—softly served .ᐟ

author’s note i’ve been wanting to explore an au where rafe is from the cut, and when thinking about who he’d be without class privilege, i see him with his core traits still intact: he’s hardheaded, loyal, and protective, but growing up less fortunate among friends who really cared about him kept him from becoming cruel. he still has the rough edges that make him rafe, but he’s not elitist. i also don’t see him being close with the younger canon pogues; he’d have his own friend group of guys his age. and he never liked kooks, but when he meets a sweet, complicated girl from figure 8, things get messy 🤭 only read this if you want a spoiler: they don’t end up together. i mean star-crossed lovers for REAL. felt like i should warn y’all.

The first time Rafe saw you, he was out on one of the country club’s lawns, working under the harsh sun. You were draped across a lounge chair by the main pool, laughing with your friends, savoring the same heat that he was cursing.

You were hardly twenty feet from him, but a world away.

He never liked Kooks. When he got a job at the club a couple of months ago, it earned him a front row seat to their easy, comfortable life. Seeing it up close only dug the knife of resentment in deeper.

You were in the crowd of people returning home from college for the summer, and when he saw you, he couldn’t look away. It didn’t matter that you were from the side of the island he tried to avoid – he’d think the same thing. That you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

He overheard from some of the staff that you’re the estate owner’s daughter. He knows your type. You’re the kind of girl who never has to worry about expectations or limits or rules.

And he knows he’s right, because at this moment, you’re exactly where you’re not supposed to be.

Far past an Employees Only sign, up the paved path, he sees you leaning against the locked door of one of the club’s maintenance sheds, arms crossed as you stare down at the ground.

You could get him in trouble just by being here. Grounds crew are told to stay invisible, and talking to a member, even when you’re the one hanging out somewhere you shouldn’t be, could fall back on him.

Rafe’s chest burns with irritation. You think that you can just wander wherever you please.

He approaches the shed, heaving a bag of soil. You don’t notice him. If any other employee found you back here, they’d be polite about it. But Rafe refuses to play nice.

He doesn’t suck up to management or force a smile at members. Even if it’s the boss’s daughter, who could get him fired in a second, who’s even more beautiful up close. He has too much self-respect to be a kissass.

“You lost?” he murmurs.

You jolt, looking up into blue eyes you’ve never met before. The stranger is a few feet away, towering over you, sweat clinging to his uniform. He drops the bag he’s carrying, letting out a tired exhale, waiting for an answer.

“Hiding,” you admit, because you can’t think quickly enough to come up with a lie.

You shuffle away from the door once you clue in that he needs to get into the shed. You’re still dazed from the anxious spiral he yanked you out of. He reaches the door, punches in a code, and shoves it open.

“You can’t be here,” he says. He’s not about to risk getting chewed out all because you’re where you shouldn’t be.

His gruffness catches you off guard. People who work at the club never speak to you like this.

“I’ll go soon,” you respond.

He picks up the bag again with a grunt, hauling it into the shed. You stay outside, listening to the clatter behind you, each sound laced with his rough exhales.

Through a gap in the bushes, you see a couple carrying golf bags walking past, close enough that they could spot you. Without another thought, you slip inside the dim, dusty shed.

It’s cluttered and smells like grass and gasoline. Two golf carts sit parked side by side surrounded by stacks of equipment and tools.

The stranger is bent over the open hood of one of the golf carts, wide shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. His sleeves are shoved up to his forearms, muscles shifting with every move he makes.

“Can I wait in here?” you ask.

Rafe looks over his shoulder, thrown off that you’re asking for permission. That you’re asking it from him.

He has way too much work to do this morning to entertain you, to risk getting in trouble. But as much as he hates it, you intrigue him. You’re beautiful, and he’s only human.

“Fine,” he responds with a sigh.

Rafe continues working inside the engine, one hand braced on the cart and the other twisting, as you stand by the opposite wall. It’s the last thing he expected when he woke up today. That he’d be stuck in a room with you.

Hiding. The word sticks in his mind. What could a girl like you possibly need to hide from? To his annoyance, the thought needles at him. He can’t ignore it. He never had great impulse control.

“What are you hidin’ from?” he asks, his attention still fixed on the engine.

Your throat tightens. The truth feels so stupid. On your way to the club café, you’d spotted your parents talking to Vander by the terrace near the golf course, and you ran.

Vander’s a good friend. You just don’t like him the way everyone wants you to. Your parents and his parents are close, and over the years, the jokes about you two “ending up together” have started to feel too real.

You’ve spent your whole life trying not to disappoint your parents, trying to keep the peace, so you smile along, all while knowing that if Vander ever actually makes a move, you’ll gently reject him.

While you love having the club as an easy place to hang out and see your friends over the summers away from college, you hate having to put on a performance. You don’t have it in you today.

“Some people,” you answer vaguely, again too scattered to make something up.

Rafe’s brows pull together as looks at you. You nervously touch the side of your neck, and his eyes catch on the shimmer of your bracelet. He’s sure ten of his paychecks wouldn’t come close to covering the cost of it.

He hates how fast it happens, the natural pull to step in and fix whatever’s wrong. But you look like you’re barely holding it together.

“You need help or something?” he rasps, even though he doesn’t know what he could possibly offer that you don’t already have.

Your shoulders drop in relief that he doesn’t seem all that irritated with you anymore.

“I’m okay. Thanks,” you say. “I just don’t want to talk to them right now.”

He shifts his weight, still bent over the hood, a loose strand of hair falling across his forehead as he gazes at you with inquiring eyes.

“So, you came here,” he says.

The way he says it, looking as good as he does, makes your heart flutter. You’ve been trying to ignore how handsome he is. It’s impossible.

“What, do you not like being bothered while you’re trying to work?” you joke.

He huffs a near chuckle. He wasn’t expecting that from you. Kook girls flirt with him for fun all the time, but he never sees any self-awareness in them.

And now, he hates the idea of you thinking he doesn’t want you here. It was true for a moment, his bitterness towards Kooks kicking in by instinct, but the instinct was shaken away. At this point, he’s simply trying not to get into any shit with his boss.

“Listen, it’s nothing personal,” he says.

You nod.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. “I’ll leave in a minute, I swear. I just want to be sure I miss them.”

He takes you in. You look worried. This is not what he expected from a girl like you. And now, he feels like an asshole for how he treated you when he found you here.

“Stay as long as you want,” Rafe decides, trying to sound indifferent. “But if anyone asks, I’m sayin’ you wouldn’t leave.”

“Deal,” you say with a soft chuckle.

He drops his gaze back to the engine, a frown tugging at his mouth. He can’t figure this engine’s issue out. And now, he’s realizing he kind of wants to figure you out.

You notice him grimace at the mess of wires under the hood. It confuses you. A minute ago, he looked like he’d been doing lawn work, and now he’s elbow‑deep in a golf cart.

You ran away to be alone, but you’d rather talk to him. There’s something real about him that pulls you in.

“So, what do you do here?” you ask.

Rafe cocks his head. He signed on to mow lawns, but it didn’t take long before he started getting pulled into every job on the property. Once his manager realized he knew his way around a toolbox, he got handed work from every corner of the club.

And he never says no. Rafe has always been driven by a need to prove himself. He might be a lot of things, but lazy isn’t one of them.

“Started as grounds crew,” he tells you, glancing up again. “But now I just do whatever they tell me to.”

The way you’re watching him, curious instead of condescending, is the complete opposite of the looks he’s gotten from around the club. When members glance at him, it’s usually with arrogance or disgust. But in your eyes, all he sees is innocence.

“What do you do here?” he asks, feeling the impulse to flirt with you when he definitely shouldn’t.

“Whatever they tell me to,” you echo his words.

And it’s true. You might not work here, but you still have to follow orders. You have to play the put-together, respectful daughter your parents are always reminding you to be.

Rafe studies you. He licks his lips before he speaks again, a quick, unconscious motion.

“You sure?” he says, now seemingly amused by your little escape. You can’t stifle the smile that tugs at your lips.

The silence stretches as you look at each other. It’s surprisingly comfortable. But the rules, the expectations, the role you have to play all rush back to mind. You’re not supposed to be here. If anyone sees you, it’ll be a problem.

You straighten and step towards the door.

“I’ll go,” you say, afraid of what he might tell other people, and how it might get back to your father. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here.”

It’s sort of jarring to Rafe. You’re scared. It looks like you don’t get away with nearly as much as he assumed.

“I won’t.”

You meet his eyes again, and you find yourself hoping this won’t be the last time you see him.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Rafe.”

“I’m –” you begin, but he interrupts by saying your name, followed by a quiet, “Yeah, I know.”

And it’s relieving. He knew who you were this entire time, that your family owns this place, but he never gave you that insincerity everyone else does. You spoke for barely a minute, but it felt more genuine than any conversation you’ve had in a long time.

You slip out and Rafe looks down at the engine again, already convincing himself your curiosity was a one‑off. He doubts you’ll talk to him again.

But the way you looked at him, and the way it made him feel, lingers in his mind.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Rafe steps into the empty house after work, internally groaning when the thick air hits him. The AC must’ve died again. The place feels like a sauna.

He steps back outside, crouches beside the AC unit, and after he nudges the fan, it whirs to life. He doesn’t know how many more times this trick will work, but it bought him another day.

They need a new AC unit. It’s somewhere on the to-do list. He’d moved into this rundown place with Mase, Pax, and Danny with the plan to fix it up and flip it for a profit.

They’d all grown up on the outskirts of wealth. It made them learn how to work, how to fix things themselves, how to survive. And doing all that with guys he’s gotten into trouble with and fought beside since they were kids formed a bond Rafe can’t live without.

Landing the job at the club was what finally pushed him into committing to this house. It’s one of the few steady gigs on the island that pays decently.

The trade‑off is dealing with the people he’d spent his whole life resenting. Kooks who never looked at guys like him unless they needed something carried or fixed. Still, it beats taking whatever odd jobs he could find.

Rafe rakes his hand through his hair and steps inside again. After a long shower, he lingers in his bedroom, hating that his thoughts keep drifting back to you. Your voice, your eyes, the way you looked at him like he wasn’t just some loser.

He tries to distract himself, but you’re still there in the back of his mind.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s a Saturday afternoon as Rafe paces across the path behind the tennis courts beneath the cloudy sky, another errand in hand.

His steps slow when he sees you. You’re on the club’s restaurant patio, leaning over a table beside a friend as she says something that makes you laugh. You turn to your friend with a bright grin.

He already knew you were pretty, but damn, the way you look when you’re happy is something else. He can’t look away. It’s been almost a week since he met you. It feels like longer ago.

For a second, the familiar reckless urge rises in him, hot and stupid and tempting. But reality hits just as hard. He can’t afford to think this way.

You’re the boss’s daughter. Off‑limits. He shouldn’t be letting himself feel any sort of pull to you.

Then you turn. Your eyes find him instantly. You still, your lips parting. Heat crawls up the back of Rafe’s neck. He looks away and continues on with his job.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

That night, the sky is a beautiful dark blue, fading into gold with the sunset. Music carries across the marina, muffled by the soft laps of waves.

You’d told your friends you’d meet them here. Keely is hosting yet another party on her family’s boat. You walk down the dock, following the thump of bass.

Rafe coils a line on the deck of a boat he’s helping Pax fix, having drank just enough beer to take the edge off a long day. Pax is crouched on the other side of the boat, fiddling with a busted deck light, muttering about how the owner didn’t mention that the wiring was so fucked up.

Rafe glances up when a figure passes by on the dock.

It’s you.

Your eyes meet, just like they did earlier today, when you caught him staring.

His hands pause on the rope. You slow in your tracks. He squints and his body reacts first, heat sparking through him. You’re dressed up, your clothes tight on your body, and it makes it hard for him not to stare.

“Hey,” he says, an amused smirk growing on his face, flashing dimples you didn’t know he had. His skin is tan against the worn white t-shirt he’s wearing, the fabric thin enough that the fading sunlight outlines the shape of him.

His eyes linger, like he’s trying to memorize your features. And you want him to keep looking at you like that.

“Hey,” you reply, mirroring his smile.

“That your party?” he asks, chin lifting toward the thumping bass farther down the dock.

“A friend’s,” you say. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing this up,” he says, glancing at the boat beneath his feet.

Your Saturday nights look nothing alike, and the obvious truth of that weighs on him. After already having worked at the club all day, he’s helping his buddy with an odd job for some extra cash. Meanwhile, you’re on your way to party with people who’ve never had to worry about a paycheck.

Behind him, you see a guy stand and wipe his hands on his shorts. His mouth twitches, failing to hide a smile.

“Rafe,” he calls casually. “I… forgot something in my truck. Be right back.”

Rafe nods, relieved. Pax isn’t oblivious. He’s a good enough friend to recognize that he wants privacy.

Pax slips past you on the dock, offering a sly smile as he goes.

And it’s quiet again. Just you and Rafe and the thump of distant bass and the hush of waves.

“You want a drink?” he asks, voice low, blaming his impulsivity on his buzz.

“Yeah,” you say, because you can’t imagine telling him no. You’re not at the club, being watched, and it feels easier to do what you want to do, to talk to the boy you haven’t stopped thinking about.

Rafe holds out his hand to you. His palm is warm and rough when you take it. He pulls you up onto the deck gently, guiding you so you don’t slip.

He clears a spot for you, shifting tools, making space even though he can’t really imagine you being comfortable here no matter what he does.

You sit on the bench seat. From here, you can see the glow of Keely’s party.

Rafe sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees. He reaches into the cooler beside him and glances up at you with a half‑smile.

“All I got is beer,” he says, like he’s bracing for you to scoff.

“That works,” you say warmly. “Thanks.”

He pops off the cap and hands you the bottle, his fingers brushing yours again.

“Where’d you learn how to fix boats?” you ask. “And golf carts?”

Rafe huffs out a quiet laugh. He can fix way more than that, because he has to. Because he doesn’t have the luxury of calling someone when something breaks. But he won't say that, because he’s never been one to fish for pity.

“Why?” he replies. “You want to learn?”

His tone is playful, but there’s a thread of skepticism woven through it.

“You don’t think I could do it?” you challenge, lifting your brows.

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He smirks, curiosity in his eyes.

“You’d rather do that than party?” he asks, nodding toward the music down the dock.

