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marvelstoriesepic · 1 month ago

Text

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

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metalstitchinglocking · 1 year ago

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rossithepixie · 1 year ago

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apparently i am very drawn to characters with an entp personality type.

They're like catnip to me it seems. I'm drawn to them instantly.

And i had a hunch so I checked Aventurine's personality type.

and i had to internally smack myself for being fucking predictable. If i get further into hsr there's a good chance he'll join Satoru and Kaeya.

I don't know why specifically that sort of personality type does it for me, they're not a bad match up for my personality per see at 85% but they're also far from my highest match. I'm an infp.

#the pixie speaks #let me through your gilded walls to your damaged heart. I'll hold it tenderly and love you cracks and all.#i'll love you not in spite of the shadows cast by your light but because of it #just selfship things #obviously theres lots of nuances and differences to be had with the characters but my point stands that this sort of personality #just grabs my attention and doesn't let go

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bitterrfruit · 3 months ago

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iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea.

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her.

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy.

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too.

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers.

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper?

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give.

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint.

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft.

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate.

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind.

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale.

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were.

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.”

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.”

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them.

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent.

He needed nicotine.

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with.

A blink of red pierced through the mist.

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave.

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon.

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day.

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater.

A lifeboat.

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips.

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.”

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Roger.”

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall.

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom.

“What’ve we got?”

“Life raft.”

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots.

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers.

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat.

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean.

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.”

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat.

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged.

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.”

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads.

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line.

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them.

“You sure?”

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together.

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch.

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive.

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up.

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?”

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already.

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind.

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath.

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure.

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard.

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand.

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman.

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.”

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face.

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly.

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat.

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.”

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.”

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging.

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth.

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it.

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm.

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.”

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back.

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again.

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell.

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension.

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb.

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them.

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down.

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs.

“Gotta get her warm,” John said.

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?”

“One year,” Kyle corrected.

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious.

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck.

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully.

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled.

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?”

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.”

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall.

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her.

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away.

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations.

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head.

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled.

“What is.”

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant.

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him.

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand.

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste.

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity.

John did not care, he had no qualms.

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again.

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin.

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs.

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them.

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall.

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided.

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again.

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair.

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that.

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle.

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested.

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.”

John said nothing.

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude.

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening.

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word.

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough.

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?”

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.”

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud.

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres.

“Ferry capsized, maybe?”

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.”

“Mh,” Gaz agreed.

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.”

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting.

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs.

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship.

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley.

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?”

“No.”

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.”

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder.

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull.

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together.

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it.

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.”

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.”

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.”

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered.

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal.

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees.

“What if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.”

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly.

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?”

“Will do, Captain.”

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness.

Still, salt on your tongue.

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in.

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine.

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe.

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate.

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you.

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again.

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth.

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it.

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back.

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet.

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.”

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you.

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling.

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water.

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright.

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft.

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings.

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.”

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.”

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him.

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him.

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.”

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab.

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you.

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives.

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands.

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence.

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.”

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously.

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway.

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you.

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again.

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank.

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside.

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step.

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets.

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step.

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked.

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!”

“Oi — girl—” Called one.

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!”

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach.

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed.

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?”

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you.

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed.

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.”

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you.

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly.

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?”

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction.

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.”

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor.

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone.

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze.

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him.

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs.

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.”

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed.

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched.

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly.

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle.

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut.

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.”

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you.

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg.

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears.

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg.

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting.

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being.

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers.

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees.

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again.

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion.

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece.

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together.

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?”

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.”

“That’s fine,” you croaked.

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head.

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.”

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.”

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion.

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting.

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.”

“Iron Tide?”

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.”

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?”

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him.

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.”

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased.

“So?”

“So what?” You asked, with a frown.

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?”

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea.

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke.

You didn’t have an answer.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you.

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully.

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head.

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?”

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.”

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?”

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty.

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it.

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.”

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?”

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back.

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.”

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade.

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.”

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff.

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.”

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece.

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder.

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.”

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle.

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair.

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.”

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat.

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead.

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs.

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about.

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself.

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one.

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it.

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table.

“Happy?”

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him.

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?”

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.”

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between.

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase.

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door.

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse.

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else.

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.”

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste.

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room.

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate.

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it.

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up.

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it.

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up.

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy.

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface.

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle.

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you.

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface.

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again.

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness.

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed.

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours.

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull.

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm.

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on.

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent.

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming.

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again.

#cunty little beanie is here #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #cod smut #bella-writes

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brixbraxium · 10 days ago

Text

The Significance of Susie, Rude Buster, and The Prophecy.

(This has spoilers for 3-4)

This is a bit of a long post, but it's an important one, I think. Let's talk about Susie's signature spell, Rude Buster. I genuinely think there is thematic significance to this spell. To get to why, though, I want to go over everything.

Rude Buster is a spell that Susie knows from the moment we meet her in Chapter 1. It costs 50% TP, and, as the description tells us, it inflicts moderate "rude" element damage to one foe, and uses both Attack and Magic in its calculation. It considers defense in its calculation, and it scales better with Attack than it does Magic.

I want to compare this spell to another spell, Iceshock.

Iceshock inflicts "magical ICE damage" to one enemy, and costs 16% TP. It scales purely with the Magic stat, and is unaffected by her Attack stat. It also cuts through defense. On the surface, Iceshock is generally the better spell, it would seem. It might not deal as much damage at first, but it's significantly cheaper than Rude Buster, ignores defense, and scales like crazy when Noelle becomes Stronger.

While this is speculative, it almost comes off as if Iceshock is being more 'properly' cast. It's described as 'magical', it seemingly instantly surrounds an enemy rather than needing to be aimed, it ignores defense entirely. But... I think there's a bit more to it than that. Noelle's magic is kind of distinct from Noelle herself in a way. There's some level of detachment. There's distance. This is (partially) why we're able to manipulate her so easily into getting stronger. It's easy to not think about it. They're just enemies. Etc. But Rude Buster? It's a direct extension of Susie herself. She might not be directly naturally talented with Magic, but hell if that'll stop her. She channels everything she has into her axe and sends it out as a bolt of rude energy.

My point is this.

Iceshock deals perfect, magical damage to an enemy, piercing defense. It's better than a Susie crit at first, and it scales drastically. It's simple, and it's cost efficient.

Rude Buster is a direct extension of Susie herself. It's her raw emotion channeled into a single attack. It's her willpower, her resolve, her hope, all imbued into one little spell. Rude Buster as a spell is, either symbolically or literally, Susie's resolve.

This is why it is a "Rude" buster. What does it mean to be Rude? To be impolite. To not follow the rules, the expectations. And, if there's one thing Susie excels at, it's breaking every single expectation anyone might have for her. Is it truly by chance that, out of everyone in the party, it is Susie who talks back to the Roaring Knight? Is it truly by chance that the only party member who can actually do anything of substance against The Knight is Susie, with Rude Buster? Kris is (in most circumstances) holding back. Susie and Ralsei are able to deal chip damage. But Rude Buster, through sheer force alone, overcomes the Knight's defense, not by being magic or anything like that, but simply because it's that good.

Consider also The Titan. Everything seems bleak, the Titan can regenerate, and there's nothing we can do. So what do we do? We call upon Rude Buster. Technically it's "Dual Buster", but...

Susie and Gerson are both clearly casting variations of Rude Buster here.

And it works. And, lets think on that for a moment. Gerson also knows a version of Rude Buster. ...Why?

