"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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The screaming is what stopped you.

Normally, Summerhall is a quiet place. The most sound comes from the wind whistling through the windows, and even then it's only a slight breeze. The air lingers with the scent of fresh spring grass most of the time, and the halls are usually empty save for the royals present, and the occasional servant. That is to say, Summerhall is generally peaceful.

So, of course when you heard screaming as you were making your final rounds for the night, you would have stopped and wondered what exactly, the fuck, it was about.

Your first glance around the hall you were in told you that you were the only servant in the vicinity, it being the hour of the eel— which was great for you, being a woman, and unarmed, but it was also generally par for the course. The second glance told you that the screaming was coming from Prince Daeron's chambers.

Prince Daeron. He has always been something of an enigma to you. Daeron the Drunken, they call him, and perhaps it's true. You see him drunk more often than not, but still there's something about him that strikes you as less… princely, than the others. A way of being that is more in tune with the common folk. He thanks the servants. He treats almost everyone with respect and frankness, when he's sober enough to do so. He carries himself like a man who was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and it sets him apart from the rest of his family.

But he's also absolute shit at fighting. You had the opportunity to see him compete in the lists at a tourney at one point, and he spent most of it face down in the mud, and the rest in the infirmary. So, if something was happening to make the Prince scream that badly…

And you were running. Down the hall, up the stairs to the Prince's chambers, without stopping to call for help or to think why, in the name of the suffering Seven, you were willing to jump directly into the fray for a Prince who probably didn't even know you existed.

Because you have a soft spot for him. That is the reason, the one you would never admit to anyone out loud. You like his laugh. You like his witty jokes during feasts where the only thing you usually have to occupy you is how bad your feet hurt. You like the way he grins when he notices that you've laughed at them, and the twinkle of his pale eyes when he does. And you like how, any time he has ever spoken to you, he didn't make you feel like you were beneath him.

That is the unspoken reason for why you threw yourself into his chambers without checking to see if there's an unknown attacker on the loose. Stupidity is what some might call that. Others, loyalty.

When you come into his chambers, it's mostly dark. You struggle to see from the light of the one or two candles left burning in their stands. But as you squint, you can make out the shapes of furniture, the far end of the room, the end of the bed, and eventually, him.

Prince Daeron Targaryen is alone in his bed. He's tangled in the sheets, and even in the low candle and moonlight you can still make out the sheen of sweat across his arms and shoulders, dampening his hair.

There is no intruder. He's having a nightmare.

You stand in the light cast by the open doorway, and you wring your hands as you consider what you should do. It's entirely unbecoming of a woman, servant or no, to be tending to the Prince alone— but then, Prince Daeron lets out an unholy shout in his sleep that could rattle the windows, and you instinctively jump to close the heavy wooden door behind you.

Great. If anyone were to come now, they'd think you're attacking him. The thought crosses your mind as you pad towards his bed, but you dismiss it as soon as it arrives. You can't just leave him like this, battling something unseen in his mind, bad enough to make him scream the way he's doing.

You mean to gently rouse him, of course. Or, as well as you can manage— but that idea is quickly squashed when, as soon as you're within reach of him, his arm shoots out and nearly comes down against your head.

You catch it reflexively. It wasn't a forceful throw, but it's enough to require your full strength as you catch his forearm in your two hands. He jerks his elbow, seeming to fight the hands he feels around his muscle.

"Prince Daeron," you hiss, grunting as he jerks in your grip. Your fingers dig in, halting his movements. "Daeron. Wake up."

A horrified gasp. Somewhere in the darkness is an intake of breath so sharp that it seems to tear directly through his lungs. Then, the struggle against you just… stops.

And suddenly, Prince Daeron is sitting up before you, his arm still in your hands, his eyes shining in the dim ambient light.

"Oh…" he breathes, once he comes back to himself. His awareness returns slowly; you imagine it may be due to whatever wine he drank, which clings to him and gives scent to the sweat on his brow.

Daeron's eyes eventually find yours, wide and fearful, and you can see the wheels turning in his head as he struggles to comprehend the situation. His gaze casts wildly from your face, to the sheets he's tangled in, his sweat-soaked shirt, and his arm as you grip it tightly, frozen in midair.

"Oh—" he says again, this time choked off on the end. "I'm sorry, I— did I…?"

"It's all right," you tell him immediately, without thinking. You don't seem to be doing much of it, tonight.

"I'm sorry," Daeron repeats, and his voice cracks. The sound hits painfully somewhere in your chest, somewhere tender and unsuitable for being touched by a prince. But he's still whispering it, over and over like a chant, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," and he pries his arm out of your grip only to hastily gather you into his arms and pull you to him by the waist.

You freeze. Your arms suspended in midair, without a place to go or purchase to be made, hover just above his shoulders as he plants his head against your chest. He squeezes you the way a child might squeeze a stuffed toy, for comfort, for soothing, and you… you don't actually know what to do.

You have a prince hugging you. His ear to your pounding heart, his hand pressed to your spine to keep you there. What are you supposed to do, in this situation?

Deciding that there is no way, in any book written by Maester or common folk, that there are directions for a moment such as this. So, you don't spend the time pondering any. You lower your arms and cradle him around the shoulders, laying a palm flat against the back of Daeron's head as he clings to you.

Daeron takes a deep, stuttering breath that shakes in his shoulders, and you realize after a moment that he's crying. You hold him tighter for it. You bend your head down over his like you can shield him from the weight of his torment with your own body, somehow.

He's still muttering apologies, muffled by your bodice against his mouth. It ignites a part of you that is overly protective, monstrous in its capacity to defend that which it holds dear. It's all teeth and claws and snarling ferocity against any percieved threat.

Your hand smoothes his hair away from his temple, ignoring the stringiness of it as he presses his face to your breast, his hands clinging to your back like he can become a part of you if he just gets close enough. "Shh. You did nothing wrong."

"I almost hit you."

"But you didn't." He shakes in your arms. You pet his head. "You didn't."

