Unini

"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.

You rolled your eyes, listening to Felicia nagging at you on the phone while you were lounging on your couch in your new apartment.

You loved your sister, you truly do but her paranoia was definitely teetering towards obsession.

A knock on the door made you freeze, knowing that you didn’t order anything or was expecting any company for the night.

“Hey sis, I gotta go, I’m gonna turn in early for the night. Take care of yourself, love you.” You quickly ended the call before sneaking your way to the front door and tapping on a small screen next to it that you had installed that upgraded your peep hole into a camera so you could see the outside without putting your face anywhere near the door.

A familiar face was on the other side, one Shang-Chi of the Avengers. You sighed, frustrated that he found you again even after you’ve made sure to hide your tracks.

You pressed on the speaker button on the screen. “Getting real tired of you showing up on my front door step.”

“Hardy?” Shang-Chi looked around in confusion before noticing the small speaker on the door, he leaned in closely and it made your mouth twitch at how adorably stupid his action was.

You huffed out a laugh. “You don’t have to speak into the microphone, I can hear you just fine handsome.”

Shang-Chi stepped back, his cheeks tinted with red as he smiled sheepishly.

“Now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” You asked the other man.

Shang-Chi cleared his throat before lifting his arm up to reveal takeout in a plastic bag. “Brought you some dinner, thought you’d be interested in having some company tonight?”

“Depends on what you brought.” You retorted.

Shang-Chi smiled. “Chinese takeout, they’ve got delicious dumplings.”

You smirked at the screen, dumplings sounded amazing.

~~~~~

“So, you’ve been quiet. I haven’t seen you making trouble since you were stuck in the warehouse with Torres.”

Shang-Chi told you, taking a bite of his dumpling from one end of the couch while you were sat on the other.

You shrugged, putting your chopsticks back in the takeout container you were holding. “I’ve done some trouble but not big enough to put a target on my back.”

“I’m guessing Fisk’s reign really scared you huh?” Shang-Chi replied, putting his own food down to turn his full attention to you.

You licked your lips, putting your takeout down on the coffee table right in front of you. “Among many other things.”

Shang-Chi nodded, making you fidget slightly from where you were sitting. The man obviously had something to say considering he came all this way to find you.

“You tracked me down to an undisclosed location, I didn’t put my name on the lease so do you mind telling me what you actually came here to talk about instead of this mindless small talk.” You finally confronted the other man, watching as Shang-Chi sighed before getting comfortable on the couch.

Shang-Chi gave you an apologetic smile. “After what went down in that video call that day, I didn’t think I’d see Torres come back home looking depressed.”

“Well, it seems like I have that effect on people.” You replied, trying not to let the thought of a depressed Torres show on your face especially with how the two of you ended off.

Shang-Chi sighed. “What happened after that?”

“Probably the same thing that’s going to happen the more you try to hide your feelings from me.” You replied, catching Shang-Chi off guard.

Shang-Chi’s face reddened. “How’d you-“

“I didn’t, I took a chance.” You cut him off, a small smile forming on your face. “Guess, I was right.”

Shang-Chi suddenly stood up, his whole face now completely red. “Right, well I came by to see if you were okay and I guess you are so I’ll take my leave.”

“Hold on,” You reached out, grabbing his wrist and stopping him. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, just sit down with me and keep me company tonight.”

Shang-Chi looked down at you, hesitation written across his face before he gave in and sat back down, now sitting closer to you.

“Fine but no funny business.” Shang-Chi warned you as you threw your legs over his lap and leaned in with a smirk.

You pouted, catching Shang-Chi red handed as looked down at your lips. “Where’s the fun in that? I’ve been stressed from having a target on my back because of The Kingpin, won’t you help me relax?”

“You’re trouble.” Shang-Chi grunted but still leaned his face towards yours, making you smile before you connected your lips with his.

You broke the kiss, pulling your lips away from Shang-Chi’s slightly as your tongue trace the outline of his lips. “You like it.”

“I do.” Shang-Chi replied before capturing your lips with his, moving your bodies so you were lying on the couch while he hovered over you.

Shang-Chi’s hands slip under your shirt, helping you take it off your body before you did the same with his.

You grinned, seeing how ripped the other man was before leaning in to lick a stripe up from his navel to his hard abs, hearing his breath hitch in response.

Shang-Chi immediately grabbed your chin, halting you from going further as you were forced to look up at him. “Behave.”

“You’re mean when we have sex.” You told him, your voice becoming slightly sultry as you felt yourself hardening in your pants.

Shang-Chi smirked down at you. “You like it.”

“We should move to the bedroom.” You suggested, making Shang-Chi grin in response.