It's not like Gerson doesn't have his own magical attacks he could have used here, right? They could've easily done something else for this. But... No. Gerson casts his own Rude Buster. Why? Well, think about what Gerson stands for. He believes, in the same way Susie does, that the Prophecy isn't all it's cracked up to be. He believes that it can blind you, that it's better to read between the lines. As a Secret Boss, his philosophy is "I don't care".

So, to me, at least, it makes perfect sense that he would also know Rude Buster. Because, just like Susie, when confronted with the fate of the universe in bold text, he simply laughs it off.

This is also, I believe, why Gerson is the only character who can outright reflect Rude Buster.

Because while Gerson might not have the same resolve to change fate as Susie does, he is driven in a similar way.

The Devilsknife reduces Rude Buster's TP Cost. Why? Is it just because logically a jevil-turned-scythe would be good at channeling Magic? No. Think about what Jevil stands for. He believes that because his choices do not matter, he is free of consequence. He can "do anything", because his choices are irrelevant. If he could somehow be punished, then, well, his choices would've mattered, then, wouldn't they? And he knows that's not true. So he does whatever he damn well pleases. Obviously, Jevil and Susie are not really comparable- Jevil fully accepts that Fate is unbreakable, and Susie very much seems to think The Prophecy is bogus by the end of Chapter 4.

But, I think the throughline is there. Devilsknife makes Rude Buster easier to cast, because by nature, Jevil is already used to doing whatever he wants and ignoring the 'rules'. I hope I've made my case clear. But there's even more.

This may well be where I lose you, to be clear, so I hope you take everything I've said about Rude Buster as its own thing, and consider the rest of what I have to say as an extension of that. If you don't believe what I'm about to say, that's totally fine. Without further ado... Let us consider... The Prophecy.

The Second Hero of the Prophecy is "The Girl, with Hope crossed on her heart." As many before me have pointed out, this depiction... does not quite look like Susie. The weapon is wrong. This is a much longer discussion and I don't think I can quite fit it into this post, but, in essence, I believe that this was supposed to be Noelle Holiday. Noelle actually can equip a few swords as of Chapters 3-4, surprisingly. She can equip the Jingleblade and the Blackshard. However, I don't believe that Susie is "not" the second hero. I believe that The Prophecy has been tampered with. Or, at least, reinterpretted. Think back to what Gerson said. Stories can be changed. They can be retold.

Cat Petterz the RPG is a ripoff of Dragon Blazers, which is a retelling of Lord of the Hammer, which is a retelling of The Prophecy, which is a retelling of DELTARUNE.

I believe that this sort of thing is happening to the prophecy itself. I believe that Gaster, for one reason or another, changed the prophecy, replacing "The Second Hero, The Girl" with Susie. This sort of rules lawyering is possible because Susie is also referred to later in the prophecy:

We know that this is Susie because Rude Buster is being used to identify her. This image is even called "Rude Buster" internally. I believe the original prophecy was introducing Susie as a different "The Girl". However, because it technically uses the same term to refer both to Noelle and Susie, their roles can be altered. And so, Susie, through Gaster's intervention, became the Second Hero.

But why? Why was it important to make Susie involved? I believe it's simply because of who Susie is. When confronted with fate, Susie laughs it off. She won't let it happen. Wheras someone like Noelle would try and accept it for what it is, most likely, Susie outright refuses to play by the rules. And this gets us back into Rude Buster. Rude Buster is important. It's important enough to be the name of the battle theme, it's important enough to be what symbolizes Susie most directly in the prophecy. I believe that Rude Buster, and what it represents, is why Gaster chose Susie. Noelle might, in some sense, have "hope crossed on her heart". But it'd be passive hope. Wistful hope. Susie has active hope. With every fiber of her being, she has that hope. She inspires that hope in others. It is, as Ralsei puts it, infectious. She infects herself with hope, and grows it.

She infects Ralsei with hope.

She gives Tenna hope.

And, though this is more of a stretch, she even, indirectly, infects Seam with hope.

Remember that the only reason we could even potentially defeat The Knight is through Susie's perseverance, and Susie has to defeat Gerson, (who Seam is talking about here) on her own. Remember what Gerson told us.

Susie has the White Pen, that can draw over the dark pages of fate, known as Hope.

I believe that Gaster picked up his own pen, to transform Deltarune into his deltarune, one where Susie steps up to bat as the second hero of prophecy...

...So that Susie could, in turn, pick up her own white pen, and write a new ending. Chapter 7. A retelling of a retelling. The words on the wall called her a hero. Maybe that's not what they were ""supposed"" to mean. But, does it even matter? Through her grit and determination, it won't make a difference. She may not have been intended to be the second hero, but, she is, angel damnit, and the universe is just going to have to accept it. She may not have been chosen by The Angel, or whatever the hell wrote that prophecy, but she was chosen by one Wing Gaster, who considers her Very, Very Wonderful. She wields the White Pen to draw all over fate. And, of course, that white pen has a name. "Rude Buster". When the hands of fate draw near, you can always count on a good ol' Susie Rude Buster to persevere through anything.

#deltarune #deltarune chapter 4 #deltarune theory #longpost #utdr #susie deltarune #rude buster #susie #deltarune susie #susie dr #noelle holiday #ralsei #ralsei deltarune #gaster #wd gaster #deltarune gaster #toby fox

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engineoverhaulingservices · 2 years ago

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The repair of a damaged engine block, turbocharger casing, and heavy cast iron parts can be successfully repaired by metal stitching, metal locking, and metal surgery process. For a detailed repair process of damaged casting by metal locking and metal stitching, email us at [email protected].

#metal stitching #metal locking #damaged engine block #metal stitching locking #damaged casting by metal locking #cylinder liners #metal stitching process #crack repair #repair of crack and damaged cast #repair of damage casting

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starry-bi-sky · 4 months ago

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im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

#danny fenton is not the ghost king #dpxdc #dpxdc crossover #dp x dc crossover #blood blossom au #dpxdc au #cw injury #cw gore mention #just to be safe #i got hit with brainworms #blame detectivedarling >:D their ficlet yesterday made me SO happy and i couldn't help but keep thinking about it #and then i was thinking about blood blossom again and couldn't help but want to write something #iii don't know if this is canon to the fic but i DID think it would be a fun 'what-if this is how danny and bruce find out' to make #im not sure how ~that~ reveal will go in fic but i like the idea that danny actually *tells* bruce about being phantom himself #bc throughout the show i dont think he's really had much of a say in the matter of who knows and who doesnt?#like vlad found out when danny passed out and untransformed in front of him. jazz found out via spying and then other times were forced #so there's been a bit of a lack of autonomy in terms of danny revealing his halfa status to people. it'd be a good show of trust for him #to be able to *tell* bruce himself outright rather than bruce find out on his own. and in this context bruce wasn't trying to seek out #phantom's identity either. no he was just looking into amity park and this 'ghost situation' danny told him about. its just that when he #found the ghost fight videos he saw phantom and got this horrible pit in his stomach and promptly went 'oh my god thats my kid'

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wosospacegirl · 3 months ago

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And they were roommates - part 10

Summary: Y/n gets injured and has to stay in recovery for 8 months. It's a good thing her friend and teammate, Kyra, is more than willing to move in with her. wink wink

Warnings: (+18) SMUT. FINALLY SOME SMUT FOR THOSE TWO!! Plus, of course, Y/n getting her cast off, Kyra coming home, and Y/n finding out about Alessia and Leah.

Word count: 9.2k

Masterlist

You can read part 1 here

Part 11 here

“How does it feel?” Mary asked, finishing up the last of the cast removal.

Beth and Lotte sat quietly across from Y/n. Their arms crossed as they watched her carefully from the seats in the rehabilitation room.

