stairway to velaris

You recognized the seal and set it aside, digging into the feast the kitchen had prepared to celebrate your nameday, ignoring the pointed looks of your mother. She had already organized an advantageous match for your older brother Gowen, seeing as Tya was Lannister born and came with a sizable dowry. You knew she hoped your marriage to a Targaryen prince, no matter how low in succession he was, would be her crowning achievement—especially since your third brother Borys was off at the Citadel studying to be a maester and could not bring her another glorious goodaughter for her to gloat about.

“Y/N sweetling, why not open the letter and see what Prince Aerion has to say?” she asked, nudging your father with a sharp elbow.

He looked up from his spiced sausage and waved a hand. “Go on, y/n, do not keep your mother in suspense.”

You sighed and used a nearby knife to break the flame red and gold seal and unfolded the parchment tentatively. Like all his letters, Aerion wrote in red ink; he claimed it was to express the passion he felt for you, but you thought it more likely attributed to his obsession with all things dragon and dragonflame. The letter was long, and the handwriting small as if he wished to fit all the thoughts in his mind upon one page of parchment. Aerion had written to congratulate you on another year lived, remind you—threaten in your mind—that it was another year closer to your wedding, and admonish you for not yet sending any letters to him by way of Balerion. Said raven was back in your chambers, seated on the ornate perch you had built for Edgar years ago, cleaning his feathers, and utterly uninterested in making a flight to Aerion’s window.

You had received Aerion’s gifts already by way of the kingsroad and had Uthor send a note of thanks back with their messenger, but it seemed that was not enough for Aerion. His gifts predictably included a dragon and stag figurine made of gold and set with rubies and black diamonds, and a new steel-nubbed quill and ink pot. He also sent you a gaudy gown you immediately gave to the seamstress to see if she could find use for the fabric and unpredictably a small toy for Balerion.

You only liked the quill and ink pot and the toy, though both had an ulterior motive, so they did not bring you as much joy as you were sure Aerion wished them to.

“What does that madman want?” Lyonel asked as he speared a few diced potatoes onto his fork.

Your eldest brother made no attempt to hide his disdain for your betrothed after what had happened at the Tourney in Ashford, and while you often found it humorous, your parents did not.

“Lyonel, that is a prince of the blood you speak of, and your sister’s betrothed,” your mother scolded.

You folded the letter back up and stood, making your way to the crackling hearth where you dropped it in, watching it turn to ash before returning to your seat. “Nothing of import.”

The next one came at midday, shorter than the first, thankfully; accompanying it was a drawing you hoped Aerion did not pay much for, as it was awful. It was supposed to depict you and him, you assumed, but a version of you two upon a dragon, with rays of light encircling Aerion like a god. You almost tossed it into the fireplace of your bedchambers then thought better of it. Lyonel would find it humorous too, and his booming laugh always brightened your day. You would bring it to him and let him rip it apart with scathing jests that would make tears of mirth run down your cheeks.

The third letter was delivered to you while you were out in the castle yard with Balerion and was hastily scrawled. Aerion was clearly frustrated as there were no flowery words or gifts accompanying it, only demands that you write him back and tell him if you enjoyed his gifts. You considered it, if only to get him to cease writing, and tucked the letter away, cooing at Balerion, who brought you back a shiny piece of fabric from somewhere nearby.

It was near nightfall when a commotion near the doors of the Round Hall drew your attention away from the game of cards you and Tya had been playing.

“I have come to see my betrothed on her nameday,” you heard Aerion declare, his voice echoing down the hall.

You groaned, and Tya giggled behind her hand. “I told you that you should have written him back.”

You sighed heavily, tossed your cards down, and gathered your skirts, making your way to the entrance of the hall.

There he stood, hair wet and stuck to his skin by the rain, violet eyes narrowed as the guards tried to calm him, his usual ensemble of red, orange, and gold now darkened and dulled, water dripping from the edges.

“My Prince, I had not known it was storming outside; earlier today we were granted quite pleasant weather,” you said as you approached, placing a hand on the arm of one of the guards, letting him know you would handle Aerion.

“Yes, well, this castle seems to be plagued by storms without end; it is a wonder any can live here without drowning in gloom-induced sorrow,” he said, wringing out the hem of his tunic.

“I happen to like it,” you said cooly.

He smiled as he looked up from his rain-soaked tunic. “Yes, that is because you are a tempest, my tempest, born to stand alongside a dragon. It is only fitting that you cannot only survive but thrive in such foul weather.”

You fought back the urge to roll your eyes. “Or perhaps it is just because I was born during a mighty storm, and so it is one with me.”

He waved off your objection. “One and the same.”

You pursed your lips. “My Prince, why are you here?”

He pulled a small box from his pocket. “I do not trust the ravens, nor the wagon drivers, to deliver this to you. It is far too precious.”

You braced yourself for what would surely be another ridiculous and ill-suited gift. “My Prince—”

“Aerion, please, or my betrothed,” he said, his tone conveying he would much prefer the latter.

“Aerion, you have given me enough gifts already; I have no need of more.”

He clicked his tongue and held the box out to you. “Beauty such as yours can never be given enough.”

There was no way out; you would have to open the box and fake a smile so he would not throw a tantrum in the hall of your home. You lifted the lid, and a gasp slipped past your lips before you could catch it. Inside the box nestled on a bed of black velvet were earrings. They were gold, with an onyx core, rounded at the top, coming to an elongated point at the bottom where two small spheres of gold dangled. The onyx had small golden stags blazed onto the center.

“Do you like them?” Aerion asked, and you swore you could almost detect a hint of nervousness in his tone.

Shock and awe overtook you. “Are these…?”

“They are not the exact earrings of Argella Durrandon, those I believe are long lost if your kin do not have knowledge of their whereabouts. But they are a convincing replica, I am told.”

You held them up to the light, admiring the way the gold shined and the clean-cut facets of the gems. Argella Durrandon, the last Storm Queen. You had grown up hearing tales of her bravery and had admired her portrait in the library. Now you had a pair of earrings like the ones she wore when she declared that Orys Baratheon may take her castle, but all he would win was bones, blood, and ash.

Of course, her men betrayed her and handed her over to Orys, but their marriage had reportedly been a happy one, and he treated her with great respect. So you considered it as much of a victory as one could, considering the circumstances.

You could not help it; you smiled, and Aerion’s smile grew brighter, warmer. “You like them.”

