Liam

Self-care doesn't fit in Spider-Man's schedule, never mind Peter Parker's.

From the slow crawl of dawn to the creeping greys of dusk, Peter contributed to a worker's cycle, soulless if not for the souls he saved daily. Waking up to work on his suit, not himself, and throwing himself into the streets was his routine, only limping inside his sheltered apartment when the night was deep and the crime rate evened out. The sanctuary of his solitude didn't comfort him, but falling back on the lack of comfort was more secure than the unknown of attachment.

His cycle lasted an unhealthy but impressive two years, Peter Parker wiped from memories and the majority of documentation. He wallowed in his own sadness until a valiant effort to pull himself together sprang through. To better his true identity or heroic one as Spider-Man, he was unsure, but in between restless nights and mourning what he had, his heart opened up enough to let another slide into place.

Who would have thought an unfamiliar face was the key when his own was unfamiliar to everyone who once knew him.

---/╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\---

"Peter?" Hammering the toe of your shoe to the rotting wood, dust clouds around the bottom of the door, coating the fraying welcome mat in dirt. Your teeth click, pushing your jaw out in a disapproving hiss, deciding that wiping the muck off your sneaker would only further dirty the sole than clean. Typical, Peter wasn't exactly the cleanest guy you knew. Two years with him solidified that.

You'd think the man behind Spider-Man would be spatially aware enough to remember to dust his front door- you'd think it'd come with the job, but then again, Peter's been missing for the past four days. Wrapped up in himself, you left him for the first two, figuring he crashed from exhaustion, then sent a slew of angry messages the third when he refused to open your contact at all.

By the fourth, today, you've figured he's dead, dying, or ditched you. All three were bad, and by standing outside his studio, you still couldn't narrow it down to one.

Reaching up, you bat the webbing from an old spider's nest from the corner of his doorway, muttering to yourself to sweep it down for him as you force your key into the lock, twisting the knob with a rusty click and push.

"You better be decent!" You call out, head ducked down as you shoulder the stuck wood inwards, stepping through the doorway. "Or at least your corpse better be posed in a flattering way!"

Lifting your head up, your breath catches in a hitch as you enter his apartment, inhaling a collection of stale air and dirt, the door swinging shut behind your heels. You wave your hand over your mouth, covering your lips in shock as a strand of coiled, sleek webbing drifts in front of your face, the web broken as the movement of the door disconnected its clinging ends from the hinge.

"God fuck, Pete." Grunting behind your palm, you slowly reach forward, pushing aside large clumps of webs, intricate and sticky, still new as it decorates the expanse of his apartment. It'd be revolting if it wasn't so bizarre, your brain stuck in shock rather than disgust at the silk smearing along your forearm as you tear down the bulk of the webs.

Forward, wound up in a cocoon, you see the flash of skin behind tightly woven silk, forearms bunched together, curled around his face. The nest bundles around his apartment, clinging to his couch, all around his desk, binding together parts of his 3D printer and technology you're sure will be a burden to clean later.

Stepping closer, you spin on your heel, scanning the cluttered room for a clue on what happened the past few days. If Peter was okay trapped in his own coffin. You remember being told to never cut open a caterpillar's cocoon, that it'd gravely hurt their life cycle, but you figure a spider can't be that different. Or dangerous.

Dragging your nails through the cottony webs, you push your face closer, wide eyes blinking, searching for a wrinkled forehead or the bump of Peter's nose, flinching when you meet dark pupils glaring back at you.

"Oh-" You gasp, drowned out by Peter's equally horrified, far more frantic shout of his own. "Woah-?"

His forearms tense, pushing outwards as he tears through the upper part of the cocoon, flailing the sticky webs off of his face. He sputters, choking out the cobwebs as the strands along his legs buckle and snap, sending him plummeting from the rafters headfirst into the floor.

"Awh! Crap- what the hell..." Peter mumbles, catching his panicked breath as he springs up, stumbling back and forth as he sheds the last of his web from his flesh. You rear backwards, legs pumping before you can confirm Peter is Peter and not dead, or worse, a bipedal arachnid. Jumping over the encased couch, you duck behind his shelf, head poking out to glance at him cautiously.

The hazy glow of the afternoon sun makes the apartment shine, each strand of silk catching the reflection of light, creating a maze throughout the studio. Peter palms his head, wrist rubbing slow circles into his temple as he glances around, eyes squinting in confusion, catching the edge of your face in the shining room.

Silence settles over the small room before Peter clears his throat, shaking his head to clear his mind alongside it, only resulting in him clutching his skull in agony. He rounds the small wall separating the flat, shouldering bunches of webs to the ground as he takes a closer peek at you.

"Hey... nice survival skills you got there." He croaks, voice hoarse and high, pushing his hair back before shrugging off his sluggishness to no avail. "I took like, three seconds to get out of that... stuff... and you were already hiding."

The curve of his lips twitched into a soft smile, sheepish, the skin around the bottom rubbed raw and flaking from dryness. His joke falls flat, leading Peter to slowly swivel his neck, looking around the rest of his now ruined apartment.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" Is the first thing that snaps out of your mouth, chest stuttering to breathe as you collapse back the last two feet onto his bed, the cheap frame springing in protest. Peter whips his head back to you, groaning at the twinge in his neck before raising his arms placantly.

"I don't know? Do you think if I knew I'd have consciously done this? I don't even know how-" He flails his arms, gesturing to the den he's made of his apartment. "-to do this!"

"Why didn't you answer me?"

"Because I was busy doing this, apparently!"

The warm air weighs heavy on your skin as you bite your cheek, stopping yourself from snapping at Peter again. He pouts down at you, blinking hard as he slowly creeps to his bed, collapsing beside you, the mattress dimpling under his added weight. Thankfully, this nook of his flat is mostly empty from his webs- you're unsure how you'd ever sleep in his bed again if it was coated in his silk.

Bringing your knees up to your chest, you take a moment to do a proper once-over of Peter, now slumped on his elbows as he scans the cluttered floor of his apartment. His skin is pale, almost dewy-looking, a red tint underpainting around his eyes and nose. His pupils are blown out, darker around the rim, darting back and forth over the flat before dropping to his forearms.

Swallowing down your mild disgust, you lay your hand over his wrist, squeezing his joints before smoothing down the length of his arm. Wiping the stray strands on his skin, your thumb catches on an indent as you move down, trailing back up his protruding veins to feel around the small hole, tucked in the middle of his forearm right before his wrist.

You prod at the bump within the hole, dropping his arm immediately at the choked sound Peter makes, his voice cracking as he cups his wrist. "Sorry." You mumble, gripping the edge of the bed frame, peering up at his dark eyes. "You look the worst you've ever looked."

Peter smiles at that, small and tired, circling his fingers around his wrist and massaging slowly. "I'm not sure about that. I've looked a lot worse for a lot of my life."

You let out a shaky laugh, shoulders slumping in on yourself, watching Peter fan away a clump of webbing sticking to his nightstand. The apartment settles into a heavy silence, even breathing sounding hesitant as you sniffle at the still air, dust collecting on the clutter Peter left before his cocoon.

"I'm opening a window." Declaring to no one but the two of you, you carefully toe around the mass of webs, cracking open the closest window, leaning on the sill as you force the pane open despite the silk holding onto it. Peter watches you, his eyes squinting the closer you get before he winces.

His gasp is sharp and whiny, hands cupping his ears with a cry, blinking hard as you finally manage to pry open the window a good two feet. "Ahh! Shut it- shut it!" He yelps, stumbling forward when you take a moment too long to shut the window.

With a thwip! Peter extends his forearm, his fingers curling then posing, a strand of web shooting from the divot, smacking against the edge of the window. He pulls his arm down, slamming the glass back in place, the strength sending vibrations through existing webs, causing them to snap and unfurl to the ground.

Pulling away from the window, you stare in shock at Peter, eyes dropping to his arm, to the small point where his veins all flow to, silk protruding from the dip in his forearm. He stares at the strand as well, smacking the end off with a shiver of disgust, stumbling forward to his computer.

"Ew." Is all you can manage, lip curling in horror, wiping into an unsure smile at the look Peter shoots at you. He slumps against his desktop, calling for E.V, fingers fumbling with his keyboard obnoxiously, pawing away the strands clinging to the caps.

"What's wrong with you?" Leaning into his side, you watch the diagnostics fly over his screen, his hardware starting up with a sizzle, burning the webs caught in his mechanics. Peter scoffs at that, a quip at the tip of his tongue that he thankfully holds back, too exhausted and not wanting to upset you further, as he glances at his phone to note the dozens of messages you sent the past days.

"It's organic webfluid," Peter explains, nodding like that made any sense to you, clicking away as the strong voice of E.V. calls out in response, her volume making him flinch inwards. "Why it's happening to me, I dunno."