Y/n stared down at her leg–the bad one–as she had been calling it since it broke in half almost 3 and a half months ago. The cast had been a part of her for so long, and now, with it gone, the skin underneath it felt different…foreign.

It just didn’t look like she expected. The healing process through those three months hasn’t been easy or gentle; the damage of the injury was left behind, marked on her shin.

The skin on her leg was very dry and red, a mix of scars imprinted on it– some of them from when the injury itself occurred, others from the injury.

“So, sweetheart?” Mary asked again, more gently. This time.

Y/n hesitated, almost reluctant to speak her thoughts. “It looks–” She bit her lower lip. “Ugly.”

The room was silent as the word hung in the air.

“I’m sorry?” Mary asked again, confusion evident on her face.

Lotte and Beth looked at each other, not really sure of what to say.

“I don’t like it,” Y/n said again, more firmly. “I thought… I thought it would look like my other leg.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated herself for it. She looked down, avoiding Mary’s gaze.

Mary didn’t say anything, slowly turning to Lotte and Beth, and silently asking for some help. Y/n needed friendly words at the moment, not medical advice.

“I have to go to the infirmary to get some cream for your skin, but I’ll be right back,” Mary said as she headed to the door, leaving the three girls alone.

Lotte, noticing Y/n’s frustration, carefully slid onto the bed next to her, wrapping her arms around Y/n’s shoulder.

“Your leg’s been through a lot, baby,” Lotte said softly. “It broke in half, it tore your skin, your muscles–”

“It was a very traumatic injury to your body,” Beth finished Lotte’s sentence. “Scars are good, it means your body was able to heal properly.”

“You’re gonna get used to it,” Lotte smiled.

Y/n blinked a few times at the two girls, feeling grateful that they were trying to make her feel better, but unfortunately, the overwhelming wave of disappointment and frustration was stronger.

She imagined the day she was going to get her cats off was going to be different.

She thought the skin underneath the cast would be completely healed, but she didn’t expect the stiffness that came when she tried to move her leg; she didn’t expect the big scar that began on her ankle and grew all the way to her knee.

She’d also thought Kyra would be here with her. She’d imagined sharing this milestone with her, Leah and Alessia. Y/n loved Beth and Lotte to pieces, and she appreciated all the things they had done for her, but it still felt like important people were missing from this moment in her life.

Beth, sensing Y/n’s discontented attitude, placed a hand on her thigh and got down on her knees in front of her, looking closer at her leg.

“I get it, she said softly.” She touched the side of Y/n’s knee on two spots, right to the left side of the patella, on the anterior cruciate ligament– ACL. “It’s not easy seeing yourself change like this.”

“But trust me, you aren’t alone–me, Viv, Leah, and Vic, we all went through it,” Beth explained in a tender voice. “The side of our knee is all patched up, the skin around it’s all rough, just like your shin.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked up to Beth, grateful but still feeling the sting of the reality set in. She looked down at her leg, tracing her fingers gently over the scar that ran from her ankle all the way up to her knee.

“Leah got the worst of our scars because her surgery was more complicated and took longer,” Beth noticed the way Y/n’s gaze lingered on the scar, her voice softening as she continued. “But we didn’t have to wear any casts, so we just watched our scar and our legs heal little by little.

“You, on the other hand,” Beth said, gently touching the skin of Y/n’s healed scar. “Had your leg hide from your view, so you didn’t get to see it getting better day by day. You only just took the cats off.”

Lotte, sensing Y/n’s unease, added with a gentle smile, “You’re not used to it yet. It’s a lot all at once. The cast is off, and now you can move more freely, but you’ve got these new scars to accompany you. It’s a lot of change in a short time.”

“I’m scared that–” Y/n had a hard time processing her words. “If the outside looks like that, then maybe I’m not completely healed on the inside too.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart,” Mary said while walking into the room.

Y/n squinted her eyes at her, she was a hundred percent sure Mary was listening to their conversation all along.

“Your scar is a bit rough given the nature of your injury, but it doesn’t look swollen or have any indication that you won’t heal properly.” Mary got closer to Y/n, and Beth and Lotte went back to their previous seats.

Mary touched Y/n’s shin, pressing it and lifting it off the ground. “Does it hurt when I do that?”

“No,” Y/n shook her head. “It just feels very stiff, and it's kind of uncomfortable, but it doesn't hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s expected,” Mary said, tapping Y/m’s tights. “You’ll be back on the pitch in no time. Don’t let a little scar get in the middle of that, okay? I’ve treated a lot of athletes with broken bones, and most of them had a really good recovery.”

That gave Y/n a little hope. She smiled at Mary, watching her leg as she slowly moved it. Taking the cast off was one more step into her recovery; it might not be the scenery Y/n expected, but she was grateful for it overall.

Mary went to the cupboard on the other side of the room and came back with a grey shin brace. “You’re free from the cats, but this,” she pointed at the brace. “It’s going to be your new friend.”

Y/n groaned. “Bloody hell, I really thought I was a free woman now.”

Both Leah and Beth laughed at Y/n’s joke, feeling at ease that the girl didn’t seem so sad now.

“You can take it off to shower and bathe only, ok?” Mary got on her knees and put the shin brace on Y/n. “It is way more flexible and light than the cast, so you can move around and walk with your crutch all you want.”

“But I can’t have you bending your knee or putting pressure on it, alright?” Mary thighed the shin brace around Y/n’s leg, making sure it wouldn’t be loose. “And, for the love of God, don’t walk on your own, we’re keeping your crutches for a reason.”

“Do I have to wear both crutches, though?” Y/n asked. “And can I stand on my own? Or do I have to use my crutches for that too? I just–I really miss cooking,” she confessed, a slight blush on her cheeks.

“You can just wear one,” Mary said, getting up and taking a final look at Y/n. “You can stand, just try not to be up for long periods of time, we don’t want too much pressure on your leg just yet.”

“Alright,” Y/n said, looking down at her leg, now with the shin brace on, she moved it side to side, tasting the water. “Yeah, it's way better than the cast.”

Mary gave her the last bits of instructions and medical advice before telling her to come back the next day for her first session of physiotherapy without the cast.

Beth was a sweetheart as always and dropped Y/n off at her place. Y/n promised to bake a cake for her as a ‘thank you’.

Y/n waved at Mrs Petunia from her front door before heading inside her house, Footy was meowing exasperatedly as soon as he heard Y/n’s keychain.

Y/n couldn't pet him down because of the crutches, but made sure to fill his bowl with food before laying her down on the sofa and stretching her leg into a pillow.

She took her phone and quickly zoomed in on Footy before taking the picture and sending it to Kyra. ‘Son if fed’ she wrote. Kyra wouldn't reply to her until later, because, if Y/n remembered her schedule correctly, she was in a tactical meeting with her manager.

Y/n looked around the room, thinking of what she should do next. Watching TV? Too boring; reading a book? She already read all the ones she had in the house; cooking? Hmm, maybe later.

She watched her leg, moving it to the side again, making sure she still had the ability. Y/n wanted to share this moment with Kyra, but she also wanted it to be a surprise for her when she came back. Y/n still needed to tell someone about it, though… who was the chosen one?

Leah.

Y/n looked at the clock. Leah was definitely out of training by now, most likely in her room getting ready for bed–that meant playing Sudoku.

She clicked on the FaceTime app before and stared at her face, waiting for Leah to pick up. In less than a few seconds, Leah1s face was on the screen, but she looked…anxious?

“What happened?” Leah asked, Y/n could barely see her face or where she was, the lighting was horrible, and Leah was holding the camera weirdly close to her face; Y/n couldn’t see the background. “Why are you calling?”

Okay, that was too harsh even for Leah. Something was going on.