“I do,” you acquiesced.

“I am glad,” he said before taking a step closer. “Now try them on so that I might see what my ancestor’s half-brother thought worth forfeiting his right to create his own house sigil for.”

You slipped them on, fastening them securely, a shiver running down your spine when Aerion brushed your hair out of the way to better see them. He hummed, the sound deep and rich in satisfaction, and nodded. “Yes, quite a worthy war prize. I, too, would risk my brother’s ire to spare your life and claim you as my bride.”

You perhaps should not have been flattered, but you feared that his plan to slowly weaken your resolve over the years may be gaining ground because you were flattered. Albeit only slightly, but still, the feeling was there.

“Luckily for us both, there is no rebellion that needs to be put down; our betrothal was made during a peaceful time between my house and yours. I pray it continues to be peaceful.”

Joy gleamed in his eyes. “You pray for our future marriage. Daeron and his wife were wrong; you are as happy as I.”

“I pray for peace,” you corrected him.

He took your hands in his and pressed them to his heart. “For our marriage to be peaceful yes, do not worry my tempest, I understood you perfectly well. We are of a similar mind, you and I.”

Gods, you hoped not.

You tugged your hands free. “With the storm, it will not be safe for you to travel back tonight; I will ask the servants to prepare one of the guest chambers for you.”

He caught them before they could go far. “Will it be by your chambers?”

“No,” you said flatly, trying again to free your hands.

Aerion held fast and pulled you closer, a catlike grin on his face, then he kissed you quick, nipping at your bottom lip, his lips surprisingly soft and warm against your own despite him still being soaked by the rain. “I shall see you in the morn then.”

You blinked at him, your lips tingling, then nodded and went to find a servant, your fingers pressed to your lips, a smile threatening to escape the moment you were out of his sight.

・When Aang is with you, he's fully himself. Funny, outgoing, joyful, peaceful. It's like he turns into the embodiment of the Sun.

・But when things get too much and the responsibilities hold him down, he beomes stressed and overwhelmed

・That's when he goes off by himself, or becomes quiet.

・You hate when that happens, you hate that he has so much responsibility.

・Wherever you can, you try to help him.

・And Aang sees this. He's grateful. It makes him love you more (if that were even possible)

・Butterflies erupt in his stomach whenever you look at him

・And he blushes when you smile at him.

・Yes, he does act this way as a married couple. You both make each other giggle and act like children.

・His proposal was beautiful.

・Aang flew you up the top of a mountain, with a valley below; all green with streams and animals. It was quiet. And you two were alone.

・Aang looked at you, there was a tear in his eye and it slid down his cheek, you caught it

・There was silence as Aang got down on one knee and looked up at you.

"I love you so much. I don't think I could do this life without you. (his words started to make you weep) Do you think, you could do me the honour of marrying me?"

・You squealed, and jumped ontop of him. You both fell to the ground and you kissed him slow and deep.

・He kisses differently depending on mood, and you learn to recognise it immediately:

forehead kisses when protective

jaw kisses when possessive

shoulder kisses when sleepy

hand kisses when emotional

temple kisses when apologizing without words

・Aang is a very good dancer, he loves when you dance with him. You end up floating across the room

・Aang sleeps better touching you somehow. Hand around your waist. Leg tangled with yours. Fingers hooked into your sleeve like a dragon hoarding warmth.

・He likes it when you climb on him, and nip his ear or bite his neck.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

"Give me attention." (Aang) x "If the world knew you were like this, they'd be shocked." (You)

Sun (Aang) x Moon (You)