Furrowing your brows, you grab the top half of his discarded suit, laying the fabric over his couch cushion to sit down. "You say that like you know about this shit."

Peter perks up at that slightly, shrugging to himself. "I do. Peter two had them-" He pauses, glancing at you over his bare shoulder, gauging the confused look you cast back. He sighs, running his fingers down his nape before turning back to his monitors. "He was cool. It can kinda just happen. I guess. Spider DNA and all. What's a spider without webs?"

"Are you gonna turn full spider then? Like, eight legs and abdomen and all fuzzy?"

"Okay, please don't ask me that right now... ...god I really hope not."

---/╲/\╭ºoꍘoº╮/\╱\---

"Alright, now this inhibitor will hopefully suppress the arachnid genomes to the same frequency they were originally. Suppressing the new symptoms but keeping the old ones. Kinda like The Hulk? Y'know The Hulk? Of course you do, what am I saying?"

The last of the webs falls into the rubbish with a short sweep, dusting off the white strands, the small apartment freshened up after three days of dedicated pulling and dusting. Peter's lucky no real spiders decided to invade his web mansion, cooped up in his own mess as he focused intensely on fixing his new party trick of organic webs.

The past three days have been bad, and for someone who swore he was remorseful for metamorphosing and leaving you alone for four days, he's sure as hell doing it again without an excuse this time. Thrown deep into his work, Peter's been fine-tuning and experimenting with prototypes of an inhibitor to suppress the new hormonal flux of his spider DNA, frustrated with the physical changes he's endured.

Along with keeping him company slouched over his chair, you've gotten the luxury of watching Peter attempt to control the new changes in his body, trying to get the hang of his new webbing and keeping himself from keening over from the sensory overload he now struggled with. Thin curtains are pulled tight over blinds, blocking out as much natural light in the small flat as he could, really emphasizing how sad and frankly creepy his apartment was.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Sitting on his bed, your hands roam up and down his forearms, guilty for being so disgusted over his new spinnerets. He turns his arms over for you, his skin smooth and warm once again, fingers twitching into your touch with each soothing motion you make.

"Ehhh," Peter starts, batting your concern away, his hands finding yours with a squeeze. "Not really, but I know what I'm doing. Trust me, I've learnt from the best. These things will be gone and under control."

Peter picks up on your hesitance, watching your nails trace faint circles over his forearm, careful not to apply pressure. He's been cautious to let you touch him too much lately, restricted to casual, gentle touches at best.

"I thought you said Peter Two had natural web shooter things, and that Peter Two was cool." You tip your head, gently pushing inwards on his veins, watching his muscles spasm lightly before he moves to divert your caress. "Undoing this cool part of you would like, make Peter Two body dysmorphic, I think."

Peter raises his brow at that, ducking his head in a bemused smile, trying to direct your curious fingers away from his wrists, turning his arms over. "I don't.. I don't think Peter Two will have body images now. But your concern is admirable."

"Well, how would you know? Did you ask Peter Two? Apparently, he thinks spinny things are pretty cool."

"No- now you can't-"

Rocking forward on your knees, Peter's blanket bunches under your legs as you sit up, leaning into his chest and crowding him against the headboard. He follows without protest, the crown of his head hitting the wood with a thump, sliding down the mattress.

Pressing your lips against his, Peter stalls against you, debating in his mind before he grabs the inhibitor, stashing it nearby on his nightstand. It's essentially a fail-safe, tucked on standby in case anything drastic happens, and Peter figures he's allowed to have an intimate moment that lasts longer than a few seconds for his hard work this past week.

Agile hands reach out, planting over your waist as you press into him, the slow kiss growing demanding as you trail your tongue along the seam of his lips. Peter obliges to your silent demand, mouth parting to let your tongue slide along his bottom teeth, spit light and fruity from breakfast earlier. He hums in approval, palms cupping your hips respectfully, grounding you to the moment.

Pressing closer, you nudge his knees apart, folding your legs to sit criss-cross in front of him. Peter doesn't argue nor question you, simply letting you twist and adjust him to your liking, trying to raise one hand to cup your jaw.

Pulling back, you find both his wrists, bringing his hands down to your lap, soothing his confused hum with a peck to his chin. Brown hair fans against cracked brick, stained grey from aging as Peter lets his neck tilt back, offering the expanse of his throat to your greed.

While he's distracted, you move, having gained more than enough courage over the past three days of observing Peter to be confident in your exploration. Pressing down, your fingers wrap around his wrists, grinding your hands against the bones in slow, circular motions. His arms jerk under you, twitching up into the touch, coaxing a gasp from his lips.

Peter's knuckles pop loudly as he flexes them, letting his shoulders drop as he relaxes into the touch. Lifting your head, you seal your lips over his, muffling his pleased hum with your tongue. His neck cranes into you, too focused on pushing forward with his head to do the same with his arms.

Slowly, you loosen the grip on his wrists, gliding your fingers up the curve of his forearms, grazing the small dent of his spinnerets before traveling higher. You part your mouth, digging your teeth into the soft flesh of Peter's bottom lip, forcing him to tense at the sudden nip. Applying more pressure against his arms, you trail your thumbs back down the length of his forearms, his veins now protruding from tension.

"Woah-" Peter inhales against your tongue, noses pressed together in a tight grind, leaving little space between your bodies. He rotates his wrists, letting out a curious hum at the steady sensation of your thumbs working down his arms. Your nails slide into the crease of where his spinnerets start but pull back, returning at your starting point and looping the slow path down once more.

"Feels good?" You giggle against his cheek, grinning at the quick inhales and punched-out exhales Peter lets out, his heightened senses making his muscles spasm, flexing all the way up to his biceps, pulsing under his skin.

"Yeah." He manages to hum, smiling back at your small laugh. His eyes are blown wide, darker than normal, taking in your face in quick, frantic passes. You don't comment on them, noting the small inhibitor nearby before you lean back in, this time with Peter nudging his chin forward to meet your kiss.

Continuing the slow massage, his blanket shifts down the mattress, the corner of Peter's sheets peeling as he shuffles in place. Spit strings between the two of you when you part minutes later, glossy and in thin strands, branching from your tongues with a soft click.

Life imitates art, or in this case, life, as your thumbs grow firmer on the next down pass, pressing deep into his flesh as you grind the pad of your finger down. Peter's skin ripples under your touch, tensing as you drag your touch down his veins and into the divots near his wrists, pushing into the top of his spinnerets. With a broken and sudden moan, strands of web spools out from Peter's forearm, shooting in small bursts across your thumb and hand, clinging to your skin when you pull away.

"Oh- oh? What the... god-" Gasping loudly, drool snaps from your lips as Peter's head falls forward, his eyes wide in shock as he stares down at your lap. His fingers spread open, curling into fists as he grits his jaw, blinking rapidly to process what just happened.

Hiding your pleased smirk with another kiss, you repeat the process, thumb moving slowly until more spurts of webbing shoot from his spinnerets, his body tilting forward in another cry. Peter laughs, half in disbelief and half in awe, his elbows folding as he tries to withdraw from your touch.

"Wait wait wait, humor me." You rush, voice breathy as you tug his arms into your lap, unfolding your legs to throw them around his hips. Squirming uncomfortably, Peter slides his knees under your thighs, sitting temple to temple and tangled up in one another.

"I thought you said my organic webs were, and I quote, gross?" He quips, his tone light but weighted, gauging your reaction closely.

"I think you hallucinated that." You tease back, pushing hard against the small holes and massaging tight rings around the openings, coaxing string after string of web from his skin. "Should we see if it comes out anywhere else?”

Peter chokes, a drawn-out whine hitching in his throat as he bucks forward, dropping his forehead to your chin. Silk sprays in short, rapid bursts, coating down your wrist and to the ruffled sheets beneath your lap, clinging to your skin desperately. “God,” He huffs, torn between a sultry laugh and another cry for relief, “you sound like me.”

Not fully understanding and not wanting to question what Peter means by that, your thumb crooks into his spinneret’s, nails digging into the tiny holes, ripping a groan from his chest. Your fingers squeeze around his forearm, tightening around the edge of where his skin dips in, forcing Peter to tense his muscles.

His hair blocks out your vision, leading to you pressing your chin over his skull, cradling his face closer to your neck. His temple is damp, beading in exertion as he gasps, arms spasming, bucking out of your grip. Web unravels from his wrists as your thumbs slide out of the holes, his hands jerking up to grip onto your shoulders, silk grazing the corner of your jaw as it spews behind you.

“Come on, you can do better than that.” You coo, forcing his hands back down to your lap. Peter whines, his lips pulled in a smile, open mouth and gasping for control over his lungs. With a thump, he lays back on the bed, offering his wrists up for you, his fingers crooked instinctively. Sinfully greedy and knowing he can offer more, you climb onto his lap, nails curling down his navel and into the hem of his sweats.