"Uh... hi to you too," Y/n muttered. "Are you busy or something?"

"No," Leah said quickly–too quickly. "Just... What's going on? Why are you calling?"

"Wow, okay." Y/n huffed. "Nice to know you care."

Leah sighed heavily. "I'm just–” she cut herself off, glancing to the side for a second before snapping her eyes back to the screen. "–sorry, never mind. What's up?"

"I got my cast off today." Y/n frowned and said hesitantly.

"That's good," Leah said, her voice clipped.

"Yeah," Y/n agreed, feeling a little deflated. "It... doesn’t look great, though."

"What do you mean?" Leah asked, still sounding rushed.

"It’s all red and stiff, and the scar is huge. I don’t know, I just thought it would look... better." Y/n paused, noticing Leah glance to the side again. "Hm, are you listening to me?"

"Yes, I’m listening," Leah snapped, her frustration bubbling over. "I just–look, your leg is fine. That’s what happens when you get injured. It’s not gonna look pretty, but you’ll be back on the pitch soon enough."

"Yeah, thanks for the heartfelt support," Y/n shot back, sarcasm heavy in her voice. "I knew I could count on you for comfort."

"I’m just being realistic," Leah said sharply. Her eyes flicked away from the screen again, and Y/n caught the shadow of movement behind her.

"Okay, what’s going on?" Y/n asked suspiciously. "You’re acting weird."

"I’m not acting weird."

"You’re literally refusing to look at me and snapping like I just insulted your mum, or something.” Y/n shot back. “You can talk to me, you know?”

"I’m just– " Leah cut herself off with an irritated groan. "Look, I'm sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to be short with you. I'm just... distracted."

"Distracted by what?" Y/n pressed.

Leah’s eyes flicked sideways again. "Nothing."

"You're a terrible liar," Y/n muttered.

"I am not!" Leah protested, her face reddening.

"You are," Y/n said smugly. "And whatever’s going on over there–it’s weird."

"It's not weird," Leah insisted.

"You're holding your phone like it's a security camera, Leah. I can’t even see half your face, mate,” Y/n said. “Look, I can call later if you want? Or maybe tomorrow?”

Just then, Y/n caught a muffled voice from behind Leah’s screen– “Tell her I have the perfect cream for the scar, baby, it’ll work wonders…”

Leah stiffened, her eyes flicking nervously to the side.

"Oh fuck…" Leah turned the camera to the side quickly, just as Y/n leaned in closer to the screen, her brow furrowed in complete confusion.

"Wait a second," Y/n said, squinting. "Is that... Alessia?"

Leah's gaze darted to the side again, her face turning an unattractive shade of pink. "What? No! You didn’t hear anything." Her voice was quick and defensive.

"Oh, I definitely heard Lessie," Y/n said, crossing her arms. "She even mentioned my scar, which–" Y/n paused, her eyes narrowing.

"–wait a minute. I did see that story Alessia posted the other day,” Y/n said, mouth open as she had an eureka moment.

“I thought you guys were on a date, but then I thought I was going crazy because…how the hell would you two be dating?” Y/n continued, everything finally making sense in her head: The story, Leah’s weird attitude, the way Less and Leah were always together and bickering like an old couple.

Leah’s eyes widened, and she quickly cleared her throat, her voice low.

"You’re imagining things, Y/n. It’s just—" She cut herself off, her frustration bubbling over, and then, she gave up, one hand coming to hold the bridge of her nose as the other one held her phone.

"I didn’t want to tell you yet, alright?” Leah continued, cranky. “Happy now?"

Y/n raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. "So you are dating." She leaned closer to the screen, amusement in her eyes. "And you're being all weird about it because Alessia’s there…look at you, Williamson, all cute and nervous.”

Leah’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, and she bit her lip, eyes flicking away, clearly embarrassed. "It’s... not what you think," she mumbled, looking guilty.

“I think it’s exactly what I think, actually.” Y/n leaned back into the sofa, grinning now that she was fully enjoying the moment.

Leah didn’t say anything, but Y/n could see her jaw tighten, like she was already regretting answering the call.

“Don’t worry, I totally get it,” Y/n continued, tapping a thoughtful finger against her chin. “If Kyra and I were on the same national team, we’d definitely be roomies. One hundred percent. No doubt.”

“In fact,” she added, voice dripping with faux innocence, “I’m just waiting until I get better so we can have a proper sleepover—me, Kyra, you, and Less! Oh, it’ll be adorable.”

Leah rolled her eyes, but Y/n wasn’t done.

“Shut up,” Leah grumbled, but instead of arguing, she tilted the camera away from her face…revealing Alessia sitting beside her.

Alessia, who was already smiling.

Leah, who had an arm casually slung around her.

“Oh, that’s so cute!” Y/n beamed, waving at the screen. “Hi, Lessie!”

Alessia laughed, leaning into Leah like this whole thing was hilarious. “Hey, Y/n,” she said brightly.

Leah huffed, clearly defeated, as Y/n grinned at them both.

Oh yeah. This was definitely exactly what she thought.

Y/n saw the screen shaking before, only Alessia's face was on the screen, the happiness on her face a clear contrast to Leah’s crumpy one. “I heard you got your cast taken off! I’m so happy for you!”

“Yeah, baby. Thank you,” Y/n said, picking up a pillow that had fallen on the floor and putting it behind her back. “I’m just with a shin brace now, but it’s way better than the cast.”

"You’re already looking way better! The brace is nothing compared to that cast. You’re gonna be back on the pitch in no time, baby,” Alessia smiled.

“Yeah, Mary told me–”

Alessia’s face was replaced by Leah, who had a clear frown on her face.

“Give me Lessie back,” Y/n said flatly. “Don't want you.”

Leah rolled her eyes. “You literally called me to talk about the cast removal.”

“And now I know to never call again!” Y/n shot back, half-teasing. “You’re grumpy, I’m not even as cranky as you are. Don’t know how you pulled such a sweetheart like Alessia.

“The same way you, the disciplined one, pulled the prankster of the team,” Leah smirked.

Y/n grinned, resting her head on the pillow, eyes glinting with mischief. "I guess we all have our types."

“But seriously,” Leah said, her tone softening. “I’m very happy that you got that thing taken off. Just a few more months until we have you running again.”

Y/n nodded, a playful glint in her eyes. “Yeah, enjoy while you can. When I get back, you won’t be the fastest on the team anymore.”

Leah chuckled. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

When Y/n woke up on the last day, she followed her routine, but this time, she realised her life from now on was going to be way easier because as soon as she stepped on the floor, she didn’t have to carry the weight of the cast all the way to the bathroom.

Instead, she grabbed her crutches, moving slowly but much faster than when she had been in the cast.

As she stepped into the shower, she took off her shin brace with a sigh of relief. No more fussing with that annoying plastic wrap to keep the cast dry!

If yesterday she had been disappointed by how her leg looked, today she felt like kissing her calf for how much better–and easy–it was to do life without the cast.

For the first time in weeks, Y/n was actually able to cook herself a full recipe–she chose pancakes! It wasn’t as difficult as before; she could easily balance herself while flipping the batter, feeling happy by the accomplishment.

She had to hide all of her excitement from Kyra- she still didn’t want the girl to know about it– when she facetimed her hours later.

“You look weird…” Kyra said, squinting her eyes and getting comically close to the camera. “What's wrong? Did something happen to Footy?”

Y/n rolled her eyes and turned the camera to the little black cat who was still sleeping curled on the loveseat by the window. “He’s fine, come on!”

“Then what is it?” Kyra pressed, raising an eyebrow as she brought a mug to her lips, drinking what Y/n thought to be coffee.

“Nothing!” Y/n said defensively, “What makes you think there’s something wrong?”

Kyra narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it. “I don't know, you just keep… showing your teeth for no reason–”

“That's called a smile, bro,” Y/n shot back, looking at Kyra emotionless.

“Yeah, but you never smiled this casually.” Kyra tilted her head, clearly intrigued.

“I’m just happy!”

Kyra’s gaze softened, but did not lose its suspicion. “Yeah…why?”

Y/n hesitated for a second before shrugging. “Can’t I just be happy?”

“Not when you’re hiding something,” Kyra leaned back into her chair, folding her arms. “Which you clearly are.”

“Ky! Please,” Y/n said, trying to think about some dumb reason to lie about, something that would actually make her happy. Something Kyra would totally believe.

“I just–” Y/n looked to her side, eyes lighting as she saw the perfect reason right in front of her. “I found a really good brand of peanut butter when I went grocery shopping with Lotte yesterday…down that little corner store I told you about.”

Kyra blinked, her expression deadpan. “Peanut butter?”

“Yeah! It’s life-changing, I swear!” Y/n said, her excitement growing, as she made up the biggest lie ever. “It’s smooth, creamy–not chunky. You know I hate when they’re chunky.”

Kyra stared at her before, brows still furrowed, “Really? That’s what’s making you so happy? Peanut butter”

Honestly, both girls had said peanut butter so many times that it was losing its meaning.

“Yes,” Y/n said, confident in her voice. “And…It’s also organic!” She added dramatically.

“Organic?” Kyra raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t all peanut butter organic?”

“No, Ky,” Y/n said, shaking her head as if she was ready to lecture a class. “Not all of them! This one doesn't have all those weird additives–it's pure peanut butter–just peanuts and palm oil. The label says the oil is ‘ethically sourced’, too.

“Ethically sourced peanut butter? What does that even mean?”

“It’s like peanut butter that is made with conscience,” Y/ns said seriously, without missing a beat. “They are processed while following rigorous environmental laws.”

“And since when did peanuts–” Kyra started, but then paused before shaking her head, “You know what? I’m just happy you‘re happy.”

They chatted a bit before Kyra had to go to training. They had only one more game to play before Kyra would go home.

If they lost to the USA, they would be placed second, and of course, the Matildas didn’t want that.

After a few more days, the SheBelieve cup had come to an end. The Matildas had beaten Colombia and Japan throughout the last two weeks, but they ended up losing to the United States team, which made them runners-up.

Kyra videochatted Y/n after the loss, clearly upset, but after a few hours talking with Y/n and her teammates, she calmed down and was able to smile a bit.

After two whole weeks without Kyra, she was finally coming home in less than an hour.

If Y/n could bounce on her feet, she would be doing that now, her eyes glued to the clock in the kitchen. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t nervous–but she was, and Y/n didn’t understand the reason why.

She was happy that Kyra was coming back home, thrilled even, but that feeling was mixed with something heavier–anxiety, maybe? Fear that Kyra would look at the missing cast on her legs and…not like her anymore.

Why would Kyra not like Y/n now that she didn’t have the cast on? No clue, Y/n couldn’t even think of a good reason, but that didn’t ease her nervousness. It’s been two weeks, and Y/n was scared that something was going to change between her and Kyra.

She and Kyra had only been together for the period Y/n had the cast on. Would things in her relationship change much? Would they change at all? Would their routine change?

There were a lot of questions running through her mind at the same time, and the noise of the clock’s hand moving was making her even more anxious.

Y/n sat on the table, smoothing down her shirt for what felt like the ninth time, her gaze flicking from the clock, to the door, to the table set in front of her.

Y/n had tried to do something different. She wasn’t very good at expressing how she felt with words, so she tried to do it with actions.

She had set the table hours ago–impatient much? Lit candles were sitting right in the middle of the table; all the lights in the dining room were turned off, and the only source of lighting came from the candles.

She had made pasta, it was easy, she didn't have to stand up for long, and it was one of Kyra's favorite dishes, so it just felt right.

Y/n had also bought wine. She actually didn’t drink alcohol–scared that the alcohol could lower her performance in the long run somehow–but today she would allow herself that.

She stared at the bottle of ‘Priorat’ sitting right beside the candle. It was a type of red wine made out of black cherries. She had bought it from a vintner, and he had said it had a tannic flavour to it.

Y/n wasn't sure what tannic was or what it tasted like.

She just hoped Kyra liked it.

Kyras was coming home. After two whole weeks without her, she was coming home.

She texted Y/n 5 minutes ago letting her know she had just got into a taxi at the airport and was on her way home. It would probably take 20 minutes before Kyra arrived.

Y/n looked down at her leg and tried to flex her ankle, like she had been doing every day since she removed the cast, just to feel the freedom of movement. It didn’t hurt–not really, but the lingering stiffness was still there.

Mary had told her it would feel like that for a good whole month, even with physiotherapy. It was just the natural healing processes of the bones and muscle fiber, but still, she wanted to be able to walk around without her crutch soon.

The notification on her phone brought Y/n out of her thoughts. It was Kyra saying she was close.

Y/n quickly went to the mirror on the far side of the dining room, checking herself one last time. Her hair was in check and her outfit too: a green shirt and white t-shirt; something easy to take off–she had to think about after dinner too.

And just like that, Y/n heard the key on the door turning.

Y/n turned around, quickly getting her crutch. She adjusted her grip. Tucking it snugly under her arms before moving toward the front door.

Kyra’s back was to her, her suitcase parked by the door as she fiddled with the lock.

Y/n didn't waste anything before she shifted her weight onto her good leg, planting her crutch firmly against the floor for balance. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Kyra from behind, pressing her face into the fabric of her hoodie.

Y/n breathed in and out, feeling Kyra’s shampoo fill her nose. Suddenly, relief washed over her.

She missed Kyra, she missed her scent, her laugh, her smile, her hugs.

Everything. But now she was here.

“Hey, pretty,” Kyra said, trying to turn around, but y/n held her tight. “I leave for a fortnight and you’re giving bear hugs now, what else? Let me guess, did your leg heal or–”

As if this was the cue Y/n was waiting for, she let loose of her hold on Kyra, letting the girl turn around. She watched Kyras' soft eyes, the way they squinted when she smiled.

Kyra didn’t notice her leg, not yet, being too occupied looking at her eyes and well, at her mouth.

Y/n quickly cupped Kyra's face and brought her to a kiss, her crush long forgotten on the floor somewhere, her only source of balance was Kyra. Y/n clutched one hand on Kyra's hoodie while the other was placed on the back of Kyra’s neck.

Kyra deepened the kiss, savouring Y/n. She noticed how Y/n was a bit unbalanced, so she held her hips and gently brought her closer.

“Hi,” Y/n said, breaking the kiss just to meet Kyra’s lips again.

She felt Kyra smiling against her mouth, that's how they should always be, together, kissing, just the two of them.

“Miss me much?” Kyra asked, kissing Y/n’s cheek, and then travelling to the girl's jaw, where she sucked the skins softly.

Y/n couldn’t help but think about how much had changed in her world since Kyra came into it–the little things, like how there were no weird jokes to laugh at when Kyra wasn’t around, or how her nails looked far less neat because Kyra wasn’t there to paint them.

“Not much, no,” Y/n teased as she lifted her neck so Kyra could have more room, her lips warm and wet as they kissed Y/n’s skin.

“That’s not what you told me the numerous times we called,” Kyra murmured, placing a hand under Y/n’s shirt on her back, scratching the spot.

“Just kiss me, please,” Y/n murmured, looking up to Kyra.

“Just because you said please,” Kyra said, smiling, kissing her back, more slowly this time, trying to show through the kiss how much she hated being away from Y/n.

Playing for Australia was always an amazing experience, being on the field wearing her country's colour was a feeling Kyra could not put into words, especially when she was doing it with players she had known since she was basically a teen.

It felt good to play again after such a long time without an international break, but man, did she miss Y/n all the time she was in the US.

Kyra missed her grumpy remarks, missed having someone telling her she should eat more salad, missed having someone to brush and dry her wet hair for her, missed the massages Y/n used to do on her feet after a long day of training.

She was just happy to be home now.

After being away for two weeks, that’s what Kyra realised Y/n’s house was: her home, especially because Y/n and Footy were in it, waiting for her.

“I always knew you had a short attention span,” Y/n said, chuckling, taking her crutch back with one hand as she took a step back to better look at Kyra. “But this is getting ridiculous.”

“Ugh?” Kyra tilted her head, like a puppy who was still learning a new trick.

“Don’t you notice… anything different?” Y/n asked, lifting her eyebrows.

Kyra’s gaze drifted down her body, scanning her up and down, observing every inch of the girl. Her eyes lingered, brow furring, like she was piecing together a puzzle. Nothing caught her eye.

“Hmm,” Kyra said slowly, hesitating in her voice. “Your hair looks so nice… I love the new…cut?”

Y/n facepalmed herself.

“Kyra, baby,” Y/n said, pointing to her leg. “Cast it off! I didn’t get a hair–”

Before Y/n could finish her sentence, Kyra had already wrapped her arms around her, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in a dizzying circle.

“What the fuck?” Kyra exclaimed against her shoulder, while still twirling her around. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Wanted it to be a surprise,” Y/n said cheekily.

“Wow–Okay,” Kyra said at a loss for words. “It worked, I’m very surprised… When did you take it off?”

“Lika last week–”

“Last week?! You took your cast off last week and you didn’t tell me!”

“Yes! That’s how you plan a surprise.”

“Your cast is off,” Kyra said once again, in disbelief.

“Yep” Y/n smirked. “and if im not misteken you said we’ll have sex once my cast was off so pretty plese can we fuck?”

“You’re so romantic, oh my god!” Kyra said sarcastically, but swiftly cupped Y/n's cheek in a deep kiss.

“But–we, hm,” Y/n tried to say between the kisses, but Kyra wasn’t letting go of her mouth, so she gently pulled her body so she could speak.

Kyra looked at her, sad, with a pout.

“As I was trying to say, first we need to eat,” Y/n said.

“I do want to eat,” Kyra said, a grin on her face, “Let me? Please?”

Y/n felt her heart skip a beat. Kyra wasn’t normally the one to say dirty things, but she always got along when Y/n did it.

So she flushed at the sudden boldness.

“I-I mean it like real food,” Y/n said.

Great, she stammered, guess that was her new personality right now.

“I made spaghetti–”

“spaghetti!?” Kyra said, losing all the devilish expression on her face, changing it to pure happiness. “I love spaghetti, baby!”

Kyra hugged her again, but more softly this time.

“I know you do,” Y/n laughed as Kyra kissed her in the ticklish spot on her neck. “Now let’s go before it’s cold.”

Kyra and Y/n stepped into the dining room. Kyra stopped, and her eyes flickered around the room. The warm light of the candles made the atmosphere of the room seem cozy.

The faint scent of something garlicky lingered in the air, it was coming from the plates already set out on the table.

“Baby!” Kyra said softly, turning to Y/n. “You did all of this?”

Y/n glanced at the table–the candles flickering gently, the wine glasses way too fancy for a casual dinner. Her face heated up; maybe she had overdone it, it really looked like a lot for just a ‘welcome home diner’.

Y/n shrugged one shoulder, suddenly finding the rug on the floor very interesting. “Just didn’t want you coming home to, like, cold pizza and soda or something.”

“It looks lovely,” Kyra said, cupping Y/n’s cheeks. “You are lovely.”

Y/n felt Kyra’s lips on her forehead, and for some reason, she felt embarrassed…exposed–like Kyra was seeing something she wasn’t ready to show–a part of her that was private, intimate.

Kyra grinned. “You know I would love some pizza. But this.” She pointed at the table, “This is amazing.”

“It’s just dinner,” Y/n said quickly, adjusting a candle that didn’t need adjusting,

“Sure, just dinner?” Kyra’s grin widening, leaning over Y/n, her breath warm against Y/n’s ear. “But a romantic one, maybe?”

“Stop it,” Y/n groaned, her cheeks on fire. “It’s just pasta and…wine.” Her eyes flickered back to the table, focusing on the stupid candle. Why had she lit them? It looked like a rom-com set up right in her dining room.

“I love it,” Kyra tugged Y/n closer, holding her by her waist. “And I love how you’re blushing right now–should've got that on camera.”

“I would never let you,” Y/n warned, but her voice lacked any real threat. She was too flustered, too warm and too aware of Kyras's smile pressing against her skin.

Y/n blushed as Kyra held out a chair for her. She almost refused–hating how formal Kyra was making it–but she didn’t want to ruin things with her grumpiness right when Kyra had just gotten home. She could handle thirty minutes.

Dinner passes in a blur of teasing smiles and that old, comforting and easy conversation Y/n and Kyra were used to.

They talked about everything that they had already talked over the phone because Kyra insisted on telling the same stories all over again, although Y/n didn’t mind hearing them, not when Kyra had that soft smile on her face the whole time.

Y/n shared about her routines, about the coffee dates with Lotte and Beth, and the video chats with Leah. How well behaved Footy was and how he had definitely not taken his well-behaved nature from Kyra.

Kyra begged Y/n to recreate that Lady and the Tramp movie scene, where both characters share one noodle, but Y/n said no grumpily, murmuring something about how each of them had a plate for a reason, all while putting hers closer to her chest.

Afterward, they ended up curled on the couch, Kyra’s arm lazily wrapped over Y/n’s waist while they shared a glass of wine.

“You don’t share food, but you share drinks?” Kyra asked as Y/n held out her glass to Kyra.

“Yes,” Y/n said stoically, feeling the warmth of the wine settling in.

“Hmm, good to know,” Kyra smiled, taking a sip. “I like it. It tastes good.”

Kyra passed the glass back to Y/n’s hands, as she took another sip, savoring it but feeling a slight tension building between them, as unspoken energy in the space.

The moment Y/n was waiting for so long was finally here.

With a confident smile, Y/n put the glass down on the coffee table and turned to Kyra, her movements slow and deliberate. She placed her hand on Kyra’s thigh as she wrapped her finger in the back of Kyra's neck, bringing her closer until their lips met.

The kiss was slow at first, Y/n was the one dictating it, turning Kyra’s face just the way she wanted while playing roughly with her tongue in a slow, but intense manner.

Her tongue brushed against Kyra’s. Tasting the lingering acidity of the wine of both of their tongues as Kyra let out a soft, almost imperceptible moan as their kiss deepened.

Y/n’s hand shifted, boldly pulling Kyra’s even closer as she pressed her body against hers. Every inch of space between them vanished in the moment.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” Y/n murmured, placing her hand under Kyra’s shirt, feeling the softness of her skin.

“Me too,” Kyra whispered, tilting her head to the side, and Y/n kissed the side of her face slowly. “So much.”

“Did you think about me?” Y/n asked, caressing her fingers through Kyra’s back, watching as the girl shivered.

Kyra hesitated, but nodded, a blush on her face.

“I’m asking you, baby,” Y/n said, her tone sternly, but the soft touches of her hands against Kyra remained the same. “Talk to me, come on.”

“I did, a lot,” Kyra purred, the fabric of her shirt bothering her; she wanted to take it off, be free of everything standing in hers and Y/n’s way.

Y/n grinned, happy with Kyra’s response.

“I touched myself every night after I took the cast off,” Y/n confessed, tugging at the hem of Kyra’s shirt, but not taking it off. “Came a hundred times on my finger thinking about you.”

Kyra’s cheek went flush, and her eyes closed. “Y/n–fuck, the things you say–”

Y/n smiled as she watched Kyra, her mouth slightly open, her hips moving in very slow and almost imperceptible movements.

“Are you horny, Ky?” Y/n asked, taking her own shirt off and throwing it somewhere in the living room.

Kyra opened her eyes at Y/n’s voice, her eyes trailing Y/n’s torso, the red bra she was wearing, how they filled it perfectly. The girl placed her hands on Y/n’s ribcage, enjoying the view in front of her.

“I-I want you,” Kyra said in a low voice, too busy watching Y/n’s tits. Kyra’s thumb softly brushing on the center of the bra, feeling Y/n’s erect nipples. “Please?”

Y/n watched Kyra up and down, Kyra’s big brown eyes watching her as if she held the world in her hands.

“Here’s what we're gonna do, baby,” Y/n said as she held Kyra’s wrists and took them off her body, ignoring the way Kyra pouted. “I’m gonna take care of you now–”

“–And then we’re going to our room,” Y/n unclipped her bra, letting it fall to the sofa before she put it to the side, just like she did with her shirt. “And you’re going to fullfill your promise of fucking me as many times as I want, alright?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Kyra said eagerly, her eyes glued on Y/n’s breasts. They were soft and hung just the way Kyra liked them.

Y/n leaned forward and turned her body to Kyra, her good leg was crossed on the sofa while her bad leg was still, hanging over the sofa.

She had way more mobility since she had taken the cast off, but she still needed to be careful not to get carried away. The cast always reminded her of what movements she could or couldn't do, but now, without it–with only a shin brace on–it was easy to forget about her limitations.

“Good,” Y/n said hungrily before holding her one breast in her hand. “Now suck it.”

Kyra didn’t waste any time before wrapping her lips around Y/n's nipple, twirling her tongue around it and sucking dutifully, just like Y/n asked her too.

Kyra wasn’t expecting sex when she walked through the front door, still pretty much jetlagged. She had no clue Y/n had taken her cast off; she knew she was going to take it off sometime this month, but she didn’t know when.

As soon as Y/n showed her leg, now bare of cast, with only the grey brace on her shin, she felt a mix of emotions. The most overwhelming one was happiness.

Kyra was so proud and happy for Y/n, she was slowly going back to being who she was before the injury. She hoped that taking the cast off would get Y/n more excited. She tried to sound casual about it, but Kyra knew how much it bothered her being on the sidelines.

Although Kyra’s happiness quickly turned into something else as Y/n and she shared the bottle of wine.

She knew the moment was coming, the moment where they would finally have sex

Kyra just didn’t expect Y/n to be so intense and, well, bossy about it. She pictured their first time having sex as something sweet and slow, with Y/n and her being a bit awkward about the whole thing.

But it was far from the truth.

What they were sharing was intense, Y/n stern voice made Kyra want to drop to her knees at any time, but the slow breathing coming in and out of her nose while she sucked Y/n’s tit grounded Kyra, it made her relax, it was also…comforting, in some strange way.

Y/n caressed her thumb on Kyra’s cheek, watching Kyra's working on her tit while Kyra’s hand came to her other breast, massaging it and pinching the nipple.

Kyra had, so thoughtfully, put a pillow underneath Y/n so she could grind against it. The angle was a bit awkward since she could move both her legs the same, but the friction of the pillow was good enough to have her moaning,

Y/n took Kyra’s hand and placed them on her hips. Kyra understood right away what Y/n wanted, she kept on sucking on her tit while playing with the hem of Y/n’s shorts and so gently, helped rock the girl against the pillow.

Y/n pushed Kyra’s face even closer to her chest, holding her there by the back of her neck as Kyra’s grip on her hips became sharper. Y/n could feel her finger digging into the fabric of the shorts Y/n was still wearing.

She wanted to take her fucking shorts off, it felt so good against her clit, she coulnd’t stop now.

Y/n knew she had told Kyra she was going to take care of her, but she was going to allow herself one little orgasm, just one before they could really start.

“More, Ky,” purred, eyes closed as she felt it coming.

Kyra took her mouth off Y/n’s nipple, kissing all over her chest before pressing her chin on Y/n’s sternum and looking up to her face.

“More of what, Baby?” She asked, her grip firm on Y/n’s body, moving the girl so she could rub more against the pillow. “Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“Everything,” Y/n mumbled, starting to feel the usual warm sensation on her lower body growing. “Fuck, I-I, hmm–”

Kyra, again, obeyed Y/n. She wrapped her tongue on Y/n’s nipples again and sucked on it more intensely than before, noticing how much Y/n liked it. Her right hand was on Y/n’s back as her left hand helped Y/n ride the pillow beneath her.

Kyra felt a drop of sweet falling for Y/n’s neck and dropping slowly against Y/n’s skin. Kyra licked it, feeling the salty taste of it.

Right now, all she wanted was to watch Y/n come undone.

Kyra continued helping her move with her hands, but she placed her mouth near Y/ns ear.

“Let me take it off?” Kyra asked, tugging at the shorts.

“No,” Y/n mumbled in her usual bossy tone. “I’m almost there, ple–”

Kyra kissed Y/n deeply, twirling her tongue around, but as she got closer to being the one in control, Y/n’s hands found themself once again on Kyras face, cupping her cheeks and dictating the direction and pace of the kiss.

Y/n’s movements on the pillows got faster, and her breathing hitched as she arched her back and moaned in Kyras' mouth sweetly. They shared the same breath as Y/n came down for her orgasms, her hips still buckling.

“Ky,” she whispered against Kyra’s mouth, eyes still closed, mouth hanging slightly open. “Fuck–so good,”

Kyra kissed Y/n on the lips softly, before trailing small pecks on her forehead and then nose. Y/n had stopped moving her hips, so Kyra’s grip on her body loosened; instead of hard, her grip became comforting.

“Felt good?” Kyra whispered against Y/n’s neck, her lips leaving a heated trail down toward her collarbone, the warmth of her breath sending a wave of desire through Y/n.

Y/n didn’t respond immediately, her breath catching at the feel of Kyra's lips on her skin. Instead, she nodded, her eyes darkening with a mix of need and confidence.

Without wasting another moment, Y/n's hands slid down to Kyra's waist, pulling at her pants, a clear sign that she wasn’t going to wait for permission.

Kyra moved her hips so Y/n could fully take pants off, her underwear making its way to the floor alongside the other piece of clothing. Y/n didn’t waste any second before also taking her shorts and underwear too.

Now the only fabric between them was Kyra’s shirt. But Y/n decided to leave it on for now, wanting to focus on something else.

Y/n leaned over and kissed Kyra, biting Kyra’s lower lip gently, not sure if Kyra would like it if she drew blood, which was like Y/n wanted to do, so she chose the safe option.

“I’m gonna touch you,” Y/n whispered against Kyra’s mouth. “And I’m gonna fuck you until you’re whimpering.”

“I want that, please,” Kyra begged, feeling as Y/n cupped her cunt, already wet in need.

“I didn’t ask if you want it or not, love,” Y/n said, almost in a taunting tone. “I can feel how much you need me already.”

Y/n first circle her thumb around Kyra’s clit, rubbing it slowly and gently, tatsing the water to see how much Kyra could handle.

“Did you use your finger while you were away?” Y/n asked, pressinger her clit a little harder than before. “Did you play with your cunt?”