Emotional Support Animal In Human Form

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Found Family

Love Triumphs Over Evil

Timeless Love

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Would That I by Hozier

The Train by James Newton Howard

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who doesn't even hesitate. He's in your apartment within minutes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You try very hard not to stare at his forearms while he’s elbow-deep under your sink, only to fail. Your gaze slips, you might possibly drool if you don’t get it together. "Pipe's cracked," he mutters, more to himself than you. "You got a wrench?" You don't. He disappears back to his place and returns with a whole toolbox. He is efficient, making it seem like it's effortless, like he's done this a thousand times. You don't know he's broken many things, only this time he's fixing something. When you try to thank him, he just grunts and says something about how the building super is useless anyway.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you learn is a congressman, which explains the suits and the late nights. "You're a congressman and you're fixing my sink," you say, a little awed, delighted. He glances up at you, a tiniest quirk in his mouth, "well, the sink don’t care about that."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you start running into more after that. In the hallway, in the lobby, at the mailboxes. You're all sunshine and bright greetings, asking how his day was, if that bill he mentioned passed, did he see that the bodega down the street had started carrying those good empanadas? And he's... grumpy. Tired. Answers in grunts and short sentences. But he always answers. Always looks at you.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you bake cookies for the next week, chocolate chip with sea salt, still warm when you knock on his door. He opens it looking suspicious, like it might be someone selling him something. Only for his face to visibly soften when he learns it's just you holding out this little plate covered in foil and saying, "thank you for saving me from my sink last Tuesday." He takes them. Stares at them, and then at you like you've just done something completely insane. "You didn't have to do this," he says. With a smile in your lips, you're backing away already, telling him to enjoy. What you miss is the way he stands there in his doorway holding those cookies like they're precious, a redness creeping up to his neck and a smile curving his lips.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who mentions the cookies the next time he sees you. You're both getting mail and you're rambling about your day, about your coworker. When he says, "the cookies were good," you light up so bright he has to look away. "Yeah? I wasn't sure if you'd like them, I know some people think the sea salt is weird, but I think it really brings out the —" Mid-sentence, you stop flustered, recognizing your rambling. Bucky's almost smiling. "They were good," he repeats. If you were smiling the rest of the day, well, he doesn't know that. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you end up staying with when your power goes out during a storm. The whole building's dark except for his place. Backup generator, he explains when you knock, shivering a little in the hallway. "Sorry, I just — my phone's dead and I have this work thing tomorrow morning. I really need to set an alarm, so if I could maybe just..." He's stepping aside, before you even finish the sentence. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who makes you tea while you sit on his couch, wrapped in the throw blanket he'd tossed at you without a word. His apartment is nice. Lived-in but neat, books on the shelves, a few photos you can't quite make out from here. "Sugar?" he asks. Cocooned in the warmth, you nod. When he hands you the mug, his fingers brush yours and linger there for just a second, heat spreading up your arm. You fall asleep halfway through some documentary he put on to fill the silence, head lolling against the armrest. Bucky drapes the blanket over you and spends the rest of the night pretending he isn’t watching the way your face softens in sleep. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who helps you with grocery bags one afternoon when he catches you struggling with six bags at once. His phone is pressed between his ear as he takes all six bags from you, the metal arm making it look easy. He follows you to your door, while still remaining on the call, giving you this look like he can't decide if he's mildly annoyed or happy to help. The person on the phone is talking about polling numbers, when you mouth thank you, starting to leave, to get out of his hair, but he catches your wrist. Metal fingers wrap around, cool against your skin, a proper smile on his face. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you sometimes through your window without meaning to. It's not intentional, not at first anyway. His window faces yours across the courtyard and you never close your blinds. He just happens to glance over one evening, nursing a whiskey, contemplating how badly his day went. You're just existing. Dancing a little to music he can't hear, oversized t-shirt hitting mid-thigh. You're so unselfconscious it makes his chest tight. His mind blanks for one whole second, seeing you bend over to pick something up, thinking you're not wearing anything underneath. The blood in his body heads south so fast he feels almost lightheaded. Then, he realises you're indeed wearing panties, just that they're the same colour as your skin. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who gets irrationally angry about it. If he can see you like this, anyone can. What if someone else is watching? What if someone sees you like this, sees what's his — He has to stop that thought right in its tracks, the possessiveness of it, the wanting. You're not his. You're his neighbor who smiles too much, brings him cookies and doesn't seem to notice that he's fucking obsessed with you. Your sunshine warmth seeps under his skin, makes the grumpy exterior thaw, until he feels what is … softness. He hates it. He craves it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who shows up at your door three minutes later, knocking maybe a little too hard. You answer looking confused and adorable, still in that t-shirt, so pure he has to actively force his eyes to stay on your face. "You need to close your blinds," he says, voice rough, desperation slipping past. You blink at him in confusion. "Your blinds. You need to close them," he clarifies. You look even more confused, glancing back at your window and then at him. Now Bucky is scrambling. He's never scrambled for words in his fucking life, but right now his brain isn't working and all he can think about is the curve of your thighs and — "Too much sunlight," he blurts out. "It's bad for your furniture. The sun damage. And your eyes. Light pollution. It's a problem in the city, you should really —" He's rambling. Bucky never rambles.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you watch him, this little furrow between your brows like you're trying to figure him out. Soon, a smile breaks into your face, metal fingers flexing against his side. Were you always this pretty? Where were you all his life? "You're worried about my furniture?" You sound delighted, charmed even, at your neighbour apparently worrying about your coffee table and couch. You reach out to pat his bicep like he's an overgrown puppy with muscles, this affectionate little gesture that makes him stop breathing completely. "That's really sweet, Bucky." Your hand is so small on his arm, the heat of it, he feels through his sleeve. "I'll close them, okay?" You're laughing a little. Bucky needs to leave before he does something absolutely dumb like kiss you or push you back into your apartment and show you exactly why those blinds need to stay closed.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who lies in bed that night, a bed he'd made, staring at your window, dark now. Blinds closed, like you promised. He can't see you now because of his stupid jealousy. He lies there like an idiot thinking about the glimpse he got of your legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs, wondering if you're as soft everywhere else, what sounds you'd make if he — He groans and throws an arm over his eyes. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who decides to just drop by the next day. No reason whatsoever, he's just being neighborly. All of it dissolves when you open the door in one of those oversized hoodies that swallows you whole, legs bare again, inviting his gaze like a touch. He's definitely staring. "Bucky, hi!" You seem happy to see him, stepping aside to let him in. "Just wanted to check on you," he mutters, a lie. He wanted to see you, but he can't exactly say that, can he? Your voice is chirpy as you move towards the kitchen, insisting him to drink something. He should say no. He should leave. "Coffee's good."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who sits in your kitchen while you make his coffee, unable to stop looking at your legs. You're padding around barefoot, humming under your breath. Every time you reach for something, your hoodie rides up a little more, testing him. When you sit down across from him on the couch, your legs stretch out, thighs spreading against the cushions. Bucky has to take a long drink of his too-hot coffee just to have something to do with his hands. He tries not to think about the way your thighs spread, thicker at the top, skin he wants to sink his teeth into.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you catch staring after a while. You glance down at yourself before bringing your eyes back to him, "is there something on my thighs?" You sound so genuinely confused, a little concerned, trying to look for whatever he's seeing. It's so frustrating, he wants to put his head in his hands. He wants you to be at least doing this on purpose, to know exactly what you're doing to him, for you to be some kind of temptress in disguise. At least then this would make sense. But you're not. You're just you, perfectly maddeningly sincere and innocent, asking if you've got something on your legs. "No," he forces the word out. You're still looking at him, waiting. He sighs, "there's nothing on your thighs." He needs to get out of here before he confesses that he'd indeed like there to be something on your thighs — specifically, his hands, his mouth, his cum. He finishes the coffee in one scalding gulp and stands up, thanking you. Already resigned to the fact that he'll be jerking off to the mental image of your thighs later. Again.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who gets invited to quiz night at some bar. He knows he should say no, he has early meetings, a PR team that would have a stroke if he just showed up somewhere unvetted. But you're looking at him with those bright, hopeful eyes, saying it would be good for his campaign, he could mingle with constituents, show them he's approachable and present. "They'd love you," you say, like it's that simple. He wants to tell you it doesn't work like that. He wants to tell you no. "What time?" he asks instead, your smile worth every headache this is going to cause.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who shows up, and immediately regrets showing up, not because of the people there. They're fine, he can do this in his sleep. But you're there with your stupidly cheerful friends, smiling bright and unapologetic. There's some bartender who keeps finding excuses to talk to you, giving you free drinks, leaning across the bar when he hands them over, smiling too much, getting on his nerves. You come back to the table with armfuls of cocktails, setting them down and tell your friends, "the bartender's so nice, he gave us all of these for free." You've got this soft, awed expression like you can't quite believe in human kindness.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who has to watch one of your friends lean over and say, "babe, he was hitting on you." You just laugh, shaking your head, "no, he was just being nice." "He was definitely trying to score," your other friend says. You're still shaking your head, taking a sip of your drink. "Why would he hit on me? I'm just... " you trail off. Bucky's gripping his beer so hard he's surprised the glass doesn't shatter. Nothing about you is just. You're the most magnificent creature he's ever seenc, charming without trying, perfectly sweet, this sunshine thing that makes him want to be better. And you don't even know it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who can't be in love with you. It wouldn't be fair. You're too innocent for someone like him, someone who's been through what he's been through, done what he's done. You deserve better. You deserve someone who doesn't have his history, doesn't have this much blood on his hands, and someone who isn't already thinking about all the ways he wants to ruin you. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you cook for one evening, insisting he needs a real meal, something other than the takeout containers you've seen in his trash. He sits at your kitchen and watches you move around your space. You're telling him about someone who apparently hit on you at work. "But I don't think he was, you know? I think everyone's just seeing things that aren't there." You glance back at him, laughing a little, real confusion over your face, "like, why would someone hit on me?" He's heard girls do this before, back in the forties. Batting their lashes, playing coy, fishing for compliments. But you're not playing. You’re perplexed, brow furrowed, like the idea of someone wanting you is genuinely baffling.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who stands up, comes around the counter to pull you toward the couch. You make a little surprised sound but follow him. When he sits you down and faces you, there's an intensity in his eyes he's not had in years, never having cared enough. "What's so unbelievable about a guy hitting on you?" You blink at him, still confused, "have you seen me?" "Yes, that's why you gotta explain it to me," he says immediately, leaning closer. You're flustered, from his words or the proximity or his mere presence, he doesn't know. Words tumble out of you, about high school, about always being the friend, the ugly duckling, guys talking to your prettier friends instead. "I was just sorta there, you know. So I just… can’t believe someone would want to talk to me willingly."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who feels something crack in his chest. "I talk to you plenty," he says. You smile at that, soft and a little sad, "yeah, but you're Bucky." He's always wanted to be Bucky. Having lived many lives, having taken more, he's wanted nothing to be called just Bucky. But, his heart clenches at the way you say it, like he's somehow different, separate, not a real option. "I'm also a guy," he says, the words slipping past him. You go still, "well, yeah. I guess you are. You have... male stuff." He can't help it, can't help the way a laugh tears out of him. With you joining, the tension breaks for just a second. Bucky reaches out, finger hooking under your chin, tilting your face up to his, "do you know how much I like you?"