Even so, he doesn't loosen his grip. He holds you to him like you're something precious that he doesn't want to lose, presses close to you at the edge of the bed with a desperation that you've never quite experienced before. You can't figure out what to do with it, so instead you do what you know to— soothe.

"It was only a nightmare," you tell him quietly, raking your fingers through his hair. Daeron's shallow breath whistles through his teeth as you do, and you let your nails scratch lightly over his scalp. He shudders. "You know what my mother used to tell me about nightmares? Once you're awake, they're gone. They can't bother you anymore."

"Not mine," he argues. Fingers dig into your back, holding you like an anchor. "Mine are real. Mine hurt. Blood, and— and ash. Rivers of fire. Monsters."

"There are no monsters here," you assure him quietly. "Just me."

Daeron makes a small noise, his hand moving to hold the curve of your hip. With one arm still around your waist, he lifts his head from your chest to look up at you. "I'm glad it's you."

Your hand still cradles his head as he peers at you through the darkness, the light of the moon reflected in his eyes. You brush his hair away from his face as you gaze down at him, tear streaked cheeks and trembling lips and all, and feel like you want to burst into flames from the look of sheer reverence on his face.

"Me?" Your brows tilt in confusion, while you still idly twist his hair around your fingers.

Daeron nods. You don't know if it's the drink still working on him, or just the emotion of the moment, but he quietly admits, "I like it, when you're near me."

You're at a loss for how to answer him. You hold your prince's face in your hands like a lover, and it scares you how much you want him to be. You're horrified by how badly you want to bend down and kiss him, to soothe away his pain with soft touches and slow hands. It worries you, almost moreso, that he would probably let you.

He makes no move to let you go, but you have to. Before you do something that you'll both regret.

You pull back slightly, and he slowly releases you, although you can feel the tension in his hands like he wants to pull you back in. You have to put distance between you, to ensure that he doesn't, and that you won't go like a moth to a flame. Instead, you step across to the small vanity by the wall and pour him a glass of water. You can feel his eyes on you through the dark, but you refuse to turn and meet them with your own.

He takes the glass readily enough, but pauses when he realizes that it isn't wine. He lets the cup hover below his lips with a rueful look on his face.

"Drink it," you dare to order him, momentarily feeling the rush of adrenaline that comes from ordering a man above your station.

Daeron shoots you a defiant look, but does what you tell him. He drains the cup, one eye on you all the while, and when he hands the empty cup back to you, it's with a low mutter of thanks.

"Good," you say quietly, taking the cup to return it to the vanity.

"Will you stay?" Daeron asks when you turn back towards him. He looks sheepish, fisting his hands in the tangled bedsheets. "Would you… stay with me tonight? I can't— I don't want to be alone."

You hesitate. Why do you hesitate? You're torn between a desire to say yes and curl yourself around him like smoke, and refusing him outright. It would be improper for you to stay with him in any capacity; it could mean your removal from Summerhall, and a world of trouble for you should you need to find a new employer.

Still, you clasp your hands and take a step towards his bed. "Is that wise, my lord?"

Daeron blinks. He breathes out a long, defeated sigh. "Probably not."

You nod, and examine him now that your eyes have truly adjusted. The dark rings under his eyes, the dappling of sweat on his shoulder where his shirt has shifted to the side and slipped off.

"I can't stay with you all night, my lord. It wouldn't be appropriate for either of us," you tell him honestly, and the words feel sour in your mouth. Daeron watches you with a mixture of apprehension and hope as you approach the bed and stop just when your skirts brush the mattress. "But… I could stay, at least until you fall back asleep. If you'd like."

"I can't see how I'll get any sleep, now," he croaks, fiddling with the sheets and disentangling his legs.

"The night is still young," you tell him softly. "Just try."

He glances at you as you straighten his pillow for him. "If I start to— if I have fits again…"

"I'll wake you."

"I was going to tell you to fetch a guard," he objects, his expression earnest. "You can't catch my arm every time. I'd hate to… I don't want to hurt you."

You smile, and even you can feel the warmth of it. "As you like it, my lord."

Daeron stares at you for a moment, looking as though he wants to say something else. Ultimately, he seems to think better of it, and he settles back against the pillow. He seems to stare unblinkingly up at the canopy over his bed for a moment before he blows out a puff of air and says, "I don't particularly want to go back to sleep, you know."

You grunt noncommittally, perching yourself on the edge of his mattress. "You look tired," you say, passing a gentle finger over one of the dark rings beneath his eye. The touch is unnecessary and indulgent— something you could easily lose a hand for, in the wrong company.

Daeron is not the wrong company. Daeron lifts his own hand and captures yours, then presses his lips to your knuckles in lieu of saying anything else. It conveys what he wants. His thanks. His trust. The emotional weight of the evening, at least somewhat eased by your presence.

"Sleep," you chance to order him again, and like before, he listens.

With his eyes closed, and half asleep already, he murmurs, "I hope I dream of you." It causes an ache in your chest that you can't, or won't, explain for.

You don't know if he does. Once his breathing slows, and he doesn't rouse when you drop his hand, you leave his chambers without looking back.

Prince Daeron is standing in the wine cellar.

You watch him for a long time. Mostly because it's the first time you've ever seen one of the royals in the servants' area of the castle, but also because he seems to not realize that you are standing there even with your shadow blocking the doorway, because as soon as you'd seen the mess of honey-gold hair on his head and made the purposeful decision to just… look.

Because you've never really allowed yourself to, before. You regard the nobles the way you are expected to, as a servant— deferrent, but only in cursory glances. You don't stare. You make eye contact when spoken directly to, and otherwise keep your eyes downcast, curtsy when necessary, jump to attention when directed to. You are not supposed to gaze openly, staring like you are now.

You tilt your head, eyes raking up and down his frame like you can consume the entirety of his appearance all at once and keep it forever if you try hard enough. His hair is clean, likely neatly combed earlier in the day but now falling around his face in unruly, thick waves. His doublet is red velvet, and the hint of white of his shirt presses out at the collar like a flash of light. He looks much better than he did the last time you saw him this close— less sickly, more composed. Maybe he's already had a drink or two, but it's hard to tell with him.