“Most of those parties aren’t even really that fun,” you admit with a shrug. You’ve never told anyone that. But something about Rafe pushes the truth out of you before you can stop it.

“Then why go?” he asks.

You gaze out into the distance. Being part of your family means fitting a role. It’s the same with your friends. They have expectations, too. You like them, and you want them to like you. You hate how much it affects you.

It’s something you’ve never said out loud. It always felt embarrassing. But Rafe is far outside your social circle. There’s no point pretending with him.

“Because…” you begin, “I think sometimes, it’s easier to just do what people expect you to do.”

He hears the strain in your voice. He knows all about expectations. Pogues are supposed to take what they’re given and be grateful for it. They’re expected to fuck up and never make anything of themselves.

“Yeah,” Rafe replies, gazing down at his bottle with a pensive look. You study him. There’s something about him that tugs at you, that makes you want to know him.

“What do people expect from you?” you ask.

He breathes a laugh, dry and humorless.

“What they expect from everyone on the Cut,” he says.

“Which is?” you press.

He swallows hard. He’ll never hand anyone a sob story about the way he grew up, but if you want to hear the truth he’s always lived with that badly, he’ll give it to you.

“That I should know my place.”

You’ve always known the island was divided, but hearing him say it like that makes reality dig into you. You never bought into the social hierarchy, but you’ve also never had to feel it the way he clearly has.

In a second, Rafe has shown you how sheltered you are. Here you are, complaining about peer pressure and parties you don’t want to attend, while he’s looked down on simply because of what side of the island he’s from.

“Your place is wherever you want it to be,” you say, the words slipping out.

Rafe’s eyes flick up to yours. He can’t tell if it’s idealism or naivety or you just saying what anyone would say to make themselves feel better about living in a system that only benefits them. But he notices the same curiosity in your face that he saw before, and he can’t bring himself to expect the worst from you like he did when you met.

He usually assumes every Kook is an out of touch brat, but it feels wrong to do to you.

“Doesn’t work like that,” he responds.

“It should.”

He clears his throat, glancing out into the water. Pax will be back soon. They need to fix this boat before morning and they’re losing sunlight. He knows he shouldn’t even be thinking about what he wants to do, because that would mean giving in to desiring something he can’t have.

But then he looks at you again and you’re stunning in a way that feels unreal and the impulse is uncontrollable.

“If you…” Rafe murmurs, “ever want to do something else instead of going to another party you’re just gonna hate…”

Your lips curve into a smile. He still makes you a little nervous, but the way he’s watching you, unmistakably interested, makes it easier to feel confident.

“Are you asking me something?” you ask with a teasing lilt.

He looks down again, smirking, and you let yourself stare at him. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks and you admit to yourself that he really is beautiful. There’s no better word for it, the mix of sharp and soft in his features.

“Yeah,” he says, low and rough. “I’m asking for your number.”

Warmth blooms under your skin and you hold out your hand for his phone. After entering your number, you catch sight of his friend heading back.

“Thanks for the drink,” you murmur, setting your bottle down on the deck. His eyes rake up your body when you stand and every part of you feels like you can hardly be pulled away from him. “Are you almost done here?”

Rafe helps you down to the dock, his grip steady.

“It’ll be a late night,” he admits, glancing back at the mess of gear still waiting for him.

“I hope not too late,” you say.

You offer Pax a small smile as he approaches. The second you’re out of earshot, Pax’s eyebrows shoot up.

“So…” he begins. He steps past him towards the deck light he was working on. “Who’s she?”

Rafe bends over to pick up the rope again, working through the knots.

Hearing that you seem to put up a front with your friends reminds him of how he doesn’t lie to his. He’s always running his mouth about how much Kooks piss him off, so he knows Pax is going to give him shit once he tells him, but he and his friends are honest with each other. Always have been.

“Her dad owns the club,” he says.

Pax snorts.

“You’re fucking with me. You’re messing with a Kook?”

Rafe doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. All he knows is that trouble has a way of finding him, and this is the kind he doesn’t want to run from.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You slip through the front door, your house dim save for the warm glow spilling from the front room. The quiet feels jarring after the noise of Keely’s party. You pass to see your mom curled up on the couch.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says kindly. “You have fun?”

You’ve never doubted her love, but even with that, you’ve always felt the need to keep up a certain front at home. And there’s no chance you can tell her the truth – that throughout the whole party, you were thinking about someone you’re not allowed to want.

You sink onto the opposite end of the couch, the cushions dipping.

“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.

“Of course.”

You hesitate, picking at the hem of your shirt, the story already rehearsed in your head.

“One of my friends started seeing this guy,” you fib. “He’s not exactly well off. Everyone was giving her a hard time for it. Don’t you think that’s harsh?”

It doesn’t even feel like a lie. You know most people in your social circle would react badly if any of you started dating a Pogue.

“Which friend?” your mom asks. The tight-knit island runs on gossip, and she’s no exception.

“I swore I wouldn’t tell,” you say, keeping your tone light through the lie.

She sighs, disappointed but not surprised, then finally gives you her answer.

“Differences can be exciting at first, but they’ll wear on her,” she says. “Life is easier when you’re with someone on your level. Eventually, she’ll want things he can’t give her. If I were you, I’d tell her to just end it now.”

It cuts into you. You’ve always known that your mom, loving as she can be to you, thinks that people on the other side of the island should stay in their place. Just like Rafe said.

This is why you went so far away for college. You needed distance from this mentality. You didn’t want to grow into someone who believed the same things.

You wonder what people who live like you have said and done to Rafe. How many times he’s been dismissed and berated. The thought twists your stomach, anger rising hot. You don’t want to be anything like that.

“Thanks for the advice,” you tell your mom, the words tasting wrong. “I should go to bed.”

You always slip back into the young, quiet, obedient version of yourself when you’re back home. You hate how easy it is to fall into that role, even when your chest is burning with everything you want to say, but can’t.

You’ve learned what happens when you don’t play along. There have been times where you dared to push back or disagree, even a little. And the people around you never failed to make you feel ashamed and wrong and stupid for stepping outside the lines.

As you climb up the stairs to your bedroom, your phone buzzes with a text. It’s an unfamiliar number, but you quickly realize that it’s Rafe, asking you how your night has been.

You smile to yourself. Your mom just reminded you exactly how she expects you to think. Who to talk to. Who to stay away from. And yet your breath catches over a message from him.

There’s no way you won’t reply. Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, you’re not going to play by the rules this time.

(to be continued)

it was fall of his freshman year of college when peter parker felt a change in his life.

after he lost everything, he had been down for so long. he didn’t want to label it as depressed, he tried to stay positive for aunt may. but every day he wondered why.

until he met you.

you were studying a different major then him, but you both shared the same minor. it was until the first time he came late to a lecture that he noticed you.

after getting frowned upon by the professor, the only seat that was available was next to you.

you could tell by the look on his face that it was a rough morning, so you shared your coffee roll with him.

that was the start of something new.

peter felt like a helpless fourteen year old again. he actually tried to look nice just to see you.

you didn’t expect honesty, or timely fashion, all you wanted was someone to talk too.

you didn’t talk much, either. but peter didn’t mind, he actually found you even more fascinating for that. and he was happy when you finally spoke more to him.

and he was absolutely smitten.

he didnt know what he felt about mj anymore, but slowly that didn’t matter when you came.

when you figured out he was spiderman, he panicked, having the fear that everything that happened last year would happen again.

but you assured him that it was different this time, and if push comes to shove you would believe him.

“professor smith is so annoying! he always has something to say just to target me.” he said, currently he was in your dorm studying for semester finals.

you chuckled, throwing a paper ball at him.

“hey! what was that for?” he said.

“you needed to be knocked out of your anger.” you said softly, shutting your laptop after finishing your essay.

“how do you finish so easily?!” he said in shock.

you shrugged, then laid down on your bed. letting out a sigh you scroll on your phone.

peter looks up at you, admiring your features. he eventually looks away realizing he was being creepy. but he couldn’t help it.

he webs your phone out your hands to catch your attention.

“why are you always on your phone when your not studying?”

“i have so much hobbies my screen time is usually low.” you say.

“yeah but still, why be on your phone when im here.” peter says with a cocky tone.

“because your not entertaining.” you say.

“do i have to be entertaining for you to like me?” he says.

“i already do like you.” you say, the words coming up like vomit.

“what?” he says, face immediately heating up.

“what?” you mock him, hiding your flustered expression you throw your pillow at him.

“hey!” he laughs, then webbing you off your bed right on top him.

once your stable your lips crash together, peter felt a spark that he hadn’t felt in forever.

pulling away you look at him, chuckling at his flustered expression

“so you like me back?”

“isn’t it obvious..” he says shyly, making you pecker him in more kisses

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Your shop is rather small, but you love it.

Behind the sturdy wooden counter—which itself is laden with misshapen plants sprouting from old teacups and half-filled bottles of sparkling powder—sits rows upon rows of shelves. The shelves are stocked full of your natural remedies and creations, vials big and small, pouches of linen and pouches of ribboned silk. You have everything, perfectly organised, by remedy and in alphabetical order.

For years, you’ve operated out of your little shop in a narrow side-street in the heart of King’s Landing, just a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. You’ve helped countless travellers and residents with a range of issues: from sedatives for unruly hounds and salves to treat festering hoof-rot, to fast-acting contraceptives and bitter-tasting hallucinogens.

You can make anything.

And because you can make anything, you’ve become familiar with many a noble and knight in your time.

The door to your shop opens as you’re serving a little old lady, handing her a parcel of dried mushrooms. A cool breeze smelling faintly of winter rain and freshly baked bread sweeps into your shop, jostling the bundles of herbs you have hanging from your ceiling. You wave goodbye to the elderly women as you look up, smiling politely as you catch the unmistakable glint of midday sun against white armour.

“Ser Donnel,” you greet with a small bow of your head as the older kingsguard enters your shop, his gleaming armour making him appear like a pearl in the sand amongst your dim wooden shelves. “How is your finger? I trust the salve I made you helped the wound heal?”

Ser Donnel approaches the counter, offering you a small smile as he lifts his hand. He flexes his fingers, eyes lingering on the index, which he had sliced open a week prior.

“It did, thank you,” Ser Donnel says, his eyes lingering now on the shelves behind you.

“What can I do for you?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the solid wood of your counter, watching as the older knight spins slowly on his heel, taking in the other shelves and tables packed into your small shop.

“Don’t suppose you have something for horses?” He asks, back to you. When he turns, however, he gives you a rueful smile, then laughs. “Of course you do.”

“Of course I do,” you mimic, rounding your counter and leading the older knight across the room. You find a shelf near the shop’s far side, gesturing to an array of small vials, many labelled “Dog – Rash” or “Cat – Sneezing” and even “Chicken – Eggbound.” Ser Donnel looks at the array of small vials with complete amazement as you turn back to him. “What’s wrong with your palfrey, ser?”

Ser Donnel points to his own eye for emphasis. “Got something in her eye. All red and weepy and that. Not pleasant.”

“I see,” you say, then turn to your shelf. It takes you less than a second before you’re plucking a vial with dark brown glass off of the shelf. You hold it out to Ser Donnel. “Sounds like conjunctivitis. Very common, and, lucky for you, easy to treat. Just a few drops of this, morning and night, and she should be all better in a couple of days.”

Ser Donnel looks at you, visibly pleased, as you gently press the small vial into his palm. “You’re an absolute darling, you know that?”

“I try,” you reply, smiling as you return to your counter. Ser Donnel follows you, dropping the vial into a pouch and pulling out his coin purse at the same time. He drops several stags onto the counter, and you gape at him as they clatter loudly against the wood. “Ser Donnel, this is too much—”

“For the eye-drops,” Ser Donnel insists, pushing the stags towards you. “And for your services, okay? Now, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

You bite your lip, hiding your smile as you reluctantly scoop up the stags and slip them into the coin pouch on your belt.

“Well, can I at least give you something for your generosity?” You ask, ducking beneath the counter before he could even open his mouth to reply. You snatch up a small pouch and get to your feet, offering it to the knight, who peers at you as if you had grown another head. You sigh through your nose, amused. “Sourleaf. Fresh in this morning.”

Ser Donnel offers you another kind smile, taking the pouch of painkillers and slipping it alongside the pouch with the vial.

“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head, just as the door to your shop opens and another gust of wind blows in.

The cold breeze sweeps through the store, and the door bangs harshly against the side wall, creaking on its hinges from the force. You startle, and Ser Donnel whips around. Composing yourself, you’re quick to sink back, making yourself appear smaller, as Aerion Targaryen bursts into the room with eyes spitting embers.

“How long could it possibly take to buy an ointment for a fucking horse?” The prince seethes as he steps into the shop, looking around with genuine distaste. His eyes linger on a murky liquid in a large bottle on the wall beside him, before they drag through the dim to Ser Donnel. He makes a face, eyebrows raising like he’s expecting something. “Well? Did you get it?”

You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.

“Yes, your grace,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically before stepping towards the prince. “We may be off now.”

Aerion scoffs, allowing Ser Donnel to brush past him, but his eyes lift and land on you. He peers at you, as if just noticing your presence, his gaze burning holes right through the centre of your face. He looks at you half with distaste—probably due to the leaves in your hair and the powder dusted across your arms and apron—and half with interest, like a merchant admiring a newly minted coin.

“So you are the woods witch Ser Donnel speaks so highly of…” Aerion comments, eyes unwavering in their stare. You shift your eyes to the floor. Aerion huffs, partially amused. “I expected an ugly old thing, but this—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel warns with a sternness akin to a strict father.

“—is unexpected,” Aerion continues, unphased. He traipses into the shop, cloak swishing behind him like a pair of raven’s wings. His eyes scan the walls of bottles and vials and jars, and he plucks a small one from the closest shelf. Spinning it between his fingers, he speaks with considerable disinterest, “How exactly do you know how to make all of this?”

You lift your head slowly, hands clasped in front of you. “My… my mother taught me, your grace.”

The vial he holds holds a sticky green liquid, the colour of forest moss. He peers at it strangely. The liquid inside sticks to the glass, viscous and slow-moving as he turns it.

“What’s this for?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t actually care. You lock eyes, and you realise he’s testing you.

“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.