Peter’s hips arch naturally, helping you guide the thick fleece of his pants then the soft cotton of his boxers, skin slick with sweat. His knees bend behind you, supporting your weight as you rock along his crotch, slotting the rigid length of his cock between your thighs. The head is swollen, blushed a deep red from stimulation, begging for true release. You laugh at him, tapping your finger against his tip, beading with so much arousal you almost believe he could shoot webs from here.

“Oh my god.” He huffs, throwing his head back with a pleased moan, his hips rutting twice into the crevice of your thighs before relaxing flat. His eyes blink, lazy and half-glossed over, the bright whites blackened by his pupils, leaving his face looking sharper. You don’t comment on it, disguising your sharp gasp with a palm enclosed around the base of his cock, tipping forward to drool down the tip.

“Jeez, Pete. Is this all me or your little sensory problems?” Dragging your thumb up his swollen glands, you stroke slowly, flicking your wrist at the top of his length before pulling his skin down, teeth flashing in a wicked grin when Peter responds with a whimper. “Will flattery get me more attention? If so, all you.”

“Sweet boy.” Your brows raise high, watching him tremble with each pump, his wrists curling inwards then flexing out, tensing his arms like he was prepared to swing. “Flattery will get you nowhere but another round, if that’s what you’re aiming for.” A heavy spurt of arousal glistens at the top of his cock, slickening up his tip when you collect it. “You already sealed a second with those whines, so unless you want thirds, I’d be quiet.”

Peter, to his credit, listens well when you have a fist around his dick, face falling apart as he approaches his release. You figure his eyes are rolled back, unsure from the dark depths of them right now, his knuckles trembling as he claws at your thighs. Lifting off his lap, you give him the space to thrust sloppily into your closed palm, not that your weight was hindering him much.

It takes another minute before Peter bucks into you, fingers clasping around your hand, letting out a guttural groan as his climax hits. You focus around the tip of his cock, milking the white froth spilling over your fingertips, dribbling down his length and to his pelvis.

“Good.” You purr, waiting for the last of his tremors to die down, keeping a light touch around his cock, teasing the pulsing skin. He whines, his chest heaving in rapid expansions as he floats on the high of his climax, hips slowly pausing until they were flat on the sheets once more. His nose twitches, head tilting down enough for you to assume he’s staring straight into your face, black eyes shining with adoration.

Pulling your hand away with one more firm, upward stroke, you grab his wrist, bending his middle and ring finger down into his iconic swinging pose. He huffs, watching but not objecting, far too pleased with the outcome of his submission so far to fight your whims. Pushing your thumbs together, you guide his hand to hover over his cock, pushing down on his forearm and rubbing the top of his veins into his spinneret.

“Holy shit-?” Peter jerks, his eyes widening as he lurches upwards, jostling your perch in his lap. Web shoots out from his spinneret, thin and weak from exhaustion, but the strand still holding together tightly. The sticky bunch clings to the tip of his cock, covering his slit, trapping the remaining cum weeping from his head. He thrashes, hands falling to pull at the webs, only to be intercepted by your own.

“No no, trust me. Just take it like this.” You tut, pressing firm on Peter’s hands until he dropped them beside his head, curling backwards to dig into the pillow. His lips part, tongue lapping over his bitten skin, his voice trembling in pitiful, whiny protests.

“N-Nah, I can’t,” Peter huffs, brown hair plastered to his temple as he throws his head back, neck turning side to side in a weak shake. His hips twitch, his cock still hard, still fighting against the webbed seal as you retake the length in your grip. “This is, fuck… this is insane even for you, us.”

Precum dampens the top of the web, creating a watery mix that clings tighter to the curve of his cock, beading through the silk with nowhere else to go. Wrapping both your hands around him, Peter arches into your palms, groaning low in his throat as he stops his weak-willed protest, lashes fluttering softly against the red of his cheeks.

With a pleased coo, you stroke him once again, firm and slow this time, taking your time on the underside of his cock, massaging the small veins with even pressure. Peter whines, thighs tensing and releasing, kicking out against your leg as he struggles to find leverage and his mind.

Spit falls from your lips, lubing up his length, saliva coating down to the base of the cock, residue from his first orgasm still painting his skin. With both hands, you pump him, eyes fixated on the way Peter pushes his chest out, ribs flaring as he struggles to breathe properly. His stomach trembles, the hard ridge of his abdomen contracting, shortening his breaths into aching gasps, timed with each full stroke.

“God- Oh god- I gotta cum.” The beg from Peter’s lips sounds false with the way he snaps his jaw, baring his teeth in a primal, animalistic way that was wrong with the soft slope and plane of his face. His canines are pointed into sharp fangs, jaw dropping to gasp, fighting back his awful sobs. You scoff, speeding up your strokes in retaliation, urging his sweet voice to tremble and break.

“Babe, seriously. I need to- I have to-” Peter’s brows furrow, the dark hair slick with his sweat as his eyes scrunch, bottom lip jutting out in a broken whine. The mattress cries out beneath both of you, mocking the sounds starting to rip deep from Peter’s lungs, his hips erratically thrusting into your palms. You let him, the web blocking his release sticking still, rendering his grinds useless against your fingertips.

“Please!” He whines, eyes flying open, revealing the beady tears along his waterline, slowly dripping down the slope of his cheeks.

“Try.” You coo back, peppering a reassuring kiss to his nose, forehead pushing against the side of his temple. The melodic sob of his pleas the fire you needed in your gut.

Try he does, Peter humps and thrusts into your hands, his resolve and exhaustion crumbling into broken, sappy cries, pining for your approval and help. You don’t do much but kiss along his brow ridge, squeezing rhythmically at the base of his cock, letting him work himself up and through.

Skin on skin echoes in the apartment, dry as the slick from your spit and Peter’s cum dissipates. He doesn’t care or doesn’t feel it, the tip of his cock smacking against your pelvis, stimulating the weeping head just enough for him to keen, his breath coming in short, pitched whines of relief.

Releasing the base of his cock, you cup your palms against his jaw, cradling his face and soothing his final sob with a slow kiss, his hips buckling as he comes. His orgasm is ruined, unsatisfied as his release bubbles behind the web blocking him, oozing through the thin silk in small drops, straining to escape his system. Peter whimpers, tears dripping down his chin, squinting his brows when you wipe the stray droplets from his nose.

With a slick, awful thwip! You pull off the web sticking to Peter’s cock, his tip bruised, leaking profusely as he gasps at the relief of pressure. Arousal leaks from his head, making his actual one woozy as he slumps into the mattress, blinking one eye up at you. At least, you assume with the shaky groan he lets out, your face split into a greedy grin.

“Give me your hands.” You whisper, voice holding a demand you didn’t need, Peter already offering them to you. You shift, pressing his cock between your thighs, the blunt head rutting against your crotch, smearing a mess of slick and arousal on your shorts. The stain is tolerated for the worshipful sigh Peter lets out, hands clawing at your knuckles.

Tightening your hold on his wrists, your thumbs push into his spinnerets, keeping his hands still as you rub into the swollen glands. Peter huffs, letting out an exhausted hiccup, accepting the soft kiss of approval you reward him with. Slowly, his hips grind up into you, sliding his cock back and forth against your thighs, matching the rhythm of your thumbs.

“You’re gonna make this inhibitor useless with all the hormones spiking right now.” Peter hisses, his voice lazy and broken, soft around the edges as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck. You hum, chuckling at his expense as his hips pick up the pace, rocking mindlessly in search of fast pleasure.

“Maybe I like you like this.” You snicker, nosing his ear, wringing out strand after strand of silk from his wrists. “All spider, barely man, the black eyes are kinda growing on me.”

Peter snorts, a pathetic attempt at a laugh, his forearms spasming as the dual stimulation on his spinnerets and cock gets to him, frayed nerves reacting to the way you were nursing his pleasure from him. His head tilts back, lips parting wide, tiny whimpers and moans tearing from his raw throat.

“Too much?” You whisper, nosing his hairline gently, taking the moment to admire the broken state he was in. He shakes his head, mindlessly thrusting against your pelvis, letting out pleased gasps each time the tip of his cock caught the seam of your shorts. Despite the sensory overload, Peter grinds through it, whining at the sensation but forcing his hips to continue. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, you squeeze your knees tighter around his hips, thighs closing around his cock, cushioning his thrusts. “That’s it, just let go.”

His wrists tense under your thumbs, tugging away from your touch abruptly. The pillow beneath his head falls to the floor when his arms dart out, webs sticking to his hanging shelf behind you. Plaster crackles as he loops his arms around your torso, pulling the strands of web, the shelf ripping from the wall with a snap. Crying out, Peter’s third climax paints over your thighs, his overstimulated cock pulsing against your skin, warm and tacky with his spend, trying to seek more contact without rubbing himself dry.