Since the other night, you haven't known what to think. You haven't necessarily avoided the prince, but neither have you sought him out. You figured he probably doesn't remember anything that transpired between you in the dark of his chambers. You didn't want to sift through the memory and try to figure out why, exactly, you kept coming back to the feeling of his arms around your waist, his head on your chest, his lips on your knuckles.

Daeron does not strike you as being a prince. He reminds you, oddly, of the few men you've been intimate with— pretty smiles and fumbling hands, tipsy in dimly lit taverns and inns. Once, regrettably, over a barrel in the back alley behind a pot shop. Watching Daeron swaying a little in the wine cellar of Summerhall, you feel your eyes shift to the wine cask beyond his shoulder.

That's dangerous, you tell yourself sharply before turning your attention back to the present, back to him. One of the noble lords of the house you serve, still unaware that you're leering at him like a pervert.

"Your grace?" you finally chance to say, softly.

"Mm?" Daeron is distracted. He doesn't turn around. You don't think he even realizes that you are a person standing in the room, and not just a voice inside his head.

"Prince Daeron." You say it a little louder this time, trying to rouse his attention.

Daeron starts, turning to look at you. His feet are still rooted in place, but he pivots at the waist to peer at you over his shoulder. He looks at you for a long— very long— moment. His eyes travel up and down your body a few times, before he finds his voice. He raises his eyebrows, shooting you a sardonic look. "…Ye-es?"

In response you offer him a small, polite smile. "Can I help you with anything, my lord?"

Daeron blinks, seeming to think over your words carefully. Then, he squints, his focus shifting as though he's only just remembered why he came down here. "I can't seem to find the Arbor Gold."

Your smile turns into something more fond. "The Arbors are kept at the far end."

"Right." He looks down that way, but doesn't move further into the cellar. After a pause, he confesses, "I haven't been down here, myself, in ages. I never had to. Always had someone else to do it for me."

You consider his words for a moment. "Was there no one to serve you tonight?"

"I didn't want to be a burden." He waves his hand as though it's nothing worth giving more thought, but it doesn't stop you from frowning. "Gods. It seemed so much bigger down here when I was a lad. Always does, though, doesn't it?"

When he smiles at you like you're sharing an inside joke, you find yourself smiling at him, too. After a moment, you offer, "Would you like me to bring some Arbor Gold to your chambers, my lord?"

Daeron opens and closes his mouth once, his eyes roving across the casks before he nods, chuckling. "Probably would be for the best."

You wipe your hands on the front of your kirtle and move to fetch a pitcher from the hooks on the wall, when you hear him cough.

"Would you…?"

You turn to gaze at him again, finding him apprehensive. It's an odd thing to have a Prince all but shrinking before you, as though he is afraid of overstepping, somehow. But the look leaves him almost as soon as it arrives, and he straightens his spine somewhat. He raises his chin a tick, clasps his hands behind his back in an almost funny impression of his father.

"Would you care to join me?"

"My lord?" You raise an eyebrow, half-sure you misheard him, and half-surprised that you didn't.

"For wine," he adds, as though that wasn't clear. He gestures vaguely at the casks. "As long as I'm pulling you away from your duties, and you're indulging me. Perhaps you could join me for a cup."

You blink. Look for some kind of jest or trick in his features, and find none. Daeron is an open book, his eyes wide and pale as a field of lavender in spring. His cheeks are flushed, and for the first time you wonder if it's entirely due to the drink.

After a long pause, you tilt your head. Kindly, you ask, "Is that wise, my lord?"

"Probably not."

You stare at each other— you, with your hand on the pitcher, half turned towards him. He, with his hands clasped behind his back, his weight shifting from foot to foot. And then, his eyes rake once over your body, a slow and deliberate up and down that sends a shiver through you. It is not a trick of the light. It is something very much like what you had been doing, secretly, to him.

Or, perhaps not so secretly. When his eyes find yours again Daeron's are open and inviting, sharing a look of knowing. He knows, somehow, the way you'd been staring at him— have been, for a while, when you thought he was entirely unaware. You're not in the exact frame of mind to question why or how that is. If the stories you've been told if the Targaryens are anything to go by, the prince might very well have eyes in the back of his head.

Of course, you've never been known for your grand ideas. You like his smile a bit too much when you say, "Give me ten minutes."

Fuck, he's pretty.

That's the first thing you think when you step into Prince Daeron's chambers with a light rap on the door, before foregoing propriety and just letting yourself in. You figure, if any of this were proper, he would have asked his own cupbearer, wherever the boy went, to bring him the wine. He would not have invited you to share it with him. And you would certainly not have accepted, and Daeron wouldn't have positively bounded out of the wine cellar like a knight before a joust, and you would not have secretly stolen to your own quarters for a quick once over at your mirror.

And, of course, he wouldn't be sitting there in his shirtsleeves, his doublet undone, his blouse open at the collar like something from a painting. He's so fucking pretty. Does he know? It's hard to tell, with him— Daeron's pattern of behavior makes him hard to pin down. It could be that he knows how handsome he is, but he carries himself through the shadows like he'd rather sink into them. You don't know him to be one of the princes who has ladies throwing themselves at him, so perhaps he assumes that means he isn't attractive, and that he must take his pleasure where he can get it.

If that's true, it's a shame. You were told once, by another maid who had been employed at Summerhall for longer than you've been alive, that Prince Daeron takes after his mother— that's why he doesn't have the same pale Targaryen coloring as his siblings. And you imagine that must be true, because although you never saw Lady Dyanna in life, it's obvious that he doesn't bear the same severity in his features as that of his father, Prince Maekar.

Daeron's features are softer, gentler. His honey-gold hair shines like sunlight by the fire, his lilac eyes catching the light and turning almost silver. Rosy lips and cheeks, a dimple in one of them when he smiles. His legs look strong and his arms muscular, as much as one might expect from a Prince, but less so than one who might spend all his time training. You remember, with a sharp surge of warmth at the base of your spine, the feeling of his arms as they squeezed you around the waist.

He is not a warrior. Something tells you he is not a poet, either— so that begs the question, what is he?

"Are you going to stare at me all night?"

Daeron turns his eyes to you, and there's a flash of that dimple in his cheek, his lips turned up at the corners humorously.

You avert your eyes almost instinctively, but cannot suppress your own small smile. "Apologies, your grace."

"Bah." He throws out an arm, making a grabbing gesture towards you as if to will the wine pitcher directly into his outstretched hand. As you approach and hand him a goblet, he mutters good-naturedly, "If I were really so concerned about it, I wouldn't have invited you into my chambers. Who knows what might happen?"

You bite back a smirk as you fill his cup. "Do you think I would take advantage of you?"

"Why, of course," he says with mock-surprise. "Me, a poor drunken Prince all alone, and you, a devastatingly handsome girl with a keen eye. My honor is likely forfeit."

A loud blast of laughter leaves you, such that it makes Daeron give you a startled look. Then delight sweeps across his features, and he laughs to himself as he takes the pitcher from you and fills your own cup.

"Do you mean to tell me that you're chaste, my lord?" You bite your lip slightly at the jab, lowering yourself into the chair across from him when he gestures to it. "Taken up the black, have you?"

"Me? Never." Daeron lifts his wine and takes a sip, though looks entirely bemused as he does so. "I'm not disciplined enough, and I fear Summerhall would miss the soul of my wit. Although, I imagine the thought has crossed my father's mind once or twice." His eyes flick over your form, focusing in on the cup that you grasp in your hands. "Drink, my lady. Before it goes warm."

The finery of the moment gives you pause— you don't believe you've ever sat in a chair this opulent, much less drank Arbor wine out of a silver goblet while making banter with a prince. It seems that the night is full of wonders.

"I'm not a lady, your grace," you remind him softly, lowering your eyes as you lift your cup.

Daeron in quiet for a moment, watching you thoughtfully. His lilac eyes linger on your lips as they touch the rim of your cup, and then he says, "All women are ladies. All men are knights."

"All men are fools," you add, feeling the sharpness of the wine at the back of your throat.

"True enough," Daeron agrees. "But it makes the other statements no less true."

"Well," you say, chewing on your lip as you look up at him through your lashes. He watches you with a calm, comfortable expression, as though you are just another person he might have met at an inn, or a tavern. Amicable. Gentle. "That's kind of you, my lord."

Daeron smirks into his cup. "That's a first."

"What is?"

"Kind is not something anyone would usually call me," Daeron remarks. "Certainly not to my face, at least."

"No one's ever… called you kind?" You tilt your head. "What of your friends?"

"Friends?" Daeron laughs. He throws his head back slightly, as though the mere notion is hilarious to him, but there's a sadness to it that grips at your heart and squeezes painfully. When he looks at you again, he shakes his head and gives you a rueful smile. "I don't have any friends."

You pause, wracking your brain. "But… You have five siblings."

"Siblings are not the same as friends." He tilts his head towards you, looking at you with a sort of deadpan humor that you're sure is intended to make you feel more at ease. "If they were, I imagine most families would be better off."

You consider the idea, and then make a face. "I suppose that's a fair assessment. You're quite right."

"Thank you. I've been saying so for the longest time, and no one ever believes me." He toasts you with a grin. It splits his face wide and makes him seem so boyish and sweet that you have to look quickly away.

"You know…" You hum, sipping at your wine demurely. You try to train your expression into something neutral— perfunctory, even— as you say, "I could be your friend, my lord."

Daeron is quiet for a moment too long, and you glance up to find him staring into the fire distantly. Then, he echoes, "Friend."

"Mhm." You take another sip of wine and wonder, absently, if perhaps there's something in it to make it double strength. There's no other reason you can think of for why you'd be so forward with a prince, but that you like him, and that he's been kind to you thus far.

Then, quite to your relief and also to your dismay, Prince Daeron shifts and takes a long breath through his nose. He says, so soft that it's almost as though you weren't meant to hear it, "It would be nice… to have a friend."

You hide your nervous smile with the rim of your cup.

Daeron clears his throat, and then looks up at you. He crosses one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee as though he's talking business late at night in front of a tavern fire. "And you would be my friend? Take up the mantle and… what, exactly?"

"It's not like being a sworn sword, your grace," you snort derisively. The wine has made you bold. Daeron seems to like it.

He gives you a lopsided grin. "No? What do friends do, then?" He rests his chin on his hand, his elbow on the arm of his chair as he slouches toward you like a sunflower turning towards the light. "Do tell me, since I have no earthly idea."

"Well," you begin, casting your gaze towards the fire. You feel suddenly shy with his eyes upon you, as though you can feel the intensity of his gaze directly through your bodice. Your heart leaps up into your throat. "Friends… they look out for each other."

"Mm?"

"Take care of each other, I mean."

"Mm." The tone changes to something suggestive. "Take care of each other how?"

Your face is burning— is it from the wine? The fire? You can't tell anymore. "Well, I— I suppose, with whatever the other needs. A helping hand. Companionship. Someone to talk to, or to be still with, or—"

"Or to hold?"

Oh, gods. That's your first thought when you look at him, and he's still staring at you, unwavering in his focus. Slowly blinking as though he's enraptured by you and has no intentention of looking away, even if he spends the rest of the night with his eyes still set upon you.

His arms around your waist. His ear pressed over your beating heart. His eyes peering up at you in the darkness, begging you to stay. His lips pressed to your knuckles. 'I hope I dream of you.' You let him, and you let him, and you let him.

"Yes, I suppose. In some cases." You nod, mostly to yourself, and then take a swig of the wine so large that you feel it stretch your esophagus on the way down.

Still watching you with a serene smile on his face, he says, "Then, I'd like to be your friend."

You swallow past the thickness in your throat, and return with a wobbly smile of your own. "Thank you, my lord."

He makes a short noise. "You should probably call me 'Daeron' when we're alone." Then amends with a wink, "Since we're friends."

"Right." Then, when he raises an eyebrow, you add, "…Daeron."

His responding smile is softer around the edges than the others, and holds something tenderly in it that, you think, he doesn't exactly want you to see. It's held to his chest like a secret.

Now is your turn to watch him the way he's been watching you— fully, unabashed, no attempt to hide the open hunger on your face. He's distracted by the fire, by his cups, and by the ring that he twists on his forefinger with his thumb. You watch the movement and feel, like a hot coal sinking down the line of your spine and between your legs, the arousal that you'd been trying so desperately to push away in the wine cellar.

"You know—" you say sharply, so suddenly that you see Daeron blink in suprise. He shoots you a curious look when you continue, hoarsely, "Friends do… other things, too."

"Is that so?" He gives you a once-over with an expression like he knows exactly what you mean, but feels like indulging you, anyway. "Like what?"

"Like…" You try to think of the best way to say what you're thinking.

Friends can fuck. Friends can do unspeakable things to each other an then carry on like nothing in the world ever happened.

Instead you say, "Favors."

"Favors?" Daeron parrots, refilling his goblet. "What kind of favors?"

You don't say anything. You don't have it in you to voice it— you've never seduced anyone before. You're not used to the talking, more the doing. You're very good at the doing, or so you've been told. But you don't have the words, and so you just… look.

The same way you've been doing all night, but this time without waiting for him to look away. His eyes are fixed on you as you take a long, lecherous, languid assessment of his body. Starting from his pale eyes, and traveling down to his lips, along the line of his throat to where his chest is laid bare from his open collar— the collar he loosened, on purpose, before you came in. Down further, to his hands holding the goblet aloft. Beautiful hands, hands that tremble a bit from the drink, but whose fingers are long and laced with veins that run down the back of his palm. Down, to the space between his legs where he's already made a tent in his breeches.

"Ah," he murmurs, more a breath than anything, but it's enough for you to snap your eyes back up towards his own. "Those kind of favors." He smirks, then quirks a brow and cocks his head. "Do you go to bed with all your friends?"

"Only the pretty ones."

That makes him laugh. Loudly, fully. It splits through the air like a bell, settling around your shoulders like hands squeezing you. Then, he sets his goblet down on the low table between you, and points at your cup. "Do you want more wine?"

You look down at your near empty goblet. "Sure. Why not."

Of course, you expect him to simply pick the pitcher up and refill your goblet, like a normal person. And you certainly imagine that you will both continue hedging about your desire to fuck each other, until one of you inevitably topples onto the bed in your wine-drunk stupor and the other follows with soft giggles and wandering hands. That's the basic script you've learned, by now, to follow when it comes to drunken dalliances. Except, Prince Daeron isn't a normal man, and your first mistake was expecting that he would act accordingly.

You don't expect him to crawl towards you on all fours. He lowers himself from his chair and approaches you like a dog looking for an affectionate hand, and you think your heart stops and starts nearly five times between his chair and yours. He gazes up at you with wide, almost innocent eyes— almost— and settles on his knees to take the goblet gently from your hand.

If you weren't frozen in shock, you might have realized that he would have liked it if, in that moment, you reached forward and stroked his head. But you would not be so presumptuous.

Daeron, for that matter, is. You hate him for it as much as you like him for it, or at least that's what you tell yourself. Daeron fills your goblet, but instead of simply handing it back to you, he holds it as he raises himself up on his knees until he's nearly towering over you. He's still so tall, even on his knees before you, and you have to suppress a sigh when one hand comes up and gently cups your chin, his fingers warm where they touch your skin. One thumb tracing the plush of your lower lip, but without deigning to press in.

"Open," Daeron says, his voice soft enough that you don't question it.

You part your lips and let him feel a flash of wetness on your inner lip with his thumb, the rough edge of your teeth. He waits there for a second, feeling. And then he raises your goblet to his own mouth and takes a small sip.

You gasp, more out of surprise than anything else, when he leans forward and his lips replace his thumb. Your chin tilted up, his face hovers just a fraction of an inch from yours before closing that gap, and he lets the wine flow from his mouth into yours. It spills sweet and warm from his tongue onto your own, and you find yourself instinctively grasping onto his arms for something stable to keep yourself upright.

You swallow. Daeron makes a pleased noise when he feels it, his thumb gliding along the curve of your chin.

"Gods," you mutter after a moment, your face still so close to his that you can see every detail in his lilac irises— where the blue turns into pale purple, where midnight blue flecks the inner ring.

Daeron cracks an almost victorious grin, but only for a second. Then, he squints. "Are we still friends?"

"Only if you intend to greet me that way every time you see me," you tell him. You thought yourself so stunned that you couldn't speak, but it seems the words come just as easily when you have no brain in your head to form them.

"Good," he answers brightly. Then, he gives you one of his looks of faux-severity, which never quite seems to land right on his features. "Then, perhaps we can be honest, and stop acting like we don't want to eat each other alive."

You snicker, turning your hands to fists against the sleeves of his shirt. "Your fault for half undressing yourself before I came here."

"You've been undressing me in your head the whole time, anyways," Daeron argues petulently, and when you open your mouth to object, he presses his finger to your lips. "Don't lie, your face betrays you every time."

You grumble a half-hearted assent, just before nipping lightly at his fingertip with your teeth. Daeron makes a little noise and jerks his hand away, just before echoing your giggle with one of his own and smoothing your hair away from your face.

"You're so lovely," Daeron admits to you after a moment. His hand still gently cradles your chin, but he looks down the slope of his nose at you with something wistful in his eyes. "I didn't thank you properly, the other night." He sits back heavily on his heels, hands folded against his thighs, eyes shining up at you. His neck— fuck, his neck— long and lean and exposed from where he tilts his chin up to look at you. "Let me atone for my transgressions."

"You don't have to— my prince," you gasp when his fingers wrap around your ankle and he draws your skirts upwards. The fabric whispers against your skin without much more urging.

"I'm not a prince," he says quietly, his eyes focused on your face. "Not with you."

You give him an incredulous look. His hand smoothes up your calf, and you practically swallow the squeal that threatens to break from your throat. "Because we're friends?"

"Yes." He's not teasing, or joking. His expression is as genuine and earnest as you've ever seen it, his hand tightening on your calf. "Will you let me thank you properly? Or am I to sit there simpering like a fucking imbecile all night?"

You bite back a snort, your hand momentarily flying to your lips before you give him a sidelong glance. He's still waiting for your approval, you realize.

"If I told you to go and sit there like an imbecile, you would?" you ask him, more out of curiosity than anything.

"Yes." It is, again, without question. He doesn't have it in him to be anything but forthcoming, apparently.

You believe him. You reach forward and stroke his head, once, just to remind yourself that he's real, and not a figment of your imagination. "It would be very indecent, you know."

"Yes, very." He blinks at you. He isn't deterred in the slightest. Amused, even, as his lips curl into a wan smile.

You can't help but mirror it. "Do as you like, my lord."

The grin he gives you is pure, selfish indulgence. He raises your calf and presses a kiss just below your knee— a chaste thing, nothing out of the ordinary, except that it's him and it's your knee. Your heart beats in your chest loud as thunder as he drags his lips upwards, over the curve of your knee, past the shelter of your skirts.

"Daeron," you hiss suddenly, gripping the arms of your chair for dear life as he pulls you forward in your seat.

"What?" The petulance in his voice is the only thing you have ever seen or heard from him to suggest his lineage. He sounds so much like his father when he says it, glancing up at you through long, fluttering lashes.

"Do you—" Your eyes bounce around the room, while you search for the proper words to voice your concern. "Are you sure you want to… do that?"

Daeron is frustratingly straight faced. He's so gravely serious about it that you almost want to laugh. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because…" You bite your lip, suddenly bashful. "I've been working all day, and… and I haven't bathed."

Daeron gazes at you for a moment, his brows lifted incredulously before he laughs. His breath ghosts across your bare thigh, making you shift in his hold.

"You could have been riding bareback through the mud, and I would still want to taste you." His words send a horrid wave of heat rushing through your body. "Now let me."

You answer with a squeak, because he takes to the plush of your inner thigh with a nip of his teeth, the soft drag of his lips following. He is hard and soft— teeth and lips, wet tongue and rough beard stubble. Your mouth opens and closes, searching in vain for something to say or a sound to make, but nothing comes out.

Not until Daeron rucks your skirts up to your hips and yanks the laces of your smallclothes, his eyes suddenly sharper than they have been all night. The sight of your bared sex appears to have sobered him, somewhat. He leans forward, shouldering your thighs upwards while his hands spread you wide. Your slippers jump ship, falling to the carpet with dull thuds that act as punctuation. A small whimper leaves you, a mild sound of alarm at being so utterly exposed to him.

"You… gorgeous—" Daeron sighs, nuzzling his nose into the matted curls surrounding the cleft of your pussy, wet with your arousal. You gasp, your face burning as he takes a deep lungful of air, breathing in the scent of you.

He gives you a warm brush of his tongue, so soft that nought but a sigh escapes your lips. Daeron coaxes your thighs further apart, hoisting you towards his face with a strength you didn't know he had. Maybe he only uses it on occasions such as this, with his head between your legs and his mouth on your cunt.

"Gods," he mumbles against you, accented with a flattening of his tongue. "You're so sweet."

Your hands find his hair, and he groans. The sudden vibration makes you jolt, your hips bucking up into him, your back bent awkwardly towards the backrest of the chair while you struggle to find your stability. Daeron is unbothered. Daeron is tasting you with a voracity that, quite frankly, appalls you— his mouth makes a lewd slurp and his tongue worms its way into your entrance, a flexing of the muscle in an imprudently intimate place.

You never would have thought he'd be like this; certainly, most of the servants in the castle have suggested that he drinks too many to be of any use in the bedroom. But he still, somehow, managed to get his women— whores, usually, but you never heard any of them complaining. You thought it had something to do with the coin, but now… now, you aren't so sure.

"Daeron, I— I won't— fuck." The words tumble out, cut off on a little moan when he sucks, latching onto your clit and not letting go. He drags his tongue over it and you go boneless, your spine bowing into the hollow created between the seat and the backrest. Your chin hits your chest awkwardly and you find his eyes, staring up at you from between your legs, dark and vehement.

Daeron whines when you tug on his hair, a noise so gorgeous that it makes everything within you tighten up hard and sharp. Your hips buck against him, but Daeron's hands grasp you and hold you down against the edge of your seat, keeping you from moving an inch.

It's cruel, the wanting— how deeply it has you in its thrall; because you have him between your legs, and it's not enough. There's still that hollow in your chest that wants him inside it, but which is too small to house a dragon.

"Fuck, you're pretty," you gasp, hands on his head and in his hair, eyes on his. He makes a small noise, his eyes fluttering shut in earnest, but you continue, "So fucking pretty, Daeron, gods—"

His slick tongue, more dextrous than it has any right to be, strokes over your clit again, and again, and again, and you think you might choke. You aren't paying attention to how hard your fingers are gripping at him, scrabbling at his head until your nails find purchase and dig in, and Daeron moans unbelievably loud. The sound is filthy, depraved— he buckles, his hips lurching against nothing, his head both dipping low and pushing against the feeling like he wants more of it.

You hold him with both hands, your palms cradling his head to you like some precious thing. He follows your urging until there is nothing but the sounds of your moans mingling with his, and the rocking back and forth of his mouth and your hips.

You cum against his tongue, and it leaves you with a shattered cry and long, cloying spasms that seem to go on for ages, made stronger for the fact that he won't stop. He keeps sucking on your clit, ignoring your pleas for mercy, and his hand just strokes along your thigh as he feels it twitch against his ear.

When Daeron pulls off of your clit with a loud slurp and a ragged gasp, his cheeks are tinged red. His lips flushed and wet with you, his eyes shining in the firelight. "You— you have no idea," he stutters out, his words slightly thick and garbled in the back of his throat, "what you do to me."

Fuck, he looks absolutely wrecked. The strands of his golden waves that you'd captured in your fist hang in tangles around his face, and he pants heavily through parted lips.

"I could do more," you say, struggling to sit forward. "I could— I could fuck you so hard, Daeron, I—"

Daeron laughs breathlessly, dropping his forehead against your thigh in a way that seems bashful. "Ah... That may be difficult, at the moment."

"What…?" You peer at him in confusion as he leans back on his haunches, and then you see it. A blotch of wetness darkens the front of his breeches, which would explain for the roughness of his breath. "Oh."

"Terribly undignified, I know," he muses, grunting as he squeezes his eyes shut and shifts uncomfortably. "Not that I ever had any dignity."

You don't know whether to laugh, or cry, or fucking moan at the sight of him. You can't look away from the stain on his breeches. He came in his pants. You did that. Or, moreso, he did that with his face between your legs. Untouched.

With a wild hair that forces you to act before thinking— as you do more and more often, when it comes to him— you move your leg. Your foot, bare of your slipper, presses just against the crotch of his breeches, and a noisy groan tears from his lips.

He captures your ankle in his hand, his eyes suddenly dark. "That's… tender."

"I should hope so." A devilish smile curves at your lips, such that Daeron makes a pathetic noise at the sight of it. His thumb brushes back and forth against your ankle as you lift it, setting your toe against his chest. "We have plenty of time, my lord. I'm not done with you, yet."

You push, just barely, with your toe against his sternum, and he topples like a house of cards. He falls heavily back onto his hands, knees splayed wide to brace himself against the Myrish carpet, his chest leaping with the effort of his breath. Daeron tilts his head, looking almost like a confused puppy as you lower yourself from your chair, setting your hands on his knees and jerking them apart, much like he did yours.

"Take off your shirt," you order him.

Daeron opens his mouth to say something, seems to think it over, and then closes it. He begins with the open doublet, shrugging it away like so much fodder. His hands, shaking, find the front of his shirt and tug, loosening it from his breeches before throwing it over his head.

Your eyes and hands are greedy things. They want to take and absorb him until every edge and angle has been etched into your memory, to keep for yourself. You crowd yourself between his thighs and push him until he lays flat against the floor, the soft expanse of his stomach trembling beneath your touch.

He's more muscular than you thought he would be. Softer than a soldier, but beautifully toned. Your hands run over muscle padded by soft flesh, flushed red and dotted with freckles that you want to trace and lavish with your lips. Your palms cup and smooth over arms that are stronger than they have any right to be, fingers trace along veins that jump with the drumbeat of his pulse. Blood beating hot beneath his skin— blood of a dragon. Blood born of fire, even if the only fire he gives you is the kind he stokes between your legs.

Daeron whispers your name, and it nearly breaks in his throat where he seems to have lost his voice on his way down. The sound of it slams through your chest and worms its way down into your gut, kindling the fire already struck there by his mouth.

You take his hands. Big, warm things that stop shaking once yours are inside them, maybe only because you can hold them still. Your fingers lace with his, and his breath catches— you lift, bringing them over his head to rest against the carpet, his pectorals pulled taut, his ribs raised and the hollow of his stomach stretched to accomodate.

"Stay there," you tell him, and he does. It's a dangerous thing, to be able to order a prince around, and have him listen. To have him follow your instructions happily, blithely, like a dog responding to the snapping of your fingers. Good boy. Lay down. Roll over.

Your lips find his collarbone first. They linger there while you breathe him in, much like he did you— now that you've had some wine, yourself, you can't smell it much on him. Instead, you smell what lies under it; the spice of whatever Dornish perfume he wears against his throat, the musk of his sweat, the lingering sweetness of the lilac oil from his bath water. Your tongue flutters out to taste it, and Daeron gasps loudly, arching up into your touch with a desperation bordering on needy.

"This— this is what friends do?" Daeron asks quietly, his breath caught in his throat as your lips trace a path down his chest. Your tongue flicks out over one nipple, and he stiffens, his arms twitching like he wants to bring them down against you. He doesn't.

"They can," you say. "If you want."

"I want." A groan, airy and hoarse. "Oh f-fuck— I want."

"Good," you sigh. "Because I want it, too."

You bite at his ribs. He moans, and lets you. It stokes something terrible in you that wants to stake a claim, to be rough with him even while you continue being gentle. You want to sink your teeth in, so you give him the softness of your tongue instead. His responding sigh is worth it, and the slow widening of his thighs as you move downward.

"Did you dream of me, my lord?" you ask him as your hands find the laces of his breeches.

A hollow laugh rattles from his ribs and into your mouth. "More than you know."

That's not what you meant— and yet, it's exactly the answer that you wanted. Your lips part against his stomach, tongue laving before you suck, hard, hard enough to burst capillaries and leave a deep red bruise in your wake.

Daeron moans loud. Almost loud enough to echo around the bedchamber, his hips jolting upwards and finding no purchase. His arms finally come down, landing with dull thumps on either side of him. "Oh, fuck, what're you— what're you doing?"

"A favor," you say simply, and lick him from his navel to his hip.

"Here?" Even as he asks, your hands are pulling the ties of his breeches. "On the floor? There's a bed just over there."

"I would have fucked you on one of the wine casks," you grumble as you tug, the ties finally coming loose. You nuzzle in and lick over soft chestnut curls of hair, earning a shallow gasp in response.

Daeron laughs, a little too breathy. "Was that what you were thinking about? Figured I had something on my face."

When you meet resistence in the form of his hips, laying on the floor and keeping you from tugging his pants off, you pause. A prince's floor is better than a wine cask. Your eyes flick up to his, looking at you with mild amusement. "Do you mind?"

He lifts his hips. You pull. The fabric goes with a whisper, and you sit back to muscle them down the length of his legs. He's toned here, too. It's mildly unfair, considering his aptitude for athletic pursuits, and you have a mind to tell him— but he's hard again for you, already, and you don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"There," you sigh, admiring him. He's pretty everywhere. Even his cock, rosy like the rest of him, wonderfully thick and smeared with cum left over from when he'd spent in his pants.

You lean down, and without pretense or lead in, take him into your mouth. Daeron shouts. It's different from the last time you heard it— not anguished, but instead carrying a note of delight in it. He's heavy on your tongue and tastes of salt, smells of musk like he had by his throat, but more. You taste him like you have all the time in the world, with a fervency to mirror his own.

Finally, you pull off of him, a string of spit connecting you. You say, almost conversationally, "I'm going to fuck you, now."

Daeron blinks, naked and spread-eagled beneath you. "Really? I had no idea. If this was your plan the whole time, you really must let a man know."

You snort, positioning yourself over him, your skirts rucked up around your thighs. "I'll give you fair warning next time, my lord."

"Next time," Daeron mutters, seemingly dazed, his hands finding your hips. "Yes."

You take him slowly, his cock stretching you so wide that your hips stall, your teeth grinding together as you brace yourself with a hand on his chest. "Fuck," you grit out, seating yourself fully, feeling him brush up against something wonderful and devastating there inside you. "Fuck, Daeron."

"Mhm." He's out of breath already. Panting, his lips parted and gazing up at you with the most pleading, desperate look you've ever seen. You move, and his mouth drops open with a ragged moan, his eyes falling shut as his head rocks back against the carpet.

Your hand finds the column of his throat. His pulse pounds beneath your fingers, his adam's apple bobbing against your palm. "Oh gods, you're so fucking good for me."

Daeron makes a strangled noise, his fingers digging into your hips. His hips lurch, trying to drive further into you— he fills you so completely, the relief of it is such that it draws a sigh from you.

You raise yourself up, sink back down. You begin a rhythm that has you keening, and has his breath stolen from his lungs.

Daeron reclines against the carpet, his hands beginning to guide your hips, his eyes starry and fixed on you in awe. His eyebrows pinch together, a smirk curving on his parted lips.

"What?" you ask him, breathless, a quiet moan leaving you as you grind your hips in slow circles. Your entire body feels like it's on fire. From the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, you feel as though the sparks dancing up your spine have ignited a blaze through you. When Daeron raises a hand and grabs at the front of your bodice, the laces loosening at his clumsy tugs, you fear that he may feel your blood boiling beneath your skin.

"Beautiful," Daeron whispers, his fingers parting the loosened front of your bodice to expose your breasts. "You're so beautiful."

"Daeron." Your cunt clamps hard around him, your breath catching in your throat as he drags his thumb over your hadened nipple, cupping the weight of your breast in his hand.

His mouth drops open in a moan, his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. Then he lifts himself up on his elbow, pulling you towards him with one arm.

Daeron plants his face between your breasts clumsily, his mouth open and hot against your bare skin. "I'm not— ah, fuck— not worthy of this. You shouldn't— shouldn't give me—"

"I'll give you what I fucking want." Your fingers thread through his golden hair, softer now than you had been before, but no less insistent. "And right now, what I want is to make you cum."

Your words draw a strained sound from him that cracks in his throat, and he nips lightly at the curve of your breast with his teeth. The sharp edge of it sends a shockwave through you, pleasure mounting between your legs. Daeron audibly chokes, his eyes shut tight and mouth open over your breast as he feels you pulse around him.

Your head droops over his in an approximation of the way you held him before, days ago, while he came down from a nightmare. Your body jerks as his tongue laves against your nipple, his hand fumbling to yank your skirts up so that it can fit between your legs. A clumsy thumb finds your clit, unmeasured in his touch but focused in on just the right place to make you cry out, your face screwed tight at the onslaught of sensation.

"Oh fuck," you sob, feeling your orgasm wash over you with fury. Your body seizes, your muscles locking down tight around his cock, his thumb slipping through your wetness and nudging at your clit in small circles. It's too much, all at once, and you cum hard while he moans into your skin, his mouth still slotted over your breast.

Daeron makes a strangled, somewhat wet noise against you. You feel the sound vibrate against your skin like it was torn from some part of him that was still attached to it. His fingers tighten on your back, his hand pulling you flush to his chest while his hips grind up into yours, and you feel the rush of his release within you.

He cums pretty, too. You should have figured that he would.

"Beautiful," he's whispering again, soft against your body even as his thumb continues to work over your clit to the point of oversensitivity. "You're so beautiful— beautiful girl—"

"Hush." You lift his head, looking down at him as he takes shallow, shaking breaths. His eyes look heavy, drooping like they do halfway toward sleep. His face is still flushed, but his eyes are sparkling, pupils blown wide and dark. You tuck his hair back away from his face, and his eyes flutter shut, his head leaning into your hand like you may hold him up while he sleeps.

Instead, you lower him back down to the floor, and he goes, slowly, without complaint. You lay heavily on top of him while he's still inside you, growing soft, his cum beginning to leak from and making a sticky mess between your thighs.

You'll have to make moon tea in the morning. It doesn't matter, now.

"I did. Dream of you," Daeron murmurs, a weak noise breaking in his throat when he grinds his hips up into yours again for a brief second. "Of this."

Your heart practically slams up into your throat at his confession. You stare down at his gorgeous, placid face, and you're overcome with the urge to kiss him. You haven't kissed him yet, you realize— he spit wine into your mouth, but that was less a kiss and more a debased way to cut the fat from your mutual desire.

You almost drum up the courage to do it. Almost. But then, Daeron blinks his eyes open and finds you staring down at him, four inches from his face, and he grins lazily.

"Friends?" He asks, tracing a finger up your spine.

You clench your jaw and swallow the courage that you had been gathering. You nod at him, close enough that you can taste his breath. "Friends."

His cum continues to drip down your thighs.