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches your breath catch, your pupils dilate, "...no." Your voice is so quiet. "Do you wanna know?" He asks. Pulse flutters in your neck, the soft skin hiding nothing to his eyes, you nod. "Can I show you?" His fingers are still on your skin, holding your gaze. "Yes," you breathe. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who kisses you like he's been thinking about it for months, hungry, possessive and a little — no, a lot — desperate. Your hands come up to his chest, fisting in his shirt, making this sweet little sound against his mouth that he swallows and pulls you closer. Into his lap, legs on either side of his hips. The second you're straddling him, he can feel how hot you are through the thin fabric of your leggings.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who keeps kissing you the next day, and the day after that. It takes nearly a week before things go further. Both of you on his couch, making out like teenagers, his hands roaming you everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding under your shirt to feel your skin. When he lays you back and settles between your legs, you're already breathing hard, already wanting. He kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down to your breasts. When he gets your shirt off and sees you in your simple cotton bra, he's never wanted anything more in his life.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who takes his time with you. Kissing every inch of skin he reveals, sucking marks into your shoulders and the tops of your breasts, licking across your nipples until you're whimpering. Your hands are in his hair, tugging. When he bites down gently on the underside of your breast, you gasp so pretty he has to do it again. Harder. He mouths at your tits, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers pinch the other, gentle then firmer when you arch and moan his name. You let him, shy but trusting, fingers threading through his hair. He doesn't slow his ministrations until you're squirming beneath him.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who works his way down your stomach, kissing and biting, leaving a trail of marks that he wants to see later, wants to see blooming on your skin as proof that you're his. When he gets to the waistband of your shorts, he looks up at you. Sweat beading at your temples, you're panting and so fucking beautiful. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is about to hook his fingers in your shorts when you sit up a little, catching his wrist. "Wait, let's not... not that." His smile drops, searching your face, as he asks "are you scared?" "No, of course not. I just — I haven't shaved," you sound so embarrassed, won't quite meet his eyes. Bucky's trying to figure out what the problem is, because he doesn't see one. "I don't care about that, sweetheart." "No, Bucky — I mean, I've never shaved. Like, ever. So it's probably —" He kisses you, cutting off whatever you were about to say. Kisses you until you're breathless and melting back into the couch. "That's even better," he murmurs against your mouth, sliding your shorts down, enthralled by the soft damp spot covering your panties. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who parts your thighs to look at your bare cunt, slick, swollen, soft hair covering your mound, glistening in your arousal. Bucky feels like he's going to lose his fucking mind, heart trying to beat out of his ribs. He leans down to press his nose against you. You smell like want, sleep and something uniquely you. When his lips brush against the soft curls, you make a choked sound above him. He parts your folds with his thumbs, tongue tracing the seam before exposing them more to his eyes.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who licks through your cunt slowly, tasting you for the first time and groaning at how sweet you are, how wet. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, thighs trying to close around his head but he holds them open with his hands, spreading you wider. A needy, desperate sound parts from you when his mouth finds your clit, hood pulled back with his thumb, as he sucks it in. The sound goes straight to his cock, so he does it again. And again. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who eats you out like he's starving for it. Tongue fucking into you, lapping at your entrance, circling your clit and then flattening his tongue against it, while you writhe and sob, all the while his nose is buried in your curls so he can smell and taste everything. You're so responsive, so sensitive, already so close. When he slides one thick, calloused finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he has to close his eyes and breathe through it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who works you through your first orgasm with his mouth and fingers, feeling you pulse, gush, actual tears streaming down your face while you sob his name. He keeps licking you through it, gentler now, until you're shaking and pushing at his head, overwhelmed. Only then does he pull back, kissing your inner thighs, the soft mound with curls of hair now impossibly wet, resting his head there while you come down.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who doesn't push for more that night. He holds you while you catch your breath, curl into his chest, hide your face in the crook of his neck. He wordlessly presses a kiss to your temple, understanding that whatever happened here was above needing words. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is fucking obsessed with your body now that he's tasted you, seen you bare. The soft curves, the way your thighs shake when you cum, the dark hair between your legs that he wants to bury his face in every single day for the rest of his life. He makes you promise not to shave, ever, tells you he loves you like this — natural, soft, real. "Please don't change a thing," he murmurs against your stomach, kissing the slight swell there. "You're perfect. Every inch of you is fucking perfect." He maps your body with his hands, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan. The weight of your breasts in his palms, the give of your hips when he grips them, the way you taste when he licks the sweat from your collarbone. He's never been this obsessed with someone, never wanted to memorize every detail, every sound, every reaction.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who invites you over the next evening, cooking for you, feeding you. You know where this is heading. So does he. When he kisses you this time, it's softer. Sweeter. He takes his time stripping you down, kissing every new piece of skin he reveals, whispering things against your body about how beautiful you are, and how good you are for him. He stresses how long he's wanted this, since the day you knocked on his door. "I was a wet rat that day," you say. "The prettiest wet rat," he replies. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who lays you out on your bed, admiring your naked form, wanting and looking at him with so much trust, he forgets what he was doing for a second. "You sure?" Collecting himself, he asks you, even though he's so hard it hurts, even when he wants you more than he's ever wanted anything. "I'm sure," you whisper, reaching for him.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who fucks you — no, makes love to you — for the first time like you're precious. Slow and deep, watching your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression. You're so tight around him, wincing when he first pushes inside, walls clamping, soft tears bordering your eyelashes. He freezes, your tears stopping him, voice pained he asks, "you okay?" "Yeah, just — you’re a little big," you try to laugh, though a sniffle follows. He kisses you, stays still until you relax around him, until you're the one rocking your hips and asking for more.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who starts pumping into you that has you clutching at his shoulders, his back, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. He wants them, your marks. He wants to wear your claim on him. When you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, he groans your name, "fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. My perfect girl."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you fall apart underneath him, face contorting with pleasure, tears gathering in your eyes again. He wants to memorize this. Committing to memory, exactly how you looked when you came on his cock for the first time. He glances down where you're joined, sees his cock disappearing into your cunt, the way your soft curls touch his everytime you join, glistening with your combined arousal. The sight makes him groan, thrust harder. "Look how pretty you are, takin' me so well." When he feels your pussy fluttering around him, squeezing him so tight he can barely move, he buries his face in your neck and groans. Three more deep thrusts and he's cumming too, spilling inside you with a low growl.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who stays inside you after, both of you panting and clinging to each other. Pulling back when he thinks you've come down from the high, he brushes the hair sticking to your forehead, and says, "I love you." Simple, truthful. You just... stop. Stop breathing, stop blinking. He can see you buffering, trying to process what he just said, and he huffs a quiet laugh, running his hands up and down your sides, touch both cold and warm on your skin. "Breathe, sweetheart."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you come back online slowly, and you're smiling. This huge, incandescent smile that covers your whole face, making him fall even harder. "You know, I have a huge crush on you," you blurt out. A soft smirk plays up his face, "yeah?" "Yeah. I think — I think I'm in love with you too." His smirk becomes a real smile, soft and genuine, as he kisses you again.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who turns into someone completely different after that. His staff notices too. He's less grumpy now, less short-tempered. He smiles more. He takes lunch breaks at home, which he never did before, and comes back looking suspiciously relaxed. When someone finally gets brave enough to ask if he's seeing someone, he just grunts and changes the subject. But there's a lightness to him now that wasn't there before.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is completely domesticated by the end of the first month. He cooks you breakfast, fixes everything in your apartment without being asked, carries your groceries, rubs your feet when you've had a long day. You walk into his place like it's belongs to you too, steal his hoodies, leave your things scattered around his apartment. He loves the evidence of you in his space. So much that he sometimes find it absurd, the need for two separate apartments, why he should be your neighbour still. 