Peter falls back, strong arms crushed around your waist, taking you down with him. Sheets and blankets bundle up, soaking in the slick of his arousal, fighting to drape properly with the fresh coating of webs on the fabric. You press your chin to his skull, carding your fingers through the mess of his dark curls, tucking the stray locks away from his temple. Peter sighs, spent and exhausted, hands roaming over the dip of your lower back greedily, feeling for the warmth beneath your skin.

You don’t think about how you absolutely ruined the bed, or how you’ll always feel spiderwebs in his sheets even if he buys a new pair. Sleeping would be difficult in his apartment now, but you figure it’s an even trade-off when the reward is Peter curled against your ribs, flushed and glowing from a well-needed stress reliever.

“Hey,” he starts, his eyes peering up at you, the soft whites returned from his blown pupils. His cheeks pull into a lazy smile, the tension from his brow wiped clean, his brain fucked stupid from the aggravating stress of his body’s changes. “Were my eyes really black?”

“Yeah.” You smirk, poking the underside of his lid. “Like fully, looked like you were a demon."

Peter hums, studying the curve of your lips before nuzzling deeper into your throat, pressing a gentle kiss to the underside of your jaw. “And you didn’t even scream. I’m honored.”

     Y/n spluttered as he tried to pull the shirt off his face, though the harsh winds that nearly blew him to the ground with the tall grass they stood in made it hard to do so. Though after a beat or two, Y/n finally grabbed and pulled the shirt off his face and shot a stank look at his captain—Captain Kelly, or otherwise known as Penguin because of his love for the Happy Feet movies.

     "Totally unnecessary," Y/n grumbled as he brought the shirt up to his nose to practically huff it as if it were a drug to find the scent he was searching for. He closed his eyes to isolate his sense of smell and a map had spawned in the dark behind his eyelids. It was of a house, the one he grew up in, and he moved through the front door and past some closed doors as his nose moved past the scent of men's deodorant, Penguin's cologne, and Laswell's natural scent.

     "Gotta be ready for anything," Penguin shrugged before he twisted in his spot, his eyes traveling quickly over the terrain they found themselves in. They were in Texas, just over a few minutes away from the Texas-Mexico border and they stood in a patch of tall grass that would've helped conceal them if it weren't for the "fucking wind," per Penguin's complaint just minutes ago.

     Y/n didn't respond as he took another deep breath of the shirt, and his eyes opened wide as he found the scent he was looking for. It was a masculine scent that was mixed with gunpowder and a hint of cocaine, which was hilariously spot on for the man they were spying on for this mission.

     Though this mission itself was quite simple, a quick over and out, it was the start of something bigger than them—at least, that's what Kate Laswell mentioned in their briefing two days ago. There were five of them sitting around a conference table—Y/n, Penguin, Oh, Sergeant Cash (given his callsign because he's allegedly fucking loaded), and Sergeant Rat (a Marine who was barely book smart, but spent an insane amount of time in the gym)—while Kate Laswell's head and shoulders were posted on the large screen at the front of the room over a Zoom call.

     Each Marine had their own way of going about boring briefings, and while Penguin and Oh had pretty similar ones, fully and intently listening to the plan and what was going to happen, Cash, Rat and Y/n all shared the same sentiment: they would all rather be in bed. Their briefing room was anything but comfortable, with a constant musk that never seemed to go away despite the amount of Febreze cans that Y/n had squeezed dry, and the metal folding chairs with a cushion about the width of an inch.

     The briefing had started a couple of minutes ago, but those minutes were filled with Penguin sharing sentiments with Laswell and her doing the same, mentioning how great it was to see all five of them alive. But once the briefing had finally kicked into gear, it really kicked into gear.

     "Michael Lancaster." Kate was controlling their screen, so a photo of Michael Lancaster popped up in the middle of the computer screen. He was an older white man who was cursed with male patterned baldness, and he had a scar running from his right temple all the way down his cheekbone. "He's been on our list for a while, but we've never had the opportunity to find him—he's been in the dark despite being seen nearly everywhere he goes. He's quick."

More pictures show up on screen—most, if not all, were screen grabs from security camera footage. One was a zoomed-in photo of him in a car at the border as he spoke with border patrol, a relaxed smile on his face. Another was a picture probably taken by the CIA themselves of a briefcase filled with foreign arms and a few packs of cocaine. The rest of the pictures were of a similar variety to those two; him with other people in grainy security footage, pictures of evidence he's left behind.

"But, just because he's fast doesn't mean he's clean—Lancaster is messy. He leaves behind dugs and foreign arms as if they don't matter to him. We don't know why he does this and we want to figure it out. That's where you come into play, Fenris."

     Y/n shot up from his slouched position at the mention of his callsign. He held a red stressball in his hand that looked worse for wear and was obviously very loved by the canine-like male. "What?" He said aloud, practically announcing that he wasn't paying attention when he was supposed to.

     Instead of being disappointed with his lack of paying attention like his parents would've been, Kate just repeated herself—she was used to this behavior. "We need to figure out why he's leaving behind valuable evidence, and that's where we need you. We've tracked a few spots where he might be staying, and we need the five of you to go check them out. Fenris, we need your nose for this one—I sent a package your way with a shirt of his we found with one of the suitcases of drugs. It's a simple in and out, shouldn't take you too long."

     When Y/n tossed the shirt back to Penguin with hardly any power, he watched with a chuckle as Penguin fumbled to catch it. "You deserved that," Y/n smiled before he turned in his spot, sniffing out the direction where the scent was coming from. This was the third spot of five that Laswell requested they stop at, and Y/n's nose was starting to catch less and less stuff—cons to having a strong nose: you get sensory overload sometimes and it tires your nose out. "Fuckin' wind," he grumbled as he closed his eyes once again.

     "Tell me about it," Rat muttered, his first time speaking at this location. Maybe he was getting as tired as Y/n was. He stood with his feet a shoulder-width apart, and his knees bent as he tried to fight against the wind, which was honestly a funny sight to see: a man of his size struggling against the strong wind.

     Y/n's head ticked to the side as he finally caught onto the scent he was searching for, the same one coming from the t-shirt he just threw back at Penguin. It was horribly faint, thanks to the strong wind, but he still caught onto it. He held on by a thread as he started to move towards the scent, and with a nod of his head, his team followed behind him.

     Captain 'Penguin' Kelly was hardly disturbed by the charge started by Y/n, who was ranks lower than him, as he knew to "just let the fella work," which he always said to Lieutenants and Captains that Y/n worked under for other missions. He was like a K9, and K9s always take steps ahead of their handler. Penguin just crouched to the same height Y/n dropped to and stalked behind him, a strong grip on his assault rifle that was decorated with Hello Kitty stickers from his young daughter back home—a reminder of who he needed to come back alive to.

     Lieutenant Oh wasn't disturbed either; she was used to Y/n's behavior on missions, and she had some sort of a soft spot for the younger Marine. She was hardly the first Lieutenant that he was a Sergeant under, and they had barely even been together on a team for two years, yet she felt protective over the boy. She wasn't old enough to be his mother, but at moments she felt like it, especially when she told him off after he caused some sort of scuffle in the mess hall with a toothy, pride-filled grin on his face.

     Sergeants Cash and Rat just followed behind Y/n blindly. They were a year or two younger than him, and they honestly kind of admired him and his skills. They had their own prides, of course, and some qualities that they believed were better than Y/n's, but that was just a little friendly competition. The two of them still followed behind Y/n as they were a team, one that was quick and worked well together.

     The five of them moved into a diamond position, with Y/n leading the charge; Cash, Oh, and Rat following behind him in a line in that order, then Penguin followed behind the group with an eye on all of their sixes, just like a great Captain would do. They stalked through the tall grass, which faded out into a normal-grass-height plain.

     "We got a building ahead," Y/n said into their comms as he spotted a building—if you could even call it that—up ahead through his rifle's scope. The building looked as if it was hit by a tornado and a hurricane on the same day. The walls were plaster and looked as if they were close to collapsing, and the roof was barely even a roof as major holes were poking through, making natural skylights. The building was obviously abandoned, which would be a perfect spot for Lancaster to hide out.

     Penguin stepped out of position to the right, just so he could look over both Oh and Y/n's shoulders to scope out the building. His head tilted to the right, and his hands brought up his assault rifle closer to his head so he could peer through his scope. "Think we found where Laswell wants us. Keep your distance, Y/n. Everyone else, keep on a lookout for our surroundings just in case Mr. Lancaster wants to pay us a visit."

     "Copy," Cash and Rat muttered together as their heads turned like they were suddenly put on a swivel. Oh stayed silent, but she did glance around a few times. Her sights ended up staying on Y/n's back as he slowed to a stop half a mile away from the house.

     There was a singular window on the wall that faced the five of them, so Y/n set his sights through the shattered glass and on the two bodies that stood beyond it. "Got eyes on Lancaster," Y/n reported as his eyes caught on a white male who was suffering from male-patterned baldness and proudly wore a scar that trailed from his temple down his cheekbone. "He's not alone, though."

     "Laswell, you hearin' this?" Penguin muttered into the comms as he squinted at the building ahead of them while the other three Marines were watching their surroundings.

     "Loud and clear, Penguin," Kate Laswell said from her comfy office. "Tell me more, Fenris."

     "Two men, one Lancaster and the other I don't know. He's got darker skin and is wearing a hat, so I can't see his face. They look like they're arguing, though," Y/n reported as he watched the scene like it was an episode of Glee, his favorite trashy TV show. Lancaster's face was slowly turning red, and both of their mouths opened wide and aggressively so whenever they talked, or more so yelled. Their limbs were also flying about, like they were using their hands and arms to assist in making their point. "They're standing next to a table, which is covered in guns. I see pistols, rifles, maybe even a machine gun here. Think they're doing a deal?"

     Kate cursed under her breath. "It's possible," she sighed. "Alright, we'll set up a pin at this location and keep an eye on it. If that's all you have for me, Fenris, you all are good to come home. Though, Fenris—there's a letter that came for you that I put in your quarters."

     "Please don't tell me you saw my vibrator," Y/n smiled as he watched the two fight for a beat longer before he let his rifle fall back in a resting position. His head ticked to the side as he stood tall again and turned to see his team.

     "I loved the pink. Out," Kate said before cutting off her comms.

     "You're going to make her quit someday," Oh shook her head and turned as well. "Maybe even me, Y/n."

     "Don't even say that to me," Y/n bumped shoulders with Oh as they all started to walk back to the helo—Cash and Rat kept their heads on a swivel still, just in case there was something that they were missing when they were walking back somewhat vulnerable. "I might start crying."

     "You're such a baby," Penguin laughed and clapped a hand on Y/n's shoulder.

     "Just say you hate me," Y/n scoffed and rolled his eyes in a joking manner.

     This was something that Y/n had wished for for a while before he joined the Marines—a family that he could joke around with and throw playful words at that he knew did no damage. His parents were so laidback with what he did that you could barely even call them parents, and his brother practically avoided him like the plague once he started high school, so there was no family for him back home. This group of four was his family now, a family of misfits that had their own special qualities and special ways of making Y/n feel like he belonged.

     He went to bed some nights with nightmares that he was going to lose them forever, that he was going to have to wear his Dress Blues and salute as they lowered down a casket six times with an American flag draped over them. Though every time he stood among them in a line, awaiting their next mission with their game faces on, he believed that they would all live forever and they would never leave each other behind.

     This was his family, and he would never leave his family.

     Until his hand was forced by some Captain Price who knew nothing about him other than his profile and mission stats. Y/n stood at his desk with the letter addressed to him in his hands. He read it over and over again—he lost count at eight.

     REQUESTED TRANSFER—CPT. JOHN PRICE

     This letter is a request to have SGT. Y/N DODGE transferred from the MARINES to TASK FORCE 141.

"It is insane— you are insane…!" You whisper-yell to your younger brother, though the word 'insane' feels far too generous for the logic he is employing. Viserys’ nose scrunches up in anger, his fingers just itching to wrap around your neck as he insists that this is the only way to secure an army to take back the Targaryen honour.

You are both huddled in the shadow of a heavy tapestry, your voices barely rising above a hiss, yet the intensity of the argument makes the air between you feel electric.

Viserys is vibrating with a desperate, frantic energy, his eyes wide as he paints a picture of a golden throne and a city reclaimed, all bought with the currency of your sister’s hand. You argue that a Dothraki alliance is a gamble built on sand, that Daenerys is a girl, not a political chip to be tossed into a nomadic gamble. But Viserys doesn't hear the word risk; he only hears the word crown, and his voice reaches a fever pitch of indignation.

"The great horse-lord has arrived," a small, breathless voice interrupted. You pivoted, the tension in your shoulders vanishing the moment your eyes landed on Daenerys.

She stood in the doorway, looking smaller than her years in the oversized silks, her violet eyes wide with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. She looked like a fragile piece of Valyrian glass, and the sudden shift in your chest was visceral; the anger you had felt toward Viserys evaporated, replaced by a protective warmth that always seemed to bloom whenever she entered the room.

You stepped away from the shadows of the tapestry, offering her a soft, reassuring smile that reached your eyes, consciously softening your posture so she wouldn't feel the lingering electricity of the fight.

"You're trembling, Dany," you murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of silver-gold hair behind her ear. The gesture was instinctive, a quiet anchor in a world that had spent years trying to drift them all apart. Looking at her was like looking at a reflection of everything the Targaryen name was supposed to be, not the frantic, jagged greed that drove Viserys, but a sort of innate, quiet dignity.

She was the only thing in this gods-forsaken city that felt untainted, and the thought of her being traded like a piece of livestock to a man who spoke a tongue of screams and wind made your stomach coil.

"He is waiting," Daenerys whispered, her voice barely a ripple in the silence of the room.

You didn't let her take the first step. Instead, you slid your hand down from her cheek to grasp hers, your fingers locking firmly around hers. The contrast was weird, your hand, calloused and steady, against her small, porcelain palm.

You liked to think you weren't escorting her; you were anchoring her. As you led her toward the threshold, you felt the fragile tremor in her frame, a rhythmic shaking that spoke of a terror she was trying desperately to suppress for the sake of the family name.

"Keep your eyes on me, Dany. Just for a moment longer," you murmured, your pace slow. "When we walk out there, you aren't walking into a void. You're walking with me. I will be the shadow at your shoulder, and if the air becomes too heavy to breathe, you only have to squeeze my hand, yeah?"

The sunlight of Pentos was blinding as you stepped into the courtyard, the heat hitting you like a physical weight. The Dothraki were a sea of leather, bronze, and muscle, their horses shifting restlessly, hooves drumming a nervous rhythm into the packed earth. At the centre of the swarm sat Khal Drogo, perched upon his stallion with a languid, predatory grace.

He was draped in furs and silks that clashed with the arid air, his long braid swinging against his thigh as he surveyed the three of you. You didn't feel the intimidation Viserys felt— the kind of fear that masqueraded as reverence. Instead, you felt a prickle of irritation. To you, Drogo looked less like a conqueror and more like a peacock in leather, his chest puffed out with a confidence that felt unearned in the face of your own blood.

You tightened your grip on Daenerys’s hand, your gaze narrowing as you took him in. He was certainly a specimen of a man— broad-shouldered and bronze-skinned— but the bells in his hair jingled with every slight movement, a noisy ornament that seemed absurdly ostentatious.

The bells in Drogo’s hair gave a final, sharp chime as he shifted his weight, his onyx eyes scanning the three of you. You didn't see a warlord; you saw a man who spent far too much time grooming his facial hair and smelling of horse sweat and expensive oils. The idea that this man, this loud, braided peacock, was the pinnacle of power, and the price for which your sister was being bartered, felt like a personal insult to the blood of Old Valyria.

Drogo’s gaze slid from Viserys to the wide-eyed Daenerys, and finally, it settled on you. He didn't look away. He lingered on the set of your jaw, the steady way you held your ground, and the protective grip you maintained on Dany’s hand.

There was a shift in his expression, a flicker of genuine curiosity that smoothed the hard lines of his face. He didn't see a displaced prince or a frightened refugee; he saw a predator masquerading as a bodyguard, a man whose stillness was more dangerous than Viserys’s frantic energy.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of the Khal's mouth. He spoke a few words in his tongue to his bloodriders, his voice a low rumble that sounded like stones grinding together in a riverbed. The bloodriders shifted, their eyes narrowing as they looked at you, but Drogo raised a hand to silence them. He dismounted his stallion in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.

You didn't move an inch, your boots rooted in the Pentos dust as if you were a statue carved from stone. As Drogo approached, the air around him seemed to ripple with the heat of the afternoon, but your focus remained narrow and sharp.

You didn't offer a bow; you didn't offer a smile. Instead, you let your gaze harden, your brows knitting together into a deep, visceral scowl that spoke of a territorial instinct older than the cities surrounding you. It was the look of a wolf guarding a cub, a silent declaration that while Viserys might be selling the girl, you were the one who decided if she was delivered.

Drogo stopped a mere pace away, the scent of leather and crushed grass clinging to him. He was a tiny bit taller than you, but you refused to tilt your head back in a way that conceded the height. You simply stared, your eyes tracking the rhythmic jingle of the bells in his braid.

To the bloodriders circling behind him, this was a breathtaking breach of etiquette— to scowl at a Khal was to invite a blade to the throat. Yet, Drogo didn't reach for any type of blade. He tilted his head, his onyx eyes dancing with an amusement that suggested he had found something far more interesting than a bride.

"He is very rude," Viserys hissed, stepping forward with a frantic, placating smile. "Khal Drogo, please excuse my brother. He has always been… overly protective of our sister. A trait of the blood, you understand? A passion for the family legacy."

Iksan se rude mēre? (I am the rude one?) You think, but you didn't look at Viserys. To acknowledge his stuttering apologies would be to acknowledge the desperation that fueled them, and you had no appetite for his cowardice. Instead, you maintained your gaze, your eyes locking onto Drogo.

When you shifted your gaze to your little sister, you didn't see the "Silver Princess" Viserys imagined or the political pawn the Magisters of Pentos envisioned. You saw a child who was vibrating with a terror so profound it seemed to hollow her out from the inside. Her violet eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears, and they searched yours for a way out. In that gaze, there was a silent, desperate plea: don't let them take me.

Fuck.

You looked at Daenerys— really looked at her— and saw the way her small fingers were clutching your hand, not as a gesture of affection, but as a lifeline. She wasn't a princess in this moment; she was a frightened girl being led to a slaughterhouse draped in silk. Viserys saw a crown, and Drogo saw a prize, all you saw was your baby sister.

The thought of her waking up in a yurt, surrounded by a language she didn't understand and a man who viewed women as possessions, made a roar of protective fury rise in your throat. You knew, with a sudden and absolute certainty, that you could not let her go. Not to this man, not to this life, not even if it meant burning every bridge in Pentos to the ground.

You didn't let go of her hand. Instead, you stepped slightly in front of her, shifting your center of gravity to shield her body with your own. Was it a risky move? Yes. Was it a reckless one? Almost certainly. But as you felt Dany’s small hand tighten around yours, the risk felt insignificant compared to the visceral need to stand between her and the trade.

"The girl is not for sale," you said. You felt Dany’s breath hitch against your shoulder, her small frame trembling, but you didn't budge. You tightened your grip on her hand, shifting your stance to lock your boots into the dust, creating a living wall of Valyrian stubbornness. "Find another bride, find another alliance, or find another way to get your army. But you will not take her."

Viserys made a sound like a strangled hen, his face draining of colour. "Brother! You cannot—"

"Be silent, Viserys!" you snapped. You shifted your weight, feeling the heat of the Pentoshi sun baking the earth beneath your boots."You may play the merchant, but I am the wall. If you want a horse-lord’s favour, find a different coin to spend."

Turning your gaze back to Drogo, you offered a smile that didn't reach your eyes, a sharp, cold thing. "My sister is not a trade. Now, unless you intend to drag her away in chains, I suggest you take your horses and your bells and find another path. Fuck off, Khal."

The bloodriders surged forward, their hands flying to the hilt of their arakhs, a collective snarl ripping from their throats. They looked at you as if you were a ghost or a madman, their eyes wide with the shock of seeing a man speak to the Sun and Stars of the plains as if he were a common stable boy. Viserys had actually stopped breathing, his mouth hanging open, certain that the next sound he would hear would be the wet thud of your head hitting the dirt.

Drogo didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his onyx eyes scanning your face, searching for the flicker of fear that always accompanied such defiance. He found none. Instead, he saw a man who was entirely willing to bleed to keep his sister's hand in his own.

He stepped closer, invading your personal space until the scent of musk and leather overwhelmed the salt air of the coast. You didn't flinch, though your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

Drogo’s gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then swept down the length of your frame, lingering on the strength in your shoulders and the unwavering set of your jaw. A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest, not a growl, but a chuckle of genuine appreciation.

"The little dragon has a sting," Drogo murmured in the Common Tongue, his voice a rough velvet that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. He ignored Viserys entirely, treating the exiled king as if he were nothing more than a buzzing fly. His eyes returned to yours, flashing with a sudden, predatory hunger that had nothing to do with political alliances or the promise of a throne.

He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing yours, the heat radiating off him in waves. Slowly, with a lack of urgency, Drogo reached out and ran a calloused thumb along the line of your jaw. It wasn't a gesture of aggression, but one of appraisal, as if he were measuring the quality of a stallion's spirit. "The girl is a flower," he said, his gaze dropping to the small, trembling hand you still held firmly in your own. "But the brother… the brother is a blade."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across the Khal's face, his onyx eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "You tell me to fuck off," he said, the words rolling out in a low, rhythmic rumble. "I will. I will take my horses, my bells, and my bloodriders, and I will leave this courtyard to the dust."

He paused, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw once more, a touch that was possessive and challenging all at once. "But the price has changed. I do not want the flower. I want the blade."

Viserys looked as though he had been struck by lightning, his mouth opening and closing without a single sound escaping.

You felt Dany’s grip on your hand loosen slightly, her violet eyes darting between you and the Khal. The terror was still there, but it was now tempered by a flicker of bewildered hope. You shifted your stance, stepping back just an inch to create a sliver of space between you and the bronze-skinned warrior. Your voice was low, stripped of the aggression from moments before, replacing it with a cold, transactional precision.

"If I go with you," you began, your gaze locking onto Drogo’s onyx eyes with an intensity that demanded a binding oath, "You leave her alone. No claims, no contracts, no 'favours' called upon her in the future. She remains free of your shadow and the shadows of your bloodriders. Do you agree?"

Drogo’s expression didn't waver, though his gaze dipped once more to the silver-gold hair of your sister, then snapped back to yours. A slow nod followed, the bells in his braid chiming a soft, final chord. "The flower remains in the garden," he replied, his voice a rough rumble of certainty. "The blade comes to the plains."

"Alright then," you replied, the words sounding like the snap of a closing trap. You only looked at Drogo, matching the heat of his onyx gaze with the cold fire of your own. You had just traded your freedom for her safety, and as the reality of the bargain settled in, you felt a strange, electric thrill shoot down your spine.

The release of Daenerys’s hand was the hardest part. You did it slowly, as if breaking a spell, ensuring she was standing on her own two feet before you stepped away. You reached up, cupping her small face in your palms for one last fleeting second, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. With a playful, sudden movement, you reached out and ruffled her silver-gold hair, messing up the precise braids Viserys had insisted upon. It was a childish gesture, a reminder that she was still just a girl, and for a moment, the ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"Stay in the garden, little dragon," you whispered, your voice thick with a tenderness you refused to show the men watching you. "Grow strong. Be the light in this family, because the rest of us are far too fond of the dark."

You turned back to Drogo, the warmth vanishing from your face like a cloud covering the sun. The Khal was watching you, his posture relaxed yet poised, like a leopard observing a creature that had just walked willingly into its territory. He didn't offer a hand to lead you; he simply turned on his heel, expecting you to follow in the wake of his horse.

As you stepped toward him, you caught the look of absolute horror on Viserys’s face. You ignored him, stepping closer to the Khal until you were nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

"One thing, Khal Drogo," you murmured. "Do not expect my personality and my self to die like a dog for you."

— A few weeks later.

The stars over the Great Grass Sea were a cold, shimmering audience, watching from a ceiling of velvet indigo as the festivities of the wedding feast wound down. The air was thick with the scent of roasting horseflesh and the lingering echo of screams— some of joy, some of agony— as the ritual combats had claimed their customary quota of lives. You had spent the day as a curiosity, a silver-haired anomaly amidst a sea of bronze, refusing to be cowed by the bloodriders who viewed your presence as a riddle they couldn't solve.

Then came the gift.

Drogo had led you away from the flickering campfires, his hand a heavy, warm weight between your shoulder blades, guiding you toward a tethering post where a creature of fire and muscle waited. It was a stallion, lean and leggy and young, with a coat the colour of charcoal.

"He is a bastard," Drogo murmured, his voice vibrating with a low, appreciative hum. He didn't mean the horse's lineage, but rather its temperament. The stallion tossed its head, eyes rolling with a wild, untamed energy that mirrored the restlessness currently clawing at your own gut. "He has a heart of fire and a head of stone. He has killed five men who tried to ride him already. He will try to throw you."

You looked at the charcoal beast, then back at the Khal. Drogo was leaning in, his onyx eyes searching yours, a challenging smirk playing on his lips. He seemed to be enjoying the moment, treating the presentation of the animal not as a gesture of generosity, but as a test of your mettle. He shifted his weight, his own mount, a lean, red stallion that looked more like a creature of myth than flesh, snorting in agreement beside him.

"Do you know how to ride?" Drogo asked. You let out a short, sharp laugh. "Do I know how to ride?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I was born in the saddle of a palfrey before I could walk, Drogo. I’ve ridden through the mud of the Free Cities," you countered, your voice a sharp, confident edge. "A charcoal 'bastard' with a grudge is hardly a challenge."