Aerion drops the vial on the floor and it shatters against the wood. You flinch, startled by the sudden noise. You hear Ser Donnel protest with a gruff call of the prince’s title, but Aerion is undeterred, slipping behind the counter and appraising the towering shelves behind you. He takes another vial, the liquid inside a deep, mustard yellow.

“And this?”

“Inflamation caused by pox,” you answer. “Soothes the skin.”

He huffs, and drops that vial too. It shatters, but this time, you don’t flinch. You watch the syrupy yellow liquid leech between the floorboards, glass shimmering in the ghostly light streaming in through the only window near the door.

Aerion walks further behind the counter, and you shift until the small of your back is pressed to the solid wooden lip. The prince closes in on several vials on the very top shelf, and he has to stand on his toes to reach one of them. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you open your mouth to say something, but no words fall.

Aerion’s pale fingers snatch a small bottle from the top shelf. The glass is clear, and it’s labelless, but you know exactly what it is. The substance inside resembles wine: a deep, blood-red that bubbles a little on the surface as the prince sloshes the liquid around. There’s a small, oil-like sheen to it as he holds it up, violet eyes finding yours.

“What’s this?” He presses, and you wonder if he catches the fear in your eyes.

You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”

He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.

“It’s a stimulant,” you blurt out, stopping yourself from pulling the vial from his hands. Aerion continues, unphased, as he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. You can almost smell it yourself: overripe grapes, crushed honeysuckle, and what smells uncannily like the perfumed skin of an expensive courtesan. Aerion pauses, something flashing in his eyes as you continue shyly, “To… increase desire and maintain… maintain a man’s excitement.”

Aerion stares at you, slowly lowering the little bottle from his nose.

He holds it carelessly, and as Ser Donnel sends another warning from across the room, you attempt to prise the bottle from his fingers, your touch slow and gentle.

“Please be careful, your grace,” you utter, fingers skimming the cool glass of the vial. “It’s incredibly potent in large doses—”

Aerion jerks away, and you snap your hand back as though you’d been burned. 

The prince hisses at you, serpent-like as the pointed ivory of his teeth glint in the grey light. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”

“You’re trying to scare me,” he seethes, shaking the bottle enough for a few droplets to flick out and onto the pale skin of his fingers. It stains like mulled wine. He continues, staring you down. “How dare you even—”

“Your grace,” Ser Donnel’s voice booms through the small room, and you find yourself cowering back against the counter, stuck between two brewing storms. Ser Donnel sighs loudly. “Listen to her. She knows a lot more than you do, believe me.”

Aerion lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t mock me.”

You chime in hesitantly. “Please, your grace. It’s a concentrated mixture. I wouldn't want you to—”

“I can do what I want,” Aerion spits out, and before you can even react, he downs the entire vial in two quick mouthfuls.

You gasp out. “Your grace—!”

Aerion drops the vial and it shatters right at your feet. You jump back, avoiding the splash of broken glass, as the prince turns on his heel and makes for the door. You scramble after him, but you’re stopped by Ser Donnel, who places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

At the door, Aerion turns and gives you one last look, eyes trailing up and down your figure, before he rolls his eyes and vanishes back onto the street.

You’re breathing deeply, overcome with guilt. Ser Donnel strokes your shoulder gently, calming you.

“It’s alright, it’s his own doing,” Ser Donnel assures you, hand shifting up to pat you comfortingly on the cheek.

“But—he just—the entire thing.”

“Will it harm him?” Ser Donnel asks. His voice is firm and it almost makes you want to cry. “Will it kill him?”

You quickly shake your head. “No, ser! It—it will be very intense, and very, uh, difficult to remediate without—without help, but it will not harm him, no.”

“Can a cure be made?”

You feel yourself warming beneath your clothes, and you clear your throat, soothing your hands over your apron and your skirts.

“I suppose I can give you something to ease the racing heart,” you say quietly, ducking off to the side to pluck another small vial from a nearby shelf. You hand it to Ser Donnel. “Mix with hot water and it will ease the fast-moving heart, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid the other symptoms will have to be cured… in other avenues.”

Ser Donnel chuckles, taking the vial. “I suppose I’ll be taking him to the Street of Silk later tonight then?”

You offer Ser Donnel a sympathetic smile, nodding and trying to ignore the warmth in your belly. You put it down to the shock of the whole thing, and you give Ser Donnel a polite wave as he leaves your shop without another word.

You sigh, turning and examining the broken glass and spilled liquid across your floors. You grab your broom from near the door and set to work.

—✿—

Later that night, you’re setting a new set of vials on a shelf across the store, extinguishing the wall-mounted candles as you move. You hum to yourself, skirts brushing the dusty floor, the street beyond the small window empty and pitch-black as night falls across King’s Landing. A crescent moon hangs, thin and pale, above the horizon.

You take your apron off and place it neatly on a hook near the door behind the counter—the door which leads up a narrow flight of stairs to your home above. As you do this however, there’s a thud at the locked door. It rattles the old wood where it settles on its hinges, and your heart flutters a little in fright as you look over, spying a shadow through the stained glass. Taking a knife from a block behind you, you approach the door with your hand obscured behind your back.

There’s another thud. More like a knock this time.

“Are you alright?” You ask through the stained glass, the outer pane caked in grime kicked up from the street. You gently unbolt the door and open it a crack, peering out at the shadowed figure that hunches in your alcove. “I’m closed for the night, but if you are ill—”

“Let me in,” comes a familiar voice, and you squeak in fright when you recognise it. 

Quickly, you pull open the door, still holding your knife, and the shadowed figure slips into your shop. You close and bolt the door behind you, turning with your back to the surface as the figure drops his hood, and subsequently, his cloak, and you watch as Aerion Targaryen turns slowly as the thick black fabric pools at his feet.

“Your grace,” you mutter, dropping into a polite bow. Worry clenches tightly in your chest as the prince looks at you with narrowed eyes, features appearing gaunt in what remains of the shop’s fading candlelight. You spare a glance through the stained glass of the door, then through the pane of the window adjacent. “Your grace, I’m not sure if—”

“What have you done to me?” Aerion interrupts you, his question slicing through the nervous quiet like the blade you clutch. He takes a step forward and you suck in a startled gasp, slipping around him and hurrying towards your counter. You just want to put as much distance between him and you as possible. He groans when you breeze by him, slowly turning as he speaks, “You’ve poisoned me.”

You’re behind your counter now. “I’ve done no such thing.”

“You have,” Aerion hisses, and he takes another step forward. You notice he’s slightly wobbly on his feet, pitching forward chest-first as though his legs are too heavy. He catches himself on a nearby shelf, bottles clinking together as the wood trembles. “This is your fault. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve—you’ve cursed me.”

Your eyes grow wide. You shake your head. “Your grace, please, I would never.”

In the low candlelight, sweat sparkles like broken glass on Aerion’s forehead. His white-blond hair clings to his skin, damp near his temples, and there’s a dip in his brow that casts a dark shadow over his eyes. But when he cocks his head, staring you down, you see them flash violet in the ochre light, his pupils slowly expanding.

“Ser Donnel informed me of what I had taken, and what it would do to me,” Aerion mutters, his voice hoarse as he pushes himself off the shelf. His palms slam down on the counter directly across from you, and you take a step back, fingers tight on the bone handle of your knife. Aerion huffs, “So I drank your little tea for my heart, and I fucked a couple of whores, but nothing is working.”

You swallow, heart in your throat.

“I tried to sleep,” Aerion says, dragging himself around the counter. You mimic his actions on the other end, slipping to the other side to avoid him. He continues, one of his hands shifting to the thin buttoned tunic he’s wearing. He pops open the top button. “I tried to bathe, I tried to pleasure myself, and I went back to that fucking whorehouse twice more and nothing—” He groans, and undoes another button. “—is working. What have you done to me?”

Slowly, he exposes the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. He’s damp with sweat as you round the counter, skirts flowing around your ankles. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest as he advances on you lazily, eyes drawn to the movement of your body like a falcon.

“You drank the stimulant,” you tell him as gently as possible.

You’re at opposite ends of the counter now. He pauses, undoing another button.

“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out. 

You watch as he pushes his hips against the lip of the counter and he groans, hoarse and animal-like from the back of his throat. It strings across a whimper, and heat floods your belly. You curse yourself, watching as the prince—the Targaryen prince Aerion Brightflame—ruts himself slowly against your counter. You can see the stimulant’s effects on him: the tent pitched in the front of his trousers, the beads of sweat that trek down beneath his now open-tunic, rolling between the grooves of his abdomen.

“Yes,” you say boldly, holding the knife. “You shouldn’t have drank it.”

Aerion huffs out, then groans again as he looks up at you, hips pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. “You’re a witch. Fix me.”

You release a shaky breath, then approach him. You move behind your counter, and he watches you with serpent-like concentration as you slowly place your knife onto the surface. He smirks at that, moving behind the counter too.

“You…” Your heart is wild beneath your ribs, and you can smell him as he nears. He smells expensive: smoked oud, honey-washed skin, patchouli incense from the Street of Silk. You smell sweat and wine too when he gets within a foot of you. You continue, “I cannot fix you, your grace. The easiest fix is to find… find a woman, or a man, I suppose, and engage in sexual intercourse until the effects wear off.”

You hope you sound confident enough. You fear you may faint as he looks you up and down, bare chest rising and falling, smoke trapped beneath shifting scales.

“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”

You find yourself shifting then as he pushes you up against the counter, the print of his hard cock pressing between your thighs as he pins you. You frown as he groans, the hand on your hip tightening while the other slowly rises to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I can’t fix it,” you whisper as he forces your eye contact. You’re trapped beneath him, but there’s a heat in your belly you can’t deny, and the pounding of your heart travels south, settling between your thighs despite your racing mind. “I, well, I can try and make a cure—”

“I don’t want an elixir or a salve or a bunch of dried fucking herbs,” Aerion utters as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He ruts his pelvis against your thigh, and you watch as something flits through his eyes, the black of his pupils having engulfed the violet of his irises. “I want you to fix me.”

You swallow. “Your grace—?”

“I want your mouth on my cock, and I want you bent over this fucking counter,” Aerion interrupts with a voice strewn through gravel, dark and hoarse. Something twists deep in your belly as he bends his head, dipping his nose against the curve of your jaw. He grunts when he inhales, lips vibrating against your skin when he speaks again. “Will that fix me?”

Your hands are tight around the edge of the counter. “Yes, your grace, but—”

Aerion hums, teeth just skimming the skin of your jaw before he pulls back. “Good. Then get on your knees.”

The heat of his body leaves yours then, and you blink up at the ceiling. Aerion Targaryen was telling you to get on your knees? Aerion Targaryen was currently pulling apart the knots of his trousers, panting like a wounded dog as he dips his hand into his breeches to fist himself? Your mind was a mess.

But you did what you were told. You could have easily overpowered him in this state. Simply leapt from his reach and locked yourself in your room. But you didn’t want to. There’s a heavy fire kindling in your belly, fanning out over your womb as blood pumps hot between your thighs.

You sigh gently, slowly pushing yourself off the counter and sinking to your knees, your powder-dusted skirts flowing out around you. The wooden ground is hard but well-worn from years of footfall, and you settle on your knees as the prince takes a step forward, his trousers gathered just beneath the curve of his arse. The print of his cock strains against the white linen of his breeches, the front wet with pre-cum, and the way his fingers tremble when he attempts to unknot them makes you whine.

“My prince…” you whisper, reaching your hands to take hold of the strings of his breeches. 

He stills above you, muscles in his abdomen clenching as you pull the knots apart. While you do this, one of his hands comes to rest on the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. Adrenaline is thick and viscous in your veins, but you let yourself be guided despite the hammering of your pulse up the side of your neck. You’re dizzy with both need and fear as you open your mouth and press it, hot and wet, to the front of his breeches.

He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”

You kiss over the line of his cock, open-mouthed and messy against the soft linen. You smell perfume and imagine the skilled hands of trained sex workers pulling the prince’s breeches down for him. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought, and you finally manage to pull apart the knots beneath his navel.

“Kiss me, that’s it,” Aerion groans out, holding your head firmly as your lips move across his covered cock. He’s burning hot and rigid beneath the fabric, and your hands find his thighs as you lave your tongue. That earns you a groan, and your eyes flit upwards to find him already looking at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “That’s it, fix me… fix this.”

Your head rocks beneath his hand as you mouth at his covered length. You feel him twitch beneath your lips, tip drooling out onto the fabric as you run the point of your tongue across it. Aerion hisses, hips bucking so harshly he knocks against your nose. Tears well along your waterline as he pulls you away then, just long enough to shove his breeches down.

He pulls his cock out, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft. He groans at the raw contact, and you can’t help but gape as he clutches himself, tip a bruising red and wet with pre-cum. Pearlescent beads roll down the dip of his frenulum, and down his length as he slaps it against your cheek, then the other. He groans again when he pushes the tip across your lips, your eyes glassy as you watch him.

“Didn’t think witches could be as pretty as you,” he says suddenly as he ruts his cock along the warm lines of your face: over the curve of your cheekbones, rolling beneath the angle of your jaw. You kneel there, breathing hard, as he rubs himself over your skin. His words have heat flooding from your belly to your chest. The prince continues, “Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”

He tapers off when he groans, his balls drawing up tight. He grips the back of your head as he slides the head of his cock across your wet lips. He manages to bite out a quick “open” and you listen, opening your mouth and letting him slide just the tip in before he’s spilling in thick, hot spurts. Aerion groans, a shaking timbre from his chest as he rubs the head of his cock against the front of your tongue and spills into the warmth of your mouth. Some hits the back of your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to choke as he releases, fingers firm on the back of your head.

After a moment, his cock jerks, but doesn’t soften. A loud, frustrated groan rips from Aerion’s throat as he pulls out and smears the remnants back over your cheek again.

“You did this to me,” he growls out as he shoves himself back into your mouth, barely giving you enough time to swallow. You open your eyes when he feeds himself into you, cock a velvet warmth against your tongue. He releases a stuttered breath, his other hand finding the back of your head as well. “So you’re going to take it.”

You gag when his hips rock forward and the leaking tip nudges down the back of your throat. You swallow, huffing out of your nose, and he groans loudly enough for it to echo. His hands tighten on your head and he physically starts moving you, pulling your head back and forth and fucking his cock down your throat. You try your best to lax your jaw, minding your teeth as you slide your tongue along the underside—you find a prominent vein easy enough, and you squeeze your thighs together as he whines, the muscles in his abdomen shifting.