BOYFRIEND!BUCKY who you catch staring at you constantly, while you're reading, while you're cooking, while you're just being you. "What?" you ask, laughing. He shakes his head, mirroring your laugh, "nothing. Just lookin' at my girl." You smile every single time, the soft one that says you're flustered, happy, even though he says it almost daily now. He loves that he can still make you react like that, how it gets to you even now. He especially loves that you're still a little shy with him sometimes, even though he knows your body as well as you do now, maybe more. 

BOYFRIEND!BUCKY who goes from grumpy congressman to soft, devoted partner, and everyone who knows him is baffled by the transformation. But he doesn't care what they think. He's got you, curled up on your shared couch in one of his shirts, smiling at him like he hung the moon. And for the first time in longer than he can remember, he's not anything else. He's just... happy.

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. Are these hcs? Are these porn with plot? Are these kie’s yet another dumb way of saying she loves Bucky? Who knows…

If there's an exhaustion that comes with watching a twelve-year-old code twice in the span of forty minutes, Jack has endured it three hours ago, and ever since. 

Jack's seen plenty of death. Too much, probably, though he's never been good at quantifying trauma in a way that makes sense to anyone who doesn't work in emergency medicine. But kids are different. Kids make his hands shake after the adrenaline wears off, make him stand in the hallway staring at nothing while his residents file past with careful, knowing silence.

The kid lived. Stabilized. Transferred to PICU with a pulse and a fighting chance. Jack had done his job. Done it well, even, according to the surgery attending he'd tracked down. But his scrubs had been covered in blood. Small bodies have less of it, objectively speaking, but somehow it always looks like more. Like it shouldn’t be possible for that much red to come from something so small. He'd stood under the locker room shower for twenty minutes trying to wash away the smell of it.

Now it's 2:47 AM and he's finally home. Finally done with the double-shift. 

The apartment is dark, a reprieve after twenty-six hours of constant noise. Jack leaves his bag by the door, toes off his shoes. His body moves on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him down the hallway toward the bedroom while his brain is still stuck in that trauma bay, replaying every decision.

The bedroom door is cracked open.

He pushes through and stops.

You're asleep. Sprawled across the bed, somehow like you'd tried to wait up for him but lost the battle somewhere around midnight. One of his t-shirts hangs loose on your frame, the old Pitt Med one he'd been hunting for all week, looking way too good on you than it ever did on him. The fabric's bunched up around your ribs, leaving your entire lower half exposed.

Jack's brain, still operating in crisis mode, catalogs the details automatically. You're on your side, left leg extended, right knee drawn up toward your chest. The position would be completely innocent if you were wearing anything under the shirt.

You're not.

The curve of your ass is visible where the fabric's ridden up. More than that, your thigh is bent at an angle that leaves nothing to the imagination. Jack can see everything, the soft swell of your mound, pussy lips parted slightly, a hint of slick catching what little light filters through the curtains from the street lamp outside.