~~~~~

“Oh fuck, your tongue is insane.”

Shang-Chi groaned approvingly at your words, the vibrations of his voice against your hole made your toes curl from where your legs were wrapped around his shoulders.

Your hands were on the back of Shang-Chi’s head, your fingers tugging on his hair whenever he’d do something wicked with his tongue that would make your back arch slightly from the mattress of your bed.

“Yeah? You miss that hole? You miss me squeezing your cock?” You sighed out, getting a moan out of Shang-Chi before he released your hole with a pop.

Shang-Chi panted, leaving kisses on the inside of your legs before pushing himself up so he could kiss you on the lips. He let out a noise of approval when you wrapped your legs around his bare waist to pull his body closer to yours during the kiss.

Shang-Chi eventually broke the kiss before he turned his attention to your jaw and neck, gnawing on you like a chew toy. He was addicted to the way you tasted on his tongue and the way the natural musk of your scent had a tinge of sweetness that drove him absolutely nuts.

“As much as I love the attention, handsome. I want to give you pleasure too.” You teased Shang-Chi, lightly pushing at the man’s shoulder so he could ease off your body before you made him lie back on the bed while you hovered over him.

Shang-Chi watched as you made your way down his body, leaving tiny kisses behind that made his breathing get heavier as you got closer to his cock that was already standing proudly.

The first hint of your tongue poking out already made Shang-Chi shudder in anticipation before letting out a broken cry when you enveloped his cock with your mouth, he missed this.

You bobbed your head expertly down Shang-Chi’s length, swirling your tongue around the thick member as you went. It made the Avenger hiss when you took more of him into your mouth until your nose was pushed against the hairs on his pelvis.

“Oh fuck.” Shang-Chi moaned out feeling his cock hit the back of your throat before he reached down to tangle his fingers into your hair as he controlled the pace of you deepthroating his cock.

The sound of your throat choking on his cock made Shang-Chi’s mouth twitch, he knew you’d push his hand away from your head if you wanted to.

Shang-Chi then pulled your head off his cock, the sound of your gasp and the visual off the string of saliva that connected your lips to the head of his cock made him groan.

“I wasn’t done.” You grumbled, your voice a little gravelly from your throat being used.

Shang-Chi chuckled before pulling you up to wipe the saliva off your mouth before gently pecking you on the lips with a small smile. “I know, baby but I can’t wait to fuck you anymore. Let me take care of you tonight, like you wanted me to.”

Shang-Chi saw the way your eyes dilated in interest, you licked lips before nodding and letting the other man manhandle you so you were lying back on the bed while he placed himself between your spread legs.

“You’re gorgeous.” Shang-Chi told you as he aligned the head of his cock with your waiting hole.

He noticed the tinge of red on your cheeks before you rolled your eyes at him with a huff. “Just fuck me already.”

“As you wish.” Shang-Chi smirked before slowly pushing in, silently gasping at the tightness that surrounded his cock but also eagerly swallowed him whole as he pushed into with ease.

Shang-Chi glanced at your face with a cocked eyebrow in question, getting a grin from you in response.

You shrugged before letting out a small gasp when Shang-Chi began gyrating his hips into you. “What can I say? I might have been playing with a couple of toys before you came over, it’s been pretty lonely.”