You didn't wait for him to offer a hand or a lesson. You stepped into the stallion's space, your movements fluid and devoid of the hesitation the horse expected. The beast let out a piercing shriek, rearing back and snapping its teeth toward your shoulder, but you didn't flinch. You stepped inward, closing the gap and planting a firm, grounding hand against its muscular neck.

With a sudden, explosive surge of motion, you vaulted onto its back. Your body snapped upward in a single, blurred motion of strength and timing. The stallion bucked once, a violent, jarring heave that would have sent a lesser rider sprawling into the dirt, but you absorbed the shock in your hips, gripping the creature's flanks with a strength that bordered on desperation.

For a second, you were suspended in the air, the world tilting on its axis, and then you slammed back down into the saddle with a heavy, satisfying thud.

You sat there, breathless, your hair wind-whipped and your eyes blazing. The horse was trembling beneath you, his sides heaving, but he wasn't trying to throw you anymore. He was waiting. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his warm neck, feeling the thrum of his heart beating in sync with your own.

You looked over at Drogo, who was still standing by his red stallion, his expression one of genuine, startled curiosity. He had expected a struggle; he had expected the 'blade' to be chipped by the horse's fury. He hadn't expected you to mould yourself to the beast's chaos in a matter of seconds.

"Race ya," you challenged, your voice a playful rasp.

Drogo paused, his brow furrowing. You were a prize, a guest-slave, a curiosity, you were not someone who challenged a Khal to a contest of speed on the open plains. He looked at you, then at the charcoal stallion, then back to your smug, silver-gold reflection of defiance. He seemed genuinely perplexed that you would dare to suggest a competition where he could possibly lose.

With a sharp command and a sudden snap of the reins, you drove the stallion forward. The horse practically launched himself like a stone from a sling. The wind whipped past your ears, a roaring torrent that drowned out everything but the rhythmic, thunderous drumming of hooves against the earth. You leaned low over the horse's neck, becoming a single, streamlined extension of muscle and will, cutting through the twilight air with a predatory grace that mirrored the Khal's own.

Behind you, a roar of laughter erupted, a deep, booming sound that shook the air. Drogo had found the joke. He vaulted onto his red stallion with a fluid motion, his bells jingling in a frantic, melodic crescendo as he spurred his mount into a gallop.

The race was a blur of charcoal and crimson against the deepening violet of the horizon. Every time you glanced to your side, Drogo was there, his onyx eyes flashing with an adrenaline-fueled hunger.

The world became nothing but the smell of hot dust and the rhythmic, violent drumming of a thousand heartbeats between the horse’s hooves and your own. You pushed the charcoal stallion until his lungs sounded like bellows, the wind tearing at your clothes and whipping your silver hair into a frantic halo.

Beside you, Drogo was a silhouette of crimson and bronze, his laughter lost to the roar of the gale, yet his gaze remained locked onto yours, a silent, competitive fire that burned hotter than the midday sun. You didn't know where the finish line was, and neither did he; there was only the horizon, the bruising speed, and the intoxicating sense of being entirely, dangerously alive.

When the distance between you and the camp had stretched into a mile of shimmering void, you gave a sharp, commanding whistle. You didn't slow down gradually; you leaned back, digging your heels in for one final, explosive burst of speed that put you a fractional length ahead of the red stallion.

Then, with a sudden, jarring pull of the reins, you brought the charcoal beast to a sliding, spraying halt. The horse screamed, his hooves carving deep trenches into the earth, and you vaulted off his back before he had even fully stopped. You hit the dirt in a controlled roll and sprang upward, your chest heaving, your lungs burning with the sweet, sharp taste of dust.

Drogo pulled up a second later, his red stallion foaming at the bit. The Khal sat motionless for a moment, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, rhythmic cadence. He didn't look at the finish line, there had never been one, he looked at you.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Drogo’s face. "You ride like a demon," Drogo murmured. "A reckless, stubborn demon."

You didn't answer him immediately. Instead, you let your legs give way, sinking into the tall grass of the plains until you were sitting flat against the earth. The adrenaline that had powered your ride was receding, leaving behind a heavy exhaustion that felt like lead in your veins. With a slow exhale, you tipped backward, your spine meeting the soil with a soft thud. You lay there, staring up at the canopy of the Great Grass Sea's night sky, your long, silver-gold hair spilling across your face like a frayed silk curtain, blurring the constellations into shimmering, distorted smudges of light.

For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic, wet huffing of the horses and the distant, muffled cheers of the camp. You felt the earth beneath you, still holding the ghost of the day's heat, and for the first time in years, the crushing weight of the Targaryen legacy felt distant.

A shadow fell over you, blotting out the stars. Drogo had dismounted and approached, his presence a warm, imposing pressure. He didn't speak; he simply stood there for a moment, looking down at the silver-haired creature sprawled in his wake. Then, with a low grunt, he sank to the grass beside you. He didn't lie down, but he leaned back on his elbows, his bronze skin glowing in the fading twilight, the bells in his braid giving a final, soft chime as he settled.

"The others," Drogo began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the ground and into your ribs, "They would say you are mad to challenge a Khal. They would say the blade has a flaw in its tempering." He turned his head, those onyx eyes searching yours through the veil of your hair. "But madness is often the only way to survive the world. Your brother… he is a man of shadows and whispers. You are a man of fire."

"Fire can burn," you replied, your voice a low rasp, "or it can be harnessed. Depends on who holds the torch."

You shifted on the grass, your shoulder brushing against the rough leather of his leggings. You had expected this transition to be a collision, a brutal claim of ownership. You were a prize won by a bargain, a captive in all but name, and you had spent the journey across the plains preparing yourself for the moment Drogo would simply take what he believed was his.

You had braced your spirit for the storm, imagining a night of forced submission where your only weapon would be the silent, cold endurance of your ancestors.

Drogo turned his head fully toward you, his gaze dropping from the stars to your heart hammering in the hollow of your throat. He didn't reach for you with the suddenness of a predator. Instead, he leaned in closer, the scent of horse-sweat and warm musk enveloping you like a shroud.

"The sun has set," Drogo murmured, his voice a velvet rumble that vibrated in the small space between your lips. "The race is over. The moon claims the plains now." He paused, his onyx eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt almost invasive, yet lacked any hint of cruelty. "Do you wish for this, [Y/N]? Do you want to be with me?"

You blinked. For a moment, your mind raced back to the stories of the Dothraki— the tales of raiding parties, the screams of captured women, the brutal, unilateral way the warlords of the plains claimed what they desired. You had spent the last few weeks constructing a mental fortress, bracing yourself for a night where your consent would be treated as an irrelevant formality.

You had expected a conquest, a forced surrender of your body to match the bargain of your freedom. The shock of his hesitation was more jarring than the bucking of the charcoal stallion. He was a man who could command a thousand blades with a single word, yet he was waiting. He wasn't hovering with the predatory intent of a man about to strike; he was simply there, his gaze steady and patient, offering you a choice that you hadn't known existed in this world of leather and blood.

A strange, tight knot of tension, one you hadn't even realised you were carrying in your shoulders, finally snapped. You looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the way the moonlight softened the harsh angles of his face. There was a raw honesty in his onyx eyes, a curiosity that mirrored your own.

He didn't want a broken thing; he wanted the blade, and a blade, you realised, had to choose to unsheathe itself. You shifted, rolling onto your side so you were propped up on one elbow, facing him. The distance between you was now a sliver of moonlight and warm air.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, a living furnace in the cooling night. Slowly, tentatively, you reached out. Your fingers brushed the gold rings binding his moustache, then slid lower, tracing the line of his collarbone where the bronze skin was slick with the remnants of the day's exertion.

The silk was a burden, a shimmering cage of weaving that felt suffocatingly heavy against your skin. You didn't look away from Drogo as you reached for the fastenings of your tunic, your movements slow. With a soft, sliding hiss, the fabric began to slip, sliding over your shoulders like a falling curtain. You let the garment pool around your hips, exposing the pale, lean muscle of your chest and the sharp line of your ribs.

You didn't stop there. With a quiet, focused intensity, you worked the remaining ties, shedding the layers of opulent finery until the wedding silks lay in a discarded heap of silver and cream upon the dirt. You stepped out of the fabric entirely, standing before the Khal in the raw, unfiltered moonlight. You were practically a map of Valyrian legacies— pale skin that seemed to glow against the indigo night, muscles honed by survival and a stubborn refusal to break.

You stood before him, stripped of every pretense and piece of silk, feeling the cool night air prickle against your skin. There was no instinct to cover yourself, no flicker of modesty to make you shrink beneath his appraisal. You were a creature of the dragon's line, and in your mind, there was nothing to be ashamed of in the architecture of your own body.