His exhaustion doesn't disappear. The weight of the shift still presses down on his shoulders like a physical thing, makes his eyes burn like he’s been staring at the sun, makes his whole body feel like it’s moving through concrete that hasn’t quite set. But something else surfaces alongside it. Something that bypasses his tired brain entirely and goes straight to his dick, which apparently didn’t get the memo about being exhausted.

If he were a better man, he would cover you with the blanket, pull the sheet up, climb into bed, pass out for the next six hours and try to forget everything about today. 

He's not a better man today. His dick has other plans. The mattress dips when his knees hit it. You make a small noise, shifting slightly but not waking. Your face is peaceful in sleep, without the stress of exams and clinical rotations etched into your features. There’s a crease on your cheek from the pillow, which he so badly wants to smooth it away. 

You'd told him weeks ago that you liked this, wanted this. Brought it up while you were both half-asleep, your voice shy but certain in the darkness. Said you wanted to wake up with him already inside you, that you trusted him to take what he needed even when you weren't awake to give it. The conversation had made him so hard he'd rolled you onto your stomach and fucked you slow and deep until you were crying his name into the pillow.

The memory makes his cock thicken against his thigh, uncomfortable in the confines of his boxers. 

Jack settles behind you, careful not to jostle you awake, even though part of him wants to, to see your lopsided smile fuzzy from sleep. His hand finds your hip first, feeling the warmth of your skin through the thin cotton. It’s his shirt but it smells like you now. Like that body wash you use that costs too much and comes in the fancy bottle he can never manage to open. You don’t stir even as cold hands find solace in your skin. Your breathing stays deep and even, the rhythm of someone who’s completely gone, lost somewhere in dreams he’ll never know about.

His palm slides down, over the curve of your hip, along your outer thigh, fingers trailing back up the inside. Your skin is impossibly soft. Softer than his rough, over-washed hands have any right to touch. He’s touched you a thousand times but it still surprises him somehow, the smoothness of you under his calloused hands. He follows the path up until he reaches the apex of your thighs.

You're warm here. Really warm. Heat radiating like a fucking furnace.

Jack’s fingers brush over your cunt with barely any pressure, just exploring, just checking. Your pussy lips part under the gentle touch. He slides one finger between them experimentally, slowly, like he’s doing a physical exam, clinical about it except there’s nothing clinical about the way his cock jumps.

You're wet. Slick enough that his finger glides through your folds without any resistance at all, collecting your arousal on his skin. Whatever dream you're having must be good. Really good. He wonders if you're dreaming about him, if some part of your sleeping brain knows he's home.

Jack brings his hand to his mouth, slipping his finger between his lips, tasting you on his tongue. Salt and something faintly sweet, familiar from all the times he's buried his face between your legs and made you come apart on his mouth. Made you forget about exams, case presentations and all the other ways medical school tries to break you. Straining to get out of his boxers, his cock is fully hard noww, the exhaustion shoved to the background by this immediate, visceral need.

He needs to be inside you. Needs it like he needs air. Inside the heat and mindless comfort that your body gives him when it’s wrapped around his, when he can stop thinking about everything else and just feel something good, feel you. 

Jack works his boxers down with his free hand, just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, already leaking. Already a mess, like he’s a teenager again instead of a middle aged man who should have better control than this. His hand wraps around the hard length, strokes to spread the precum down the shaft. Not enough, though.

His hand moves back between your legs. You're still asleep, breathing soft, completely unaware that he's about to defile you in the best possible way. Jack slides two fingers through your folds this time, methodical, making sure to coat them thoroughly in your wetness, in the slick that you’ve made for him even in sleep. Bringing them to his cock, he spreads your slick along his length, easier to take what he needs without hurting you. That’s the last thing he wants. 

It's depraved what he's doing. Using your arousal to get himself ready to fuck you while you sleep, while you’re trusting and probably dreaming about something innocent like coffee or finally getting a full eight hours. But he also knows you're not dreaming about that. His hand moves base to tip, spreading your wetness over every inch until he's slick enough that he's sure he won't hurt you when he pushes in. His cock is heavy in his hand, thick and demanding, absolutely not caring that he’s been awake for over twenty-four hours.

Shifting closer, his chest presses against your back. He can feel your heartbeat through your skin, steady and strong, alive, alive, alive. His cock settles against the curve of your ass, perfectly plump and completely his. He reaches down to position himself, the head of his cock nudging your entrance. You’re so wet he could probably just thrust in hard, bury himself to the hilt in one movement and wake you up with his cock already deep inside you, make you take it all at once.

But he doesn't want to. 

He goes slow. Savors it, maybe, or maybe he’s just too tired to be rough right now. Tiny pulses of his hips, easing forward, letting your body adjust to the intrusion even in sleep. The head of his cock pushes past the initial resistance, that first tight ring that always makes him grit his teeth, and your pussy opens for him. Impossibly tight, even though he’s fucked you enough times for your body to have learned the the shape of him by now. 

Jack has to clench his jaw against the urge to just slam home. To chase the relief he knows he’ll find in the clutch of your body, in the tight heat that’ll make him forget his own name. But he doesn’t. He forces himself to go slow, controlled, even though every instinct is screaming at him to just take. He sinks in another inch, savoring the slide of his cock into your cunt, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like they’re trying to pull him deeper, the perfect heat of you that’s better than any shower, any drink, any amount of sleep.

A small sound leaves you, probably not a word, not a full one anyway. Probably just a whimper caught in the back of your throat, unconscious and so fucking sweet it makes his chest ache. Your hips shift slightly, pushing back against him. An involuntary movement, your body seeking more even when your mind is somewhere else entirely. Jack freezes, not wanting to wake you. Not yet.

Your breathing hasn't changed though, remaining absolutely still.

He pushes in the rest of the way, not stopping until he’s fully seated inside you, his hips flush against your ass, cock buried as deep as it will go. The position lets him get impossibly deep, his cock kissing your cervix, he can feel every inch of your cunt wrapped around his shaft like a vice. Like you were made for this. For him.

This is what he needed.

Jack exhales slowly, a breath he didn’t know he was holding, holding himself completely still, hust relishing in this feeling for a moment.