“Oh my god,” Shang-Chi groaned as he continued to fuck into you with a newfound rhythm. “Your hole is amazing.”

“Fuck.” You whimpered in response when Shang-Chi did a particular thrust that made your back arch on the bed.

Shang-Chi let out a chuckle, he had found your spot before quickening his thrusts. He leaned down to capture your lips with his in a bruising kiss, feeling your hands latch onto his back to sink your nails into his skin as he continued to thrust deeply into you.

The both of you moaning and whimpering into each other’s mouths as you sucked on Shang-Chi’s tongue with every thrust he gave you.

Shang-Chi shut his eyes from the intense pleasure he was feeling, the familiar heat of his release coiling in his gut.

“Hey, look at me.” You whispered, the vulnerability in the tone of your voice forced Shang-Chi’s eyes to open.

He stared down at you, noticing the way your features immediately softened as you smiled up at him.

You pecked him once on the lips, letting out another whimper when a sharp thrust hit your prostrate. “You don’t have to control it, we’ve got all night.”

“Yeah? So you can tire me out and leave when the sun rises?” Shang-Chi joked, his hips slowing down as he recalled the first time the both of you slept together.

Something akin to hurt flickered on your face and it made Shang-Chi almost stop his thrusts to ask what was wrong before you shook your head and pulled his face down to kiss him.

This kiss felt different from the previous kisses the man had shared with you. This time Shang-Chi felt something vulnerable and raw with every smack of the lips.

It was an apology packed with emotions, a new sensation that drove Shang-Chi insane as he thrusted his hips harder into you.

He swallowed all the whimpers and cries that tumbled out of your mouth and into his as the slapping sound of his pelvis met with your bottom.

Shang-Chi dropped an apologetic kiss on your lips for being rough with you before he let out a groan as he spilled his seed into you.

He continued his thrusts, determined to make you cum before getting his answer when your hole squeezed his cock so tightly from your own release that he saw nothing but white before wiping out.

The last thing Shang-Chi heard was the sound of your voice chuckling, a hand caressing the back of his head and a kiss to his temple before he passed out.

~~~~~

Shang-Chi woke up with a start, his eyes blinking to focus on his surroundings before he realised that he was in your bedroom and his heart sank when you weren’t next to him on the bed.

Memories of the night before came flooding to his mind and he groaned in embarrassment before getting out of the bed to collect his clothes and dress himself up when the rest of his senses kicked in and he realised he could hear the tv playing in the living room and the smell of food wafting from the kitchen.

He quickly donned on his underwear and pants as his curiosity peaked further.

Shang-Chi cautiously walked out of the bedroom, somehow still expecting you to be gone from the apartment but let out a sigh of relief to see your back was turned to him as you were cooking by the stove, your white hair slightly askew in the back.

Shang-Chi wasted no time as he strode across the room, chuckling softly when he startled you by wrapping his arms around your waist before resting his chin on your shoulder.

You playfully whacked his arm and tutted at him. “I know you’re an Avenger but a hot stove can still burn your hands and I am not going to be the one to tell Sam on how you got those burns.”

“Good morning to you too.” Shang-Chi chuckled, kissing the side of your head in greeting.

You hummed. “Bacon and eggs okay for breakfast or will they effect your hot bod?”

“We had dumplings last night.” Shang-Chi pointed out.

You chuckled. “Well we also had late night cardio before someone passed out on me. Literally.”

“Bacon and eggs are great, thank you.” Shang-Chi replied, he was smart enough not to prolong that moment with you without setting himself up for embarrassment.

You snickered before nudging him with your shoulder. “Take a seat at the couch, I’ll bring a plate to you. They’re almost done.”

Shang-Chi nodded, giving you a kiss on the cheek before he made his way to the couch. You apparently had the news on, another story about Wilson Fisk being mayor.

“Can’t seem to escape him even if I tried.” Shang-Chi heard you say with a snort before he took the plate of bacon and eggs from you, thanking you before the both of you settled comfortably on the couch.

Shang-Chi glanced at you from the corner of his eye, he saw the tenseness in your shoulders as you ate and consumed the news on your tv.

He cleared his throat. “I can change the channel if you want.”

“Hold on,” You murmured, your eyes fixed on the screen. “Looks like someone’s going to be running against Fisk soon.”

Shang-Chi turned his attention to the tv, his mouth dropping when a familiar face appeared. A new candidate running for mayor that neither of you were prepared for.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Shang-Chi said.

You turned your head to him with an amused expression. “Luke Cage just entered the game.”