The velvet of his trousers is plush beneath your fingers as you grip his thighs. They sit low on his hips, ties swaying as he pitches his hips, pulling your head back and forth. Every other thrust, he’s pushing you deep against him with a guttural groan, forcing your lips to the very root as the tip knocks against the back of your mouth. Your nose finds the neat white hair at the base, and the smell of perfumed oil should be a turn off, but it isn’t.

You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes are glassy and there’s a thin rivulet of saliva running from the corner of your mouth as he fucks your throat. Heat settles deep in the marrow of your bones, fluttering heart between your thighs. The feeling of spit rolling down your chin makes you whimper again, and suddenly, his eyes are on you. They’d been closed in, what you can only assume, is ecstasy as he chases another high. But now, he stares down at you with a subtle pinch in his brows. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“If I knew you’d take my cock like this,” Aerion utters, petting the back of your head as he stretches your lips apart. “I’d’ve skipped the fucking whores and come straight here.”

You moan, something like a protest, but it’s shoved right back down your throat by the leaking head of his cock. You choke and splutter when he rolls his hips and he, somehow, goes even deeper. Aerion pulls back with a groan draped across a chuckle, letting you suckle the head as you catch your breath. His balls twitch as he slowly ruts back in, and once you blink the tears from your eyes, you reach a hand up to cup them.

He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”

You let him press you to his pelvis, nose between the prominent lines of his hips. Your fingers and thumb work gently, rubbing over smooth skin as the grip on either side of your head tightens as he thrusts once, twice more before he begins to lose his rhythm.

“That’s it, that’s it, take it,” the prince moans, still looking at you, eyes black with lust as his hips slow and he forces you right down onto his cock again. He moans again when he spills—another thick, hot release that splatters down the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, practically holding your breath as his cock jerks, balls drawing up beneath your fingers. When your eyes close, Aerion lets out a quiet, “Look at me.”

It’s surprisingly soft. You blink up at him. His hand finds your warm cheek then, petting you two times like he’s trying to be gentle, and the effort puts a pit in your stomach. But it doesn’t last: his cock, still hard, dribbles as he pulls it from your mouth, taking a step back but still holding your head in one hand. His other hand finds the base of his slick cock and he moans as it pumps hot against his palm.

His bare chest is flushed, as are his cheeks. He pants like a dog too, and as he grips his cock, you watch with lowered lids as cum beads against the slit, then strings out like a spider’s web. It drips onto the floor as he groans, his lip curling up in a frustrated snarl.

“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head.

You flick the point of your tongue across your teeth before you speak, tasting his release in the grooves. Overripe grapes linger in the back of your throat.

“You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.

“Fuck,” Aerion curses, and he watches with dark eyes as you lean forward, testing the waters, and press a wet kiss to the tip of his flushed cock.

You continue speaking as you slowly kiss down his shaft. “A single dose will usually allow a normal man three or four releases, if he’s lucky.”

Aerion grunts as you lick over the vein on the underside. It’s throbbing and hot against the flat of your tongue.

“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum. He grunts then, pulling his cock away from your mouth with great effort. “Stand up.”

You do as you’re told. You clamber to your feet, and you feel slightly silly as you wait for him to kiss you. Of course he doesn’t—he spins you around with a grunt and pushes you roughly against the table. It hits your tummy as you bend, and you exhale a little “oof” as his hands make quick work of flipping up your skirts. He gathers them at your hips before he’s ripping your smallclothes away from your core.

“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?” Aerion plasters himself to your back, leaning over to whisper in your ear as he runs the length of his cock from your arsehole to your pussy. You whine as he spreads you apart, slick webbing between your folds before they snap where he runs his cock through you. He groans at your heat, head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as he rocks back and forth. “Gods, you’re dripping, sweet girl.”

The pet name has you reeling.

You hadn’t been expecting it, and it seems like he hadn’t been either. The length of his body stiffens behind you, as if his words were involuntary beneath the haze of his pleasure. With a grunt, he pulls back, taking the flat of his palm and muscling you down from between your shoulder blades until your tits are pressed tightly to the surface of the counter.

“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, still holding his cock as he drags the flushed tip through your folds. You suck in a breath, mewling when he slaps it against your clit. He makes a pleased sound, squeezes it out between clenched teeth, before he circles the tip at your entrance. “You did this to me. You did this to yourself.”

He pushes in with a low moan. There’s no slow stretch. There’s no slow.

The prince shoves himself in like it’s all he can do, the thick of his cock pulling you apart from the inside out. There’s a sting low in your pelvis and a dull kind of ache that festers like a bruise in the base of your womb as he bullies himself into you. A deep, keening sound is pushed involuntarily from your chest as you clutch the counter, followed by a gasp of “my prince” as he bottoms out, hips flush with your arse.

Your pussy is slick and warm around him and you squeeze tight when he pauses.

He’s panting. You can feel him straining behind you, his hands gripping your hips so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to you. The walls of your cunt hug around the thick of him in such a way that he’s completely lost himself.

“I—fuck… gods above…” Aerion mutters, slowly pulling out.

You press your cheek to your counter, attempting to look back at him, but the angle is awkward and you can only just make out the look of pure awe on his face. His dark eyes focus on the tight pull of your cunt as he slides out, shaft slick with you. A small whimper—he covers it quickly with a grunt—falls from his parted lips when his head notches at your hole.

“Maybe you belong in a whorehouse,” he whispers after a moment of tense silence. He rolls his hips and shoves himself back in, ears picking up the wet schlick as he slides home, balls coming to rest against the curve of your arse. He hums, pulling out again, then pushing back in. “Men’d pay good coin for a cunt like this.”

The prince sets a rhythm that rocks you against the counter. It’s sharp, desperate. You clutch onto the edge as if he might push you over, his cock rutting in and out of you at such a pace you’re becoming dizzy. He’s panting, frantic, the speed of his hips filling your small, dark shop with the echoing sounds of skin-on-skin.

His previous words settle and then he hisses like he’s offended himself. A disgruntled jeer as he grips your hips and fucks you back onto him.

“Too bad you’re here,” he utters. His thighs are a firm bracket behind yours as he fucks you. The way he speaks is dark and smooth. Dangerous flashes through your mind as you moan, a solid heat collecting in the very depth of your belly. He continues, “Too bad you’re here. With me. Too bad no one’ll stuff this cunt like your prince.”

You gasp around a small moan at his words. They hit you right in the stomach, churning something erotic inside you. You grip the counter, bottles nearby clinking at the movement, and you try to turn your head to look at him again.

“My prince—”

“Shut up and take it,” Aerion interrupts with a bite. A gnashing of ivory as he fills you over and over, the head of his cock finding that spot inside you that has you arching for more. 

Your body trembles, shaking against the counter as he folds you over it. The fat of your arse shifts with each of his thrusts, his fingers a bruising hold on your hips. Sweat builds beneath your dress, damp along the dip of your spine as you grow hotter and hotter. It’s an unbearable sort of heat that sparks in your womb, then spreads. It spreads up and out, flaring like a pair of glowing wings.

“Fuck, I can feel you, sweet girl,” Aerion says, his pace slowly losing it’s pattern. He’s scrambling now, sweat tracing down the back of his neck as his heart clatters against his ribs. Your pussy flutters around him like she doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, eyes slipping up your body, before resuming on where you take him. “Let me have it. Give it to me.”

You gasp out. “My prince, I—”

“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”

There’s a heaviness in his tone that pins you down, but you expect nothing less. You instead focus on those gold-guilded wings spreading out inside you—filling your tummy, fanning heat through your chest as your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the wooden counter. The flames of pleasure are crawling down your spine now too, and with four more heavy thrusts of his cock against that perfect spot inside you, it reaches your core.

You can’t help what happens next: you call for him, his name, a sickeningly sweet “Aerion!” as you come around him, pussy pulling tight as the warmth overwhelms you. Your release is bulky as it takes hold, dragging you into ecstasy as his cock drives you through it. Your eyes squeeze shut, body shaking, as it takes over.

He mutters something under his breath then, hips rolling as he slowly begins to lose focus. You feel his cock jerk inside you as he slams inwards, tip nudging up towards the plug of your cervix. The feel of him is muddled in your brain and you feel sick with need as your orgasm begins to fizzle out, embers flickering.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans. 

He spills then, with his cock flattened deep inside you and his fingers vice-like on your hips. He curls forward, dewy forehead finding your shoulder blades as his cock twitches, filling you in hot strings. It’s thick and viscous and makes you moan, and Aerion matches the sound with his own, feeling the clutch of your pussy tighten around him.

Some long seconds pass and he’s still spilling. Your eyes fly open as his cock, still pulsing and hard and hot inside you, jerks with his release. Spurts of it, again and again. You whine at the feeling. Too full, too full, you want to mutter, but you can’t. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, throat dry as the prince rolls his hips, rutting himself against you with his face in the laces of your dress. You writhe, and he groans, open-mouthed and pained as he holds your hips, unwilling to let you go.

“No, stop, fuck,” he hisses out, muffled in the material of your dress. “Don’t fucking move—don’t—ah, ha, fuck, fuck.”

You still immediately, freezing like a scolded puppy. The prince breathes heavily against you as his cock jerks and jerks inside you. He whines into your dress. The sound has your heart fluttering.

“Gods above…” Aerion whispers after another long moment. 

His cock stills now, but he’s still hard. And he doesn’t pull out. He does, however, lift himself from you gingerly. His hands tremble on your hips, but you pretend not to notice.

“I can’t…” He tapers off, breathing heavily. 

There’s a searing pleasure in his abdomen that’s almost painful now, and his cock aches something fierce—like he needs to release again, like he’s edged himself for an hour. But he hasn’t. He’s spilled more times than he can count, but the pent-up need is making him nauseous with desire. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin feels too hot against his flesh.

He swallows thickly as he plugs your pussy full of his seed. His cock twitches and, much to his horror, he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “I can’t… I need…”

“I know,” you whimper.

The change in his tone, in his demeanour, is a slap across the face. It’s abrupt and unexpected. You almost feel sorry for him—sorry for the man he’s become as he slowly rolls his hips, his cock barely moving inside of you—but you don’t. He’s done this to himself.

“One more,” he whispers, pulling out until only his flared head rests inside you.

“One more,” you repeat after him.

He groans, pushing back in once he’s caught his breath. You moan quietly, body pliant and spent beneath him now. There’s a prickle of overstimulation in your belly, but you don’t complain. His cock knocks right back up against that perfect spongy spot inside you and you shut your mind up with a string of whimpers.

The prince builds his pace again. His cheeks are pink with the effort, and strands of his white hair cling to his forehead as he ruts into you. A thin white ring builds at the base of his cock as he thrusts, his seed drooling through your folds as he bends and fucks you. It’s wet and loud, and paired with the little whimpers you’re trying to hide, it’s better than any sex he’s ever bought. And he didn’t spend a single coin on you.

“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”

“Aerion,” you whisper, eyes drooping, another orgasm encroaching on you. This one is even heavier than before. You can feel it in your bones, seeping into your marrow as he fucks you and rambles all the while.

“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”

His thrusts are loosening, and he chases his release with his cock barely leaving you. He rolls his hips, sliding against you as he huffs and bends. To your surprise, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades, teeth tugging briefly at the laces of your dress before he pulls back. He rocks and rocks, a thick moan fighting its way out of his throat as the counter trembles. A glass vial topples with the force, rolling off and onto the floor. It shatters, but neither you or Aerion flinch, too consumed in your pleasure to pay it any mind.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl—” Aerion rambles, and then he’s spilling again.

He moans loudly as he ruts himself through it, cock shuddering inside you as he comes in more thick spurts. Back dipping, you feel him fill you even more than before, and you feel the heat of it seep like honey into your womb. It makes you dizzy, and it makes your own orgasm reveal itself from the ashes of the first.

You come with his name on your tongue again, holding onto the counter as you stiffen up. He groans when your pussy tightens around him, fluttering as the tension releases like blood pouring from an open wound. He falls over you as you tremble, sweat-slick chest finding your back as his cock gives one last jerk while your orgasm tapers off, slipping back into the shadows. He pants behind you, hands still on your hips, cock still inside you—but it’s softening.

The prince moans in relief as his cock slowly softens, his seed leaking from your spread pussy as he slowly, slowly pulls himself from you. A quiet moment passes before he exhales, presses one last almost imperceptible kiss to the covered space between your shoulder blades, then rights himself.

“I trust you have something to deal with… this,” Aerion mutters, and you feel two thick fingers drag through your folds before pressing inside you. Despite his words, obviously slightly concerned with the fact you’re filled with him, he plugs you, knuckles against your core.

You release a shaky breath. “Yes, my prince.”

“Good,” he huffs, still catching his breath.

You’re still bent over the counter. And his fingers are still inside you. He sighs, more to himself than to you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding the most unlike himself of the entire night. 

That’s all he says, and you know he doesn’t want a reply.

—✿—

Three days—and several cups of moon tea and other fast-acting contraceptives—later, you’re restocking the shelf behind your counter when the door opens. You cast a glance over your shoulder, finding Ser Donnel entering, white armour gleaming as his mass fills the doorway. You turn and greet him properly.

“Ser Donnel,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “How is your horse?”

Ser Donnel smiles. “Fine. You fixed her right up.”

You smile back, busying your idle fingers by stuffing a small pouch with crushed willow bark. “That’s great to hear. What can I do for you?”

The knight clears his throat, looking around the empty shop for a moment before speaking. “He requires your presence. At the Keep.”

“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”

“The prince,” he says pointedly.

You frown, tying a knot around the little pouch and placing it to the side. Nerves spike in your chest as you wait for Ser Donnel to continue. He does.

“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”

You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”

“But you can help him, can you not?” Ser Donnel interrupts you before you spiral. “You’re a smart wee thing. You can fix anything.”

You bite your lip, nervous. “Ser Donnel, I don’t think—”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request,” he says as gently as possible. “He won’t be taking no for an answer. I’m here to escort you.”

“Right…” You sigh, turning back to the shelf and gathering some supplies.

You shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aerion Targaryen.

———

be nice to the woods witch ❌

fuck her against her shop counter ✅

idiot (need him)

tags 🌿

offhand errands and neighborly guilt were what brought you your very first friend.

homework side by side at your grandmother’s kitchen table, peeling satsumas, watching VHS recordings of pro matches in silence until he couldn’t hold in a lecture anymore and started breaking down every toss and spike as though he was born to do so. which, you were starting to believe, he might have been.

you never asked why he always came over instead of inviting you to his place, but you suspected it had something to do with his father’s car being in the driveway less and less as the months went by.

your mother would see him standing awkwardly outside the sliding door and tell you, “that boy’s here again. don’t let him eat all the senbei.”

he waited patiently for you in the living room, still in his school uniform, not without a volleyball under one arm, his backpack splayed open on the kitchen table.

“can i do homework here?” he’d ask, as if he hadn’t done the same the last seventeen tuesdays.

“yeah. leave your shoes by the door this time.”

you were about twelve, when you started understanding just how serious it was for him.

kageyama would bring his own pencil case and a copy of monthly volleyball, dog-eared and scribbled in. when the schoolwork was done, he’d take out the magazine and start breaking it down aloud—quietly at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

that boy would circle moves he wanted to try and mimic tosses with throw pillows. balanced a ball between his hands to describe the visual mechanics of a perfect set, teaching himself without realizing he was teaching you, too.

“i saw someone do a one-handed back set in brazil,” he mumbled from the couch, eyes gleaming. “i think i could do it if i fix the way i step.”

you leaned back on the carpet, fingers sticky from mandarin oranges. “if you make it to nationals one day, will you tell me?”

he turned his head to look at you. “why wouldn’t i?”

you didn’t know what changed, but after junior high started, he stopped coming over.

maybe it was the new school. maybe it was the way he started practicing more, talking less. maybe it was the space he needed after his grandfather’s funeral.

your window stayed open those tuesdays, though.

at first it was habit. then it was hope.

he went to kitagawa daiichi. you heard through your neighbor. “he’s playing in a lot of tournaments now,” she rambled on. “maybe even one in tokyo.”

by high school, he was more myth than boy.

kageyama tobio. the prodigy. the king. you didn’t go out of your way to avoid him even though he still lived next door. you just never had a reason to cross paths. not when he was playing matches across the country and you were barely making it through finals.

and then suddenly, graduation came.

then he was truly, finally gone—off chasing a life you only ever caught glimpses of in interviews and magazine headlines.

you don’t come home often.

calls and texts have been enough, most of the time check-ins, asking after your mom, letting her tell you what’s new in the neighborhood and what mirin brand they discontinued from the local grocery store.

but when she mentioned the doctor’s appointment, paired with the too-quick laugh after saying she’d be fine on her own, you opened your laptop and booked the tickets that night.

you told her you finally had time, that you needed a break from the city. both excuses, still easier to say than “i’m homesick” and “i’m worried about you.”

the flight was cheap. the return date left blank.

by the time you step out of the car in front of your old house, suitcase rattling against uneven pavement, you wonder if it was a mistake. the shutters need paint, the lawn’s grown in uneven patches, and everything smells faintly of the past—of dust and rain and summer break.

the lock sticks the same way it always did, and when the door opens, the air is heavy with familiarity. not warmth, exactly, but close.

the rooms are smaller than you remember, and the wallpaper hasn’t aged well.

you drop your bag by the stairs and make your way upstairs, where the window faces the same narrow strip of lawn it always did.

you convince yourself you’re here to take care of mom, to catch your breath, to remind you of where you began. that it’s nothing more than a quick trip down memory lane.

you don’t even realize until your palm’s on the frame, the old wood warm from the late sun.

the blinds are drawn. not enough to see anything. yet just enough to see light.

his light.

a glow you haven’t seen in years.

there he is. not on a glossy page, but in the window across from yours, finally looking back.

for a moment you think you’ve imagined it. but then his expression shifts—a puzzle snapping into place, as though he’s put a name to the face in front of him.

he disappears. a shadow moving quick out of sight. your heart jolts, heavier than you want to admit, then you feel the buzz in your pocket.

you swipe to answer.

“...you still have the same number?” his voice is lower than you remember, but there’s no mistaking it.

your laugh catches on your tongue. “you do too.”

he grins, and you swear feel the warmth slip back into your limbs. “so,” you start. “you’re back?”

“for now.” he sighs. “season break. national team training resumes in august.”

you nod slowly, smiling as he comes back into view. “do you miss it when you’re not playing?”

tobio leans back in his chair. “no.”

you arch a brow.

he clarifies. “i miss it when i am playing, too. if the match is bad. if i mess up. if my teammates aren’t as focused that day. i even miss it when i win sometimes, because i should’ve done better.”

you shift against the sill, cheek pressed to your knuckles. “that sounds miserable.”

he looks away. “it’s not. i just want to be the best.”

“you always did.”

“yeah, but now i know how far i am from it.”

“you’re the best setter japan’s had in a decade.” you yawn, bring your knees up to your chest while the jet lag catches up. “they say it on TV all the time.”

“they say a lot of things on TV.”

“that one’s true.” you tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

the line is quiet for a beat, then he exhales. “everyone keeps saying that. but i don’t know. i feel the same.”

you bite down a smile. “you got taller.”

“so did you,” he says, sounding nervous. “thought i was seeing things. when i looked out.”

you laugh under your breath, the sound crackling on the phone’s speaker. “thanks, i think.”

a low sigh rushes past the receiver. “that’s not what i meant. i’m… i’m trying to say you look good.”

your grip on the phone tightens. “you think so?”

“yeah,” he nods. “you grew up well.”

“thank you,” you warm. “you look good too.”

he flushes. “that means a lot coming from you.”

your chest feels heavy. “why’s that?”

“i don’t know.” he fidgets with something you can’t see. “i had a really big crush on you.”

you laugh, incredulous. “are you serious?”

he looks over. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“since when?” you angle yourself so it feels like he’s right in front of you. in a sense, he is.

“well i don’t anymore,” he hurries to cover. “it started the day you talked about me making it to nationals.”

“well ouch,” you joke. “you’re so conceited.”

“fuck you,” he smiles, and you bristle at the profanity, the reality of just how far you’ve come settling in.

“-i’m humbler than i used to be.”

“i’m sure,” you shake your head, checking the time when you see him yawn. 3:54 am. “that’s a low bar.”

“i thought you forgot about me,” he admits suddenly.

“even with your face on every magazine cover from hokkaido to okinawa?” you laugh.

his ears pinken, “those were stupid.”

“they were not,” you counter. “i’d stop at the store sometimes and flip through just to see what you were up to. mom thinks you’re getting real handsome.”

he glances back. “what about you?”

“what about me?” you tilt your head, putting the phone between your neck and shoulder as you stretch your limbs. you hear a noise that sounds like thinking.

“what do you think of me now?”

“have you been drinking?” you laugh again, not expecting him to be so forward after all these years.

you hear him sip. “just a little.”

“what’s a little?”

“whatever amount of alcohol you can drink in your parents’ house without it being pathetic, i guess?”

you hum. “would’ve been less pathetic if you weren’t doing it alone. could’ve invited me over.”

“i didn’t know you were home. not until ten minutes ago.” he rolls his eyes. “i didn’t even know you drank.”

“yes you did!” you scroll through your instagram, finding a picture he liked from a month ago, tilting the screen toward the window. “i know you keep up.”

“i mean, yeah, i do.” he chuckles at the photo. “not from there, though. don’t you remember?”

“remember what?”

“in january, when you called me.” as the words leave his mouth, vague memories appear with them.

you’re grateful you don’t remember most of it. but the breakup, and driving back from college to cope, are details you recall all too well. kageyama pipes up again on the other end. “you asked me if i was home, and i thought it was funny how drunk you sounded.”

the details get fuzzy there. “what else did i say?”

“you really don’t remember?”

“…no? is that bad?”

“oh.” he says through a smile, clearly liking the one-up he’s gained on you. dread settles in your gut. “well,”

“you left your blinds open,” he starts, voice shrinking for some reason. “mine were open too, but only because you called, and i got curious.”

he laughs. “then you took your shirt off.”

you stay quiet, not saying anything, letting him run with it despite the crimson creeping up your cheeks.

“you took your belt off next,” he says, voice low, steady. “the boots too. just… stepped out of them.”

a pause, a big breath. “then you turned around, faced away from me, and unclipped your bra.”

“i’m… so sorry,” you murmur, face hot.

“you don’t need to apologize,” he says quickly. “i could’ve looked away. so… i sort of feel like a creep.”

you can’t help it—you laugh, sharp and a little breathless with relief. “well, that makes you human.”

he chuckles, the sound carrying low over the line. “yeah, i guess. sorry… not sorry?”

you laugh again, shaking your head. “i really am sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says, “i thought it was kind of hot.”

his voice drops, controlled but clearly self-conscious. “you can hang up if you want. i’ll understand.”

you smile to yourself. “i’m not hanging up.”

“so…” you start after a beat, voice low. “you’ve been thinking of me all this time?”

“every once in a while,” he admits, careful. “more than i’d like to. back then, i used to think you were the prettiest thing i’d ever seen.”

you swallow. “and now?”

“still do. maybe even more than then.” he says, looking away. “i like that outfit you’re wearing.”

you laugh softly, “because you can see my tits?”

“i mean, that’s a plus.” the corners of his mouth pull upwards. “i just… think it really suits you.“

“thank you,” you murmur, voice soft—just as you hear a low, muffled noise from his end of the line.

you freeze, brow furrowing. “tobio… are you…?”

there’s a quick hitch in his breath. “i… uh…” his words falter, sharp inhale. “yeah. i… i can’t help it.”

“…is that… okay?” his voice is low, tense, and wary, like he’s still testing the waters.

you nod, slowly. “did you take it out?”

he hesitates, a short, frustrated groan escaping. “not… not yet. it’s still… in my pants.” another sharp inhale. “can i? it really hurts.”

“have you, thought about me before?” you tease, ignoring his ask. “touching yourself?”

a ragged breath comes through. “i-” his voice catches, almost a whisper now. “yeah. i have.” there’s a scrape of fabric, almost as if he’s fisting his shirt.

“how many times?”

“i don’t know,” the words are strained. “often.”

“what did you think about?” you press, curious.

“you… the things i saw on your instagram… posts when you wore… um… slutty outfits out with your friends,” he says just as he shifts slightly, and the metallic click of a zipper reaches your ears.

his arms are thick now, strong and muscled in a way they weren’t back in middle school, hands gripping at himself through his pants as if he can barely contain the tension coiling through his body. “fuck... i’m trying to be respectful, i swear.”

“you can take it out.”

“thank you,” he says through a low, rough moan, teeth biting into his bottom lip as he fully unzips.

you watch him, chest rising and falling, hand wrapping tight around himself. your lips curve into a teasing smirk. “do you want… some help?”

“yes… god, yeah,” he groans, sharp and tense.

you pull your top off, watch the way his pupils blow wide. “nice bra.”

“nice dick,” you shoot back, and he laughs, arm starting to move behind the frame blocking your view.

“are you just going to watch?”

“why?” your lips part. “you want me to join in?”

“if you—mmph, if you want to.” the wet, slick sound of his hand sliding up and down punctuates the words.

his breathing rattles, uneven, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his hand. “aren’t you wet?”

“i can check,” you joke, one that he clearly doesn’t find funny, but the grin splits across his face when he hears the sounds your fingers make against your clit.

he can barely see you now, on your bed that’s angled away from the window. he hears it all, though.

the wet drag of your fingers, your uneven breathing carrying through the speaker.

your head tips back, heat flooding your chest. “do you want me to stop?”

“no. don’t stop.” his breath hitches, audible. “been thinking about you like this too long to tell you to stop.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, hand working between your legs, the phone hot against your ear. “yeah?”

“yeah,” he says, blunt, steady. “since before i left. since that night you-” he cuts himself off, exhaling hard. “you don’t even know what you did to me.”

you bite down on your lip, pulse racing. “then tell me.”

his jaw tightens, and for a moment he doesn’t look at you, like he needs the space to say it out loud. “sometimes after practice. when it was shit, or i couldn’t get my serve right… i’d get back to my room, lie down, and think about your mouth.”

your hand slows, wanting every word. “my mouth?”

his breathing deepens, “your lips. the way you’d chew on your pens when you got antsy. i’d close my eyes and picture you on your knees instead.”

your thighs clench, hips rolling into your own fingers. “tobio-”

he doesn’t flinch at his name, doesn’t even hesitate. “sometimes i’d think about you at the window. waiting for me. wearing shorts so small i could see your ass when you leaned on the frame. god.”

there’s a pause on his end, and you hear it. the steady slap of his hand around his cock.

your hips jerk up into your hand, two fingers slipping inside you while your thumb grinds against your clit. “fuck… i can hear it.”

he grits out a laugh, shaky. “yeah? i can hear you too. fingers working that pussy like you’ve done it before, thinking about me.”

“i have,” you gasp, curling your fingers up, chasing that spot. “so many fucking times.”

he groans, deep and guttural, his rhythm picking up. “tell me. tell me what you think about.”

“your hands,” you whine. “those big fucking hands—wanted them on me for years.” your wrist aches, but you don’t stop, your voice breaking. “wish they were inside me instead of mine.”

he growls low in his throat, stroking faster, the sound of it filthy through the speaker. “wish i could bury my fingers in you and make you come. fuck, i’d ruin you.”

you moan into the receiver, hips lifting off the bed as your fingers curl harder inside you. “keep talking.”

his hand is loud now, quick strokes, precum slicking every drag of his fist. he’s not holding back anymore. “your tits—” his breath hitches, ragged. “wanted to get my mouth on them since i saw that top. grab them, suck them, leave you shaking.”

your free hand squeezes over your chest through your top, nails digging in. “fuck—”

“bet your pussy’s tight around your fingers,” he grits out, stroking faster, voice dipping. “you’d squeeze the life outta me if i was inside you right now.”

your thighs clamp together, wrist straining as you fuck yourself harder, thumb pressed so tight to your clit you’re seeing stars. “i’m close-”

he groans, hand smacking wet around himself. “me too- shit, keep going. wanna hear you come for me.”

your breath breaks into a sob as your body arches, everything snapping. “fuck, fuck, fuck- tobio—”

his hand doesn’t stop, even when you cry out into the phone, your fingers pulsing inside you. he strokes himself through it, teeth gritted, voice sharp. “holy fuck- you sound so good- fuck, i’m cumming-”

your body is still trembling, every nerve raw as you listen to him come undone. the sheets are damp under you, your chest heaving as you swallow air back down. your clit throbs, oversensitive, and every little brush of fabric feels like too much.

you press the heel of your hand against your stomach, grounding yourself. your legs won’t stop twitching, small aftershocks sparking up your thighs.

the phone is hot against your cheek, slippery in your grip, but you don’t hang up. you can still hear him—breathing hard, shifting, the faint drag of his palm across his leg.

you smile, voice shot, throat tight. “can’t feel my legs.”

he lets out a short laugh, still rough around the edges. “me neither.”

your eyes flick to the window. he’s already looking back, hair messy, shirt clinging to his chest.

“that was fun,” you murmur, eyes swimming in his.

his chuckle carries through the speaker. “yeah. better than i expected.” a pause. “i missed you.”

“missed you too.”

he leans closer to the glass, mouth quirking. “we should do it again.”

you huff a soft laugh. “phone sex?”

“no,” he says, unlatching the lock. “come over.”

bowtiepasta made this. do not copy repost or feed to ai. dm for permission to translate or recommend. spam interactions are a-okay.

you don’t notice it right away.

at first, it’s just little things — you’re walking down the hall, and someone thinks ‘god, i should’ve studied for that math quiz,’ and you swear you heard it even though nobody said it out loud. you figure you’re sleep-deprived. nothing new.

but then, during lunch, hinata’s across the table from you shoving rice into his mouth like a vacuum cleaner, and you distinctly hear: ‘if i eat faster maybe kageyama won’t steal my meat bun.’

you choke.

“you okay?” hinata asks.

except the thoughts keep coming. they’re clear, loud, and sometimes very dumb. so dumb you consider asking a teacher if there’s, like, a brain parasite that makes you hear other people’s mental commentary.

and then comes the real test: gym class.

the boys’ volleyball team is practicing, which means hinata drags you along to “watch my sick jumps!!” you sit on the bleachers, doodling in your notebook, when a cold front settles nearby.

aka: kageyama tobio exists in your line of sight.

he doesn’t even look at you. he never looks at you. in fact, he’s the kind of guy who could sit next to you on a deserted island and still manage to act like you’re invisible.

you’ve tried to be friends before — said hi in the hallway, offered gum once, even smiled when hinata introduced you properly. every time, he just stared through you like you were a particularly boring wall.

so naturally, you’re bracing yourself for awkwardness when suddenly—

‘don’t sit so close to hinata. what if she likes him. no. no no no. shut up. don’t think about it. she smells good. crap. what shampoo is that. no. volleyball. think about volleyball. think about serves. don’t think about her mouth. oh god.’

…you blink.

the fuck.

‘she’s smiling. stop it. don’t smile at hinata. smile at me. no, don’t smile at me, i’ll combust. fuck. my hands are sweating. why are my hands sweating, i’m not even near her. oh my god, what if she hates me. she probably hates me. she should. i’m acting like a freak. i should talk to her. no, if i talk i’ll sound stupid. volleyball. volleyball volleyball volleyball—’

you almost fall off the bleachers.

because holy hell. holy hell.

kageyama tobio, the human brick wall, the guy who can’t even bother to acknowledge your existence, is apparently running a 24/7 internal radio show titled “i am catastrophically into you and it’s ruining my life.”

outwardly? stone-faced. inwardly? begging the universe to not let you catch him staring at your earlobe.

and the thing is… he’s not wrong. you’ve had a crush on him for ages, even though you told yourself it was hopeless. he’s talented, tall, ridiculously good-looking, and has that weird puppy-dog intensity that makes you want to pat his head and also run away.

you grip your notebook so tight it almost crumples.

this is either the best day of your life or the start of your villain arc.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you start testing it.

whenever hinata calls you over to hang out by the court, you sneak glances at kageyama, just to see if his brain is still malfunctioning. spoiler: it is.

‘she’s walking over. don’t look. no, look a little. too much. she caught you. oh god. i’m sweating again. why is she standing closer. her knee almost brushed mine. i would die. i would literally die if she touched me. is she listening? she’s not listening. thank god. wait, is she?’

he shifts away like you’re contagious.

you smile, because you’re evil.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the thing about kageyama is, he tries so hard to act like he doesn’t care. but his brain? his brain is a live feed of him spiraling every time you breathe. it’s actually kind of flattering.

and also terrifying.

yesterday, you wore your hair up.

‘her neck is out. her NECK is OUT. who told her she could do that. i can see her pulse. i could bite—NO. STOP. think about sets. think about serves. don’t think about biting. what’s wrong with me.’

you choked so hard on your juice box that hinata had to smack your back.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by the end of the week, you’ve come to terms with it:

you can read minds.

kageyama tobio is mentally unwell, and you are the illness.

you kind of… like it.

okay. more than like it. your crush has officially upgraded from “he’s cute” to “i might need to start a diary just to process the things he thinks about me.”

the real problem? pretending you don’t know.

because kageyama is still acting like you don’t exist — glaring, grunting, ignoring your attempts at small talk — even while his brain is writing love letters in 4k resolution.

you’re not sure how long you can keep a straight face.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by now, you’ve learned to brace yourself whenever kageyama’s around.

not because of him, really — no, if it were just the face, the sharp eyes, the arms that look unfairly good under a t-shirt, you’d be fine. but the thoughts? his thoughts are like turning on the tv at midnight and stumbling across a channel that shouldn’t exist.

case in point: you walk into class one morning, half-asleep, hair a little messy because you rushed.

he’s already there. you don’t look at him. you try not to.

‘bed hair. she has bed hair. she rolled out of bed like that. oh my god. what if she was dreaming. who was she dreaming about. no. don’t think about her dreaming. stop. her pillow probably smells like her. what if—’

you nearly slam your head into your desk.

“you good?” hinata whispers, side-eyeing you as you drop into the seat beside him like your soul just left your body.

“peachy,” you croak, because explaining that kageyama just mentally narrated your entire morning vibe is not an option.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

it gets worse at lunch.

hinata waves you over, patting the empty seat at the table. you’re about to sit down when you hear it:

‘don’t sit next to hinata. sit here. sit next to me. oh god, she’s coming. she’s actually—her knee’s almost touching mine. her thigh—’

you sit.

kageyama immediately shifts away, scowling at nothing.

you blink at him. he refuses to meet your eyes.

his brain, though? absolute chaos.

‘why did she sit next to me. why. is she doing this on purpose. she’s too close. i can smell her. she smells like fruit. what fruit is that. peach? strawberry? i’d eat it off her—NO. shut up. eat your rice. don’t look. don’t look at her lips. stop. volleyball. volleyball volleyball volleyball—’

he stabs his food like it personally wronged him.

hinata chats with you like nothing’s weird, but you’re fighting for your life not to snort-laugh into your lunch.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you start noticing things.

like how kageyama somehow always ends up behind you in the hallway, trailing a few steps back. or how he never talks directly to you, but his eyes flick toward you whenever he thinks you’re not looking.

and then there are his thoughts — wild, yes, but… scarily observant.

‘she always chews her pen when she’s thinking. she’ll get ink on her lips like that. does she know she tilts her head when she reads. her shoelaces are loose. what if she trips. i’d catch her. i’d—NO. shut up. don’t think about holding her. idiot. stop it.’

you drop your pen mid-homework.

there is no reason on earth for him to know that much.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the true horror, though, comes in the form of p.e.

you’re sitting out with a couple girls, watching while the class runs laps, when kageyama’s brain decides to become pay-per-view horror content:

‘she’s sitting. her skirt’s riding up. i can see her knee. don’t look. don’t look. crap, i looked. don’t imagine what’s under. STOP. oh god. what if the wind—NO. kill me. kill me right now. run faster. distract yourself. volleyball. volleyball. but what if she bent over— NOOO.’

you nearly eat dirt from laughing so hard.

the other girls side-eye you like you’ve lost it.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that night, you can’t stop thinking about it.

your crush is bad enough already — he’s unfairly good at everything, tall, athletic, with that dumb serious face that makes your stomach flip. and now? now you know he’s secretly losing his mind over you.

but he’s also insane. in the funniest, dumbest, most teenage-boy way possible.

you bury your face in your pillow.

this is going to kill you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you don’t even notice at first.

practice runs late, the gym is emptying, and you’re waiting for hinata, scrolling on your phone while kageyama lingers behind to put away equipment.

it’s quiet.

too quiet.

and then — footsteps. fast, uneven.

before you can look up, he’s standing right in front of you, chest rising like he just ran a marathon.

you blink. “uh—”

“i can’t stop.”

oh no.

‘she’s so close. she doesn’t know what she does to me. every day. every second. i count how many times she looks at me. i know her laugh by heart. i know the way her hands shake when she’s nervous. i know how long she spends tying her shoes in the morning. i know she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s concentrating. i know everything. i watch everything. i shouldn’t. i shouldn’t. but i can’t stop.’

your phone slips in your hand.

you stare at him.

he’s staring at you, trembling, like he’s physically holding back an earthquake.

“kageyama—”

“you don’t get it,” he blurts, voice too loud, too raw. “i tried to ignore you. i tried to act like you weren’t there. but i can’t. i can’t think about volleyball, i can’t sleep, i can’t do anything without you being in my head.”

his brain is spiraling, a live firestorm:

‘she’s gonna run. i sound insane. i AM insane. but i don’t care. i’d burn my whole life if she asked. i’d quit volleyball if she told me to. i’d kneel if she told me to. i’d follow her anywhere. i’d chain her to me if it meant she’d stay. she has to stay. i’ll make her stay.’

your breath catches.

he steps closer, too close, eyes wild.

“i like you,” he grits out, then shakes his head like that’s not enough. “no. it’s worse than that. i’m—i’m messed up about you. i think about you all the time. the way you laugh, the way you smell, the way your lips look when you’re eating, when you’re—” he cuts himself off, face blazing red, teeth clenched.

‘don’t say it. don’t say it. i can’t tell her i think about her mouth at night. i can’t tell her i want to kiss her until she cries. i can’t tell her i want her so bad it hurts. she’ll hate me. she’ll hate me. but i can’t stop.’

he fists his hands at his sides, shaking.

his eyes dart to your mouth.

then away.

then back again.

“say something,” he rasps. “please. i’m gonna lose it if you don’t.”

and god, you should be scared.

this is insane. this is kageyama tobio cracking open like a dam, drowning you in everything he’s been swallowing down for months.

but you’re not scared.

your heart’s racing, your face is hot, and all you can think is finally.

finally, he said it. finally, he’s not pretending you don’t exist. finally, the boy whose brain has been screaming your name for weeks is letting it spill out where you can see it.

you stand, so close your chest brushes his, and whisper, “then lose it.”

he freezes.

‘lose it. lose it? she said lose it. oh god. she wants me to. she actually—i’m gonna explode. i’m gonna kiss her. no. yes. no. i can’t hold back. i can’t.’

and kiss you, he does.

his mouth crashes onto yours, messy, desperate, nothing like the movies. he kisses like he sets — sharp, precise, but with terrifying force, like if he doesn’t pour every ounce of himself into it, it won’t land.

your knees nearly give out. you grab his jacket, dragging him closer, and he groans against your lips, thoughts spiraling out of control:

‘she’s kissing me. she’s kissing me. she’s mine. mine. mine. i’ll never let her go. i can’t. i won’t. she’s all i want. all i need. i’ll die like this and i’ll be happy.’

when he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering like a confession in church:

“i don’t just like you. i want every piece of you. all the time. and i know it’s too much. but i can’t make it less. i can’t make you less.”

and with his thoughts still screaming your name like a prayer, you realize you don’t want him to.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡‎

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: i have a bonus for this but i might get burned at the stake if i put it here.

@yujisgffs @hrfnoomi

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

you glance at his family for some kind of acknowledgment, guidance, or support, but there’s nothing. they’re silent at first. and before you can even react, sarah speaks up.

“y/n,” she says, “rafe was in a car accident.”

your stomach knots. you take a shallow breath, trying to steady yourself. “a . . . car accident?” you manage unsure if you even want to hear more.

“yeah,” she continues, hesitating, glancing at rafe before looking back at you. “thankfully, mostly his stupid head got hurt.”

you blink. “mostly his head?” mostly? mostly? you swallow hard, your throat dry.

“yeah,” sarah says, like she’s trying to shrug it off, like that somehow makes it better. “but he lost a lot of memory, apparently. but doctors don’t know how much will come back.”

you stare. your arms tighten across your chest. you still don’t understand why you’re here. how much of his memory could he have possibly lost?

his eyes are on you, calm. too calm. he doesn’t fidget or flinch. he just sits there, waiting.

“rafe,” sarah says, voice softer now, “tell y/n what you do remember.”

he shrugs, casual, as if he doesn’t understand why they keep checking. “i’m rafe cameron,” he says slowly, like he’s introducing himself for the first time. your chest tightens already.

he nods toward sarah. “i’m your brother,” then toward ward, “and your son.”

he lifts his shoulders just enough. “i live in the outerbanks . . . i’m twenty . . . and . . . i don’t know.” he pauses, lets the words hover, then lets them land. “y/n’s my girlfriend.”

it takes a beat for your brain to process.

then another.

and another.

your hands curl around your arms again instinctively. horror crawls up your spine, disbelief prickles your skin. the years, the distance, the life you built apart from him, all of it, hangs suspended in a moment you didn’t see coming.

from behind you, sarah murmurs, quietly, almost like she’s afraid you won’t hear, but she knows you do. “his memory of the last few years, just gone. doctors don’t know if it’ll come back. as for now . . . he still thinks you’re together. he’s still mentally twenty.”

you blink, hard. your chest rises and falls unevenly. your brain refuses to catch up.

you glance down at him, taking in the bruises along his jaw and collarbone, the tired weight in his eyes. they’re fucking with you, right?

the family around him remains rigid, silent. ward’s jaw is tight, sarah still lingers behind you, her expression taut with worry and frustration, aware that you’re the one person he wants here, the one person he’ll listen to. it’s not even them, it’s just you.

rafe shifts slightly in the bed, letting his gaze sweep over you.

you take a slow, steadying breath, feeling the weight of all eyes on you. for a long moment, you just stand there, staring at him, your mind racing faster than your heart. then, finally, you pivot, shifting your gaze to sarah.

“can i talk to you in private?” your voice is calm, but a tiny twitch at the corner of your eye betrays everything.

sarah hesitates, glancing back at rafe, but then nods. “yeah . . . fine,” she murmurs.

you guide her toward the door, careful with each step, and close it gently behind you.

from the bed, rafe tilts his head, watching the two of you disappear. his gaze lingers on sarah’s reluctant movements and your deliberate steps, noting the way your body tenses, then relaxes slightly once the door clicks shut.

the room falls into silence again, but it’s not the same stillness as before. he studies them all carefully, lips tugging into the smallest, amused curve. he knows something is happening outside, something directed at him, something completely out of his control. yet he can’t hear it, not even a word, and that makes it somehow better.

his eyes wander to the window, seeing the two of you hash it out in the hallway. you flare your arms, sarah throws her hands up. your voices are muffled, but the gestures are perfect. it’s like a silent cartoon with the exaggerated motions, stomping feet, sudden turns. sarah shakes her head dramatically. you point at her chest, then to him, then back at her.

he can’t hear a word, but he can see everything. and somehow, it’s hilarious. he allows himself a quiet smirk, tilting his head like he’s watching a private performance meant to entertain him.

even here, in the hospital, bruised and battered, he can’t help but find it funny. he settles back against the pillows, watching, and as the minutes stretch on, he realizes no matter what he feels, or what people are telling him, he wants you here, and only you.

ward crosses his arms, sighing, and shakes his head. rose pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s just witnessed something tragic.

through the glass, he just watches you gesturing, sarah fuming, both of you locked in silent war. and this idiot thinks, still thinking this is three years in the past, that this is just his girls playing around.

did we peep him thinking his phone is fucking w him cause he thought apple just disconnected both of their locations, not knowing they literally unshared them years ago😭😭

With the lighter of your winter coats on and the sun setting in the distance casting the sky in radiant oranges and ombré blues, you certainly feel the edges of that coziness too. In your bones as you carefully palm your drink, trying to fight off the creeping freeze of Terrance’s barely present existence around you with its warmth, you know you’re only playing at being a couple.

The man’s already stepped aside and sipping from his cup as you pay for the drinks and your muffin, smiling when the guy handling the booth dressed like Frankenstein’s Monster wishes you a Happy Halloween.

“Did you think about what I said?” you toss out quietly afterwards.

No response.

A sip is taken by you, then by him, and then you again as you gravitate back to Terrance and start walking.

The zing of pleasant flavors taste too bitter on your tongue for your liking. A frown pulls down your content smile due to the Festival the longer you wait for any acknowledgment of what you’ve said and are met with nothing.

Letting a stream of air out your nose, you take to cracking your knuckles against their warm new handhold. You don’t look at Terrance where he’s keeping pace with you, or comment on his uncharacteristic lack of interruptive commentary, you just continue where you left off.

“There's that little squared off spot in the barn the hay rides operate out of we found last year. We could sneak in there again, maybe?”

A beat.

Two.

The silence between you reigns.

Now you look over at your fiancé, not bothering to suppress the urge to squint.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Baby, I’m literally right here.” Terrance picks his head up, looks at you like he’s barely refraining from rolling his eyes. The fingers of the one hand you put back in your pocket curl into the makings of a fist, you force them to relax, taking a deep breath.

“Really?” You stop walking, turning to him fully with a scowl, pursed lips, and your hip cocked. “The fuck did I just say then?”

“I don’t know, something about going on a hayride?”

A stiff, cooling breeze rushes through your tight curls, wisps over your scalp and ruffles the scarf around your neck.

Desperately, you try to let your irritation be carried off by it.

“Close, but no. I’ll let you try again though.”

“Mmchtt,” he sucks his teeth. “Man, you been talking a lot. You can’t expect me to remember all that.”

“Sucks for you,” you snap, “because I sure as hell do. When I speak it’s with the expectation that you’ll listen.”

Terrance’s expression pinches with an emotion that might be regret. Could just as easily be poorly hidden resentment.

Either way it’s hard for you to read him anymore.

“Okay, alright. Fine.” He sighs. Looks around a little haplessly. “Let’s just walk together, alright? I don’t feel like anything crazy.”

He holds out an arm to you, and like a beaten dog you jump for the bone. Latch onto his arm to curl your own around it and keep the disappointment off your face with a vengeance at the way he brushes off your attempt to hold his hand too.

Can’t be a hand down when he just has to be on his phone.

Less than three months ago he wouldn’t have dreamed of blowing you off like this.

Guess you two’ll just be walking the event this year.

Swallowing hard, you take what he is giving you in stride. The two of you walking around, you easily juggling your drink and your treat until the muffin top’s polished off and sweetness permeates on your tongue and your fiancé’s warmth stops feeling quite as uncomfortable.

Dirt gives marginally beneath your shoes, not wet, but certainly damp with the fog in the air and lapping at your ankles.

There is plenty to look at, at the very least. Considering this was meant to be a date and all, otherwise you would’ve come here to sightsee by yourself with your own mental commentary and a playlist to keep you company.

The winning sculptures from the pumpkin carving competition and the interactive decorations and festive boots offer a lot of entertainment though.

With Terrance’s current mood you don’t stop to take pictures at displays or buy from any of the booths, but you think about it the entire time. Just can’t sike yourself up enough to force the issue, not when the man’s barely given you a stroll together.

After a few more minutes of you awkwardly throwing conversation starters at him that he refuses to catch with more than a quickly dropped “uh huh” or “sure, babe” you guys close in on the pumpkin patch and your eyes light up.

Your pace picks up and how you point out the patch for him is juvenile, but you don’t care, finally smiling wide since getting here.

“Oh, we could carve pumpkins together! That’d be fun, right? We haven’t done that in a hot minute.”

Again Terrance only gives you a cursory glance.

“Mm.” He grimaces, blurring thumbs tapping at his screen.

Again you’re dismissed.

Fine. Okay.

Downing the last dredges of your more warm than hot drink, you detach from him with a hidden sneer. Get closer to the patch teeming with plenty of families, and smiling couples you barely keep yourself from glaring at.

It wasn’t their fault your boyfriend was steadily becoming less compatible with your system.

The pumpkins bring your mind back to work, but it’s not an unpleasant occurrence. You had purpose when helping the patients at Smith’s Grove, for one. And you know one person who’d appreciate some spooky holiday cheer at least.

Maybe you’d get Michael a little pumpkin. Keep his spirits up as the date of the murders he committed nears only hours away, and his hearing with it.

Everyone had been tense around him aging into reevaluation territory. Even though you’d been assigned to walking a new female patient around earlier today, you still know he’ll be standing in front of the suits in charge of the Sanitorium so they could come to their own conclusions about whether he should be let go or not tomorrow. Knew already that the verdict would be a resounding ‘fuck no’.

The news vans and sea of reporters and protesters alike had been telling enough as to the direction his hearing would go in, and you knew Michael was dangerous, but it was still surreal to walk past all those raging people on your way into work this morning.

So yeah, Michael could be considered a monster— and your brows had definitely shot up towards your hairline when you found out how young he was considering his significant stature, but he could still use some reprieve in the form of a baby Jack o’ Lantern on what you were reasonably sure would be his last day out of full scale prison.

The patch is more than a bit picked though, but that’s alright. You wade through empty spots and squishy dirt and gnarled vines until you get to anything of interest.

To your surprise Terrance keeps pace on the outskirts of the patch. He glances over to you with a curl to his lip, but otherwise only raises his brows before shoving both hands in his pockets.

Heart picking up, your smile widens even more for him.

“Hm,” you mutter absently, hand going up to trace the pads of your fingers lightly over one of the smaller gourds. You pick it up to show him, careful of smashing any unsuspecting pumpkins while you make it a little easier for him to see. “Do you think Michael would like a pumpkin? Would I be allowed to give him one?”

“Jesus, Y/n,” your fiancé starts up, and you snap your head up to look at him, pumpkin momentarily forgotten as both your brows raise. Running his hand down his face, he gestures jerkily at you crouched over crunching leaves and browning corn husks, severed roots ground beneath your soles. “We’re on a date and you’re thinking about that fucking freak.”

“Uhm,” you start, blinking hard at him like he’s sprouted sparkling bat wings and started screeching for the whole Fall Festival to hear. “Excuse me, Whiplash, you’ve been in your phone all day.”

“Hn,” he scoffs, shaking his head at you like you’re some sort of child. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was, maybe, thirty minutes tops. I had shit to do.”

“Thirty—?” You shake your head, standing from the soft ground to face him. “Are you deadass?”

Terrance narrows his eyes at you, stepping up to you until he can move to speak directly in your ear. The hand he wraps around your bicep doesn’t squeeze, but the fact that it might as well be makes you freeze.

“I don’t like you thinking about other men when I’m around, yeah?” He shifts till he’s looking you in the face. “That’s not unreasonable, is it?”

The words ‘like you’re always thinking about other women’ and ‘fuck yes’ skip in rushed circles around your brain as you stare Terrance down, brows steadily furrowing over your eyes now and fists clenched at your side.

None of them falls past your lips.

“He’s a patient,” you ground out, tilting your head at the man in the exact type of way that lets him know you think he’s a dumbass. “And at least if I bring Michael a pumpkin someone will be enjoying Halloween with me.”

Terrance shakes his head, and the too amused, too sarcastic, “Right,” that falls past his lips makes your fists start to tremble, you tighten them so much. He’s on the cusp of getting as nasty as you've only recently learned he’s capable of being at all, and you’re gearing up to make a fool of yourself in this pumpkin patch because you’ve apparently been craving more heartbreak as of recent, when his phone rings.

Spell broken, you nearly stagger away from him and his hand slips from your body like a limp noodle.

Both of you stare at one another — blank, open-mouthed, and short of breath for no good reason — before Terrance’s phone is on its fourth ring. His hand snaps out to answer the call before it goes to voicemail and your mouth closes, lips forming a thin line.

In the end you don’t end up getting that small ass pumpkin, but that’s only after calling your head nurse, the one that likes you, not the one you’d reported for berating the patients. When she instructs you that a physical Jack o’ Lantern might not be the best idea given Michael’s unpredictability, you settle on lugging two of the roundest pumpkins you can find that are easiest to carry back to the vehicle you came in.

All the while your fiancé stays on his phone, laughing it up leant against his truck whenever you’re not in earshot, and glancing more at whatever he’s being texted than at you and your trembling arms as you’re shoving your second pumpkin past the tailgate.

Motherfucker.

─────

October 30th

The halls of Smith’s Grove echo.

Shoes, the squeak of wheels on a cart, your soft hums as you travel door to door, all of it bounces around and back to you two-fold while you’re doing your rounds for the afternoon.

Dinner time was usually uneventful, unless Cassidy was accidentally given canned peaches or Trumble got too heavily interrupted during his usual true crime ramblings and was knocked outta routine, so you’re not in any hurry as you make your usual stops.

The only surefire sounds around you that aren’t your own are of Nurse Trudy doing a similar dinner run with the patients in the rooms across from your delivery recipients. Older and more experienced, she gets through her run faster every time, but you don’t mind.

It wasn’t like you needed to be particularly speedy, especially not when your shift would be good as over right after this. Three more hours out of a twelve hour shift was practically nothing considering the field you were in.

Cassidy thanks you, tells you your new uniform looks nice, and you nod politely and redirect him like you’re taught to. Ker laughs when you enter, doesn’t do or say anything else, but he stays on his bed when you enter his room to set down his styrofoam tray of assorted food stuffs.

Lunch was being served in everyone’s rooms today on account of a fight breaking out yesterday over the therapy dogs, so now the patients had to keep to themselves for a bit and you’d probably never see those scared puppers again.

All in all, you can count your blessings, making quick time of your next two stops before knocking on the last door in the block. Michael’s room is across from one empty room and beside another just as empty one because the others annoyed him too much, and an agitated Michael was the last thing anyone wanted.

“Myers,” you call out softly, giving one swift knock to the bulky metal of his door. “Dinner.”

What remains on your cart are his tray of food and paper cup of medicine, both of which were personally handled by you from start to finish. A precautionary measure you’ve taken up because certain members of staff were even more wicked than the patients sentenced to live out the rest of their lives in here— all of them varying levels of violent, and with Michael being the least reactive out of all of the ones you’ve ever worked with.

And you shouldn’t be showcasing such blatant favoritism, maybe, but Loomis never once disapproved of or reported your actions.

“You’re new, Miss Y/n, so you don’t know about Michael just yet, but if you remain careful I don’t see the problem with sweeping this giving him treats business under the rug so long as you do,” he’d said. “Might just do the boy some good, maybe you being closer in age and providing him with a more levelheaded peer presence could keep him on the level, hm?”

Loomis had smiled at you, almost warmly then. Let you shuffle off to freak out in private over how easily he’d clocked you. Michael had stepped in front of a plastic tray of food coming straight for you only two weeks into your psychiatric residency, though, the least you could do was thank him appropriately— and since you couldn’t very well take any physical blows for him, this was your compromise.

A little candy, a smidgen of advocacy.

Regardless…

“I hear he’s been in a mood since Loomis’s last visit after lunch,” Trudy says, voice just barely above a whisper that only carries to you in an echo from where she’s settled at the other end of the hall waiting for you.

Beside her, Matias finally steps forward from where he’s been leant against a shadowy corner on the same far wall as your fellow nurse— or, well you were an RN, but, whatever. For the first time since you’ve gotten over here the security guard is deigning to do his job, crossing the length of the hall to get to you since everyone knows Loomis signed off on you interacting with Michael and personally monitoring his medicine intake.

Sure, this was your fancy version of an internship, but all the nurses over you pushed for you to gain hands-on experience where you could, and this was no exception. Your head nurse would only shadow you twice before she was confident you had things relatively settled, and after that you’d just be lightly monitored.

Matias is meant to shadow both you and Nurse Trudy as you guys go from door to door, but he was an asshole and a bum, so more often than not you had to power through without the promise of his backup. Hell, you’re surprised he’s even stayed through for the entirety of dinner delivery today.

Biting back a cringe at Trudy’s words, you stare perhaps a little more apprehensively at the door, and the barely their shuffling you can hear from just behind it, than you had been before.

“Understood,” you mutter, nodding, and not a second later does Michael finally knock back.

None of their doors locked from the inside, but you liked to give them a few seconds of at least a semblance of privacy before you barged in. The count of three wasn’t a lot sure, but it was nice enough, and all you could reasonably give without the forewarning becoming a security risk.

Michael, however, as was becoming maybe a bit too common for you on the scarce days of the month you were assigned to work with him at all, you liked to give you explicit permission.

The man was big and quiet apart from his muteness and even as you swing the door open of your own volition, you have to take a step back as to not back peddle too harshly from where he’s towering at the very edge of the door frame.

Matias’s heat lights up your back in the way only the sun does when you’re really not in the mood for its shit during the summer, over warm and threatening to be nauseating, but you don’t pay him much attention outside of stepping aside so he can silently cuff Michael.

That fact, his lack of taunting or trying to work Michael up, is something you can appreciate even if the guard is decidedly unreliable.

Too many guards and orderlies liked to…poke at Michael — too many nurses liked to gossip about him like he was deaf too, and you’ve long since adopted Loomis’s wariness at the shift in Michael’s eyes whenever he was being antagonized. You never forgot about the hard won lesson that was his psychiatrist showing you the old security footage of Michael earning his ‘no metal utensils’ rule.

Matias stays by the door as Michael shuffles away from it. As the bigger, towering man takes a seat in his desk chair and levels you with his usual stare from behind the curtain of blonde hair obscuring his face.

“Good afternoon, Michael,” you chirp, taking care not to bring the cart in after yourself even with him restrained.

Michael looks at you, the weight of his stare physical enough to press against your lungs, but it’s near impossible to even hear him breathing. Bar the rise and fall of his broad shoulders you’d be well within your rights to think he wasn’t.

“I’ve got your meds,” you begin, the usual running commentary you liked to keep up when dealing with him tumbling past your lips unbidden, “and then I’ve got your dinner.”

With that said, you hold out two small paper cups: one with pills and one with water.

Air conditioning sluggishly pouring cool breeze into the room, Michael only stays paused for a few beats before reaching out to grab both items from your outstretched hands where you’ve stopped just within arms reach in front of him, his chains clinking with his movements.

A bigger part of you than was probably wise might’ve felt bad for the guy, but you were both invested in your own continued safety and under no delusion that the newly minted twenty-one year old did more than tolerate you slightly more than he did everyone else.

When he’s done, Michael stiffly hands everything back to you and you retreat back to the cart for his food.

Matias grumbles all the while about how you’re doing too much and how he’d’ve just tossed the shit on the ground.

Ignoring the guard, after glaring at him out of the corner of your eye, you pass where he’s leaning against the one bit of wall by the door not covered by Michael’s scarce personal belongings.

The room itself, decorated from roof to ceiling, wall to wall, with various paper masks of his own creation, is small but otherwise tidy.

His desk is full to the brim with cuts of paper and the usual glue mixture he uses for his paper mache endeavors. The wall behind it taped full with newspaper clippings that’ve caught his attention over the years. Hands, nicked from his youth, are probably likely sticky with the glue solution going off the structure of a full face mask with a wide grinning maw sitting atop his table.

The orange paper he voicelessly requested from you less than a handful of days prior is neatly tucked into a corner of the white wooden surface bolted to the floor. Awaiting its decorative application once he’s done with the mask’s frame, no doubt.

Michael lets you get around his bulk so you can put down his food for the afternoon. Keeps his distance even as he turns to track how you putter around, blue-grey eyes burning a hole into the side of your head.

“I know your parole hearing is today,” you talk, keeping your voice level while double checking you haven’t accidentally left anything with him you’re not supposed to. “It sucks that instead of giving you parole they want to move you.”

A scoff sounds from behind you. You ignore Matias and don’t roll your eyes how you want to because you’re an adult.

It wasn’t like your opinion meant shit on the matter anyway. The decision had practically already been made, they were just bringing Michael in after the five o’clock dinner time as a formality, really. Michael hadn’t committed any violent crimes since he was twelve, but they were sending him off to prison regardless. And Loomis had signed off on it.

Sure, you didn’t think Michael was in any condition to leave Smith’s Grove, not with how heavily he disassociated without being drugged till he couldn’t so much as lift his head, but making him do hard time for disassociating and killing his bully and abusive family nine years ago seemed far-fetched and like a disaster waiting to happen when his routine got shaken up and he was put in a penitentiary that wouldn’t remotely accommodate his needs.

To your credit, you don’t look back at Michael until your hand’s shoved into your pocket after you’ve put down his plastic spoon and a few napkins.

The man doesn’t so much as blink back at you, but his gaze does drop, zeroing in on your covered hand.

You stifle a snort.

“Alright, Michael,” you sigh. “You’ll probably be gone by the next time I’m in, but I’ll miss your silent, looming presence when you’re gone. And try not to cause too much trouble.” You smile at him, wane and fleeting. Hope he can read the sincerity in your expression. “Happy early Halloween,” you say next, a lot softer before slipping a hard candy or five and a few fisted fun sized chocolates under the brim of his styrofoam tray and the cover of a napkin.

In response the only reaction you get, if you could call it that, is a hitch in the rise and fall of his shoulders, but that’s all he gives.

The amusement on your face gets a little broader anyway.

“Christ,” Matias curses, and you suck in a sharp breath, caught up enough you’d nearly forgotten he was in the room.

Looking him over in his pristine white patient scrubs, his form statue-still, you curb the urge to ask Michael something banal like ‘how are you doing’ and step away from him, loafers tapping lightly against his scuffed floors.

“Are you fucking crazy?” The assigned guard hisses, grabbing you by the upper arm before you can even get partway through the room on your own. You stumble as he damn near drags you the rest of the way out. “Kid, I know you’re naive enough to get anywhere near the freak without a weapon, but don’t tell me you’re stupid too. Are you trying to set him off?”

“Set him off— Michael hasn’t had an incident in years! Loomis makes it a point to mention the date all the time during October to test his triggers.”

Okay, yeah, maybe you should exercise some more caution in general around the guy, but you’ve literally seen Loomis chat Michael up about the haunted holiday in a bid to get him talking and get nothing but a blink in response.

“This isn’t necessary,” you grunt, briefly glancing at him to glare.

“Yeah?” Matias snaps a scathing look your way, shoving you out the door before immediately following you through and shoving the keys on your key ring into your hand. “Well the Doc ain’t here, now is he?

When you look back into the room Michael’s standing stock still beneath the dim white lights, nearly halfway across the room, food untouched and eyes honed in on a spot just behind your back.

A hitch hiccups through your chest at the unexpected positioning, but you only meet the darkened gaze of one Michael Aubrey Myers for a split second, feel it suck you in and dry your insides out, before the metal of his door slams shut with a resounding thunk by your hand and your key is in the lock.

The guard somewhere at your back lets out a nasty curse, tongue lashing, and you’re so stuck on getting your heart to stop climbing up your throat you can’t even be irritated.

Heaving a shuttering breath, attempting to fortify yourself, you look up. Look up and meet the very gaze mere inches from your face through the little glass window that nearly swallowed you whole seconds prior. Meet it and feel your whole world tilt just as your wrist pivots and your key clicks with the sound of the locks engaging.

Your chest heaves. Your brown eyes widen and your lashes flutter.

“S-shit,” you gasp, breathless, and nearly trip into the cart next to you when you stumble backward.

Slowly, you watch Michael’s dilated, nearly pitch black eyes shift past you.

Watch them land on their target and hold, and would bet a good amount of your paycheck that his fists are trembling behind the door.

Matias makes a strangled sound, and is standing just to your left, hand clamped tight around the hilt of his baton when you turn around. All the color drained from his face and turning his complexion ashen in a way you wouldn't be surprised currently mirrors your own.

Okay.

Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything for real, because you’ve never seen Michael move that fast. Not even when he’d seemingly materialized from the shadows on your first day and taken a tray full of food to the chest so it wouldn’t hit you square in the face.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter to the tiny window, lips numb and heart rioting, the feeling in your stomach less unpleasant than it should be. Grabbing the cart, you give him a handful of glances while he stares Matias down.

Shame lashes a violent path up your chest and sends overwhelming warmth clashing through your blood. Something more dangerous brushes gently alongside it.

─────

October 31st

In the end Michael follows his mother.

After a jolt that finally set him back into motion. A broken shard and a man’s throat giving way beneath his palm that made him feel more whole.

Follows his mother and her flowing white dress and the white horse at her side into the light.

Has no choice but to be spurred on by the pain thrumming through his body. Multiple pinpricks peppering down his front from that cop and his shiny metal weapon.

Silent, his jaw works. Memories batter for entrance into his thoughts. Make his head throb lowly.

Hands clench tight enough they start up a small tremble at his sides.

He misses the weight of the knife he’d taken in his hand.

He’d find another one.

Ambulances were ear splittingly loud up close. A fact he only remembers duly. Memories burrow deep, and only come up in disjointed spurts despite the vivid picture his first string of kills still run through his mind in.

Michael remembers the armada of fire. The sizzling, all consuming pain of bullet after bullet tearing through him, and then…

…nothing.

A blank, all consuming anger.

He was nothing, and that was nothing new.

Memories still fizzle like pop rocks — ones you’d snuck him once, the ones from his candy pale on That Night — of what happened before the bullets and tearing of skin.

Before his undoing; if he were going to put this still gnawing feeling in the cavern of his chest into the kind of fancy word Loomis would sprout.

He remembers his sister. Of finding Boo. Not remembering how to stop her crying like he used to.

Pain.

His stolen knife through his neck, maybe.

Then.

The anger.

Michael remembers the anger. The rage that took him over and was always teeming at the edge of him, waiting for unrestrained release.

Angel didn’t want him. Had hurt him too.

He’d run at her with barely a thought after chasing her through their old home. After she and Loomis had tricked him, gotten him to let go of the last of his family only to let him get shot for the trouble. Every too easy to rip off and crumble floor board and strip of ceiling once he’d retreated back into the house had stoked his fire.

Every word out of Loomis’s mouth was a lie. Michael lets the sound, the blood pouring sight, of the old man’s head giving and starting to cave in beneath the pressure from his hands replay in his mind.

Grunts out of something that might be satisfaction.

The trembling in his fists jars his wrists.

A howl builds in his chest. Stays trapped behind clenched teeth.

Michael drags up the place he retreats to in his mind as he walks away from the crash, his belly full with raw beef and slick warm blood. The mask that still remains on his head cool to the touch.

Recalls flashes of monochromatic memories and mischievous disimbodied giggles while he’d been confined by thin plastic.

Searchingly, he goes there now.

Forgets about his legs, about Angel hurting him, about Loomis. Lets his feet carry him on autopilot, and travels toward the fading after effects of his mother’s voice.

Forward, he walks. On and on.

Sees those neverending white walls he retreats to close in around him and the pumpkin-headed court he'd thought up at twelve. Occasionally, when his head is too active he finds them and their bloody antics to capture his attention instead.

Bishop Trick settles into his seat at a grand, decorated table, silver platters and ornate goblets and candle operas with lit candles all around.

Everything he sees is in black and white. Snow falling and the air twinkling.

From the head of the table the scepter King Jack holds waves around, gesturing in a manner Michael finds vaguely amusing, to the form that takes up most of the space on the table. He’s surrounded by his Lord Treat as well, all their similarly cherubic faces trapped inside their pumpkin heads marred with expressions that say they’re up to no good.

Finally, Michael lets his metaphysical gaze pan to where the king had gestured.

To you.

Feels the pressure on his knuckles loosen some. Curled fingers going lax.

Legs crossed and bent at the knees beside you, your body propped up by your arm as you lay amongst a bed of flowers and leaves over the table cloth eating whatever odd assortment on the plates before you.

It’s you, your hair longer and tight, springy curls fuller, but the woman laid out like a goddess on King Jack’s table is the one nurse he’s ever attached to.

Snow flakes fall onto your dark skin and melt. Land onto your hair and nestle like diamonds amongst the coils.

The smile you give him is familiar when you turn to look over your shoulder at him. The silver glint on your wrist beneath your frilly sleeves and the chain running from it and attaching you to the table is an affirmation that settles in his bones.

Gait shifting, memories surface of the trashed file room he’d left behind at Smith’s Grove and the words he’d memorized drag up, and he starts heading in the appropriate direction to find your address.

In the end, he leads himself back to you.

TBC…

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!!🎃🔪

I used a combination of the theatrical cut and the workprint versions of the movie (alongside trying to send Michael to jail from the original) for the timeline here, just amalgamated them together and made a few of my own changes. And Michael is twenty-one here because I forgot he was older than in the original and it was too late to change.

I started writing the majority of this fic before watching part two — and have only added small bits of plot info and details of Michael’s increased emotional state and general mental state after the events of the first movie — and by the time the final half of the movie started all the good will it gained from how much I loved part one, that it’d been steadily losing as part two went on, completely fled the scene. Did not like the supernatural ghost/shared hallucination angle, or the entire climax really. Annie’s death was sad, and I really loved the exploration of everyone's mental health post Michael’s big attack though— anyway. Also, I was vibing so hard with Harley in the van that when Michael burst in to kill her that was one of the few times I jumped hard as hell.

When I’m not bending canon I think RZ!Michael would just kill you. It’d be more drawn out and intimate like it tends to be when he’s formed a “connection” with somebody, but maybe he’ll pose your body somewhere comfortable at the end and we’ll call that a manifestation of some fondness. Or, honestly, as long as you don’t try to keep him locked up or outright reject him you might be tentatively fine— might.

Also, because of me wanting both Michael and the reader-insert to be closer in age, she’s gone through her first four years of college and is now in her first year past that in her residency, and I think that works age-wise. Question her professionalism all you want, I didn’t know wtf I was doing there, so whatever.

And as someone who doesn’t mind the lack of mythologizing Michael and what rules him — ultimately humanizing him — in Rob Zombie’s reboot, I really like how differently RZ!Michael reads when compared to any version of OG!Michael. They’re very similar, but where they diverge is distinct and I’ve had a good time since watching the 2007 movie unpacking RZ!Michael as best I can. All this to say it’s really fun for me that the versions are so different from one another and, as such, cause me to write them incredibly differently from each other and play around with different ways they’d work— especially in a reader-insert fanfiction sense.

Anyway, bye!!!🫶🏾

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

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