in what must be another silent decision making battle. Much shorter this time around, he lays the fork down- leaving the handle pointed towards you.

You glance to his face- but he’s not looking at you. He’s staring down at the cake itself. It has to be intentional- so you carefully take the fork for yourself, waiting for him to stop you. He doesn’t. There’s no hand to your throat- so you cut a piece with that thick outer layer of icing.

It’s not vanilla. The taste is a shock, so different, so much sweeter than what you’re expecting you almost gag- no, the icing is white chocolate. But once that initial shock wears off… it’s soft, moist; the sponge itself must be some faint vanilla, but how it mixes with the white chocolate it becomes something else entirely, sweet and decadent and not at all the simple cake you’d expected. You take another bite- and Michael’s hand closes over your own.

You surrender the fork, lean up against him, resume leeching his warmth in retribution. “I was going to give it back.”

Blue sparks at the corner of his eye- and even half inebriated, your breath catches. A warning, silent as it is, that his patience is just on the edge of snapping. Words flee from you, wither on your tongue. Proximity has brought his ire yet, so you stay close, bask in his radiating heat as he finishes his (your) cake.

A soft melody filters down- down from the main hall’s speakers. A slow dance starting above you, couples taking to the floor with blushing cheeks and averted eyes, sweating palms as they sway to the music. At the center of it all must be Bill and Janice, her cheek laid on his shoulder- and the pain in your chest crescendos.

And in a heartbeat, none of it matters. Michael’s tenuous control of his urges, the bite at your shoulder, the scars from when he’d lost the reins- none of it. You lay your hand on his shoulder and when you guide him to turn, he does. His face is blank, impassive, utterly unreactive as your lead him. Your hands shake a little as you take his, big and warm, and murmur a halfhearted, “Come here,” a desperate lick to your lips, “Wanna try something.” You plant his right hand on your hips- a light press to tell him to hold there, and take the other in your hand, turning until you’re palm to palm.

You can’t lace your fingers. His thumb overlaps yours, your first finger between two of his but the rest- the rest curl over gnarled scar tissue, warped and rippled and tougher than the surrounding skin. Pressure builds behind your eyes, but that’s okay. He’s missing a few parts, but that doesn’t matter either. No, when you lay your head on his chest and his heat washes over you, lulls you into closing your eyes, you hear the steady, slow beat of his heart- that’s what’s important. The smell of the suit’s detergent, of his pilfered, floral soap against the crisp autumn air-

You sway- and truth be told, the first time, you’re not entirely sure if it was intentional, matching the flow of the love ballad above or the champagne’s continued vengeance. The second sway, weight shifting carefully to the other side, however, is entirely on purpose.

This time, Michael does not move.

A shred of stolen intimacy, a wisp of a wish that fades as quickly as it happened. The music plays on, a man’s voice lost in the distance, through the glass and wood and stone facade- but the tremor of his voice is the same. Longing and love and joy and against Michael’s chest you sniffle, disengage your hand to wipe at your eyes.

“Sorry,” It doesn’t matter; apologies mean nothing to him. “I know you’re not…”

Pain spreads through your lip as you bite it. Shame and fear and regret all bubble up at once and you need to get away, need space from his suddenly unbearable heat. A push at his chest- and Michael’s hands clamp down at your hips. Terror floods in, blocks out all other emotion until your blood is ice, heart frozen, unable to even look up at him. You know exactly what you’ll find- sharp, cold eyes like daggers, focused on the only living prey he can see.

He lifts- and you squeal, unable to stop yourself- and dig your fingers into his suit jacket, cling desperately to him as he swings you around- shoes not even skimming the wooden boards below. He’ll throw you, or drop you over the side, or slam you into the stonework and that’ll be the end, the epilogue to your romance- and wood scrapes at your legs. The balcony’s railing drags at your pants, pulls them low on your hips, dipped between Micheal’s iron palms- and you can’t not look.

Seated on the aged wood, you’re still not as tall as him. Each breath comes quick and shallow, fingers still locked to his suit, white knuckled and aching and when you look at him… It’s everything you feared and so much worse. His left hand closes around your throat, thumb and middle finger meeting neatly, closing the collar around you, the lightest pressure making your head spin. Then, he squeezes.

You’d cry if you could, but not even a whimper can make it past the solid block of his hand- you grasp at his wrist, squeeze gently. No attempt to pry him off, no futile struggle for your life. If he’s tired of you, of your tenderhearted bullshit, that’s all there is. All you can do is watch, even as your pulse echoes in your ears, as black edges into your vision- his face comes in close, fills your vision.

And then- the pressure releases. You inhale- and lips cover your own. You brace, expect the tide of teeth and rough, grabbing hands- all you get is softness. His lips are dry, lightly chapped, but the kiss is… Your heart aches in your chest, tears finally springing free because your lips slide against his, unhurried and gentle. Fingers at your neck flex and stiffly release, his other hand still digging three bruising points into your flesh, but he’s soft, only his beard prickling as your cheeks and chin. You break off to breathe, broken into a sob- and Michael surges forward again.

His tongue, hot and wet, slides against your lips and you can’t deny him. White chocolate and vanilla coat his tongue, brings the gift of sweetness with each lick over your teeth. EVen restrained as he is, you’re melting under him, tipping your head back into his unflinching palm. He’s warm and sweet and you need more. Fingers scrabble up his chest, curling around to the back of his neck, just to keep him close-

And salt slides into your mouth. Salt? You gasp, take in as much air as you can- and Michael surges forward. No longer kind, he devours you, delves his tongue between teeth and cheek then as far down your throat as he can before sinking his teeth into your lower lip. Tears. It was your own tears you had tasted, tracks drying cool and irritated over your cheeks and now- now copper covers your tongue.

His fingers close again, tight and cruel as he sucks at the wound, draws ever more blood up to the surface until it’s spilling over your chin, dripping onto your chest and lap. It’s not enough, it’s never enough; his teeth sink in again, incisor catching the first bite and dragging along, splitting your lip further. Tears come again and you’re whimpering, arching into him-

Cold air makes your lungs burn. He walks backwards, crosses the little platform in two steps, taking his warmth with him. The wind rustles the trees below, covering music and your weak gasps. In the moonlight, his hands open and close repeatedly, curling into fists so tight he must be cutting his palms with his nails. Every muscle is held stiff, his good pupil is blown wide, lips pink and gently parted as he licks the red that stains his mouth and chin. It’s smeared across the lower half of his face, masking his silvery beard with quickly oxidizing brown.

It’s not far off from when he returns from a kill, stinking of blood and so wound up and on the edge of snapping.

He wants to kill you. Every instinct you have is screaming run; it’s all you can do to sink your nails into the wood railing and hang on. He stepped away from you, you repeat that in your head, he’s backed off. He knows- from the incessant flexing of his hands, over and over, he knows he’s too close to the edge. There’s no point in running; no matter how far you get, all that matters is what’s happening in Michael’s mind.

And finally, the scales tip. He turns, and without any noise at all, he stalks off, following the balcony around the side of the building.

The wind blows, bites cold needles into your skin, and you wait. Numb and freezing and… and you’re in no state to consider your emotions now. Your lip throbs, still leaking blood lazily. You press the sleeve of your shirt to it, already ruined from the dripping streaks.

Should’ve known one way or another you’d end up bloodstained. You sniffle, use the other sleeve to wipe at your cheeks, leave them hot and fuzzy-feeling. You wait; music above you changes, shifts through a playlist, moving back on to high-energy dance songs which only serve to grate on your already frayed nerves, makes your skin prickle more than the icy wind.

Where was he now? Out in the woods, navigating his way to someone else’s cabin, or perhaps he’ll take a car, find a nice neighborhood to terrorize. He’ll have a satisfying night out while you- you-

Your hands shake with more than just the cold. You breathe hot air into them anyway, rub them as though that will solve the same problem that has your stomach twisting.

The music dies down, leaves distant, muted noises- people talking, shoes scraping the floor. They’ll be leaving soon. You should be gone first. It probably can’t be passed off as a simple nosebleed, and the caring cooing of half-drunk wedding goers would not help. So- you leave. Exactly the same way he did. This time, however, you watch ahead of you, stare into the lowlight of late evening for the faintest sign of Michael or his mask.

Another encounter might not leave you so lucky.

But as you round the corner, he’s not there. You can’t even feel his eyes on you, and for once you feel utterly alone. The walkway does wrap around, leads out to the side of the main hall, near a staff entrance. Thankfully, there’s nobody around this door- but at the front, a huge rectangle of yellow floods the night, stretches out into the darkness- and good-natured cheering pierces the air. The twisting in your stomach turns to stone, solid and sickly and only making your legs move faster, to get further away from the crowd. They’ll be kept busy for a while, setting up a nice walk out, getting their cameraman ready.

The walk back seems longer, emptier in the darkness.

You opt for the backdoor, given the circumstances. It’s cracked open, warmth from the air conditioning system leaks out as you approach- but Michael is long gone. His suit is a mess of black and white fabric, puddled on the floor. It’s the best possible outcome, honestly. You don’t even realize you’re picking up each peace and flattening them out, placing them reverently on the other bed. Your clothes, however, do not get the same treatment.

In fact, they get hardly any treatment at all. You truly did plan on stripping down and getting into the shower, washing away the blood that’s streaked on you face- but as you sit on the edge of your bed to toe off your shoes, all you can think about is absolute bone-weary exhaustion. Without shoes, you slump backwards onto the duvet- the last conscious thought spared to glance at the double door, the make sure it was still left unlocked for Michael’s return.

Cold. That’s the first thing you notice. Cold- and droning like white noise. Warmth still clings to your chest, but a chill creeps over-- Your eyes snap open, arms shooting out, searching the dark because fingers touched your side. What you find, of course, is broad shoulders and wobbly latex. Michael. But what you find is also wet.

You recoil first- hands disengaging as he continues what he’s doing: flipping the blankets over, which you must’ve crawled under in your sleep, and pulling harshly at your pants. A seam pops- and you mumble in frustration, undoing the buttons with half-asleep hands. As soon as it’s open, he rips them down your legs. You hiss, the fabric stinging like carpet burn down your thighs. He’s keyed up, too excited from a fresh kill to even care- your underwear is shredded before you can even lift your hips to pull it off.

Fuck, it’s going to be one of those nights.

One massive hand keeps you still, holds you hips in place while the other unzips his coveralls with a zzzzt. Electricity sparks in your belly; he’s going to fuck you. The thought of his cock alone makes your thighs press together, the sweet promise of release so tempting after the last two days. His knees press into the mattress, your whole body shifting as it dips under his weight- and he doesn’t even wait for you to get resettled. The hot head of his cock rubs blindly between your legs; you don’t bother concealing your gasp as he brushes your clit.

In the darkness, it’s only you and him. Time and space fall away, nothing left in existence but his body moving against yours, the raw physical sensation of heat and pressure and each of his exhales echoing in the mask. Your fingers grab at his shoulders, just for an anchor, twist into the coveralls- and it’s wet. You shudder, imagine how he must look, coated head to toe in viscera, tracked blood straight to your suite and-

You don’t smell iron.

His clothes are wet, but they are also cold. The mask is just visible with the low moonlight that sneaks in through the curtains- and it’s clean. Cleaner than you remember ever seeing it, almost starkly white. One flop of synthetic hair hangs darkly, solidly, over his latex forehead. You trace your fingers up over the slightly melted edge, over rubbery ears.