“Yes,” Kyra breathed, closing her arms and slowly moving her hips against Y/n’s thumb. “I-I touched myself in the shower.”

“Yeah?” Y/n teased while she lowered her fingers and gathered some wetness from Kyra’s hole before putting her attention back on Kyra’s clit. “What were you thinking?”

“Y-you,” Kyra mumbled, hesitant of her words. “You and me fucking and– touching each o–oh fuck.”

“Keep going,” Y/n said as she played with Kyra’s nipples, brushing them under the shorts while also making circles with her thumb against Kyra’s clit. “Where did we touch each other?”

“I don’t–it’s embarrassing.” Kyra blushed and shook her head.

“You can say it,” Y/n took her hand off of Kyra’s cunt. “Or I’ll stop, baby, what do you want?”

“No! Please!” Kyra begged, opening her eyes and looking at Y/n. “I want you.”

Y/n pitched Kyra’s nipple harder, her hand back on her clit, now making eight figures on it. “Then go on, tell me about what you thought while you were making yourself cum.”

“You, I was thinking about you and–” Kyra moaned as Y/n fastened her pace. “We were rubbing against each other while we, hm, fuck, touched eath other’s tit.”

“Would you like that, baby?” Y/n purred against Kyra’s ears as she lifted Kyra's shirt just enough for her to put her head under it.

She latched on one of Kyra’s nipples, sucking it hard, her thumb giving Kyra’s clit all the attention.

“Can-can i cum?” Kyra asked while biting at her lower lip, almost out of breath. “I-I need it baby, hmm, please?”

Y/n gave a kiss on Kyra’s nipple before taking Kyra’s neck, suckling on the skin until it was red, until it marked.

“Yes, baby,” Y/n whispered against her skin. “Do it, let go, yeah?”

Kyra was so compliant that she did just that, cumming on the exact moment Y/n allowed her too.

Her sweet noise filled the room as Y/n helped her ride her orgasm, still moving her thumb against the girl’s clit, trying to make her savor it for as much as she could.

“Too much,” Kyra mumbled, letting her body fall to the couch, hand on her face as she tried to get her breathing in order.

Y/n quickly cleaned her hands in one of the clothes that were on the floor before lying down by Kyr’s side, right on top of her other arm.

Y/n kissed Kyra’s arm, her shoulders and collarbone. She gently took off the hand that was covering her face, putting it to the side and watching Kyra’s face.

She looked like she just has been fucked, just the way Y/n intended.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Kyra mumbled, slight redness in her cheeks.

“But you’re so pretty,” Y/n smiled, kissing the tip of her nose. “Especially after you cum.”

Y/n very slowly made her way to Kyra’s cunt again, it was all wet and messy, still.

Kyra held her hand before she could reach further down. “Sensitive,” she said in a whisper.

“Thought you might want more.” Y/n kissed her lips sweetly. “I’ll be gentle, yeah?”

Kyra hesitated, but nodded, and when her body relaxed, Y/n let one finger slide inside Kyra’s wall. It went in so easily, she didn’t even have to work Kyra up to it. That’s how wet and ready she was.

She felt the warmth of Kyra’s walls snuggling her finger, and she couldn't help herself but add a second. This time it didn't slide in like the first, but Kyra’s body still welcomed it overall.

Y/n put her head down on Kyra’s arm, which was still stretched down by her side. In that position, Y/n could see Kyra reacting to each of her movements.

The way her eyes rolled when Y/n took her fingers out just to thrust them again, and again and again, in a slow, but deep rhythm.

“You’re so wet,” Y/n murmured, turning her head just to kiss Kyra’s shoulder. “Wish you could feel yourself right now, such a wet cunt you have.”

Y/n felt Kyra clutch around her. “Oh, you like when I talk to you?” Y/n asked, moving her finger faster.

“Y-yes,” Kyra said, moving her hips to meet Y/n’s finger at the same time. “I’m close again.”

“Already, baby?” Y/n said teasing. “But I’ve barely touched you.”

Her warm walls were clutching even more now, as if ready to cum soon. Who would know her girl was so easy to cum, huh?”

“I-I know, I just–”

“You’re just very needy, right?” Y/n asked as she added yet another finger, moving the three of them as she heard Kyra moaning.

Kyra nodded while making an indecipherable sound, Y/n could only guess it was a ‘yes’. She kissed Kyra again, hand on her cheek, turning the girl’s head more to the side so she could deepen the kiss.

She was very close, her hips moved swiftly on Y/n’s finger, her hands were lying on fists by Kyra’s side.

“I wanna see you cum again, Ky,” Y/n purred, licking Kyra’s lips as the girl moaned. “Soak my fingers, go on.”

Kyra did just that, taking her hand to her own mouth and biting it hard to muffle the sounds of her orgasms, but Y/n wasn’t having it.

She took Kyra’s hand off her face and fastened the thrust of her fingers inside Kyra’s cunt, all while sucking Kyra’s bottom lip into her mouth.

Kyra came fast, feeling her skin prick with pleasure, her hips still rutting on Y/n’s finger, trying to make her orgasm last as long as possible.

Y/n kissed her sloppy, slowly taking her fingers off of Kyra, focusing on just kissing her mouth.

“You felt so good,” Y/n whispered, her voice low and smug, pride curling at the edges of her words. She shifted closer, pressing her body against Kyra’s side, and kissed her sweetly on the cheek, before leaving a heated trail down towards her collarbone. “I wanna do it all over again.”

Kyra turned her head to the side, still breathless and lightheaded from the two orgasms Y/n had just pulled from her– both in a ridiculously quick succession. Her limbs were still heavy and her head foggy, but she still managed to reach for Y/n, fingers slipping lazily into her hair.

“Hmm,” Kyra hummed, her eyes falling shut as she felt Y/n’s breath warm against her skin. “Of course you do…you’re like…a menace.”

“No, I��m not,” Y/n murmured, her lips curving against Kyra’s neck. “I’m just efficient.”

Kyra chuckled as her hands traced a lazy circle along Y/n’s waist.

“You know,” Y/n said, her voice low and teasing. “You promised me all sex in the world when I got my cast off.”

Kyra let out a breathy laugh. “I didn’t promise all sex in the world in one night.”

“Hmm,” Y/n kissed her way back to Kyra’s neck, pausing at her jawline. “Yes, you did.” Y/n made her way to Kyra’s warm, nipping at Kyra’s earlobe gently.

Kyra shifted beneath her, and a groan slipped out — but not the kind Y/n was aiming for.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Kyra murmured.

“How?” Y/n said teasingly. “We’ve barely done anything–you are a few years younger than me, I thought your sex drive would be better.”

“My sex drive is great”, Kyra grumbled. “When I don’t have to spend nine hours crammed in a plane seat next to Steph.”

"Yeah..." Y/n said, her fingers softening against Kyra's arm. "You must be wrecked."

“I’m fine,” Kyra said through a yawn. “Just need to close my eyes for, like, two minutes.”

“So we can have more sex after?” Y/n asked smugly, “That’s still not a no.”

“It's a ‘please, let me take a nap’.”

“Fine,” Y/n muttered, flopping dramatically onto her back. “I guess I’ll just lie here…cold…unloved…”

“Bloody hell,” Kyra laughed, pulling Y/n closer and tucking her head under her chin. “You’ve gotten so dramatic while I was away.”

“You’ll learn to love it,” Y/n grinned, pressing a kiss to Kyar’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” Kyra murmured, her voice heavy with sleep. “I already do.”

Part 11 here

Notes: 10 chapters!! 52k words for this series <3 Thanks to everybody who stuck around haha I think we have like... two/three more parts until this series is over! I know the smut wasn't very long, but there will be more in the next chapter <3

Notes 2//: Please let me know what you guys think!!!

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