~~~~~

“So, how is he?”

Shang-Chi froze as he poured sugar into his coffee while he was standing in the kitchen of The Avengers’ Living Quarters in the tower.

He carefully turned his head to face Torres, who was standing by the entrance of the kitchen with his arms crossed.

Shang-Chi gulped before he cleared his throat. “He’s okay, just rattled by Fisk so he’s choosing to lay low.”

“That’s fair.” Torres replied before dropping his eyes to the floor, it honestly made Shang-Chi’s heart ache at how crestfallen his teammate looked.

Shang-Chi grabbed a spoon before he started to stir his coffee. “You know you could go visit him if you wanted to. I think he’d appreciate the company.”

“Well you stayed the night, I think I can guess what kind of company he’d prefer.” Torres replied, sounding bitter.

Shang-Chi sighed. “I don’t know what happened between the both of you during your time in the hideout but you should know better than to say crap like that. Your hurt feelings aren’t an excuse for you to lash out.”

Somehow that seemed to have stumped Torres, the other man’s eyes widening at Shang-Chi’s words before he slowly nodded.

“You’re right,” Torres sighed, scratching the back of his head. “I was being an asshole.”

Shang-Chi shrugged. “Yeah you were and I think it would be better if you took the time to sit down with your pain before you decide to go and see him.”

Torres nodded, biting down on his bottom lip as he reflected on Shang-Chi’s advice.

“Thanks. I think I needed that.” Torres told Shang-Chi with a sheepish smile before he excused himself to leave the martial artist alone in the kitchen.

Shang-Chi took a sip of his coffee, he wondered if he did the right thing. He wanted to be selfish and have you all to himself but he knew better than to box you into some kind of petty love triangle that you had no say on.

He wished things were simpler.

~~~~~

You should’ve known better than to think that staying low would get Fisk off your back when you were withdrawing money from an ATM machine and then felt someone hold a gun to your back.

“Apologies for intruding on your day but Mayor Fisk has been wanting to meet you.” A man with a British accent said from behind you, the barrel of the gun pushing into the bottom of your back in warning.

You sighed. “Lead the way.”

You suddenly found yourself in the backseat of a car that had tinted windows, the man now sitting next to you while he told the driver to go.

You glanced at the man, a small smirk on your face. “So dimples, you got a name? Usually guys would point a different weapon from their pants to my back instead of a whole gun.”

“How charming, Mayor Fisk did warn that you’d be a sly talker. You can call me, Buck.” The man replied, flashing a dimpled smirk at you.

You nodded before leaning back into the car’s seat. “Well Buck, it wouldn’t be too bad if you fucked me in the back of this car before my untimely death by the hands of Fisk.”

“You are such a character.” Buck replied in amusement before turning his head to the front while you rolled your eyes at him.

You wished Buck wasn’t directly next to you, your phone sat heavily in your pocket and you couldn’t sent out a text to Sam for help.

When you arrived at Fisk’s office, you tried not to show the nervousness on your face as you finally came face to face with the once crime boss turned Mayor of New York City.

You almost wanted to scoff at the man’s face, Fisk would always be the Kingpin in your eyes, no matter what he promised to the people of New York.

“It’s nice to finally meet the brother of the once infamous Black Cat that used to run in these very streets.” Fisk started, making your eyebrow twitch at the implication that he did know who Felicia was and quite possibly where she was currently hiding.

You kept silent, staring down at the man that sat down at a desk that was just the right size for someone of his stature.

You saw the side of Fisk’s mouth twitch before he cleared his throat, the man leaning his arms forward on the desk.

“Tell me, what did Captain America offer you to offer your services to his group of Avengers? To infiltrate a party that was under my name and hack carelessly into my network to find files on me.” Fisk asked you.

You flexed your fingers, remembering the little stunt you pulled with Joaquín under Sam’s orders but you weren’t going to give Fisk that as you shrugged. “I was bored, heard that you invited a couple of well off folks that probably wouldn’t have missed their wallets or jewellery if they got stolen. Captain America had nothing to do with my involvement at the party, didn’t even know he was there.”

“Well he wasn’t,” Fisk smirked. “But the security cameras did pick up another man that you seemed to be close with that day that definitely wasn’t part of the invitation. Care to share this man’s identity? It would greatly benefit my team from spending unnecessary resources and time to track him down.”

You raised your arms up in surrender, your eyes looking around the office for an opportunity to escape. Unfortunately, the only way was either jumping through a window or fighting your way out the door and through Fisk’s security.

“I don’t know what to tell you Mr Fisk,” You dramatically sighed. “I’ve never met that man before in my life nor do I care much about him since he stopped me from stealing. I left the event right after.”

“You do know the consequences of lying to a government official, correct?” Fisk replied.

You nodded. “I do and since you have no right to really hold me here, I will be going now. I hope this last minute meeting satisfied you Mr Fisk and that you’d find the actual perpetrator of that party.”

The side of Fisk’s mouth twitched before he settled back on his seat and nodded his head towards the door. “Thank you, I’ll ignore the comments of your thievery since you weren’t successful at your attempt. I guess your sister remains to be the more dependable one to hold the Black Cat mantle.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” You muttered, giving Fisk a strained smile before strutting out of the man’s office.

You saw Buck at the corner of your eye, the man smiling deviously at you as you left. If you weren’t so in your head about two very specific men in your life, you probably would’ve tried the British man.

You shook your head as you walked out of the New York City Hall. You needed to give Sam a heads up first.

You couldn’t let Fisk or his team anywhere near Torres.

~~~~~

“Cat?”

You turned your head towards Shang-Chi, the man carefully walking up to you on a random rooftop in the city as you stood in your full Black Cat gear.

“Hi, handsome. It’s been awhile.” You greeted the other man with a smile.

Shang-Chi returned the smile, taking a few steps forward before he was finally standing next to you as he sighed. “You okay? I thought you wanted to keep a low profile.”

“Well what’s the point if I can’t actually escape Fisk and his men.” You stared forward, the lights of the city shining brightly in contrast to the night sky.

Shang-Chi shifted, whipping his head to face you. “You met Fisk?”

“Yeah,” You scoffed. “It was pretty dramatic kidnapping me in broad daylight with a gun to my back but I handled it.”

“Why didn’t you reach out?” Shang-Chi asked, making you sigh.

You turned to face him, seeing the worried look on the man’s face made you smile before you shook your head with a chuckle. “Don’t worry about it, I told Sam right after. Fisk wanted to get me to confess about who was with me that day, I wasn’t going to give him that.”

“You’re pretty brave.” Shang-Chi told you, slipping his hand to grasp yours to give it a gentle squeeze.

The side of your mouth twitched as you rolled your eyes at him. “Thanks but I was honestly prepared for the worst. I couldn’t let Fisk get to him. There’s no telling what that monster would do.”

“You know, for someone who pretends not to care, you sure do a lot of the opposite.” Shang-Chi teased you, making you laugh as you cursed at him from under your breath.

Shang-Chi grinned at making you laugh before his face settled with a small smile aimed at you, it made your heart skip a beat. “I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

You couldn’t take the weird feeling in your chest anymore before you surged forward and locked your lips with Shang-Chi in a heated kiss.

Shang-Chi let out a startled noise before moaning into the kiss, his hands grabbing at your waist, the heat sipping through your suit as you moaned.

“Please?” You whimpered against Shang-Chi’s mouth.

The other man broke the kiss, giving you a questioning look. “We should go back to your apartment.”

“No,” You shook your head, walking backwards into a corner on the rooftop, pulling Shang-Chi along. “Here. Now.”

“I don’t have any lube on me.” Shang-Chi replied, heavily panting as he was struggling with wanting to fuck you but also not wanting to hurt you.

It would’ve been a sweet moment if you weren’t so pent up.

You groaned. “Just use your spit, if you’re not fucking me tonight then I’ll go find someone else.”

You knew your words worked when something dark crossed Shang-Chi’s face as the man frowned before he turned you around so your hands were splayed against a brick wall.

You bit down on your lip, whimpering when Shang-Chi’s hands slipped into the waistband of your tights before he tugged them down until they were just under your cheeks.

“You’re so stubborn.” You heard Shang-Chi mutter under his breath before you heard him spit and then your fingers clung to the wall when you felt his fingers breach your hole.

You let out a wet chuckle. “You like it.”

“I do.” Shang-Chi breathed out, leaning his face against the back of your neck before you gasped when you finally felt the head of his cock push in.

You threw your head back, resting on Shang-Chi’s shoulder as the man mouthed against your neck while he started to move his hips in and out of you.

This was different, something new between the both of you.

Something raw.

“You’re so tight.” Shang-Chi panted against your jugular as his thrusts went harder, making you whine in response when you felt the head of his cock brush your prostate.

You knew Shang-Chi wasn’t going to last long when the man’s hips stuttered from the usual rhythm of thrusts he would give you.

If you were being honest, you were getting close as well. This wasn’t supposed to happen but your mind was too hazy with lust and your chest ached with want when the man was standing next to you spouting encouraging words.

You reached up, your hand tugging the back of Shang-Chi’s head to pull him into a kiss, his tongue tangling with yours.

You moaned into his mouth when his hand grabbed your aching cock, using some of the pre-cum as lube while he jerked you off.

You were too overstimulated with pleasure and you couldn’t help but suddenly find release when Shang-Chi’s other hand grabbed at your chest.

“Fuck.” You whimpered as the other man suddenly groaned and released his seed inside you.

Shang-Chi’s body slumped onto your back, the man leaving lazy kisses on your neck as you scratched the back of his head and kissed the side of his face.

The both of you stayed, the only sound coming out of your mouths were heavy breathing after the act of intimacy.

“You feeling better?” Shang-Chi asked, pulling his cock out of you before he pulled up your tights to cover your bare bottom.

You swallowed and nodded as Shang-Chi stepped back to slip himself back into his pants.

“Yeah, thanks.” You turned around with a small smile before you leaned in to peck the other man’s cheek.

Shang-Chi smiled. “You know it’s not too late to get some dinner.”

“I think I’m pretty full especially after just what happened,” You smirked before shaking your head. “I’m kinda tired, I’ll probably just go home but thank you for checking up on me.”

“Oh okay,” Shang-Chi blinked at you in surprise before giving you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah it’s not a problem. Take care when you’re home and please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

You smiled and nodded, watching as Shang-Chi left the rooftop with slouched shoulders.

The smile slipped from your face as you swallowed down your emotions. The thought of Shang-Chi and Joaquín came back into your mind.

You didn’t think having the two men fawn over you was going to be an actual issue, you had developed feelings for both of them.

Two people that had shown actual care and concern for you multiple times. You knew it wasn’t just the sex for them and you didn’t know how to handle that being your reality.

Your whole life you only knew your sister, Felicia, as the one that you could depend on until the untold incident that sent her into hiding.

You felt tears threatening to spill from your eyes, frustrated that even during these confusing times, you weren’t able to meet her physically for her own safety.

A part of you also knew that you were pushing both men away, incase they’d get hurt or worse and you couldn’t face it.

You couldn’t let the people you love die from your mistakes.

Your breath hitched, letting the tears stream down your face as the realisation finally hit you.

You were in love.

~~~~~

“This is a big ask Cat, are you sure?”

You gave Sam a stern nod. “Someone’s gotta do it right?”

Sam stared at you worryingly, Wong standing right next to him.

Wong cleared his throat. “Captain, we have to leave now before Fisk’s Task Force comes barging in to take him away.”

“Thanks Wong.” Sam murmured before giving you one final look as Wong opened a portal behind him.

You gave Sam a comforting smile as you shrugged. “I’ll be fine Cap.”

Sam gave you a final nod before disappearing into the portal with Wong, leaving you alone in your empty apartment.

You sighed, looking around the space for the final time. The Task Force was going to show up any minute now and you knew getting captured was all part of the plan.

Sam needed someone on the inside to help check on and release the innocent civilians that Fisk’s Task Force had kidnapped off the streets.

Your mind strayed to Joaquín and Shang-Chi, you knew the two men were going to freak the hell out once Sam tells them of the plan.

“Open up, you’re surrounded!” A burly man’s voice was heard through your front door, followed by a couple of bangs.

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, the authorities were always so dramatic.

Once your front door gets blasted open by the men, you were already in the middle of your living room with your hands up in surrender.

“Coffee?” You asked the men in tactical gear, smirking when they walked up to you instead and arrested you.

You hoped Sam’s plan was going to work.

*****

Author’s note:

Oh I’m so so so happy to finally put this out after probably half a year since the previous installment of Black Cat reader?

I knew I wanted a Shang-Chi centric story before delivering a finale that has both men finally be with reader

If you have been following this story, I hope this new chapter was plenty for you and I can’t wait to plan the last one for the Black Cat reader series

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@greyrain23 @reideneris @bro-im-just-playing @teabutmakeitazure @meimeimeirin

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You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him. He didn't move at first—just breathed, slow and deep. Then his head tilted, the lenses focusing on you. His voice came out rough, tired.

"You okay, baby?"

You gulped, your throat suddenly dry. There was something about seeing him like this—vulnerable, half-naked, but still wearing that mask. It was intimate and surreal at the same time. His bare shoulders, the veins in his forearms, the way his chest rose and fell—it was all Peter. But the mask made him something else. Spider-Man.

You nodded, a little too quickly. "Yeah. Just… long day. You?"

He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through the steam. "Rough patrol. Some guys with tech I haven't seen before. Got a few bruises." He rotated his shoulder, wincing. "Figured I'd soak before you got home."

He shifted, water sloshing, and then he noticed he was still wearing his mask.

You saw the way his hand moved to the edge of the mask. "I should probably—"

"Don't." The word came out before you could stop it. You stepped closer, your fingers finding the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head. Your bra followed, then your jeans, until you stood in just your panties, your skin prickling in the warm, humid air.

Peter's breath hitched. You saw the lenses track your movements, the way they dipped down your body and back up.

"You wanna join me?" he asked, his voice lower now, a little rough.

Like he even needed to ask.

You nodded, unhooking your bra and letting it fall to the floor. You stepped out of your panties, then climbed into the hot tub, the water enveloping you, warm and soothing against your tired muscles. You moved between his legs, settling into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips. The water sloshed around you, bubbles clinging to your skin.

You placed your hands on his shoulders, feeling the tension coiled beneath the surface. His muscles were knots of strain—patrol had been rough, and you could feel every tight fiber. You dug your thumbs into the meat of his traps, pressing deep. He groaned, his head falling back against the edge of the tub.

"Fuck… that feels good."

You worked your hands along his shoulders, across his collarbone, down the defined ridges of his pectorals. The mask stared back at you, white lenses unblinking, and you felt a thrill run through you. He was exposed to you—but hidden at the same time. You could see the tension in his jaw through the fabric, the way his lips pressed together as you worked a particularly tight knot.

His hand came up, fingers brushing the edge of the mask. "I should take this off."

You caught his wrist. "No."

He froze, the lenses shifting to meet your gaze.

"Leave it on." Your voice was barely a whisper, but it was firm.

"Y/n…"

You didn't answer. Instead, you shifted your hips, grinding against his length, which was already hardening beneath the water. The movement was slow, deliberate, your slick folds sliding along his shaft. His breath caught, his grip on your hip tightening.

"Fuck," he breathed.

You did it again, a little faster, the water rippling around you. His hands found your hips, guiding the motion, but you were in control. You leaned forward, your breasts pressing against his chest, your mouth close to where his lips would be behind the fabric.

"Peter… just let me."

A shaky breath escaped him. He let his head fall back, surrendering to you. His hands slid down to your ass, kneading the flesh, pulling you closer. You rocked against him, your clit catching on the ridge of his cock, sending jolts of pleasure through your core.

You wanted to see his mouth. You wanted to kiss him.

Slowly, hesitantly, your fingers found the bottom edge of the mask. He tensed beneath you, but didn't stop you. You lifted the fabric, just enough to expose his lips—those full, soft lips that you knew so well. This might be the hottest he's ever looked.

You cupped his face, feeling the heat of his skin, the stubble rough against your palms. He leaned into your touch, his eyes hidden but his gaze palpable through the lenses. Then you kissed him.

It started soft, tentative—a brush of lips, a shared breath. But it didn't stay that way. Your tongues met, hungry and desperate, and the kiss deepened. His hands tightened on your ass, pulling you harder against him, and you moaned into his mouth.

"I need you," you whispered against his lips. "I need you inside me."

He growled, low and animalistic. "Then take me."

You lifted your hips, positioning yourself over his cock. The head nudged your entrance, and you sank down, taking him inch by inch. The water made it slick, the heat making every sensation more intense. He filled you completely, stretching you, and you both groaned as you settled fully onto him.

You didn't wait. You started moving, riding him in the warm water, your hands planted on his chest for leverage. The mask stayed where you'd left it, his lips parted, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The lenses tracked every movement, and you knew he was watching you—the way your breasts bounced, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your mouth fell open as pleasure built.

"Look at you," he rasped, his voice strained. "Taking my cock like a good little slut. Riding me while I'm half-masked. That turn you on, baby? You can't see my face and I'm balls-deep inside you?"

You whimpered, your rhythm faltering. His words pushed you closer to the edge.

"Yeah, you like that. You like that I could be anyone—but I'm yours. I'm your Spider-Man. And I'm gonna fuck you until you can't walk."

He grabbed your hips, taking control, slamming you down onto his cock with brutal, precise thrusts. The water sloshed around you, splashing over the edge of the tub. His lips found your throat, biting and sucking, marking you.

"You close?" he growled against your skin.

"Yes, Peter, fuck—"

"Cum for me. Now. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock."

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body. You cried out his name, your walls clenching around him, pulsing in rhythm with your heartbeat. He followed a moment later, his hips bucking up as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

You collapsed against him, both of you panting, the water settling around your trembling bodies. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. The mask was still bunched under his chin, and you reached up, pulling it off completely, revealing his face—flushed, sweat-slicked, eyes dark with satisfaction.

He smiled, soft and tender. "That was…"

"Exactly what I needed," you finished.

He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—soft, lingering. "Me too. Even if I forgot to take the damn mask off."

You laughed, tracing the line of his jaw. "Best mistake you've ever made."

He hummed, his hand sliding down your back to rest on your ass. "Wanna make another mistake? I'm thinking round two in the bedroom. No mask this time. Just us."

You grinned, leaning in to kiss him again. "I thought you'd never ask."

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