Michael forces himself inside you with one stroke; your cunt burns with the stretch, all limbs closing around him in desperation to keep him still. Tears spring to your eyes once more, teeth scraping open your bitten lip- and all you can do is tell yourself to breathe, to focus on the coming pleasure, because it will, it always does, no matter how cruel Michael chooses to be.

So your snap your thighs closed around his waist, locking him deep inside while you clench and shiver in pain and shock and the first trembling whispers of good because fuck, he’s so big. Your walls flutter around him, body struggling to stretch to accommodate him. Warmth replaces the cool, radiates out from between your legs and- and something isn’t right.

Michael should be drawing back, forcing your legs apart and pounding away until the fuel of his bloodlust has burned off, more animal than man- but he’s not. Rain water drips onto your chest, runs off the shape of his false face, the heavy noise of his breathing masked by the soft rumble of rain and thunder. Bent over you, he’s not quite on you like he normally is- no, he’s leaned away, enough for you to stare into the pitch black holes where his eyes should be. There’s no light to see the gray or white beneath, but they must be fixated on you.

“Michael?” You murmur, too sleepy to mask the concern there. He doesn’t even tip his head. It’s not panic, not yet- if he thought he was in danger he wouldn’t be still like this, if it was some new type of sadism, there’d still be an air of it on him. This is… something new, something you haven’t yet been able to pick up the little signs of.

Your hands unwind from his soaked coveralls, the joints creaking from the effort. The fabric is rough and even more abrasive still soaked with water, but you stroke his arms as best you can and seek out his face in the darkness. Without any reaction you skate higher, one hand dancing up his chest, just past the drooping collar, to the thin strip of skin visible between the rough cotton and smooth latex.

“Michael…?” His name hangs on your lips- and he answers with his hips.

The animal drive has disappeared entirely. It’s a smooth roll, shallow- cautious. Where you had expected force and pain is softness; you gasp, part shock and part pleasure- and Michael must take it as a good sign. He keeps this strange pace and you dig your fingers into the shoulders of his suit, squeezing more rainwater out with each thrust. Your body isn’t sure what to do- so used to producing quick, efficient lubrication, you’re nearly gushing for him now. This sort of kindness from Michael is foreign, saved for when he’s injured or sick or- or particularly cruel. But this isn’t that- it’s new.

You can’t even begin to understand his motives- why he needs this- but you can still give it to him. When you wrap your arms behind his neck and pull him closer, he only resists for a moment. Closer- closer until you can hear his soft pants from behind the mask, feel the heat of his breath with each puff through the nose holes.

When he shifts his weight, he slides deeper- stroking so gently along places that have only known his brutal paces. You gasp, pull his hips closer with your legs- and the tilt of his head towards your mouth is not at all lost on you. Without prompting, he expands upon the motion: sliding nearly all the way back out until you’re whimpering, aching for his return- and pushing in so slow, finding his way so deep within you until tears gather at your eyes.

”Michael,” It’s a prayer, an acknowledgement, a thank you-

His breath catches; if your hands were not on him you wouldn’t have even felt it. He keeps pace, betrays no other hints of his reaction- fucks you deep and slow, rolls his hips with each thrust, grinds against your clit so sweetly- but you felt it, that sharp little inhale.

With his head tipped towards you, it’s hardly a stretch to reach the latex. Cool and as clean as you’ve ever known- you kiss blindly in the dark. It’s too smooth to be the lips, slightly puckered with melting- must be his cheek. It isn’t for long, because Michael turns, meets you halfway. The rubber lips taste like rain water, not at all like the cruel mouth that lies just beyond- the taste of blood on his tongue as sweet as vanilla frosting. You kiss him and all the while tension settles between his shoulders, radiates down his arms.

”Michael,” You repeat, this time with purpose, you scrape your nails against the harsh cotton of his coveralls to emphasize it. This time, it’s his hips- a thrust just too harsh to be completely controlled. It’s a spark to kindling; the kind of treatment your body’s been waiting for- and the “Yes!” that follows is not intentional at all.

And still- in the darkness you feel his resolve, the decision he’s made- whatever game he’s playing. He doesn’t give in, as much as his fingers are threatening to tear the sheets, he slows- keeps his pace even.

There is one thing, however, you’re sure he can’t resist. Delicately- as much as you can be while being fucked- you wrap one hand around his left wrist. He doesn’t react at all, hardly seems to notice- except with you tug at it, urge it away from its death grip on the sheets. This he tips his head at. “Michael,” You whine, tug again for emphasis. The mask tips the other way, his pace slowing with curiosity. He gives in, shifts his weight to his other arm, lets you move his hand-

The seams pop to the left of your head, his grasp shearing through them as you guide his three-fingered hand to your throat. The weight of it alone has your pussy tingling, every nerve woken, waiting for him to deliver. You think, perhaps, you might be crazy to taunt him like this, to get this wet at the thought of him choking you.

It’s not a thought for long.

The muscles in his palm twitch once before he adjusts the grip. His hand rises up, forces you head backwards and squeezes. Not a single moan escapes his grasp, but he must know- because the mask tips again, the empty back eyeholes boring straight into you, watching every reaction. And like that, his interest in being soft has evaporated.

He fucks you- the same fervor you’d expected after a hunt finally manifesting with each thrust, his cock ricocheting inside you, gives no room for hesitation. It doesn’t matter- darkness is buzzing at the corners of your vision, eyes growing heavy and tired, barely able to keep awake if it weren’t for the force of Michael’s hips. You’re fading, head lolling with each impact-

Michael’s grip loosens. Air floods your burning lungs- and you’d been so oxygen deprived you didn’t know how close you were. He doesn’t even let you moan; his hand closes around you again before any noise slips out. Your throat vibrates under his palm and you wonder if he knows you’re screaming his name as you tip over. With no air every feeling is amplified, your adrenaline-fried brain bringing every stimulus up and up until it’s unbearable.

Clamping down on him as hard as you can doesn’t deter him at all; he fucks you without pause even as your mind frays. Heat pulses out from your pussy, radiates down your legs, up into your chest- and you arch your back up, press more of your skin to the cold cloth of his suit. Your nails rip at the sheets, at his back, at anything you can reach- you don’t even realize you’d been digging your knees into his sides until he grabs one and forces your legs apart, all his weight held on your femur.

He grunts- hardly more than a thought of a noise in his chest, a hot puff of air through the mask and his hips stutter. He plunges deep, buries himself inside you as he spills.

“Yes, yes…” you murmur, stroke along his arms as he stills, the softest of tremors shaking his shoulders.

And all at once he collapses over you. Heat and solid muscle and damp cloth compress you into the mattress. It should be a cage, should be the inescapable anchor of your life- but his breath slows in your ear, fades from heavy pants to the slow, even noise that whistles through latex. The weight of him is real, a solid mass that anchors you to the world when everything else makes it feel like you should be flung from this spinning rock. Because you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be wrapping your arms around him to draw him ever closer, shouldn’t be hiding your face into his neck, pressing one cheek to skin and the other to rubber. It’s easy- so, wickedly easy to float here, to bask in his heat, in how he still fills you, even as he softens.

He’s still, motionless save for the rise and fall of his chest.

“I love you,” You whisper, feeling your lips brush cracking latex.

He doesn’t understand the word, you’re sure. You’ve always known. You say it anyway for your own sake, lest the feeling eat through your chest like acid. Because there is relief in saying it, in acknowledging that for all of the shouldn’ts you think of, the fact contradicts them.

He shifts, moves his weight to one arm while the other hand settles over your ribs.

His thumb strokes your skin.

#michael myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #halloween 2018 #michael myers x you

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hastyprovocateur · 1 year ago

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Pine Soap (Modern!Abby × Reader)

Summary- Abby and reader hop in for a quick shower

Word count-1.5k

Cw- sexual content, mature themes, fluff

• The tap water runs tepid as you twist the faucet on, letting its steady stream run over your hand. It nearly lulled you back to the cozy bed you just got out of. You force your eyes open, sleepy fingers wiggling for your brush. It sat next to Abby’s in the ceramic container embossed with both your initials. A silly couples project you did as housewarming. It stood now as a hearty reminder of how it all fell together, holding a red brush and a blue one.

• You smile at the letters, dousing your brush with toothpaste before jamming it in your mouth. The morning sun streamed through the bathroom sky light, bathing the whole tiled space in a halo-like glow. You rinse yourself, peering into the mirror. You pull the neck of your robe aside to assess the fresh hickey on your neck as the sharp spray of the shower water came on in the back.

• Abby had monopolised the stall after her workout, the frosted partition exposing her beautiful body as steam rose out the top. It was all too tempting. You sidle up to the door, knocking on it to garner her attention. She notices, giving you a small wave from behind. You waved back, placing your open palm against the glass. She mirrors you, placing her hand right against yours. Eventually, she slid the partition open.

• “God, you’re naked” you squeal as she tries to grab you, wet hands firm around your sleeve. She draws you back, nuzzling into your neck amid protests. “You’re soaking my robe!” you complain half-heartedly as she cocoons you in her big arms, leaving damp patches everywhere. “Then take it off” she mumbles like a scolded child into the top of your hair, loosening the knot you had tied before. You pull away to look back at her with chagrin, but it was hard to stay mad. Her honey-colored hair had turned dark, sticking to the sides of her face, neck, and down her back. Water beaded on her lashes, the tip of her nose and chin.

• You huff in reprimand as Abby chuckled, giving you a once over with her arm slung on your waist. Closing the space between your bodies. “Don’t look at me like that” her smile fades, leaning down to slowly push the robe down your shoulder, pressing her damp lips against your smooth shoulder, making you flinch. You gently grab her neck, pushing her away as she returned to that same spot she abused last night. You wince softly from the dull ache below the skin. “I did that?” Abby exhaled, circling the tip of her tongue around the bruise.

• You shiver, pulling your shoulder to your chin as you raise your hands up against her chest. “Shower with me” Abby urged, voice next to a whine. “You get rough…” you object softly, but she shakes her head firmly, bowing her head to meet your eyes “I’ll be good” she assures you. You close your eyes, feeling the wetness reach your skin through the thin fabric, finally relenting. Abby watched as the silk unsheathes your curves, puddling on the tiles, along with your underwear. She drew you in with a firm hand on the small of your back.

• The warmth made you nearly slump into her, resting your head on her chest as the hot water ran down your back, soaking your hair. Abby held your face, pushing her hands back into your scalp and cradling the crown of your head as you hooked your arms around her shoulders to keep from buckling. “Is that right?” she laughed, watching you sway against her. You smile “It’s perfect” pressing the side of your face into her collarbone. The pumping of her heart spelled home, reverberating through your body.

The safest you could ever feel.

• Abby kissed the top of your head, slowly collecting your hair at the side of your neck, nuzzling the side of her face against yours. Her hands trail down your spine, resting at your waist. She folded you within herself, lifting you up and inhaling the scent of your body deep into her senses. The sun seemed to follow you into the bath, turning your bodies gold as it washed over you in dapples and streaks. You peer up at Abby’s face, chin pinned to her chest. At her eyes. One deep in the shadow, one baby blue from the light.

• Bubbles slipped through your fingers as you lathered her waist-length, blonde hair with bath gel, the soapy suds swirling in her strands. Its pine scent wove itself into the rising steam, smelling sweet to the nose and bitter on the tongue. You reached behind her neck, combing your fingers in gentle circles at the back of her scalp. Abby craned low to press the tip of her nose to yours, kissing your cheek. Her hands swept up your butt, rubbing across your hips and up your back, holding you tighter. The creamy foam oozed, rolling down your curves.

• “Ow” Abby winced, causing you to panic and check her eyes for soap. She wheezed, getting a kick out of rousing you for nothing. You smack the side of her shoulder, pouting as she pulled you back under the water, rinsing you off. You rest your arms on Abby’s shoulders, raising your eyes up at her as she stares back, lips parting as she tilts her face to kiss you. The water rinses you, enveloping you like warm sheets. You pull back to breathe only to get drawn back in, her arms encircling your waist like fetters. You whimper in her embrace, dragging your leg up her side. Feeling faint. Exhilarated.

• You slip down her front, hands latching onto her breast and her hip as you fell to your knees. Abby stroked your head, gently pinning your wet hair back as you kissed her folds, closing your eyes at the familiar taste, the hue and touch of it known to you like the back of your hand. Hands curling around her butt, gripping her cheeks as you relished her, forcing yourself into her deep and firm.

• Abby gulped; breath jagged as her knees quivered ever so slightly. Her pleasure was no secret to you. You applied your tongue relentlessly, your chin and lips soaked with her arousal. Eventually, you felt her squeeze, finishing in your mouth, flooding the insides of her thighs. Abby flushed pink, cheeks aglow both with the orgasm and the hot water. “That good?” you cock your chin with a grin, embarrassing her.

• A gasp escapes your lips as she yanked you back up, your knees turning red. She flipped you against her body, back pressed against her front as she reached around. “Baby… ” you hold her arm as she ventures between your thighs, her fingers into your depth, burrowing deep in that soft, sweet place. Her other arm wraps around your breasts, squeezing them. You buckle at the hips, heels lifting off the ground as you throw yourself back into her, feeling every muscle flex as she had her way with you.

• “That good?” Abby teased you back, her fingers sliding in and out of you. You feel the shape of them against your walls, curling slowly to reach that place within. A physical reminder that you knew her inside out as she did too. It made you teeter on your toes as you dug your fingers into her arm to steady yourself, leaving red marks. You screw your eyes shut, feeling her lips finding your neck, your weakness. Her lips dragged across the older hickey, finding home for a new one.

• “Aaah” it burnt in the most pleasurable way possible, driving you all the way through. Abby’s hips melded into you; nipples erect against your shoulder blades as she used your writhing body to massage herself. Her groans blow down your neck, raising your hair on end. You clench your legs close, stiffly working yourself onto her fingers.

You finish pathetically, head rolling weakly on her chest as she held you still. It rose and fell at the pace of yours. You watch as Abby twisted the shower knob close with one hand, holding you in the other. “Let’s dry you up” she fervently kissed the side of your face, pulling her towel from the bar and shrouding you in it.

• You peer into the bathroom mirror, clothed in fresh underwear with your hair still damp. “Dammit” you groan as the fresh, red hickey on your neck next to the old one. You look down at your knees, finding two oval red patches on the caps “I told you!” you point to them incredulously, turning around to complain.

• Abby stopped mid-swipe as she put on deodorant, smirking at you “I mean… look at us” she shrugged, exposed aside from the towel around her waist, damp hair flowing down her back. Abby's arms, shoulders, chest, and hips were peppered with your hand marks “Can’t do much about it” she smiled. “Wow…” you trail with your hands on your hips, exhaling in defeat before walking out. Abby piped after you. Joyful as ever.

“if you can’t hide em, own em, baby!”

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ellethespaceunicorn · 1 year ago

Text

Something Old, Something New

Title: Something Old, Something New

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Nick Fowler x Reader

Fandom: The 355

Word Count: 9.5K (whoopsie)

Summary: Your childhood best friend invites you to your old vacation spot for her wedding, and you have been catching up with your first crush: her recently divorced big brother Nick.

Warnings: infidelity, divorce, recreational drug use (marijuana), drinking, mutual pining, pet names (Gumdrop, baby), praise kink, cunnilingus, unprotected p-in-v sex, mention of bodily fluids (creampie), public sex, if I forgot anything please tell me

A/N1: My tiles for @thebasementspouses VOTM Nick Fowler BINGO were: divorced, best friend’s brother, writer’s choice(prompt #802 from @creativepromptsforwriting), drunken confession, public sex. BINGO card at end of story.

A/N2: I have been working on this story for weeks and I really hope I have done the Nick Fowler fandom justice. It's my first time, and hopefully not the last time, writing for Nick. I thoroughly enjoyed writing him. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist

Three Months Ago

The cardstock was rigid in your hands, the envelope discarded seconds ago. The confetti in the envelope litters around your Chucks as you bring your attention to the words embossed upon the invitation. You had been waiting for this day ever since you received the Save the Date announcement.

You ran your finger over the pretty lettering, its raised borders were a nice tactile touch. The peaceful pink, whispered white, and mellow merlot of the flowers against a hint of golden accents was a beautiful choice. Not too feminine, nor too masculine.

Turning the invitation over, you found more information.

‘Accommodations will be completely covered for your 8-night stay at The Ocracoke Harbor Inn by the family of the Bride. You will be staying in the fully-furnished Treasure Chest Cottage. Amenities include full-service linens, complimentary wireless Internet, and guest boat docking. Guests have access to a sound-side beach. Password for WI-FI given upon check-in. Nonsmoking, no pets.’

Leave it to the Fowlers to go nuts and rent out the entire inn for their only daughter’s wedding, you thought to yourself. You were not surprised at all, growing up as a rich girl’s best friend had its perks.

As if on cue, your phone started to play the opening notes of Losing You by Solange to signal an incoming call. Pulling your phone out, you smiled seeing Deanne’s name. You clicked Accept and raised the phone to your ear.

“Hello to the future Mrs. Alexander!” Your cheery demeanor not letting on how jealous you were of your friend’s impending nuptials.

Euphonious laughter rings through the earpiece and you can’t help but join in.

“Girl, can you believe it? I am about to tie the knot, be off the market, and settle down. I’m only 12% nervous about everything so I’m doing great,” she snorted, and suddenly you were a bit less jealous if this kind of anxiety is what she had to deal with, “Anyway, um, I was giving you a call because I wanted to ask if you got your invitation and I also wanted to see if I could save myself time in waiting for your R.S.V.P. and bug and pester you until you agree to let my parents pay for you to come spend a week with us and come to my wedding and–”

“Deanne! Stop with the run-on sentence, doll. Did you think I was gonna pass up this opportunity? God, I love that you chose Ocracoke as your wedding destination. So many vacations were spent getting into all kinds of trouble,” you recalled, images of splashing in the water as kids and lounging on the beach as teens replayed in your mind.

“Yeah. Hey, when we were little girls planning our dream weddings, I was serious when I said I wanted it on the beach on Ocracoke Island. But not in the summer because of bugs and heat, but in the winter so we get that beautiful off-season fresh air,” Deanne mused.

“Dee, it’s gonna be gorgeous. I cannot wait to see you in your stunning dress walking down that aisle. Just know that since I am your oldest friend, you pretty much owe me the bouquet,” you laughed, only half-joking.

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s already yours,” she bantered, clearing her throat before speaking again, “So, I also called because I wanted to vent a little, if that’s okay?”

“It’s always okay. You doing alright?” you asked, now worried that your friend was in trouble.

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I have an update on Nick and Tori, though,” she paused, allowing your mind to wander.

The mention of your first crush’s name sent a shiver down your back. Many a moment had been wasted thinking about his pretty smile and grayish-blue eyes. You’d liked Nick before you knew you even liked boys. He was the heartthrob that trumped every teen dream of every other girl in America’s heart. In your mind, he was the closest to perfect you could imagine.

You responded, “Oh?”

“So, their divorce is finalized. My big brother is officially a divorcé. I would have thought that a man who was with someone for so long might be partying it up right now. But he says he’s focusing on work and, I don’t know. I just want him to be happy. And like, he’s getting divorced as I’m getting married and it feels so weird. It doesn’t seem fair,” she lamented.

“Dee, come on. You know Nicky wouldn’t want you to think like that. He loves you. You’re his favorite sibling,” you jested, trying to lighten the mood.

“Ha ha. I’m his only sibling. I better be his favorite,” Dee chuckled, happy to be distracted, “So that brings me to you, Miss Missy. Last I heard, you were dating some engineer guy? Do I get to meet him soon?”

You inwardly cringed, hopes dashed of being able to avoid the topic of your relationship status. Things with Curtis kind of fizzled out when you found his tongue down an intern’s throat. You had been bringing him dinner since he’d complained about the late nights at the office.

Turns out he was hungry for more than your baked ziti.

You explained all this to Dee, remembering the look on Curtis’ face when you poured the prepared food into his lap. He was so shook, it was beautiful.

“I didn’t want to waste all that food but he looked wonderful with my pasta all over his shirt and pants. He honestly deserved it. It was his favorite shirt too. I hope those stains never come out,” you huffed, feeling like you were right back in that office again.

“I have never been so proud of you. I wish I could put hot sauce in his underwear for hurting my girl. I’m sure if I just had a few minutes, I could come up with something more diabolical than that. But it’s what I have at a moment’s notice,” she retorted.

One thing you could always count on Dee for? Getting angry for you and using her beautiful and educated mind to come up with some way to make the person who slighted you pay for their misdeeds. It was both adorable and super embarrassing to have her tiny frame looking up into some bully’s face pointing her finger at them.

“Well, I appreciate your offer, but he is so not worth the energy. You have much better things to think about, like your wedding day. This is your cue to stop worrying about me, Dee,” you advised, a stern tone coloring your words.

“Fine, I will stop worrying about you out loud. You got it, girl. Anyway, I won’t hold you. Talk soon, ok? I miss you,” she said, and you could envision her getting bleary-eyed.

“I miss you too, Dee. We’ll get together soon, I promise,” you sighed, feeling guilty for letting your friendship dwindle over the years.

“I’ll hold you to it. Bye, babe,” she hummed.

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and close your eyes. Visions of what Dee will look like in her wedding dress cloud your thoughts. Little snippets of grayish-blue eyes and dark brown hair seep in and you can almost hear his laugh again. You open your eyes, blinking away the mental images that brought you joy for a moment.

‘This is fine,’ you thought to yourself. Yeah, totally. You’re only going to see your best friend from childhood get married, effectively ending your childhood with a pretty bow on top. You also were only going to be with the biggest crush you ever had for like, an entire week.

And he’s single.

And probably needy.

And...you had better get your jaw up off the floor if you were going to get anything done.

Three months is enough time to get your brain, your body, and your emotions in check before you make a fool out of yourself in front of your second family.

Right?

January 20th, 2024 – Day One

Standing on the deck of the Hatteras Ferry, you watch as Ocracoke Island comes into view. The sun is at its highest and you are thankful for your sunglasses shielding the the bright sunlight bouncing off the crystal clear waters. You can taste the salty air and you are instantly transported to memories of running around the decks of this ferry with Deanne and Nick while your mothers tried in vain to wrangle you all.

The island comes into view and you search the docks for a familiar face. Dee promised to meet you at the docks, but when you approach them she is nowhere to be found. You pull your luggage behind you as your shoulder bag decides to slide off.

Before it can hit the ground, it’s caught by the strap by a strong hand at the same time you reach out to grab it. You thank the kind stranger as you both stand to your full height and you are face-to-face with a grown-ass Nicholas Fowler. He says something and you don’t hear hide nor hair of what the hell he just said, you look at him and break into a smile and he chuckles and speaks again.

“I hope you don’t mind Dee got me to pick you up. She had some wedding stuff to do. I wasn’t listening,” he explains, adjusting his sunglasses and putting your bag on his shoulder. He gestures over to his black Lamborghini Urus.

Once you walk over, he puts your shoulder bag in the back seat. You step closer to him to hand him your rolling luggage. You are mesmerized as his strong forearms flex when he puts everything in the SUV.

You clear your throat and look around when he looks back at you, catching you watching him. He closes the back door and guides you to the passenger side, opening your door for you.

“Oh, you’re a full-service driver today, huh?” you joke, stepping past him. Your platform espadrilles clacking on the asphalt. Adjusting your strapless sundress, you climb in.

“Whatever service you require, Gumdrop,” he replies with a smile, making sure you are comfortable before closing your door.

That fucking nickname… He would call you gumdrop instead of your name more often than not. That’s all, he didn’t mean anything by it, right?

When you are both buckled in, you start the drive across the island. Comfortable conversation is easy between you two. It’s like you fall back into a safe space with him. You talk about old vacations, funny moments, and what you both are up to these days. Neither of you mentions either of your failed relationships and you can’t keep the smile off of your face.

“Hey, we still have an hour until check-in. You wanna grab a bite or go to the beach or something?” he suggests.

“Are you sure they’re not waiting for us?” you counter, wondering if it’s a good idea to have a little moment with Nick all to yourself.

“I’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission. No pressure, just a suggestion,” he presses, taking a second to look over at you and smile that smile that has had you in a chokehold most of your life.

After thinking about it for all of five seconds, you agree to have lunch at Plum Pointe Kitchen. You enjoy a generous helping of Drunken Chicken nachos while Nick gets the VooDoo Shrimp PO’Boy. You share half of your meal, and Nick refuses to let you pay for anything.

Making your way to the Ocracoke Harbor Inn after lunch, you finally meet up with everyone. Dee is in mid-conversation with someone when she sees you and Nick pull up into the parking lot. She walks over to you and pulls you into a very tight embrace. It’s like everything was chaos before you got here.

“Oh my goodness, I am so glad you are here. How was the trip? Did you eat? Did Nick bore you? I’m sorry that I couldn’t come and meet you, but we had a little mishap with the reservation for the hotel and then I thought I left my wedding dress at home, and then we–”

You cut off Dee before she can work herself into a frenzy again, “Dee! Breathe. You’re gonna be fine, I promise. And is that Matthew? Introduce me already, would you?” you encourage, trying to get your friend’s mind off of the previous debacle and onto the man walking over.

Dee introduces you to Matthew and he charms you with the way he dotes on Dee. He seems like the type to be able to handle her rambling and intense emotions. How he looks at her while she speaks makes you miss having someone look at you like that.

“Well, it’s just about 3 o’clock now. Let’s get checked in and settled, then we can get together later?” Matthew chimes in.

“Sounds good,” Nick agrees, turning to you, “Go ahead and leave your stuff in my car. I’ll take you to your cottage after we are all checked in.” You nod, trying to hide your excitement.

Once you are done with the receptionist, you get your key and the wifi password to your cottage. While waiting for everyone else to get done, you fiddle on your phone until Nick’s shadow looms over you. Looking up, you are greeted with his eyes no longer shielded by his sunglasses in the dim lobby.

“You ready, Gumdrop? We still have some time before Mom and Dad show up. And I think I remember Dee saying she would call when she was ready to go out,” he concludes, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was nervous about something. But you don’t push.

“All set,” you say, smiling up at him feeling bold enough to wrap your arm around his while you walk out of the lobby.

Dee shouts after you to behave yourselves and tense up a bit while Nick chuckles, seemingly amused by his sister’s thinly veiled comment on two single adults being close. Damn them.

Nick opens the passenger side door for you again, closing it once you are safely inside. He drives to the Margaritaville Cottage where he will stay with his parents during the trip. He instructs you to stay in the car while he just drops his bags off and is back outside in a few minutes.

The next stop is your cottage, called the Treasure Chest. You snicker at the name, thinking it sounded more like a pirate-themed strip joint. When Nick asks what you’re laughing about, you tell him your thoughts on the name of where you are staying. The slow smile that spreads on his face makes you involuntarily clench your thighs, wondering what his days-old stubble would feel like between your legs.

He tilts his head just slightly at you, then turns back to the road, smile still intact. Luckily the drive is short as the cottages are fairly close to one another. Nick parks in the driveway and you both get out and stretch your legs. He comes around and grabs your shoulder bag and luggage, motioning for you to lead the way.

Walking up the steps to the door, you unlock it and are welcomed by the scent of fresh linen. The central air of the cottage is just this side of perfect and you drop your purse on the dining room table. Turning around, you see Nick walking into a room off of the living room.

“Holy shit, you got a King-sized bed,” he shouts from the bedroom.

Walking in, you sit at the foot of the bed next to Nick and start to untie your shoes. He follows suit and turns to you biting his lip, a question at the tip of his tongue.

Facing him, you ask, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“No. I, uh...I’m surprised you haven’t asked yet,” he notes. At your confusion, he holds up his left ring finger. A band of untanned skin around the base clues you in that he’s talking about his divorce.

“Nicky, I would never make you talk about it. It can’t be easy in that situation. I mean, I only broke up with Curtis a few months ago and we were only together for six months. I couldn’t imagine how a divorce feels after how long you and Tori were together,” you insist, placing a hand on his knee.

He covers your hand with his and nods. “Mom and Dad are pretty good about it. They don’t ask me how I’m doing with that sad look in their eyes anymore. But Dee? Jesus, when I told her about the incident, she was out for blood. I had to end up calming her down. All because someone broke her big bro’s heart. Love her, but she can get a little carried away,” he finishes.

“This is not to make you feel like you need to share, but you mentioned “the incident” and now I’m curious. Feel free to tell me to shut the fuck up. But I caught Curtis with his tongue down another woman’s throat. I don’t know for sure how long it had been going on or if they had done anything else together, but I knew at that moment that I was done. I am worth more than that. And so are you, Nicky,” you encourage, feeling a bit of weight lift off your shoulders after finally talking about your breakup.

“My situation was similar. Tori had been cheating on me for the last two years of our marriage with her boss. I had a feeling something was up, just didn’t want to believe it was something like this,” he reveals, continuing, “But I am moving on, so to speak. I’m not holding out anymore for her to come crawling back to me with a sad story and all that. Even though I hope that she falls in a sinkhole.”

You both laugh and continue talking, taking your minds off of your breakups. You reminisce about all of the times you’ve stayed on the island during vacations. You giggle over dumb stories of you all as teens in high school, hiding weed from your parents and drinking on the beach til it was time to sneak back into the hotel.

You get an idea and you tell Nick to give you a minute before you go back into the living room to retrieve your purse. Coming back into the bedroom, you pull out a vape pen and wiggle it in front of Nick’s face, a devilish smirk on your lips.

“We’ll just take one hit each and we will be fine. Just a bit more mellow,” you offer, pulling him to the balcony off of the living room. You each occupy a wicker chair and you hand over the device.

“Gumdrop, you little devil,” he takes the pen from you and inhales, closing his eyes and holding the smoke in his lungs before letting it out. The smoke dissipates quickly and you can see the weight lift off of his shoulders. Handing it back to you, he exhales loudly and leans back in his chair.

Putting the tip in your mouth, you hit the button and inhale. Warm vapor fills you and you release the button, holding in the smoke for a beat and then letting it out toward the sky. You put the pen down on the table between you and fold your legs under you, letting your dress cascade down.

Sitting in companionable silence with Nick feels great. Neither of you feels the need to talk while you listen to the sounds of nature around you. People walking around the cottages, cars driving by, and the distant waves from Pamlico Sound make you wish you had gone to the beach earlier.

“Fuck, that was only one hit and I feel like my bones are made of jelly,” you remark, swaying to a song that isn’t playing with your eyes closed.

Nick looks over to you and smiles, “Must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t shake like that.”

You open your eyes and turn to him, your mouth twitches before you break out into uncontrollable laughter. Nick soon follows and you both are taken over by the giggles. You settle down soon enough, still feeling the buzzing calmness of being high.

“The world needs more people like you,” you beam.

“Nah, I like being unique,” he replies, his phone chiming. Picking up a video call from Dee, “Hey Sis.”

“Hey, me and Matt were gonna go for dinner and drinks, you in?” she asks.

“Yeah, that sounds...good,” Nick answers for himself while looking at you to get your answer.

“Ok, well get ready and meet us at Oyster Company. And tell my best friend that she is coming, no ifs, ands, or buts. See you both soon!” With that, she ends the call.

“So...our decision has been made for us. Do you need to change or anything?” Nick wonders, gesturing to your traveling attire.

“If I take this dress off, I am not going out. Besides, I like this dress. I think I look positively adorable. But I will change my shoes to something more comfortable,” you finish before Nick can comment on how he also likes your dress. You pick up the vape pen, make your way back to your luggage, and pull out some flat sandals.

Once you are ready, you make your way back outside and are surprised to see Dee and Matt parked on the street outside of your cottage. “We decided to pick you up. Matt is DD tonight, so we can all get a little loosey-goosey. Plus, I can always tell when Nick is high, so get in losers!”

Nick snorts, and you are mortified to be found out, but you quickly get over it once you are in the backseat of Matt’s Audi Q4. The short ride to the restaurant was spent with Nick’s left leg brushing against your right leg. He was either manspreading or he wanted to touch you and wanted to keep it under the radar.

Either way, you were excited to feel his warmth next to you.

When you make it to the restaurant, you sit at a high table and it almost feels like a double date. Especially when your waitress congratulates Dee and Matt on their wedding while remarking that you and Nick make a cute couple as well. Your face warms up and you suddenly feel like every eye is on you.

Nick comes to your rescue, answering the waitress with a smile, “My girl’s a bit shy, is all. Can we get a pitcher of beer for the table to start? And also two shots of Crown Royal Vanilla for me and the little lady. Thanks.”

If it was possible, you would have melted through the floor and evaporated, but instead, you just hide behind the menu until Nick pokes his head in.

“That wasn’t to embarrass you, I swear. But I got nervous that she was gonna try and flirt with me, so I dragged you under the proverbial bus with me,” he admits, his lopsided smile only making you want him more.

“Fine. You’ll just have to make it up to me,” you warn, a devious grin appearing on your face.

You put down your menu just as the waitress comes back with the drinks. Taking both shots, you hand one to Nick. Staring in each other’s eyes, you clink your shot glasses and then tap them on the table before taking the shot. The sweet burn of the liquor warms you from within while Nick’s eyes on you melt whatever nerves you had previously.

A cleared throat breaks your trance, your focus changing from Nick to Dee.

“I talked to Mom and Dad and they won’t get here ‘til Friday afternoon with the rest of the guests. Dad said he had a few things to take care of and not to worry. Of course, I worry tenfold because he told me not to,” Dee interjects, busying herself with pouring beer into her frosted glass.

“Baby, they’ll be here as soon as they can. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about anything,” Matt insists, moving a strand of hair away from Dee’s face before kissing her.

“Promise to keep me occupied?” she requests, a sinful smile on her face.

“I do,” he jokes, clearly proud of himself for making his fiancée blush.

“First of all, how dare you? Secondly, that was almost too cute so watch yourself,” she laughs.

You roll your eyes at the happy couple and smile, going back to looking over the menu. The waitress comes back to the table and takes your orders. Over the meal, you get to know Matt a bit more and you can see how Dee fell in love with him. He’s intelligent, funny, and charismatic. The way he talks about and to her makes you so happy to know your friend found love.

When they turn to talk to each other, you and Nick spark up a conversation about work. He tells you what he can about working for the government, keeping the specific details to himself. You regale him with stories of your time as a freelance writer. You’ve written for dozens of publications, but you just want to get your original works out there for people to enjoy.

After mentioning a few pieces you wrote for GQ, Nick expressed interest in reading your articles. You try and downplay your skills, but he presses you for the links. Taking out your phone, you realize that you don’t have his number.

While you exchange digits with Nick, you are too busy to notice Dee casting a sidelong glance and smiling to herself. You ramble on as you send him link after link of some of your favorites. With your face in your phone, you don’t notice the way Nick looks at you with a mix of pride and hunger.

“Well, I am ready to call it a night,” Dee yawns, getting everyone’s attention, “But I could use a nightcap. Who’s up for a trip to the ABC Store? We can make it before they close.”

Everyone agrees and after the check is paid, you all pile into Matt’s SUV for the quick drive to the liquor store. You browse the aisles for a bit by yourself. Filling up your basket with a bottle of wine, some whiskey, and a six-pack of hard seltzers, you surmise that this will sustain you for the week ahead and go in search of the others.

You find Nick in front of the beer cooler, hard at work trying to decide between a 12-pack of Sam Adams’ Cold Snap and Harpoon’s Long Thaw. You suggest he get both and he agrees.

Meeting Dee and Matt up at the front of the store, you stand next to Nick in line and he laughs at the contents of your shopping basket. He puts his beer up for the cashier to scan and has you do the same, paying for your items.

A little piece of you feels taken care of and you thank him while continuing to tell him he doesn’t have to. He just shushes you and says you can make it up to him later. Before your mind can think about what that might entail, the sale is rung and bagged. Nick picks up the beer and you grab the bag of your things.

Nick asks Matt to just drop him off at your cottage since he left his car there. His cottage is literally next door, but you’re not exactly gonna deny yourself the company. Dee and Matt drive away and you turn back to Nick. You both laugh nervously and you surprise yourself by speaking up.

“So, um. I was gonna have a weed and whiskey moment to myself, but I’d be willing to share if you’re interested,” you hint, watching as he weighs his options.

“Lead the way, Gumdrop,” he replies.

He follows you in, closing the door behind him. He puts his beer into the fridge along with your hard seltzer. You put the wine on the counter and take out the whiskey while Nick finds two short glasses in the cabinet. Pouring a generous amount in each one, he offers you a drink and you take a sip of the amber liquid.

Letting the whiskey sit in your mouth, you savor the hints of vanilla and spice. You reach in your purse for your vape pen and take a hit of it before offering it to Nick. Taking a long pull off of the pen, he exhales and you watch as his shoulders relax. You both take another sip of whiskey and revel in the dual flavors of the weed and whiskey.

You take your glass and the bottle, moving onto the patio off of the living room, and sit down in one of the wicker chairs while Nick takes the other. The conversation comes easily enough. Mostly high thoughts and random memories come to mind. After a while, you put on some music and when 6 Underground by Sneaker Pimps comes on, you can’t help but dance in your chair.

Nick stares while you close your eyes and move your hands to the trip-hop classic. You spend the entire song moving to the downtempo beat and enjoying your crossfade. The trance you were under slowly dissipates as the song ends and Pendulum by FKA Twigs starts.

When you open your eyes, Nick is pulling you to stand up. You’re lost as to what he is doing until his hands go to yours, pulling them to rest around his neck while he holds your hips. As the song continues, you follow his slow lead and sway to the intimate and mesmerizing indie hit.

🎶

You're younger than I am broken

I dance feelings like they're spoken

So my conversation's not enough

So lonely trying to be yours

Running through sliding doors

So lonely trying to be yours

When you're looking for so much more

🎶

By the time the song ends, the heat between you is unmistakable. Your hand tangles in his hair when he pulls you impossibly closer. Mere centimeters separate your lips. All you would need is to lean just one step closer and you’d finally get to taste his kiss.

Nick beats you to it and his hands pull your face to his, crashing your lips together. You can’t hold back the moan that escapes your lips and he swallows it adding in his own grunts and groans. Kiss after kiss, you radiate carnality and passion.

Breaking the kiss, you watch as he licks his puffy bottom lip. You take in a breath of air and prepare to dive back in but Nick voices his thoughts.

“You are gonna be the death of me, Gumdrop,” he sighs, and at your brows furrowing he continues, “You’ve only been back in my life for a day and I’m already thinking of ways to keep you in it. Don’t hate me, but I think we should chill out, just for tonight. I swear, if you still want this by tomorrow night, I am all yours. But you better be all mine. Please, tell me you can wait for me?”

“Tomorrow night and you’re all mine?” you plead, and he nods.

“Less than 24 hours, baby. Show me that these feelings aren’t just from the substances in our system,” he insists, and you wanna fuck him even more now after he says that.

You nod and he speaks up, “Need to hear your words, baby, like a big girl.”

“Fuck...yes, I can wait. I can wait for you, Nicky,” you whimper and he rests his forehead against yours.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, lifting his head from yours, “Now, why don’t we call it a night before I go back on my word? You look so good in this dress and I really wanna be good.”

Agreeing with him, you clean up your empty glasses and move the bottle to the counter next to the wine. Nick pulls you into him one last time, snaking a hand down to your ass and grabbing a hefty portion of it before a hardy slap lands on your left cheek. He only snickers at your yelp and nibbles on your bottom lip.

“Keep that same energy for me because tomorrow I’m not holding back,” he vows, and if you weren’t leaning into him, your legs would’ve surely buckled. If he notices the tremble go through your body, he makes no mention of it and for that you are grateful.

“Goodnight, Nicky,” you hum.

“Sleep tight, Gumdrop. And do me a favor?” he challenges, at your nod he continues, “Save it for me. I’m gonna take care of you tomorrow, so no need to touch that kitty tonight, right?”

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding, “Right.”

He leaves and once the door is closed, you lean back against it, your hand going to your neck where your pulse is playing a sick beat against your skin.

Less than 24 hours, you think. You got this.

That night, you dream of grayish-blue eyes and large hands roaming your body.

January 21st, 2024 – Day Two

You wake just before 10:30 am and are greeted with a good morning text from Nick. He lets you know that he is taking you out, just the two of you. Since Dee and Matt are enjoying a couple’s spa package, he figures it would only be right to hit some of your favorite places on the island.

You are dressed and out the door by noon. Nick takes you to pick up lunch at Taqueria 504 Suazo’s and you drive out to rent a Jeep Gladiator at for a few hours to drive on the beach. One of the best things about this island is that everything is so close. After 5 minutes, you are at your destination.

Nick drives out a ways past the other people enjoying the off-season and stops about a minute after the last two fishermen you see. Guess he wanted a secluded spot, you think to yourself. While you get the food, Nick grabs the beach chairs and umbrella that he rented. The ocean breeze is agreeable enough, but you are glad that you brought a thin sweater to keep the chill off.

Once you sit down, you hand over Nick’s food and he digs into his burrito while you munch on your fish tacos. When your meal is finished, Nick puts your leftovers in the Gladiator and lets down the truck bed. He beckons you over and helps you sit on the edge and he climbs up and sits next to you while you both look at the water.

“Ya know, the last time we came out here I was just finishing my third year at Virginia Tech. You and Dee were seniors. I remember hoping upon hope that you would apply to VT and I remember you telling me you were accepting a scholarship from Princeton. I just sucked it up and congratulated you. Even though I was hoping you would understand why I wanted you close, I was so proud of you for venturing off on your own. You were always one to go after what you wanted. I just couldn’t stop wanting to be what you wanted,” he confesses, looking off into the water.

“I wanted you, Nicky. Trust me, I did. But I was so afraid that I had a dumb little crush on someone who would never see me as someone other than his little sister’s best friend. The last time I saw you, I thought it was right to push away the idea of you ever having feelings for me. I also may have been afraid of what Dee would say. She’s kind of protective over both of us, ya know?” you finish.

“That girl can be a vicious little thing when she wants to,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “But don’t you think it’s kind of a sign that she had me pick you up from the ferry? And how suddenly today, we have a free schedule to do whatever we want together? I know my sister, and she’s done this before. She matched me up with my high school girlfriend, Beth.”

“Ugh, Beth with the braces and bangs. I used to call her Triple B behind your back. I hated her so much,” you mutter, trying to push the image of them kissing out of your mind.

“Yeah, well. I knew you hated her, but me being an idiot teenager didn’t exactly know that meant you liked me. I just thought you didn’t like her because she was kind of a bitch. She was plenty nice to me, but she could be...a little scary, at times,” he laughs, surprising himself.

“So...you think Dee would be ok with...this?” you say, gesturing between the two of you.

“I just think there is no way she would let us be alone together if she wasn’t halfway hoping it would work out,” he guesses, “Plus, honestly? We’re adults. We’re allowed to go after what makes us happy.”

A slow smile spreads across your face and you pull Nick in for a kiss. You don’t want to jinx it but he makes you happy too. The way he looks at you like you hung the moon, the way he listens to you and asks questions and the way he kisses you?

It just has to be real.

Packing up your beach equipment, you head back to drop off everything. Getting back into his SUV, you head around the island and view some of the sights. You go shopping and pick up some new knick knacks to take home. Visiting the lighthouse, you take some photos and make sure to bring Dee and Matt here before you leave the island.

Since most of the island’s restaurants are closed on Sundays, you venture to Ocracoke Variety Store and opt for cooking dinner together. After you have all the ingredients you need for a simple fish fry, you head back to your cottage and you and Nick get your hands dirty.

You have him cutting up potatoes for steak fries while you are preparing the batter for the fish. When dinner is ready, you sit at the dining room table with soft music playing in the background. While Nick wanted to take you out for your first date, he could appreciate the quiet setting with just the two of you enjoying each other’s company.

Finishing your meal, Nick takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. You smile and warmth radiates in your cheeks. You hate to admit it, but you wish you had a little liquid courage right now. But the nerves you feel only cement that this is happening.

He pulls you up from your seat, the hunger in his eyes evident from his blown-wide pupils. Leading you into the bedroom, he stops just short of the end of the bed. Standing behind you as you face the bed, he runs his hands down your bare arms and whispers in your ear.

“I cannot wait to take you apart, Gumdrop. But,” he starts, turning you around to face him, “First, I just want to take my time and worship this beautiful body I know you’re hiding from me.”

If he wasn’t holding you up, you would have melted into the carpet. But he’s there with firm hands and a gentle grip. Helping you out of your dress, he lays it on the chair in the corner. Coming back, he admires the white lace bra and panty set that accentuates your body shape.

His lips come back to yours, tasting your desire and wantonness with every kiss. Wrapping an arm around you, he guides you to lay back on the bed while maintaining the liplock. He kisses down your neck and across your collarbone while his hand unclasps your bra and removes it from your body.

Laying a kiss between your breasts draws a quick inhale from you. You can tell he’s proud of himself when he looks up at you while he licks one pert nipple, the other between his thumb and forefinger. He sucks on it as if he could siphon gold from your tits. Switching to the other, he gives it the same attention.

The noises that come from him as he plays with your breasts are enough to make you shiver. He whimpers when you moan and throw your head back. He groans when he kisses down your belly, stopping to look up at you before he plants a quick kiss upon your covered mound.

He pulls down your panties at such an agonizing speed. Nick has to squeeze his dick through his pants when a string of your wetness stretches from your pussy to your underwear. Spreading your legs apart, he feasts on the view of your lips opening like a flower before him.

He wanted to go slow, he really did. But once he flattens his tongue and licks up from your entrance to your swollen nub, he is mesmerized by the taste of you. He goes back and forth between sucking on your button and lapping up whatever nectar drips from you. You can feel yourself inching toward the finish line, and he is right there to talk you through it.

“Fuck...you taste like Heaven...that’s right, baby...let go and cum for me like a good girl,” he commands between licks and kisses.

You’re nothing if not a good listener and seconds later, your walls are clamping around his fingers. You’ve never cum like this before and it washes over you like a warm waterfall. He removes his fingers from your wet opening and sucks them clean before moving up the bed to kiss you.

Tasting yourself on his tongue, you are beyond turned on. You tug at the hem of his shirt and he sits up to pull it off. Running your hands over his chest, you pull at the button of his pants.

“Use your words,” he urges, his hands stopping yours from moving further.

“Need to feel you, Nick. Please fuck me,” you beg, all thoughts gone from your head.

“There’s my good girl,” he replies, standing up from the bed to undress fully. Climbing back on the bed, he kneels between your legs. He strokes himself slowly, eight inches of uncut cock staring you in the face. He squeezes the base and you can tell he is just as excited as you are.

You crook a finger at him and once again, he is on top of you. With nothing between you, you’re impossibly close and you only want to get closer. Your hand soon finds his erection and he hisses at the contact, groaning when you stroke him.

He leans on one forearm while his other hand guides his tip between your lips, gathering some of your slick before entering you. You both groan loudly once he is fully settled inside you.

“You good, baby?” he asks, anxious to start moving his hips.

“God, yes. Fuck me, Nicky,” you plead, feeling so full when you arch your back.

Foregoing words, Nick retracts his hips and thrusts into you. The wet squelch as he fucks you is music to your ears, just like the way he tells you how beautiful you are in between kisses. He uses your breasts as handholds while he pummels your snatch.

The way he looks into your eyes while he plunges inside you excites you so much that you don’t even notice when a tear escapes your eye. He kisses it away, trailing his lips to your neck where he sucks at your pulse point. At this point, you couldn't care less about a hickey. You just want to be his.

Your next orgasm surprises you and you squeeze his cock from the inside, coating him in your cream.

“Good girl, coming all over my fucking dick. Feels so fucking good when you tighten around me like that. You are taking me so well, Gumdrop. Yes. You. Are,” he grunts, punctuating the last three words with deep thrusts inside you.

Flipping you over so you are on top, Nick grabs your hips and you start to ride him. You bounce on his cock like it’s the last time you get to fuck. By the mewls coming from him, you are doing it just right.

You feel another climax on its way, slowly building up in your core. Nick swats your hand away when you go to rub your clit. He licks his thumb and massages your neglected pearl until you are unable to hold it in any longer. The dual stimulation is too much and you gush, soaking Nick’s abdomen and your thighs.

“Oh fuck, baby. Such a good fucking girl for me. You must want my cum inside you with the way you’re...riding my dick. Shit, baby, I’m gonna blow. Where do you want it, baby?” he asks, you reply by doubling down on your hip motions.

“Right there, Nicky. Cum inside me, please,” you implore breathlessly.

“Yes, baby. Gonna cum for you, gonna fill you up so good. Ugh, fuck, here it comes,” he whimpers, his hold on your hips so tight to keep you close to him.

You feel every twitch of his cock, his muscles pulling taut across his arms and chest as he floods your canal. Your name on his lips as he comes down is a badge of honor. Yes, you did that shit.

He pulls you down to kiss him, shallow thrusts keeping him semi-hard before he pulls out. He lays you down next to him, cuddling you close and kissing your forehead. You start to fall asleep but you can feel Nick moving off the bed. Your hand shoots out to grab for him, but he shushes you.

He goes into the bathroom and you hear the faucet running before he comes out with a wet washcloth. Wiping down your sensitive folds, he takes care of you so well. Putting the washcloth back in the bathroom, he comes back and helps you get under the covers and he snuggles in with you.

With your arms and legs entangled in one another, you drift off peacefully.

January 22nd – January 26th 2024

The days before the wedding are spent enjoying the island with Nick, Dee, and Matt before the other guests arrive. More than once, Dee has cornered both you and Nick, asking embarrassing questions. You both say nothing, feigning ignorance even though Nick has moved into your cottage over the week, abandoning the cottage that he was supposed to share with his parents.

That being said, once his parents do finally make it to the island, he doesn’t even try and act like he isn’t staying with you. The smile on his father’s face says it all, he approves. His mother is far too preoccupied with getting everyone together for the wedding rehearsal to notice anything.

That is until she catches you and Nick making heart eyes at each other as you stand in for the Bride and Groom in rehearsal. Yes, it was a bit too soon to be playing Wedding Day with a man whose divorce is less than 100 days old.

But when you know, you know.

At dinner, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and you don’t notice Nick following after you. Before you can enter the ladies’ room, a hand on your arm pulls you into the nearby gender-neutral bathroom.

You turn around and are met with hungry eyes before he descends upon you. Turning you around to face the mirror, he puts your hands on the sink and sinks to his knees, his hands roaming under your dress and up your legs until he pulls down your panties. He pulls out his already hard dick and pumps himself a few times before sliding inside you.

“Don’t fucking move, baby. Keep looking at yourself in the mirror, and your hands stay right where they are. You thought you could get away with teasing me in this tight fucking dress,” he breathes, “I want you to watch yourself while I fuck you til you’re dripping for me like the good girl I know you can be.”

When he places his hands on your hips, he begins a steady pace. He watches you in the mirror as your orgasm takes you over without warning. You squeeze him, your walls fluttering and coaxing him to follow you when you cover him in your juices.

But he surprises you when he pulls out and pulls your panties back up. When you turn around to ask why, he only kisses you and whispers in your ear, “I’ll get mine later, don’t you worry.” That only fills you with a little dread, your legs still wobbly as Nick tucks himself away and straightens his outfit. “Can’t have them knowing I just got my dick wet, right baby? See you back out there.”

He exits the bathroom and leaves you with slick running down your legs and your brain falling out of your ears. And he’s worried about you being the death of him?

You straighten yourself and use the bathroom for its intended purpose. Once back in the banquet hall, you pray to any god who will listen that you don’t look like you just got some dick. You see Nick and Matt in a conversation like he’d been here the whole time. When Dee asks why you look flustered, you lie and say you’re just a bit tired.

Nick overhears you talking to Dee and interjects himself into the conversation, “Why don’t we go get some fresh air? Don’t worry, Sis, I’ll take care of her.” Helping you out of your chair, you both say goodnight to those at dinner.

Nick takes you back to the cottage, pulling you behind him as he walks out onto the balcony. Crashing his lips to yours, his hands scrunch up the fabric of your dress until you feel the night air chill your skin.

“Hands on the railing, baby,” he says, peeling your soaked panties from you.

Nick’s pushing inside you in the next breath and it’s like he belonged there all along. Holding onto your hips, he begins his onslaught. All you can do is hold yourself up and be happy that no one is walking down this road because fuck they would be able to see you getting absolutely railed without abandon.

Your grip on the railing is faltering as he slams into you and he takes pity on you. He uses the grip on your hips to pull you back so you sit on his lap while he sits in the wicker chair. He moves you up and down on his dick while saying the filthiest things to you.

Once your climax hits, his pace falters and he thrusts up into you. His tip hits your cervix as he pumps you full. He holds you against him and kisses up your neck as you lay back on his chest. For a few moments, all you both can do is breathe and caress each other.

His dick slips free of you and you feel his load dripping from your thoroughly used hole.

“Come with me back to Virginia,” he whispers, surprising both of you, “Don’t say no just yet. Think about it. We don’t leave for a couple of days. I have not been this happy in a very long while and I think I make you happy too. Just think about it, Gumdrop.”

A million things go through your head at the thought of giving up your life in New Jersey. This was a big step after only a week of playing house. Your brain comes up with so many what-ifs and reasons to not leap. But then one thought sticks, and you smile.

When you know, you know.

January 27th, 2024 – Wedding Day

You were never a big crier, but you shed many tears watching your childhood best friend marry the love of her life. It fills you with hope that everything does happen for a reason. While listening to their vows, you wonder if you could ever make that type of commitment. At that moment, Nick squeezes your hand and you smile up at him. Like he could read your mind, he seems to always know what to do to give you comfort.

Then again, he has known you most of his life. And when you think about it, it has always been him. A distant memory replays in your head of him simply putting a band-aid on your skinned knee when you were nine and he was twelve. Even then, he was there for you with a smile and a friendly hug.

The wedding reception is an all-out party but you expect nothing less from the Fowlers. The music, the food, and the atmosphere are perfect. Dee enjoys herself and is just happy to be married to Matt. And you are so happy for her, to see her without a care in the world.

Nick focuses on you the entire night, making sure you are comfortable and that you have everything you need. You sit in his lap, effectively confirming any rumors that may have spread about you two. His hand on your knee is warm and you want to sneak out of here and take him to the nearest closet. But he doesn’t let you move an inch once he has you in his clutches.

The wedding photographer snaps a pic of you squealing when Nick plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek. The guests around you simultaneously swoon and groan, depending on their relationship status. Not that you care, you had your man. That’s all that matters.

After the wedding, you and Nick sneak off to a secluded area of the beach to look up at the stars. Taking off your shoes, you don’t mind the sand between your toes. You spend most of the night on the beach, just enjoying each other’s company under the moon.

You are lucky enough to see a few shooting stars, and you can’t stop yourself from making a wish or two. Wondering if Nick made a wish, you open your mouth to ask him but close it just as quickly. You know his wish already and only you could make it come true.

Coming back to the cottage is bittersweet. The last night of your vacation is spent lying naked with Nick. No sex, just intimate cuddling. You loved how safe you felt in his arms, and you couldn’t deny yourself this feeling.

January 28th, 2024

You’re nervous all morning and Nick tries his best to keep your mind off leaving the island. But all you want to do is spend all day in bed with him.

Saying goodbye to Dee that day is full of teary-eyed hand-holding, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You hug her mother and father and thank them for inviting you.

Nick drives you to the ferry, thinking for all the world that this is the last time he will see you. But like you continue to do, you surprise him when he’s helping you with your bags.

“So, I have some things to clear up in Jersey, but I was thinking Valentine’s Day is just a couple of weeks away. You can come to my place and we can spend some time together. I may not be ready to move 7 hours away just yet. But I know that I am not ready to be without you. I want you to know that I want this, whatever this is,” you admit, gesturing between the two of you.

“I can be amenable to that. On one condition,” he offers, taking your hands in his.

“And what is that one condition, Nicky?” you press, wondering what else he could want or if your terms weren’t enough.

“When we are with each other again, I get to call you my girl. That’s it. Be mine, and all that?” he laughs, watching as the frown lines on your forehead disappear and a smile grows on your face.

“You had me for a second, Nicky. But, why wait? I’m all yours already. Plus, I’ve already planted my flag in your back pocket,” you tease, snaking your hand around to goose him.

“So that would make me your man, then? And you’re my girl. Makes me wanna ask what made you decide to try this with me?” he hesitates, half wanting an answer and the other half just happy that you said yes.

“Hey, like I always say,” you start, wrapping your arms around his neck, “When you know, you know.”

END…?

A/N: All of the places in this story are real, this is not an advertisement for Ocracoke Island, NC btw. I just loved vacationing here so much, that I wanted to use it in a story lol.

**Tag List** (since I never wrote for Nick, I didn't know who else to tag)

@gummydummy19 @blackwood4stucky

Let me know if you wanna be added (or removed) 😁

My BINGO Card:

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boringbones · 2 months ago

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#UrbanContrastSet #ModularDesign #IndustrialDetails #ModularBuild #BoringBones #TheSims3 #Ts3 #Sims3cc #Ts3cc

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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I don't know what to make of this weird house, built in 2003 in Round Top, New York. The description says it's a compound, and has 6bds, 8ba, $3.7M. It looks like it's built from metal sheets, but look at the heavy lanterns and columns, plus the etched glass above the door that says "Crows Nest." I don't know, it just strikes me as strange. Take a look at it.

It appears that the entrance hall is made to look like a vintage home, but they gave it an industrial cement floor and it's part of the living room.

The fireplace is lovely and looks vintage, but who hangs paper lanterns from medallions in the ceiling? The area next to it turns ultra modern w/large glass windows.

Above the vintage part is a railing that looks like a choir loft.

Rustic kitchen with black cabinetry.

Rustic hand-hewn wood in the kitchen.

Family room with a nice fireplace.

Old timey shower room with beadboard paneling and embossed wallpaper with simulated Victorian tin ceiling tiles.

Down the hall is a bar.

And, behind the bar is a wine room.

Kinda love this sink, but not against knotty pine walls.

The primary bedroom is modern and has an extremely ornate doorway.

In the modern en-suite is a medieval chandelier and statuary flanking the tub.

Secondary bedroom is like a little farmhouse room with bright yellow beadboard walls and ceiling, plus a farm light fixture.

Funky little bathroom.

This looks like a family/game room.

But, it must be for guests, b/c there's a dorm style bedroom, too. Although, it is described as a compound.

Bath for the dorm room.

Container garden outside.

Interior of the vast barn-like outer building.

Nice outdoor patio and fireplace.

Cute little treehouse to sit in.

All set on a whopping 170 acres of land.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/278-Crows-Nest-Rd-Round-Top-NY-12473/246326661_zpid/

#compounds #large properties #houses #house tours #home tour

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lovelybarnes · 2 years ago

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Sadistic- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader, other characters make an appearance but it’s mainly natasha romanoff Warnings: mean bucky kind of, mutual pining, teasing, reader being flustered, super projection of my obsession with peanuts right now About: request! Bucky and reader didn’t get along and then bucky discovers she has a sensitive neck and basically uses it against her.

Bucky notices you before he sees you.

You’re hidden behind the kitchen island with your legs crossed beneath you and your fingertips grazing the tiles, the few stray strands of hair peeking past the granite of the counter giving you away.

He contemplates turning back nearly immediately, your presence pushing him out of a room as much as it is pulling him in, but it’s sheer greed that makes him lean on his feet, standing at a subtle angle to get even a brief look at you.

Your eyes are glassy and unfocused when he meets them, puckering aimlessly with the arrival of a crease between your brows. He shifts awkwardly in the entrance of the common room, watching you cautiously.

You don’t seem to notice his attention at all, eerily still and uncharacteristically distracted. Bucky should clear his throat, ask if you’re okay, but he hasn’t said something so kind to you in a while, and he’s unwilling to do so now.

What he should do, grounded in stupid values and teenage pride, is set his shoulders, stop squinting to see the outline of your lashes, and push past you to get to the fridge. You’re the one on the ground. He’s an innocent, thirsty bystander who has been looking forward to the cucumber water in the fridge all day.

He pauses, moves his limbs a little to see if you notice. If you do, maybe you’ll push yourself away from smack-dab middle, or maybe your eyes will widen in that sweet, apologetic way they do, where your lashes pinch at the corners in guilt, voice starting in an excuse he’ll scowl at, forcing yours to twist down wrongly at his reaction.

He can admit he’s selfish when you don’t waver and he stays put. Crassly, he leans against the wall and lets his pupils drag down your profile. He flushes immediately with heat and wishes you would rise to your feet and scold him for staring. He isn’t sure what sick part of him would like that most.

But you stay like that for a while, and when you do notice him, it’s an entirely underwhelming consequence. Your shoulders jump only barely and you offer him a vacant blink.

“Hey, Bucky.”

Your voice is quieter than usual but just as sordidly kind.

He grunts in response, setting his attention away from you and pretending like it was never there to start. You shift away when he steps in front of you, narrowly missing your nail. You frown down at your hands, glancing up at Bucky’s back.

He hears you stand, the soft sound your fingers make against the cupboard and the inhale you take. You twist your mouth and squeeze your fingers, eyes on him from your distance. He doesn’t turn to you.

“What’re you looking for?” you ask after a few seconds.

“Water.”

“Water,” you repeat. “The cucumber one? I’m so sorry, I just grabbed the last bit.”

He makes a low noise, shutting the refrigerator. “It’s fine.”

“No, no,” you argue, turning around to pull a mug from behind the fruit bowl. It’s chipped at the rim, with a pale yellow handle and thin vertical indents around its body. A bumpy orange mushroom is embossed over green blades of grass. You hook your middle and index fingers through the handle and hold it out to him expectantly. “You can have it.”

Bucky shifts on his feet, hands down at his sides. He wants to start kindly. “No.”

You blink at him. “Are… are you sure? I don’t think you’ve had very much. I haven’t drank from it at all, I promise. I just poured it before I…”

Bucky thinks he should ask. “‘M sure.”

You nod slowly, setting the mug down. There’s something hesitant and wanting over your features, a small crease back between your brows. “Okay then.” You offer him a smile, a little awkward but nonetheless pretty. He needs to go. “I can bring you some more? I usually buy it from this little vendor on Saturday, but I can make an early stop.”

“That’s okay.”

You chew on your cheek. “Maybe you want to go with me?”

He freezes. “What?”

You take in a big gulp of air, shoulders pushed back gently. “I feel like…” You chew your lip, mulling. Your eyes twinkle sadly. “We don’t really spend too much time together. And I’d like to.”

Bucky can feel heat creep awfully up his neck, a stabbing warmth in his chest. He needs to reject you right now.

You seem to read his mind, stepping backward and bumping into the counter. “You don’t have to—” You stumble over your feet in your efforts to give him space.

His hands shoot out to wrap around your forearms, pulling you upright. Your eyes are rounded, mouth still caught in an assurance, warm fingers twisted below his wrists to hook loosely on the hill of his pisiform.

He swallows, stepping back like your touch burned him. “No thanks.”

You frown, not wanting to push but feeling like you need to. You swallow the step he’d put between you. “Please? I promise I’ll make it fun. There are a lot of things there, maybe you could find Steve’s birthday gift.”

Bucky inhales shortly. “I got it already.”

He begins to sidestep you, a scorching buzzing he never realized was prickling beneath his skin finally beginning to ease. You grasp his arm and it peaks so high, he stops breathing for a second. The twinkle has come back, more melancholy than he remembered. Your lips pucker, eyebrows edging down. “Do you not like me?”

Bucky pauses, overwhelmed by the heat of your fingers. “What?”

Your teeth dig into your lip, thumb beginning to rap against the flat edge of his palm. He blinks. “You don’t seem to like me very much. Which is fine—I just… did I do something wrong?” Your voice closes on a mournful crest, features already sorry as your fingers continue their frantic dance on his skin. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No. Why would you think that?”

You frown. “You never talk to me unless you have to, you leave the room the moment I come in.”

“That’s not true.”

You cock your head at him, a little exasperated. “Bucky.”

“Fine.” He sighs, meeting eyes with your concern again. A beat passes. “Let’s go,” he says.

Your face lights up, although hesitant. “Really? Honest, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Really. Maybe I’ll get something else for Steve.”

You bounce gently on the balls of your feet, fingers looping tightly around his wrist. “Thank you. We’ll have fun, I promise.”

“Sure,” he says, rubbing the slope of his nose when you finally step back with a pretty smile. His wrist burns delightfully; he has to hold himself back from prodding at it with his fingers.

You stare at him for another second, eyes crinkling at their edges. “I’ll be right back. We’ll leave in ten minutes, is that okay?”

“Sure,” he repeats, watching you bound toward the elevator. Your lips are pinched tightly when you turn around, the bubbled highs of your cheeks betraying what you try to smother.

When the elevator doors shut, he lets his eyes fall closed, dropping his head onto one hand. His pointer finger brushes against the skin you’d held, eliciting a lovely glittering where you’d rubbed the pads of your fingers.

His elbow bumps into something cold and fragile, which he looks down to see is your mug, quietly inched closer to him. Hesitantly, he loops a finger around the handle, lifting the smooth edge up to his mouth. You were right, the water is fresh and sweet.

He falls into the couch disappointedly to wait for you, letting his head tilt back and attention rest on the ceiling. His index strokes the handle with wobbly, hesitant lines, running over the movements of your own fingers in the bumps and ridges of the mug. Your ownership is painfully present, predictably foreign on Bucky’s tongue, yet not at all wrong where he has felt it most.

It’s not what Bucky expected.

He puts it down on the table, hoping the delicate circular teetering grounds him. It doesn’t.

You’re frantic when you push the door to your room open, entirely crammed with worries.

Your hair has refused to cooperate all morning, the shirt you’d pulled on has a tiny hole you hope Bucky didn’t notice, and your pants are a size too big, the stretchy bottom part of the left leg pulled up to the thick of your calf.

You try to remember whether or not you washed your nice jeans the day before, fingers deftly pushing away hangers and leaving only an ugly screeching sound that you can’t bother to notice.

You don’t think Bucky likes you. In the decent amount of time you’d known him—a fraction of it with a word count—you had, at the very least, been reassured that he didn’t hate you. Bucky doesn’t seem to spend too much time hating in the icky, false sense of the word, not when he has so many possible receptors with real and raw reasoning.

You hold a shirt up to the light like it’ll help determine Bucky’s thoughts about it. Would he have any?

You shove the shirt back inside your closet and pull another off the hanger, stretching out the collar irresponsibly. Bucky seems to wear a lot of red. Is it because he likes it or has someone commented on how much it brings out his eyes?

You don’t think Bucky likes you. You’re determined to get him to.

He was wearing something red today. You pull on a pretty vermillion blouse with wide sleeves and a high neckline and try not to feel silly. Your foot taps nervously against the floor as you try to decide on earrings, taking a glance along the rows you have before you crouch down to pull on your shoes, browsing the image you’d caught in your mind.

When you straighten, it feels as if entirely too much time has passed by, your head leady, vision thinned briefly. You decide on the Snoopy earrings you’d bought last week. Tiny, crescent-eyed Woodstock goes on your left ear and tiny, lovesick Snoopy goes on your right. He must know them, right?

You don’t look in the mirror before you leave, too confident that your reflection would send you tumbling back into your closet, slipping your choice off your earlobes. Your forefinger hooks on the bottom of your shirt, tugging down as you watch yourself in the closed doors of the elevator.

Slowly, you inhale. Exhale. Realize you’d closed your eyes and the doors are now open.

The pads of your fingers meet Snoopy’s small clay-lump-legs and you remember that you’re being ridiculous.

Calmer now, you prance over to Bucky, blinking at his shut eyes, body leant against the couch.

“Bucky?” you call. You bend at the waist, searching for a sign of life until your nose is very, very close to his. “Are you okay?” you whisper, unsure why.

Bucky startles anyway, meeting your fresher face. He has thoughts on the shirt.

He clears his throat. “Fine.”

You pull back, crossing your arms. “Did I make you wait long?” you stress, watching him get to his feet.

“No.”

You want to make a joke. You know what Sam would do—poke at his age, ask if the century was finally catching up. You contemplate it too long.

Bucky eyes the bag hanging from the crook of your elbow. You tilt it inconspicuously, flashing stupid buttons and silly pins. Bucky clears his throat. “Should we go?”

“Yes,” you say hurriedly, following after him as he heads to the elevator. It’s silent inside and all the way to the car, where you exchange a stilted smile for a glance when you plug in your phone with the address.

Your thigh shakes the entire ride, slowing momentarily for awkward, brief conversations when the silence gets too unbearable. You think about comfortable silence and how this is not it, icky regret crawling up your throat. You feel sticky and stupid.

“I like your earrings,” Bucky says unprompted. You’re too surprised to do much else than stare, thanking him after too long.

“You like Snoopy?”

He nods. You contemplate more questions, but he seems satisfied with his contribution.

You stare down at your bag the rest of the time, a finger tracing a big, glittery button from a goose race you never went to.

Bucky’s presence is too professional at the stands. He handles himself overly bodyguard-like around you, watching you pick things up with care and interact with vendors from just next to the tents. Rarely does he touch something himself.

You fiddle with a small notebook, catching his eye. You smile when he reads your mind, stepping over to your side to see over your shoulder. Half of his body is close enough to pull sparks from your opposite side. You try your best to concentrate.

“Steve,” you explain, twisting the little sketchbook around. He hums, the noise accompanied by a warm puff of air against the thin skin of your neck. You still completely, goosebumps rising immediately. You pray he doesn’t notice.

Of course Bucky does. He watches your chest still and can’t help the rise of the left edge of his lip. Experimentally, he blows a soft line along your neck.

You flinch, fingers going slack. Bucky reaches for the book before it can thump on the table, his eyes crinkled. You’re too distracted to notice the amusement on his face.

He hums. “That’s a good choice for Stevie.”

“Y-yeah.” You clear your throat, taking a step back but bumping into him. Your skin is delightfully warm even through his jacket, sharp tingles only tendered by your sweet chagrin.

Graciously, he steps aside, meeting your eyes and raising the book between his index and middle fingers. The buttons of the bag hanging off his wrist sparkle in the sunlight. He smiles, suddenly a lot less hesitant than this morning. “Found my present.”

You nod, leaving him to pay as you raise your hand to your collarbone, the pads of your fingers brushing over the goosebumps above the collar of your shirt.

You shiver again and wonder.

You’re anxious for more.

Bucky’s interactions with you are usually dismally brief. He says hi when you prompt him, returns tight smiles, and indulges your questions using as few words as possible. Last time, it was ten. The time before, five. Your peak is sixteen.

On the next movie night, you come downstairs half an hour before and claim a doughy two-person couch, sprawling a silky blanket over one side. You pop two bags of popcorn and stress that you made them too early, overcompensating with a variety of candy. It’s spread out with great care, the cushions adjusted, the furniture itself repositioned.

You sit on your side and pretend you’ve only just come when Sam heads into the living room, raising an eyebrow at you.

“What’s all this?” he asks, stealing a handful of popcorn.

“Nothing,” you say, shifting as he pokes around your stash. Footsteps. “Go over there,”

“What?”

“Bucky won’t come over here if you’re standing there.”

Sam cocks his head. “Ohh, Bucky huh?”

“Go!” you urge, heat up to your ears when he satiates you, hands up in surrender as he walks away.

More Avengers filter in, at the very end Bucky. Your friends have decided to appease you today, occupying every space except the one by your side. Your leg bounces with anticipation.

Bucky looks at you, noticing everything you’ve done, and blinks away when you smile at him. Your shoulders sag, lips pursed achingly.

“You can sit here. If you want,” you say. “I got you some candy. I’ve seen you eating it before, and I thought you… you might like it.”

It’s a slim moment—but a moment nonetheless—before he answers. “Okay. Thank you. I’m gonna get a drink before the movie.”

“I’ll go with you,” you pipe up, a few of the others joining you to pour sodas and chips into bowls.

You’re reaching for a glass when you feel him behind you, stretching for another.

You shiver when you feel air against the nape of your neck, knee knocking loudly into the counter.

He’s away from you before you can process it was him, innocuously pulling open a drawer.

Everyone meets your eye questioningly. “You okay?” Natasha asks.

You nod, pupils flickering to Bucky, who would seem entirely innocent if his irises weren’t so glittered with mirth.

You frown at him, confused when he’s completely unchanged, simply walking beside you back to his seat.

You split your attention between the movie and Bucky’s face for the first hour, realizing you should never have let it stray when he reaches for his glass of water and brushes a very warm finger right below your jaw.

You stare at him perplexedly, his features outlined by the flickering light of the television.

“Butter,” he lies, shrugging. Then, he turns back to the movie and ignores you for the rest of the night. You can’t remember the name of the movie by the next day.

The round tip of your little finger aches with a small papercut.

The paperwork piled up at the edge of your desk mocks your wound, edged paper corners peeking out as if a warning.

You watch wine bubble, a fat drop beginning to edge closer to the crevice between nail and skin. Holding back an urge to shove your finger into your mouth, you clasp a tissue with your other hand, wrapping it tightly around your wounded finger.

You blow a gentle raspberry and lean back in your seat; a silent resignation: the paperwork wins.

Natasha meets your eye from the couch across the hall, appearing to read your mind in the sharp way she can do. She frowns, an exaggerated pull to her lips, falsely thinned eyes glaring. She crosses her arms and puffs her chest out, shaking her head in a distinct disappointment.

You stifle a laugh and present your injury to her.

Her lips part in overt understanding, nodding slowly. Poor baby, she mouths.

Poor baby, you agree, cradling your hand.

She laughs, standing up to walk toward you. When she gets to you, she picks up a pen off your desk, squinting at the words peeking out beneath the covers.

“This is from two months ago,” she says unhelpfully, tapping it with your pen.

“That’s not even the oldest one there,” you deplore, letting your head drop on your desk with a mournful sigh.

“Why do you insist on falling behind?” she tuts.

“I’m hurt!” you insist, pushing your finger toward her. She cocks her head at you but cradles your hand. “Every time I try, it’s like it fights back!”

“If you need help…” Natasha mutters something in Russian and brushes her lips against your pinky, making you smile.

You simper. “Did you just heal me?”

“No. I cursed you for being lazy.”

You frown, taking back your hand to hold it against your chest. “I’m good,” you say, responding to her earlier offer. You heave a big sigh. “Thank you, though. Evil woman.”

She smiles at you, shaking her head when she sees your opposite fingers wrapping around your injured one. “You like to suffer.”

“How dare you,” you mumble, urging another bloody bead to form.

“Deviant,” she claims, walking away.

You don’t look up to blow a raspberry at her, dragging your nail up your skin until a thicker drop forms.

It’s a fairly challenging game you have going on, making your bead grow while trying to keep it plump and steady on the tip of your little finger.

If you breathe a little too hard, it wobbles, and you clamp your lips closed, holding your breath and freezing entirely for a few seconds until it’s still again.

It’s a concentration game. And Bucky takes advantage of it.

You press the indent between your bones gently, immersed enough to only recognize his presence when he begins to speak.

“Don’t do that,” he condemns, suddenly right behind you. He must be bent over, lips a millimeter away from the curve of your neck for you to feel every intricate vibration of each word he says. You flinch immediately, an already hot cheekbone bumping against his chin.

When you catch sight of him, he’s already straightened, perfectly calm.

“What?” you croak, warm fingers against the warmer skin below your earlobe.

“You cut yourself,” he says.

“Uh huh.”

“Why are you making it worse?”

“I… I’m not.”

His face stains only lightly in dissent, dissolving like a single droplet of color in an ocean of clear.

He doesn’t respond audibly, only shrugging and walking away. You only realize he’d pressed a clean, colorful band-aid on your desk after he’s out of the office.

There’s a streak of cherry red along your finger when you finally look down, only observing its head create a fat scarlet stain on your sleeve. You curse Bucky and the goosebumps still high on your skin.

You suspect Bucky to be somewhat of a sadist.

He doesn’t seem to mind the effect he’s carved into you, nearly reveling in it as if your embarrassment were some sort of thrill. You find yourself shivering prematurely the moment he steps foot in a room, the sight of him accompanied by the imminent line of ice along sensitive skin.

He’ll embarrass you wherever. Make you choke on your tea right before a meeting, burn yourself on a fresh tray of cookies, trip over shoes, and crash into walls. And he’ll watch you, lousily stifling a smile before tending to whatever he’d caused as if he wasn’t at fault for it.

Guiltily, you yearn for the roles to reverse. Or for yours to lessen.

Slumped on the couch in the living room with a bowl of oily popcorn, you contemplate your situation with Snoopy.

All you had wanted was a sign further than acknowledgement. Something realer than his bitter, thin smile, maybe one of the laughs you’d been so eager to hear in real life. At the most, a purposeful touch; still kind, still real, probably brief. But what you’ve gotten surpasses what you’d initially desired in delightfully awful ways.

When you think about it, your situation doesn’t seem too fat with issue. You can’t recall a substantial conversation with Bucky, but you can remember with perfect clarity how warm his lips are from a millimeter away. It brings up the contemplation on whether or not it’s an actual issue to begin with.

You’re tempted to ignore it. You’re very, very tempted to let him continue his cruel attentions and let yourself become further putty in his presence.

What would you even do? You can’t see yourself pulling him forward by the collar—to make a point, of course, not to brush your fingers against his own neck to see him shudder—to look him in the eyes while telling him that you know what he’s doing. Especially when you don’t. Primarily when you aren’t sure what the point of the conversation would be—to tell him to stop? You aren’t sure you want him to.

It’s easier to push it aside and let him torture you. Maybe you’ll become impervious to Bucky Barnes’ bullying.

You push yourself straighter and let your head fall back, listening to Charlie Brown’s mournful voiceover.

“What if everyone was like you? What if we all ran away from our problems? Huh? What then? What if everyone in the whole world suddenly decided to run away from his problems?”

Your eyes pop open with a startled frown, watching his cartoon throw his little arms up and sigh.

Linus appears, but you don’t listen to his words, letting the fleshy part of your palm support your chin. The pads of your fingers float up to the space behind your ears, and you feel yourself flush immediately with recognition. Bucky is a sadist, sure. But you’re a masochist.

With a dejected huff, you let your hands drop to the popcorn.

It’s not even a full episode past when something shifts. You frown, covertly examining your surroundings with edged brows.

Two hands form deep clefts in cushions on either side of you, body heat sticky against the skin it can touch.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks quietly, lips so close to your ear you can feel the echo of their movements. His breath prickles your neck.

“Um…” You struggle to respond, your tongue suddenly too dry. In the background, Lucy shouts something. It sends the dumbest feeling into your chest. Charlie Brown is right.

You gather up all the courage inside of you, rolling it up into the tightest and biggest little ball you can, and snap your neck to the side, catching his gaze before he can move in surprise.

You’re closer than you thought you’d be. You can see all the pretty little details of his face, the way his pupils eat the lovely blue of his irises and how high his Adam's apple bobs.

“What’s wrong?” you echo gently, sweetly mocking.

He stammers, charcoal lashes fluttering.

You hum, examining his face one last time before hopping off the couch to go to the kitchen, leaving him slumped over the couch, dazed.

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