You stood tall, your posture open and challenging, offering him a view of a form that was lean and disciplined. Your skin was as smooth as polished marble, devoid of the coarse hair that plagued the men of the Free Cities, save for the white, masculine line of a happy trail that dipped from your navel toward your hips, and the thick curls of your pubic hair.

You didn't move, remaining as still as a statue carved from moonlight. You had laid your cards on the table, stripped of the finery. Now, the air felt electric, charged with a tension that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. You watched him, your violet eyes tracking the way his chest rose and fell in a heavy, rhythmic thrum.

The Khal remained seated for a secomd longer than necessary, his gaze travelling over you with a slow but steady hunger. He looked at you not as a possession, but as a peer— a challenge to be met. You felt a sudden, sharp spike of impatience.

You had bared yourself to the wind and the stars; it seemed only fair that the Great Khal should do the same. You didn't ask, and you certainly didn't plead. Instead, you arched a silver brow, a ghost of a smirk playing on your lips.

"What is the matter, Drogo?" you challenged, your voice a low, daring rasp that cut through the stillness of the plains. "Does the Great Khal find himself suddenly paralysed by a bit of moonlight?"

You shifted your weight, leaning forward just enough to let the moonlight catch the curve of your hip. The smirk on your lips deepened into something truly predatory. "I had heard the Dothraki were made of iron and storm, but looking at you now, I suspect you might just be a very loud man with a very fancy braid and a very small…"

The laugh that ripped from Drogo’s throat was less of a chuckle and more of a roar, a sound of genuine delight that seemed to vibrate the very earth beneath your bare heels. He didn't answer with words; he answered with action. In one fluid, explosive motion, his hand shot out, gripping your waist with a strength that felt like a brand of hot iron. He yanked you forward, the momentum sending you tumbling across his broad chest and landing squarely in his lap.

You let out a sharp, surprised huff as you hit the hard muscle of his thighs, your legs splaying across his lap to maintain your balance. You didn't struggle; instead, you leaned back, propping yourself up on his shoulders, your violet eyes dancing with a mischievous light.

"Small?" Drogo murmured, the word a low vibration against your skin. "You wish to test the measurements of the Khal?"

He dismantled himself with a efficiency that felt like a siege. The leather fastenings of his breeches gave way with a series of sharp, rhythmic snaps, and as the heavy fabric fell away, you felt the air leave your lungs. The moonlight, which had been your only companion in your nakedness, now seemed to pale in comparison to the sheer, imposing physicality of the man beneath you.

He was built like the earth itself, vast, hard, and unyielding. His cock was a heavy, twitching weight of bronze skin, thick and formidable, coupled with a raw, predatory heat that radiated against your thighs. It was a weapon of a different sort than a blade, though it looked just as capable of carving a path through anything in its way.

A slow, triumphant smile curled your lips as you looked down at him. "Well," you whispered, your voice a playful, breathless rasp. "Perhaps the rumours were underselling you."

Drogo’s hand, large and calloused, slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The contact was electric, a collision of pale marble and sun-baked bronze.

You didn’t leave the final move to him. You were not a creature that waited to be claimed, and the heat radiating between your thighs had reached a fever pitch that demanded resolution. Reaching down, your fingers curled around the heavy, pulsing length of him.

His skin was hot, the texture of polished stone and velvet, and you felt the sudden, sharp intake of his breath as you tightened your grip. You began to stroke him, a slow, rhythmic motion that drew a low, guttural groan from deep within his chest. You watched his face, the way his onyx eyes hooded with a mixture of surprise and raw desire, the way his jaw tightened as you played with the weapon he had offered.

Satisfied with the tremor that ran through his massive frame, you shifted your weight, lifting yourself just enough to align the searing heat of his head with your hole. You didn't rush the descent. Instead, you hovered there for a second, the tip of him teasing the entrance of your heat, creating a friction that made your toes curl into the grass. Then, with a press of your hips, you began to sink.

The first inch was a shock of fullness that threatened to overwhelm you, a stretching sensation that felt like being split open by a warm, living blade. You gasped, your head falling back as you felt the sheer mass of him begin to fill the void.

The sensation was an intrusion of the most exquisite kind, a sudden, heavy expansion that seemed to rewrite the geography of your body. You let out a long, shuddering breath, your eyes fluttering shut as the pressure mounted, pushing against the very limits of your endurance. Instinctively, you leaned back on both of your hands, your arms locking to support your weight, creating a bridge of trembling muscle between your shoulders and the earth. You were a taut string of a bow, vibrating with the effort of absorbing him, your chest heaving as you fought to maintain the rhythm of your own breathing.

Drogo’s hands, wide and calloused, didn't just hold you; they claimed you. He felt the slight tremor in your arms, the way your breath hitched in a ragged, uneven cadence. With a low, predatory hum of approval, he shifted his weight. In one fluid motion, he gripped your waist and pivoted, rolling you off his lap and flat onto your back. The transition was seamless, the grass cushioning your spine as the world tilted and settled. Before you could even gasp at the change in position, he moved with the precision of a warrior, lifting your legs high and hooking them firmly over his broad shoulders.

The shift in angle was devastating. Now, with your hips tilted upward and your legs pinned, there was no room for hesitation or retreat. You were completely open, your vulnerability laid bare under the indigo sky, while Drogo loomed over you like a mountain of bronze and muscle. He looked down at you, his onyx eyes burning with a mixture of possessiveness and admiration. He didn't just want to take you; he wanted to see the exact moment the 'blade' finally surrendered to the fire.

"Now," he murmured, the word less a request and more a command.

He didn’t glide into you with the tentative caution of a man fearing he might break a fragile thing. Instead, Drogo drove forward with the sudden, violent precision of a cavalry charge, a single, powerful surge that slammed into you with the force of a landslide.

The air vanished from your lungs in a sharp, strangled gasp as you were pinned deep into the loam, the sheer mass of him filling every available space, stretching you to a limit that felt almost agonising and utterly transcendent.

Then, he began to move. He didn't establish a rhythm; he ignited one. Drogo thrust with a blistering, frantic speed, his hips snapping forward in a blur of bronze muscle and raw power. Each strike was a percussion of flesh against flesh, a rhythmic thundering that echoed the gallop of the charcoal stallion.

It was an assault of sensation, a relentless barrage that left you breathless, your head tossing from side to side against the grass as you struggled to keep pace with the sudden, exhilarating violence of his pace.

You felt the world dissolve into a series of fragmented images: the silver blur of your own hair whipping across your cheeks, the oppressive heat of his chest crushing yours, and the endless, velvet indigo of the sky spinning above you.

The speed was dizzying, a blurring velocity that turned the pleasure into something sharper, more desperate, like the feeling of falling from a great height and realising you loved the wind in your face. Your fingers clawed at the earth, digging into the soil and grass as you fought to anchor yourself against the storm of his body.

Drogo’s breathing had become a series of guttural, rhythmic snarls, his teeth grazing the sensitive curve of your shoulder. He wasn't the patient observer anymore; he was the storm itself. He gripped your thighs with a strength that would leave bruises, his fingers sinking into your pale skin as he drove himself deeper, faster, chasing a peak that felt like a cliff edge. The friction was a searing current of electricity, a white-hot spark that ignited in the pit of your stomach and radiated outward to your fingertips.

The sensation was too much, a tidal wave of heat that threatened to drown your senses, and the sudden urge for a different kind of collision flared in your chest. You weren't content to be the shore that the storm simply broke upon. With a sharp, feline hiss of breath, you reached up and wound your fingers deep into the thick, black mass of his hair, gripping the coarse strands with a firmness that brooked no argument. You jerked his head downward, a sudden, commanding snap that forced the great warlord to buckle and lean into your space.

He let out a startled, low grunt, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before he met the collision. You didn't wait for him to find his balance; you surged upward, meeting him halfway in a kiss that tasted of salt, adrenaline, and the wild, untamed heat of the plains.

It wasn't a gentle union; it was a clash of wills, a desperate, hungry exchange of breath and tongue that mirrored the violence of the rhythm below. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, a sharp spark of aggression that seemed to ignite something primal in him, causing his hips to snap forward with renewed, bruising force.

The angle of the impact shifted, a sudden, precise adjustment of leverage that drove him deeper than he had ever reached, bypassing the surface friction to strike a singular, hidden nerve.

The sensation was a bolt of white light, an electric shock that bypassed your mind and detonated directly in your core. He hit your prostate with the precision of a master swordsman finding the gap in a breastplate, and the air you had been holding in your lungs escaped in a raw, unrestrained sound. You moaned loudly into Drogo’s mouth, the noise muffled by his lips but vibrating through your entire frame, a admission of complete and utter defeat.

The world narrowed down to a single, white-hot point of convergence. As you felt the sudden, rhythmic contraction of your own body, Drogo gave one final, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt. In that instant, the tension that had been building like a summer storm over the plains finally broke.