Not the orgasm, though that'll come, probably embarrassingly fast given how worked up he already is. But he enjoys the feeling of this, being inside you, connected to you. The way your body yields to accommodate him, accepts him, welcomes him even when you don’t know he’s there. The remnants of his shift start to fade from his mind, replaced by the sensation of your body yielding to him, the flutter of your walls, gentle pulses that feel like a heartbeat. The soft sound of your breathing in the quiet room, in the darkness that’s finally, finally peaceful.

He pulls back, barely withdrawing before pushing back in with the same careful control, the same measured pace that’s probably more for him than you. Part of him wants to see your eyes flutter open, wants to see the moment you realize what’s happening, how you'd react to it, especially since you basically begged him for this. His hand splays across your stomach under the t-shirt, holding you steady. The drag of his cock through your cunt is exquisite. Wet. Tight. Everything he needs.

Louder this time, you whimper again, hips moving, a tiny unconscious roll that pushes you back onto him, taking him deeper.

Jack's hand slides from your stomach to your hip, gripping, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to keep you in place. Pulling out fully — well, almost fully, just the tip still inside you — he thrusts back in. A little faster now, a little harder, your pussy clenching around him like it knows what it wants even if you don’t. He has to pause, has to breathe through the pleasure crawling up his spine.

Long, slow strokes let him feel every inch of you, one arm sliding under your neck, wrapping around your chest, holding you close. His face presses into your hair. You smell like sleep and shampoo and home. That coconut shampoo almost makes him smile now, the one you use that he pretends to hate but actually loves, loves the way it lingers on his pillows when you’re not here.

Your breathing changes, getting shallower. Little hitches that suggest your body is waking up even if your mind isn’t there yet. Jack can feel it in the way you’re moving now, hips rolling with him, small motions that meet his thrusts like your body remembers this dance even when you’re not conscious enough to lead. "Shh," he murmurs against your hair, his thrusts not stopping. Not even slowing down because he’s selfish like that, because he needs this more than he needs you to stay asleep. "Go back to sleep, baby."

Your answer is another whimper. Reaching back blindly, your hand finds finds his hip, fingers curling into the fabric of his boxers still tangled around his thighs. Like you're trying to pull him closer even in sleep. Like you want more, always more, greedy even when you can't even ask for it properly.

Jack keeps his pace slow, deep rolls of his hips that push his cock into you and drag out again, hitting every sensitive spot inside you on purpose. He can feel you getting wetter, your arousal easing the slide until each thrust is slick, both in feeling and noise in the quiet room.

Jack cannot see your eyes flutter open, not being able to see your face from this angle but he feels the change. The way you tense slightly. Awareness flooding back into your body like someone flipped a switch, like you’re surfacing from deep water.

"Jack?" Your voice is sleep-rough. Confused, scratchy in that way that makes him want to get you water and also fuck you harder. But your hips haven't stopped moving, still rolling back to meet him.

"Sweetheart." He presses a kiss to your shoulder, not stopping fucking you, not slowing down. "Go back to sleep."

"But —" You cut yourself off with a moan when he hits something deep inside you that makes your whole body shudder, your hand tightening on his hip. "But you feel so good." The words come out slurred, still half-asleep, floating in that space between dreams and waking where everything feels heightened and distant at the same time. Jack's cock throbs inside you at the admission, at the sleep-soft honesty of it.

"Yeah?" He pulls almost all the way out, just the tip still nestled inside you, and slides back in slowly, agonizingly slow. Your back arches, spine curving into him like you’re trying to become part of him. "Feel good, huh?"

"Mhmm." More whimper than agreement. Your hand leaves his hip, reaching for his arm wrapped around your chest. You guide it under your shirt with clumsy, slow movements, pressing his palm flat against your breast. "Touch me."

Jack's thumb finds your nipple, already peaked and hard, aching for him. He rolls it between his fingers and you gasp, your pussy clenching tight around his cock in response, in that direct line between your breasts and your cunt that he’s learned to exploit. "My dirty girl," he murmurs against your neck, hips still moving in that same steady rhythm, deep, controlled thrusts that make you squeeze around him like you’re trying to keep him inside. "Woke up with my cock inside you and all you want is more."

You mumble something incoherent, words dissolving into sounds, hips pushing back harder now, trying to get him deeper, trying to speed up the pace he's set. Jack's grip on your breast tightens. His other hand manoeuvres itself under your body, the awkward angle has his shoulder protesting, but he doesn’t care. He reaches between your legs, fingers finding your clit.

The touch makes you jolt, a sharp inhale, your whole tensing for a second before melting back against him. Jack keeps the pressure light, circling your clit with his middle finger while his cock continues that deep, grinding pace, while he fills you over and over.

"Jack, I —" You can't finish the sentence, your thighs trembling against his, shaking with the effort of staying still, of taking what he’s giving you. "Please, I need —"

"What do you need, baby?" His finger presses harder against your clit, circles getting tighter, mean little movements that make you gasp. "Use your words."

"More. Faster. Please." Clipped words and nothing more, best you can manage when you're so close already. 

Jack finally lets himself go, hips snapping forward harder. The wet and lewd sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, obscene in the quiet of 3 AM, loud enough that he should be embarrassed but isn’t. His fingers — though this hand might be cramped now, wrist at a horrible angle — work your clit in tight circles, while his other hand palms your breast, thumb still teasing your nipple, rolling and pinching in the way that makes you incoherent. The angle lets him get deep. So deep each thrust punches a small cry from your throat, high and breathy.

Half-formed words and his name are the only sounds you're capable of producing, hand scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, twisting in the fabric. The t-shirt has ridden up completely, bunched around your ribs, leaving you bare from the waist down.

"That's it." Jack’s voice is rough in your ear, rougher than he means it to be. His finger speeds up on your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts. Relentless now, chasing your orgasm like it’s something he needs more than you do. "Gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna cum on my cock?"

You make a sound that's an agreement, Jack has learned your little noises, familiar now, can read them like a language only he speaks. Your whole body is drawn tight, trembling, right on the edge. Jack can feel it in the way your pussy is gripping him, fluttering and clenching around his shaft with each stroke, getting tighter and tighter.

At the same time, he oinches your nipple, thumb and pointer finger pressing over the pebbled bud, while his other hand presses down on your clit, circling fast and firm, almost too much pressure, right on that edge.

Your orgasm tears through you with enough force that your whole body goes rigid, a cry rips from your throat, loud and completely unrestrained. Your pussy clamps down on his cock in rhythmic pulses that grip him so tight he can barely move through them. So tight it almost hurts, so tight he thinks maybe he’s going to die here and it would be worth it.

Jack fucks you through it, short, grinding thrusts that keep the pleasure rolling through you in waves. His finger doesn't leave your clit, working you until you're shaking in his arms, until you’re trying to twist away from the overstimulation, from the pleasure that’s starting to tip into too much."Can't," you gasp, your hand coming down to grab his wrist, trying to pull him away. "Jack, I can't, it's too —"

So much for not waking you. 

"One more." He pins your wrist against your stomach with the hand that was on your breast, keeping you from interfering. His finger stays on your clit, the way you always like even though you protest everytime. "Give me one more, baby. I know you can."

Your protest dissolves into a whimper, hips still moving, still rolling back onto his cock even as you're trying to escape his fingers. The contradiction of it, the way your body betrays what your mouth is saying, drives him insane. The overstimulation is walking that razor's edge between pleasure and pain, and from the sounds you're making, you can't tell which side you're on.

Jack's close. The way your pussy is gripping him, the sounds spilling from your throat, the desperate way you're moving against him, all of it has him right on the brink, thrusts getting erratic, losing their rhythm, devolving into something more primal, more desperate.

But he needs you to cum again first. His finger changes pattern. Instead of circles, he’s strumming your clit now, quick flicks that make you sob, that make actual tears leak from the corners of your eyes. His cock drives deep and stays there, grinding against that spot inside you, pressing and not letting up. "Cum." It sounds like an order, it is one. "Cum for me right now."

Your body obeys, purely focusing on sensation, before your brain can catch up. This orgasm is quieter than the first. Your mouth opens on a silent scream, no sound coming out even though he can see your throat working, can feel the effort of it, whole body locking up tight, your pussy pulsing around him, clenching and releasing in rapid succession, milking his cock. Jack feels the gush of wetness as you soak his cock, his thighs, the sheets beneath you.

That's what does it for him. Jack buries himself as deep as he can get, his own orgasm ripping through him, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, filling you with his cum, with everything he has, every drop, marking you from the inside out. Each wave makes him thrust shallowly, working himself through it, giving you everything he has until there's nothing left, until he’s empty and wrung out and finally, finally quiet inside.

The hand between your legs finally gentles. Stops. He pulls it away and wraps both arms around you instead, holding you against his chest while you both come down, cock still inside you, softening slowly, combined release already leaking out around his shaft.

Breathing raggged, your whole body is limp in his hold, boneless and spent. Jack presses kisses to your shoulder, sucking soft skin. Gentle now in a way he wasn’t a minute ago, tender in the aftermath. "You okay?"

You make a sound that might be words. Might not be. Hard to tell when you're floating somewhere far away, tethered to consciousness by the thinnest thread.

You whimper when Jack pulls out, however slow, the loss physical and immediate. A soft moan slips out of you, feeling of his cum sliding out of you and down your thigh. He rolls away just long enough to peel off his boxers completely. Finally getting rid of the damn things that have been tangled around his thighs this whole time, he heads for the bathroom.

The light is offensive when he flicks it on, bright enough to make him squint. He grabs a washcloth from the cabinet and runs it under warm water, wringing it out while he looks at himself in the mirror.

He looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, the exhaustion living in his bones written all over his face. In the set of his jaw, the droop of his shoulders, the way his eyes don’t quite focus right. But some of the weight is gone. Some of the tension. The thing that had been wound tight in his chest has loosened, unspooled, given him room to breathe.

Jack wrings out the washcloth and heads back to the bedroom, greeted by your unmoving body, still on your side, his t-shirt bunched around your ribs, eyes closed. Jack can see the shine of his cum on your inner thighs, the mess he's made of you, the evidence of what he’s done, what you’ve let him do.

"Sweetheart." He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand on your hip, gentle pressure to let you know he’s there. "Baby, I need to clean you up."

You make a sound of protest, not opening your eyes. A whine that sounds like ‘no’ but might just be a general complaint about being conscious.

Jack eases you onto your back anyway, gentle despite your mumbled complaints. Your legs fall open without resistance, your pussy puffy and swollen from his cock, from being fucked into submission, his cum leaking out in white streaks. Obscene in the lamplight, filthy in a way that makes him want to take a picture even though he never would, not without you having a say in it. 

The washcloth is warm when he presses it between your legs. You flinch slightly at the contact, but Jack keeps his touch gentle, wiping away the mess, careful not to press too hard on your abused clit, taking his time.

When you're clean, he tosses the washcloth toward the hamper, and misses by a feet. His body doesn't care enough to get up and fix it. 

Instead, he pulls your shirt down, covering you, making you decent enough for sleep. His hand finds your cheek, caressing gently, soft taps that has you mumbling. "Need you to wake up for a minute, baby."

A petulant sound, the softest of whines leave you, makes him smile despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Your eyes crack open just slightly, unfocused and glassy.

"Drink some water for me, will you?"

Your head lolls against his shoulder, when he helps you sit up. Jack has to wrap an arm around you to keep you upright. With his free hand, he reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand. A habit from residency that stuck, always there, always full. Holding it to your lips, "drink."

You try to obey, but push the bottle away after a few sips. Jack makes you take three more before he lets you stop, before he relents and lets you have your way.

"Good girl." He sets the water aside and eases you back down onto the pillows. You're already half-asleep again, curling onto your side, reaching for him with clumsy hands, grabbing at air until he gives you what you want.

He pulls the blanket up over both of you, sliding in behind, wrapping his arm around your waist, your back to his chest. The position mirrors how he'd found you, how he'd slipped inside you while you slept.

Over your stomach, your hands find his, fingers tangling together, warmth seeping into his skin. "Love you," you mumble. The words are barely audible, slurred with sleep, might not even be intentional.

Jack presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Love you too, baby. Go back to sleep."

Your breathing evens out, pulled back under by satisfaction and the safety of his arms around you, you're already gone. 

Jack listens to the rhythm of it, feeling the rise and fall of your chest under his arm. His own exhaustion is creeping back now, settling heavy over him, dragging him toward sleep.

He tightens his arm around you and lets his eyes close. He's here. Home. Wrapped around you in the dark, your warmth seeping into his bones, chasing away the cold of the ER, the smell of your shampoo replacing the antiseptic and blood clinging to him all night, and everything else he’s trying to forget.

Sleep takes him under in minutes.

SERIES MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST