#Cast Iron Railing

[grande-forge]

Mixing Materials: A Trendy Take on Staircase Railings

Staircase design is evolving beyond its functional purpose, stepping confidently into the realm of bold style statements. Among the latest trends in architectural and interior design, mixing materials in staircase railings is gaining serious attention. From luxurious brass staircase detailing to classic cast iron railing frameworks, combining diverse materials creates an aesthetic balance that elevates spaces. At Grande Forge, we specialize in designing staircase railings that seamlessly blend tradition with innovation, offering homeowners and designers a canvas to reflect their unique style.

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[mrvelocipede]

Now with fewer clamps and more knobs.

[unidentifiedfuckingthing]

bootlegging some stupid carhartts that cost $70 and are on track to last 2 months before falling apart and i expected the inseam to be flat felled but i dont think it is so i went to look it up and found i think my first article that ai generated everything including all of the images. specifically im really interested how it generated some kind of velcro rubber mat texture for every single image of fabric because you would think there would be enough fabric in its training data to have like a baseline understanding of the texture if it can be so detailed in the fingers and the machinery and shit

[inquirenorth]

.

[felixandresims]

Happy New Month, everyone :),

Estate Part 2 includes 36 objects, most with a colour palette of 30 tones.

You asked if I could create wooden stairs, and I think it was about time to follow your wish. I played around with the steps and studied Georgian stairs; they look especially nice cantilevered. The railings for my Chateau Set were ornate, while most Georgian Stairs I saw have simpler cast iron railings. This Set includes:

Georgian Doors, Closed, Open and a separate door frame

Georgian Doors, Closed, Open and separate door frame, shorter Proportion

Georgian Double Doors, Open and separate door frame

Arches with Columns

Round Arches

Stairs

Stair Landing Extensions

Functional Railing

Functional Fence

Railing and Fence as Objects

Two Different Chandeliers with two wall heights

Rustic Timber Floor Boards

Parquet Floor, Parquet Floor Trim

The wallpapers shown are coming next month. Since the latest update, the ceilings have looked strange, so I skipped the ceiling paints. I hope the Sims fixes that soon.

This Set is on Early Access, and you can find it here

I hope you enjoy continuing with your estates, and Happy Simming !!!!

Lots of Love,

Felix xxx

[bitterrfruit]

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. 

[lovestampede]

Formal Living Room Inspiration for a large mediterranean formal and open concept limestone floor and beige floor living room remodel with beige walls, a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace and no tv

[hatsbykat]

Mediterranean Exterior Santa Barbara Idea for the exterior of a large, three-story Mediterranean home in beige with a shed roof and tiles.

[danaportwood]

Roofing - Mediterranean Exterior Large tuscan white two-story house exterior photo with a tile roof

[grande-forge]

Mixing Materials: A Trendy Take on Staircase Railings

Staircase design is evolving beyond its functional purpose, stepping confidently into the realm of bold style statements. Among the latest trends in architectural and interior design, mixing materials in staircase railings is gaining serious attention. From luxurious brass staircase detailing to classic cast iron railing frameworks, combining diverse materials creates an aesthetic balance that elevates spaces. At Grande Forge, we specialize in designing staircase railings that seamlessly blend tradition with innovation, offering homeowners and designers a canvas to reflect their unique style.

Read More:

[insomniac-dot-ink]

WANTED

You find the advert face down on the table. You’re picking up after your grandma. She insists her mind is sharp as a tack but her empty tea cups and loose handkerchiefs and day-old newspapers litter every surface. You scan the paper, and a part of you is sure there aren’t any more jobs like this.

The paper is yesterday’s paper and the various jobs match LinkedIn: nannying and dog walker and kitchen staff. The advert, the one, is stark against the others. You read the tiny printed words over and over, always getting stuck on the word WANTED.

Your friends told you not to go: what kind of job asks you to meet in the middle of the woods? What kind of jobs has no website or contact info? What kind of jobs were advertised in the goddamn paper? You friends wouldn’t get it.

Anastasia, your best friend since third class, tells you to keep your “Find My Phone” on and call when you get there. She really wouldn’t get it. Your grandma tells you that this is the world, the other version of it, and you are her granddaughter. So go.

You walk the three and a half miles in high heels. This job probably wouldn’t even expect high heels, but old habits die hard. You were once convinced in college your girlfriend cast a curse on you, the sleepless nights and a relentless rash proved it. Now that you’re an adult, an adult-adult, you don't think so anymore. If anything was a witch’s spell, it was LinkedIn. Hours and hours of youth wasted on the same go-around.

5 years of experience and 3 different references and no street parking but the bus is only a block away. You can walk, right? Unpaid overtime and shaving your legs to go sit for an hour in an uncomfortable plastic chair. That’s an unusual last name, is it a family one? Ah. I see.

You can walk for a long while. Your heels slup, slup, slup in the soupy ground and it takes you longer than you’d like to look around. The street lights dwindle. The trees gather. The path disappears. The woods are thick and unfamiliar and an iron fence rises in the distance. Despite the late summer heat, the air smells of frost. Maybe Anastasia was right–whether you are your grandmother’s descendent or not.

She comes out of the woods on rail-thin chicken legs. Her skirt is short, cut at a horizontal angle, and she looks like where the punk scene from the 80s went to die. She has a studded leather jacket and bleach-blonde asymmetrical hair. You shove your hands in your stupid suit jacket and check the skies. Half-moon, just risen, you’re right on time.

“You here for the advert?”

“It’s half-moon, isn’t it?” you say back and flash her a tight smile. You had had a sudden sinking feeling about her ability to write you a paycheck. 

She looks you up and down. “Spirit?”

“Ghoul.” You shrug. “Yaga?” She sticks out one of her stalky chicken legs. “Servant of one. Two gens back. On my father’s side.” Your strained smile gentles. “I’m Katie.” Her smile sharpens in response. “Stephanie. Come on, let’s take a walk.” “Was that a real advert, Stephanie?” You saddle up beside her despite yourself. “Cause if you’re just here to pull my leg, know that I'm pretty hard to put down.” She lets out a harsh laugh that sounds like it hurts. “I’m counting on it.” She winks. “Now, not sure I know your line so well, what’s the difference between a ghoul and a spirit?” What is a spirit or ghoul? What was a gig worker or a salaried one? Perhaps a whole length away. Stephanie pushes a bush aside to reveal a hole in the iron fence and leads you through. The grass turns from wild heather to manicured green and you emerge into a field of rolling hills. Your skin prickles. You might be hard to kill, but not to capture. You stay low to the ground.

“Can I be paid upfront?” Her breath smells of winter frost and fresh-turned soil. “You down that bad?”

You survey the trimmed grasses and gentle slopes, the unnatural prickle spreads through your skin to your bone. A house rises in the far-distance, and you swallow thickly. “Is this some Scooby Doo shit?”

“Come on.” She pushes your shoulder. “I’ll pay upfront. The only real question is if you’ve got a pair of lungs on you.” You toss your ponytail back. “For as long as you like. But, I gotta ask, are there really not any free banshees right now?” Stephanie’s smile falters for the first time. “Old world is dying,” she snorts. “Or just buried deep enough to feel that way.” “We’re still here.” “Still here.” She slips you two hundred and takes you to the side of a small lake. The water is murky and the edges form an unnatural drop. She hands you a lightweight dress, gauzy and impossibly white, and you wrinkle your nose. You looked back and forth between the far-distant house and the lake.

It took you the whole walk to place the gate and the house and the land: The Turnpikes. Built almost seven generations back and larger than ever. You couldn’t imagine. The old world was dying, but you supposed it was also just right there. You put the dress on and kick your heels off. Gathering your stuff, Stephanie gives you a big thumbs up and backs away. You take a deep breath, you don't need many, but you had a feeling it would count.

A light in the far-distant window turns on. You see your grandma in your mind’s eye, her tangled green hair and wicked little smiles. All this for two hundred? But a ghoul isn't a banshee. You jump in feet first.

The wet and the cold and the dank water with no memory swallows you. You submerge in the tiny manmade lake, and when you come out, you come out screaming.

The fear of ghouls is an ancient one–something hard to kill. That can walk forever, fight forever, go Without forever. And you think, as you toss your head back, drip water, and let your lungs rattle in your chest, that you might scream forever too.

For two hundred bucks, a ghoul can be a banshee and a world can be made old and new and when you scream, you can scream until you’re made real again.

------------

Newsletter 🧡 Pre-order my new book!

[delicatebarness]

You Need Me Now? | Chapter Two

Summary: Save water. Shower with a semi-stable 110-year-old congressman.

Warning: This series will be 18+, Minors DNI | MCU Spoilers | Thunderbolts Specific Spoilers | Explicit Content | Shower Scene | PinV | Hair Pulling | Mild Reference to Past/Child Trauma

Word Count: 1461

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: Happy Sunday, here's more Bucky. I haven't proofread this, but... that's what @lanabuckybarnes is for ♡ - Please leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue; this is just as much yours as mine. - B

You Need Me Now: @carrotlove | @seenthroughmia | @stell404 | @imaginecrushes | @lilulo-12 | @sebbymybaby21 | @rattyfishrock | @danzer8705 | @troubledsoul-black | @sexyvixen7 | @wintrsoldrluvr | @athanasiascourtesy | @baw1066 | @gh0stdyn

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes | @ruexj283

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Bucky’s Apartment before the Family Fund—Washington, D.C.

Your drive to his apartment was quiet. 

When you pulled up to the curb, you didn’t hesitate to step out with haste. Your heels click softly against the concrete of the sidewalk, and your coat swings around your knees. Before entering the numbered entrance code, your eyes scanned the street.

Empty.

Bucky’s apartment was like most in this part of the capital. It sat in a row of historic buildings with wrought iron railings, the original moldings intact, and tall windows that drank in the amber light of the early evening. There was this kind of charm about it, one that couldn’t be rebuilt. 

Once inside, the familiar scent of Old Spice filled your senses. The classic hints of spice, musk, and citrus were familiar. Him. He kept the place neat and purposefully untouched. You knew that keeping a clean and tidy home was a routine that gave him some control.

You set your overnight bag down near an armchair and turned to face him. He was smirking, stepping toward you. And there it was again: that pulse of electricity. 

His hands settled on your waist. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t demanding. He was just there. It was like he needed to be kept steady, and you were his anchor. His hand slipped beneath your coat after a beat too long. You couldn’t speak; you knew words would break the spell he had you under. 

He pulled you closer, bending down to kiss you slowly. His mouth was gentle… at first. Then, he became hungry. 

The apartment spun around you. Your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, trying to keep yourself grounded. 

When he finally pulled back, he smiled down at you. “We don’t have much time.” 

You smiled back up at him, tracing your fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair. “Then what are we waiting for?” 

You kept the bathroom lights low, leaving only the overhead vanity light to cast golden lines across the tiled walls. The mist of the shower clung to every surface within minutes, fogging over the mirror. 

There wasn’t any time to think, not before you heard the bathroom door slam shut. His hands bracketed your waist, his grip firm as he pressed you against the shower tile. Hands begin to wander your naked body, like he hadn’t touched you in years instead of just days. He kissed you like he was starving, like he hadn’t only tasted you less than five minutes prior. 

He swallowed a gasp you let out, sliding his tongue roughly against yours. “You’re so hot,” he murmured against your lips.

“Being a child lab rat tends to do that,” you shot back, breathless. 

He didn’t waste any more time, turning you around and pressing his body flush to yours from behind. His teeth grazing over the skin of your shoulder, his hands already spreading your thighs—one warm, one cool, soothing your skin as he holds you open. His thick, hard cock slid between your legs. 

With a sudden, searing thrust, he pushed into you. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He knew your body could take it—had taken it. You splayed your palms against the tile, trying to steady yourself as your breath punched out of you. 

His starting rhythm was fast, and he wasn’t letting up. He was rough. Devastatingly rough. Every thrust into you had your hips snapping forward, slamming against the slick wall. The sound was drowned out by the water cascading over you, and your moans were choked down by the steam.

“Fuck—missed this,” he rasped, one arm wrapping around your waist, lifting you up slightly to reach a new, deeper angle. “Missed you.” 

Your walls clenched around him, your jaw slack, cheek to the tile. With a groan, he slammed into you harder, deeper. His pace was punishing.

And you cried out his name, desperately.

James.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he gritted, his vibranium hand reaching up, fisting a handful of your wet hair and pulling your head back. “Say it again.” 

You did. Over and over, your voice bounced his name off the bathroom walls. Your body begins to twitch against him, your orgasm tearing through you. 

Like always, Bucky held you up.

And he didn’t stop. 

Not until he was buried deep inside you, groaning your name against your shoulder. He came inside you, locking his body tight against yours. The sound of his release, his heavy breath, and the helpless way he gave himself to you; it all made you clench around him again. 

A minute or two passed. You stayed there, your bodies slick and trembling under water. Both of you were panting. 

Then, with a grunt in his throat, Bucky slowly pulled out of you. His hands smoothed down your sides as if he were trying to memorize the shape of your curves, as if it were the last time he’d feel you. 

You turned, back to the wall, and a relaxed smile spread over your lips. He bent down, kissing you again. Softer this time.

“You think we’ll make it to the Family Fund on time?” he murmured against your lips.

You hummed in response.

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In front of the full-length mirror, you stood towel-drying your hair. Bucky stepped out behind you, pants hanging low on his hips, a white vest over his chest. His dog tags rested on top. 

He didn’t say anything. He just watched you.

Your eyes met him in the reflection of the mirror. “What?” you asked, stilling your hands. 

Bucky quirked his lip. Not into a full smile. “Nothing. It’s just—” his hand rubbed at his beard, scratching slightly. He looked away from you, like it burned him to keep eye contact. “You.” 

You didn’t react. You didn’t have to.

“I brought my overnight bag,” you said after a beat. Breaking the familiar silence that had settled between you. 

He turned, a white dress shirt now slung over one shoulder. And you nodded toward his living area, where your bag sat. “I didn’t trust going back to the hotel alone.” 

A vibranium hand brushed your back as Bucky stepped closer, standing just behind you again. He leaned in, keeping his voice low against your shoulder. “You trust me?”

You turned to face him again, and you answered him honestly. “With my life.” 

His throat bobbed, swallowing the words he couldn’t let out. His hand against you tightened, pulling you against him before stepping away. He gave you space to collect your bag, drop the towel from your body, and reach for your dress.

It was a simple, Stark red, elegant. A silk slip with a thigh slit and neckline that would make Bucky, and the whole of D.C. to swallow their own tongues. It slipped over your curves, tailored to fit you perfectly. You smoothed it down over your hips and stomach as you turned to fasten the small clasp behind your neck.

“Buck? Can you—” you started. But he was already moving. 

His fingers brushed over your skin, lingering for a second longer than they should before he fastened the clasp gently. When you looked at him over your shoulder, his gaze was fixed on the nape of your neck. His hands slowly trailed down your back, resting against your hips, and his thumbs brushed over the base of your back—just where the curve of your ass began. 

“You look—” he stopped himself, jaw ticking. “You’re about to start a war, Miss Stark,” he chuckled softly, shaking his head. 

Bucky began buttoning his shirt, letting the silence fall around you again. You watched him through the mirror, his metal finger fumbling slightly on the cuffs reflecting through it. 

You moved around the room, collecting your golden jewellery from your bag. “We are pretending just to be colleagues tonight?” you murmured. 

He never looked up at you, his focus remaining on his shirt. “Are we pretending?” 

You didn’t answer.

He grabbed his bow tie from the suit bag and moved in front of you. Holding it out. “Please?” he asked.

You nodded, taking the black material from his hand. Your knuckle brushed the cool skin of his collarbone as your fingers began tying the bow. 

When you were done, you looked up at him, smoothing your hands over his chest. “There.” 

Bucky’s finger hooked under your chin, tilting your face up just enough to search your eyes. His voice was quiet, almost lost in the quiet of the apartment. Yet it edged with concern. “I need you to stay safe tonight.” 

He wasn’t being playful. No smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His thumb brushed your bottom lip—not to tease, or kiss. Just to ground the pair of you. “Promise me.”

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Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Please leave feedback. ♡

[ealdormanink]

Can you write one with Ivar? ❤️

Reader is daughter of King Harald and shes friends and in love with Ivar and she has to marry one of the Ragnarssons and they all want her and she ofc chooses Ivar and he cant believe it.

Written in the Stars

Ivar the boneless x female reader!

A/N: thank you for this request! I hope you like it!!

King Harald's fleet's sails cast long shadows over Kattegat's iron-grey waters. Y/N's fingers traced the wooden railing of her father's ship, her eyes fixed on the approaching shoreline. The familiar silhouettes of the great hall and the busy docks stirred memories that made her heart flutter against her ribs.

The salty breeze carried whispers of past winters spent poring over maps by candlelight, of shared laughter echoing through empty halls when everyone else had retired, of piercing blue eyes that saw her - truly saw her - for who she was.

"The winds have favored us." Harald's voice broke through the symphony of creaking wood and splashing waves. Y/N's fingers stilled on the railing, though she couldn't quite suppress the way her lips curved upward.

Through the morning mist, familiar figures emerged on the docks. There, among his brothers, sat Ivar in his chariot. Even from this distance, the intensity of his gaze sent a shiver down her spine. Their eyes met across the narrowing stretch of water, and five years of friendship hung in the space between them.

The ship's bow cut through the last few meters of fjord. As they docked, Ubbe's voice carried across the harbor, "Welcome to Kattegat, King Harald." His eyes lingered on Y/N, calculating and considering in a way that made her spine stiffen.

Hvitserk stepped forward, extending his hand to help her onto the dock. "Princess Y/N." His smile was warm, practiced. "The gods have blessed us with your return."

The wooden planks creaked under her boots as she accepted his assistance, but her attention was drawn to the subtle shift in Ivar's posture, the way his knuckles whitened around the edge of his chariot.

"The journey must have been tiring." Ivar's voice cut through the pleasantries like a blade through silk. His eyes hadn't left her face since she'd first appeared on deck. "Perhaps the princess would prefer to rest before tonight's festivities."

"Always so concerned, brother." Sigurd's words dripped with mockery. "Or perhaps you're simply eager to monopolize her time, as usual?"

Y/N's fingers unconsciously found the silver pendant at her throat - a gift from Ivar, carved with runes they'd deciphered together during one of their many late-night conversations. Those nights when they'd abandon the noise of the great hall, finding solace in ancient sagas and battle strategies that only they seemed to understand.

The great hall buzzed with activity as servants prepared for the evening's feast. Y/N's chambers overlooked the main square, where memories lingered in every corner. Her fingers traced the windowsill where, years ago, she'd first found Ivar alone, poring over his father's old maps.

"Your form is wrong." The echo of her younger self's voice played in her mind. She'd corrected his interpretation of the English coastline that day, earning not his usual sharp retort, but a look of genuine surprise. That was the first time he'd smiled at her - really smiled.

A knock at the door pulled her from the memory. Astrid, one of the servants, entered with fresh water.

"The sons of Ragnar are asking after you, Princess." Astrid's eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. "All of them."

The weight of unspoken words hung in the air. Everyone knew why Harald had brought his daughter to Kattegat this time. Alliances needed to be strengthened, and marriage was the surest way.

Y/N's feet carried her to the courtyard, where she found Ubbe first. He stood tall, every inch the eldest brother, watching the training grounds with calculated interest.

"You've grown more beautiful since we last met." His voice was diplomatic, measured. He stepped closer, close enough for her to see the political ambition in his eyes. "A union between us would bring great strength to both our people."

Before she could respond, Hvitserk appeared, twirling a knife between his fingers. "Brother, you sound like you're negotiating a trade deal." His easy smile didn't quite mask the hunger in his gaze. "Our princess deserves poetry, not politics."

Y/N's eyes drifted past them both, landing on the familiar figure by the weapons rack. Ivar sat cleaning his axe - the same one she'd helped him choose three winters ago. His movements were precise, following the pattern she'd shown him: three strokes down, one across, just as her mother had taught her.

"Still pining after the cripple?" Sigurd's voice slithered from behind her. "You could have any of us, yet you waste your time with him."

The familiar surge of protective anger rose in her chest, but before she could speak, Ivar's axe embedded itself in the post beside Sigurd's head.

"Your aim is improving," Y/N said, the words falling naturally from her lips, an old joke between them. "Though you're still pulling slightly to the left."

"Perhaps I need another lesson." Ivar's eyes met hers, and for a moment, they were back in that first winter, when she'd spent hours helping him adjust his throwing technique, never once mentioning his legs, focusing only on his strength.

The feast hall glowed with firelight, casting dancing shadows across faces both familiar and strange. Y/N sat at the high table, her father's words still ringing in her ears: "You must choose one of Ragnar's sons before the next full moon."

Her eyes drifted across the hall, watching the brothers in turn. Ubbe stood among the warriors, every gesture calculated to display his leadership. Hvitserk charmed a group of shield-maidens, though his gaze kept finding its way back to her. Sigurd strummed his oud, his song carrying notes of barely concealed mockery.

And Ivar... Ivar sat in his usual corner, away from the crowds, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. The same spot where they'd spent countless evenings discussing everything from battle tactics to the gods themselves.

"Do you remember," his voice caught her off guard as she approached his table, drawn to him as always, "the night you taught me about the stars?"

How could she forget? They'd stayed up until dawn, her finger pointing out constellations while he told her the stories behind each one. She'd never told him that she'd already known them all - she'd just wanted to hear his voice, to see the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of the gods.

"You were a terrible student," she teased, sliding onto the bench beside him. The familiar scent of leather and metal wrapped around her like an old blanket. "You kept making up new constellations."

"And you kept believing them." His smile, rare and genuine, made her heart stutter. "Until you realized I was describing shapes that looked like Sigurd falling off a horse."

A comfortable silence fell between them, filled with years of shared moments and unspoken words. Around them, the feast continued, but they existed in their own world, just as they always had.

"They're all watching you," Ivar said finally, his voice tight. "My brothers. They all want you."

"Let them watch." Her fingers found the edge of the table, inches from his. "They don't see me the way you do."

"And how do I see you?" His question came out barely above a whisper, vulnerable in a way only she was allowed to witness.

"Like I'm more than just Harald's daughter. Like I'm..." She paused, remembering all the times he'd challenged her mind, valued her opinions, trusted her judgment. "Like I'm me."

The firelight caught the silver of his arm ring - the one she'd helped him forge two summers ago, their fingers working the metal together as she'd steadied his hand.

The moment of choice arrived with the rising moon. The great hall fell silent as Y/N stood before the assembled crowd, her father's expectant gaze heavy upon her shoulders. Four brothers stood before her, four possible futures stretched out like paths in the darkness.

Ubbe stepped forward first, ever the diplomat. "Choose wisely, Princess. The future of our peoples rests upon this decision." His words echoed against the wooden walls, practiced and perfect.

Hvitserk offered her a playful wink. "Choose with your heart, not your head." His charm sparkled like sunlight on water, beautiful but fleeting.

Sigurd simply smirked, his fingers still wrapped around his oud. "Though some choices," his eyes flickered to Ivar, "might be less... conventional than others."

And Ivar... Ivar remained still, his eyes fixed on the ground. She could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped his crutch - a gesture she'd learned meant he was preparing himself for disappointment.

Y/N's feet carried her forward, past Ubbe's calculated smile, past Hvitserk's outstretched hand, past Sigurd's mocking gaze. She stopped before Ivar, close enough to see the subtle tremor in his hands.

"I choose Ivar Ragnarsson," her voice rang clear through the hall. "I choose the man who saw me as an equal before he saw me as a princess."

Ivar's head snapped up, disbelief warring with hope in his ice-blue eyes. "You can't," he whispered, for her ears alone. "You deserve someone who can-"

"I deserve someone who challenges my mind," she cut him off, her hand finding his cheek. "Someone who values my thoughts as much as my title. Someone who taught me to read the stars, even while making up constellations to make me laugh."

The hall erupted in murmurs, but Y/N heard only the sharp intake of Ivar's breath. His free hand found hers, trembling slightly.

"You've always been my choice," she continued, soft enough that only he could hear. "Since that first day when you argued with me about the English coastline. Since every night we spent planning battles and reading sagas. Since every moment you saw me for who I am, not who I was born to be."

"But I'm-" he started.

"You're Ivar," she said simply. "My Ivar. The only one who's ever matched me, challenged me, understood me. The only one I could ever choose."

Slowly, like dawn breaking over the horizon, a smile spread across Ivar's face - not his usual smirk, but the real smile she'd come to treasure. His fingers tightened around hers, and in that moment, they were back in every shared laugh, every quiet conversation, every silent understanding that had led them here.

"The gods themselves couldn't have given me a greater gift," he whispered, and Y/N saw in his eyes the same truth she'd known all along - that some choices are made long before they're spoken aloud, written in the stars they'd watched together all those nights ago.

[fayerie]

Would you be willing to write a story that's Dazai x reader who keeps "accidentally" interrupting his suicide attempts by trying to drag him into silly or distracting arguments?

a/n: i could NEVER say no to writing dazai this was soo fun for me to write hope u like it:3 /cw:mentions ofsuicide,mdni

<𝟑 .ᐟ fire escape, 3:47 am.

you find him perched on the rusting fire escape, legs dangling into the night like he’s flirting with gravity.

a faint breeze pushes at the hem of his shirt, ruffling his hair, but he doesn’t move - doesn’t flinch, even as you kick open the window with all the subtlety of a freight train.

he looks like a painting that’s been left out in the rain, all smudged charm and casual disaster.

you climb out beside him with a plastic bag in one hand and something annoyingly determined in your posture.

“i brought snacks,” you announce, letting the bag crinkle just loud enough to be obnoxious.

his eyes flick lazily from the bag to your face. “are you bribing me out of suicide with convenience store melon pan?”

you hand him a drink. “no, bribing would imply you’re useful.” he takes it anyway, because of course he does.

you settle beside him, your shoulder brushing his. his body is warm, and his skin smells like whatever soap was closest to the sink. he doesn’t lean in, but he doesn’t move away either.

“also, i need to know - if i legally adopt a pigeon, does that make me a single parent?”

he pauses mid sip, then glances sideways, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “only if you’re prepared to fight the father for custody in a dramatic courtroom scene involving feathers and emotional testimony.”

you snort. “osamu.”

“fine,” he sighs, leaning back until his spine rests against the cold iron railing. “i suppose dying can wait until after your avian custody battle is won.”

you grin, victorious, and he lets you have it.

<𝟑 .ᐟ the train tracks, 11:11 pm.

you catch him sprawled across the train tracks like a victorian heiress in the third act of a melodrama, limbs loose, coat spread out beneath him like a makeshift funeral shroud.

he looks absurd.

“seriously?” you ask, stepping over the gravel, your breath fogging in the cold night air,

his head turns slightly. “i was waiting for fate.”

“you missed the last train by forty minutes.”

he groans dramatically and flops back down. “then let fate reschedule.”

you nudge his ribs with the toe of your shoe, not unkindly, but harshly. “get up. i brought your laundry.”

you didn’t mean to, truly. you were halfway through folding it on your bed when the silence in the apartment felt wrong - too still, too sharp. something in your chest had twisted, pulled taut with a sick kind of instinct.

you ran without thinking.

he probably saw it - the flush in your cheeks, the breathlessness you tried to hide, the way your voice came out a little too hard.

he lifts his head just enough to peer at the bag slung over your shoulder. “and here i was - hoping to meet a tragic end, tangled in steel and regret, belladonna.”

you let the bag drop beside him with a soft thud. “your socks are all gone. are you eating them in your sleep again?”

he blinks up at you with infuriating ease, his face upside down from your perspective, “you think i’m charming even like this, don’t you?”

“i think you're high-maintenance and way too annoying.” he grins, bright and completely unbothered. “ah, love.”

you roll your eyes but don’t move until he stands. you wait, hands in your pockets, as he stretches and yawns like this was just a nap with extra drama.

you walk home side by side - him humming a dumb, off key tune about suicide, swinging the laundry bag like it weighs nothing at all.

<𝟑 .ᐟ the riverbank, 6:12 pm.

he’s standing knee deep in the river, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the evening light casting long shadows across the water. his coat is folded neatly on the grass behind him, almost reverent in its placement - like he couldn’t bear to let it drown with him.

the river moves slow and shallow. barely up to his calves. it wouldn’t take him, not really. but he stands there like he’s daring it to.

you spot him from the top of the slope and make your way down with careful steps, boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. when you reach the edge, you stop just shy of the waterline.

“you left your phone unlocked on the office desk,” you say. “kunikida’s sent you about seven messages. one of them might be a restraining order.”

he doesn’t turn around. “how tragic. the world will move on without me - and kunikida’s blood pressure will finally stabilise.”

you shift your weight, watching the way the current curls around his ankles. “they’re short staffed. he wants someone to follow up on a missing girl in yokohama.”

a beat passes.

then he glances at you, over his shoulder. “why would they send me?”

“because you’re good at it, obviously.”

his mouth tilts into something that’s almost a smile, but not quite. “flattery? how manipulative. are you trying to lure me out with responsibility?”

“no, just reminding you you’re not as disposable as you keep pretending to be.”

that sinks deeper than most things you say, even you surprise yourself. he turns back to the water. the surface glows with the last of the sun, soft orange and bruised violet.

“do you think the girl’s still alive?”

“i think if anyone can find her in time, it’s you.”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment. the water runs past, indifferent. still, he steps out.

there’s no grand decision, no announcement. he just walks out of the river like it never wanted him in the first place.

you wait while he brushes off his coat, his expression unreadable. he slips it back on, shaking out the damp at the hem.

“fine,” he says, voice low. “but you’re buying dinner.”

“deal.”

he looks at you then - longer than usual. and for once, he doesn’t smile. doesn’t joke. just watches you like he’s trying to commit something to memory, you don’t ask what it is and he doesn’t jump.

divider by @/cafekitsune

[ingeniousmindoftune]

Can you please do Sinners with Sammie x Reader. But please make sure that reader or your of gets bitten but not turned. Basically just do the whole scene with the vampires invading the speakeasy and then reader gets bitten, then sammie sees her and he follows through with his promise of killing her if she gets bitten.

Bite of Betrayal

Sammie x Reader

Warnings: Vampires,violence, emotional angst, betrayal, near-death, protective love, heartbreak, blood, gore, trauma, intense emotional angst, heartbreak, violence, protective/possessive love, emotional aftermath, themes of death and trust.

Note: Reader gets bitten but not turned. This is a bittersweet/angsty scene with strong emotions and gritty atmosphere.

Word Count: ~2,000

The speakeasy felt like a secret carved into the earth—its ceiling hung so low your shoulders brushed the dark-stained beams, and the thick limestone walls swallowed every roar from the street above. Rich burgundy velvet drapes pooled at the floor, muffling footsteps and hiding corners where whispers curled like curling smoke. The mahogany bar gleamed under wrought-iron sconces whose amber flames trembled against chipped plaster. A lone pianist’s fingers coaxed a smoky jazz lament from yellowed keys, each breathy trumpet cry sliding through the haze of whiskey fumes and hushed confidences. Candlelight puddled in brass holders, flickering over brass footrails and stained-glass mirrors, giving the whole room a secretive, golden hush.

You hadn’t noticed Sammie slip in beside you until his elbow pressed against the small of your back. His trench coat still clung to the damp chill of the alley, and the brim of his fedora cast a shadow over his eyes. He leaned forward, the scent of cedarwood cologne drifting against the whiskey in the air, and his lips, cool and deliberate, brushed your temple. He straightened, fingers curling around the ornate brass rail. “Don’t move,” he murmured—so low you might have imagined it. “I’ll be right back.” His smile was a promise you’d never doubted.

Then something snapped.

First, the sconces guttered, their flames sputtering like wounded insects. The pianist’s final chord hovered in the air and died. A woman’s scream ricocheted off the stone, sharp enough to freeze your blood. Crystalware shattered—glittering rain against the polished floor—as cold seeped through the candles’ warmth. Then came the sour tang of spilled bourbon fused with something rotten, like soil left to rot under a forgotten tomb.

Shapes unfurled from the gloom: towering silhouettes, limbs too long and thin to be human, sliding across the floor with a disturbing grace. Their eyes burned ember-red, teeth curved into cruel crescents that gleamed white in the candlelight. A hungry stench rolled off them in waves, sinking into your gut and twisting your stomach into knots.

Chaos ignited. Glass bottles exploded in showers of amber liquid; patrons stumbled, screaming, arms flailing as overturned stools skidded across the boards. A red-faced drunkcareened into a table, sending glasses flying. In the far corner, a man’s howl cut off mid-word as invisible hands yanked him across the floor, his throat opened in a spray of ruby that painted the wood in wicked arcs.

Vampires.

Your heart thundered so loud you felt it in your ears. Instinct sent your hand to your thigh, fingers closing around the slender silver blade Sammie had clipped to your garter. In one fluid motion you drew it free—only to freeze as icy breath ghosted across your neck.

“I always liked sweetbloods,” a voice rasped, low and amused. A gaunt figure drifted into the candlelight, pale collarbones gleaming, a cruel smile curving his lips.

You spun and slashed. The blade carved a burnished arc across translucent flesh; the creature’s laughter echoed like bone rattling. In a heartbeat he seized your wrist, yanking it back until pain flared along your bones. His amber eyes danced with savage delight.

“Feisty,” he growled, tilting you toward the bar. You felt the polished wood bite into your spine as he slammed you forward—glass beneath you shivered and splintered under the impact. Pain exploded up your back in hot shards, but rage blazed brighter. You kicked out, boot connecting with his shin. He snarled and bared his fangs.

Then he struck—jaws clamped down on your shoulder in a vicious arc of white and crimson. Fire surged through you, searing nerve endings with each pulse. You screamed raw, a ragged sound that cut through the din as cold began to snake through your limbs, dulling your world.

Bang! Bang!

Two thunderous cracks shattered the frenzy. You convulsed as the vampire’s weight slumped from your shoulder. The world tipped; your vision fractured into shards of shadow and flame. Through the haze you saw Sammie standing amid splintered glass and overturned chairs, his trench coat ticked with ash and blood. A pistol hung limply in his hand, smoke curling from its twin barrels. He had shot point-blank into the creature’s skull; gray dust drifted down from its ruined face.

“Y/N—!” His voice cracked, wrenching the edges of panic and relief together.

Strong arms swept beneath you, lifting you from the wreckage. Sammie pressed you against his chest, his fingers trembling as they probed the crimson stain blooming at your shoulder. His eyes, wide with horror, locked on the curved silver blade slick with your blood.

“He bit you,” he hissed, every breath rattling like a cracked bell. “If they bite you—”

You forced your throat to work, croaking out a nod. “I—I tried to fight—”

He recoiled as if struck, light flickering in his eyes, turning cold. “Do you remember what I said?” His voice was hollow, like a gravestone.

You did. If their fangs ever broke your skin, Sammie would kill you before you could rise as one of them—a vow he’d fulfilled for countless others. Your pulse hammered in your ears as you met his gaze.

“Sammie, please,” you whispered, fingers clutching the lapel of his coat. “I’m still me. I can feel it.”

He flinched, pain warring with resolve. His pistol arm rose, hand shaking so hard the barrel quivered against your chest. “You don’t know that,” he rasped.

“Sammie, you love me,” you pleaded, voice raw.

His jaw clenched like steel. “I do,” he choked, “and that’s why I can’t let you become one of them.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached for his shaking hand. “Then help me live,” you begged. “Don’t—don’t kill me.”

His shoulders trembled; the barrel lifted, wobbling. He stared at you, the weight of every promise pressing down. The gun slipped from his feeble grip and clattered to the floor. Sammie sank to his knees, pulling you into his lap, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath was hot, ragged against your skin.

“I should kill you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “But I can’t. I won’t.”

You closed your eyes against the pain, drawing what little strength you had into a single breath. “Then help me live.”

A fierce determination flashed in his haunted eyes. He brushed your hair back, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “We’ll find a healer—witch, alchemist, whatever it takes. I’ll burn this city to ashes before I lose you to the darkness.”

Your blood dulled your limbs, but in Sammie’s arms you felt a fragile spark of hope. “I trust you,” you murmured.

He lifted you gently, cradling your injured side against his heart. “Then trust me this: I will save you. If you do turn, I’ll be the one to end it. But until then, I swear I will not let you go.”

With that vow echoing in the ruined speakeasy, he carried you into the night—leaving behind splintered wood and spilled blood. Beyond those battered doors lay a world ablaze and unknown, but in Sammie’s steadfast grip you were still alive.

But little did you know, he planned to kill you once you entered the night. Because he made a promise, a promise he would hold to heart.

[w3haw3ll]

Five Summers Gone- Oscar Piastri OP81

Enemies to Lovers × Second Chance × Small Town 5.6K Words (Masterlist) Five years ago, Y/N L/N left Melbourne without saying goodbye—no calls, no letters, nothing. To the town, she disappeared. To Oscar Piastri, her best friend and childhood crush, she shattered everything they’d built.

Now she’s back. Temporarily. And Oscar? He isn’t exactly welcoming her with open arms. Not when he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care.

TW: Smut but its not essential to the story and can be skipped. 18+

The door to 'The Melbourne Tavern' creaked open, a gust of warm, dry air pushing in with the sound of cicadas buzzing outside. It smelled like dust and sunshine, a hint of salt from the nearby coast mingling with the earthy aroma of wood and old leather. The tavern wasn’t much to look at from the outside—a simple building of peeling white paint and rusty corrugated iron that blended with the small-town landscape. But inside, it had a kind of rustic charm that only decades of local history could create. 

The walls were a patchwork of weathered timber and exposed brick, with old beer advertisements and faded photographs hanging crookedly. Some of the frames were cracked, but no one had bothered to replace them; they were part of the place’s charm. The soft golden glow of hanging lamps cast long shadows across the wooden floors, which were scuffed from years of boots and bare feet dancing to the sound of country tunes. 

At the far end of the room polished oak with brass handles glowed under the light. Behind the bar, shelves lined with bottles of gin, rum, whiskey, and every kind of beer imaginable caught the light, the labels faded from the sun’s harsh glare that filtered in through the half-open windows. The taps hissed and gurgled, sending chilled streams of amber liquid into glasses that clinked softly against each other. 

Near the window, the jukebox sputtered, blasting out the familiar hum of country music, though the volume was low enough to let the conversations around the bar flow freely. The sound of laughter and murmured gossip drifted over the buzz of cicadas from the porch outside, where a couple of men leaned against the rails, pints in hand, talking about everything and nothing. 

The air inside felt thick with the heat of late afternoon, the sun casting a deep golden glow across everything—spilling in through the long windows, illuminating the wooden tables with their mismatched chairs. The long, worn bar counter had a few stools scattered in front of it, some occupied, some empty. A couple of regulars lounged by the dartboard, a few more tucked away in the booths by the back corner, whispering quietly, the flicker of dim candles lighting the space between them. 

There was a smell in the air, a blend of fried fish and roasted meats from the small kitchen in the back. The place was both familiar and a little overwhelming, like stepping back into a dream she hadn’t quite realized she was in. Every detail—from the scratches in the tables to the old ceiling fan that lazily stirred the air above—felt like it had been here for a hundred years, holding memories of the people who’d come and gone. 

 The low hum of chatter from the handful of locals drinking in the dimly lit room died down as soon as she stepped through the door. And now, standing here in the doorway, she felt the weight of time—five long years of distance of lost memories, and of unfinished business. 

Y/N froze at the threshold, her heart doing an awkward, painful little skip. It had been five years since she last stood in this place—five summers spent in the faraway noise of the city, with the distant hum of life and everything that wasn’t here. But now, the familiar smell of spilled beer, fried food, and wood smoke hit her like a wave, dragging her back to a time she hadn’t wanted to revisit. 

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her gaze scanning the bar. The worn wooden floors creaked beneath her boots as she took a step further in, half-hoping someone would jump out and shout a cheerful welcome, but everyone was strangely quiet. Eyes flicked toward her, some curious, others with that mix of recognition and judgment that could only come from small-town gossip. 

On a stool infront of the bar, Oscar Piastri sat with his back to her. His broad shoulders were tense, the back of his black T-shirt clinging to his frame. The man who had once been a small-town kid chasing dreams now stood in the glow of Formula 1 stardom. He was no longer just the boy she’d left behind—he was a racing icon, the kind of person whose name was known across the globe. 

But in this pub, to the people who knew him as a child, he was still Oscar—still the young man who had once dreamed of getting out of this town. The same man who had watched her walk away without a word five summers ago. 

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she stepped further into the tavern, her boots echoing softly on the worn wooden floors. The sound seemed to cut through the room, catching the attention of the few locals scattered around. She felt their eyes on her, a mix of curiosity, judgment, and old gossip filling the space. But her gaze remained fixed on Oscar. 

His back was still to her, but the moment he sensed her presence, he paused. The glass in his hand was set down slowly, as if he had suddenly forgotten the motion. 

The years hadn’t softened him. If anything, they had made him harder—his shoulders broader, the scruff of his jaw more pronounced, his eyes darker, like he'd been worn down by something deep inside. 

Her heart thudded in her chest. The space between them felt like a chasm, but the pull was the same. That magnetic tug she had always felt, the one that was impossible to ignore. 

His expression was unreadable at first—until it softened just the tiniest bit, just enough to show that the years hadn’t erased everything. His lips tightened into a hard line. 

But what struck her the most was the distance in his eyes. The same eyes that had once held nothing but warmth and admiration for her now seemed cold, distant, almost like she was a stranger. 

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and distant, as though her name was a question he didn’t want to ask. “Didn’t expect you to come back.” 

Y/N swallowed, the weight of his words sinking into her chest. She had imagined this moment in her mind for so long, rehearsing her apologies, wondering how she would explain everything. But standing here, now, with the entire tavern waiting for something—anything—from her—it felt too real, too raw. 

His words hung in the air, thick with the tension of everything unsaid. Five years. She’d thought about this moment more times than she cared to admit, playing it out in her mind over and over again. She had imagined the words, the apology, the explanation. But now that she was standing here, with the dusty warmth of the tavern wrapping around them, everything she had planned to say felt inadequate. 

“I didn’t plan on it either,” Y/N replied, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. She glanced around the bar, a few familiar faces still scattered around. “My aunt... she left me the house.” 

Oscar didn’t respond to that, his brow furrowing. He didn’t need to. They both knew what that meant. She wasn’t here just to visit. She was here to close a chapter. The kind of chapter that had ended in a storm, the kind of chapter that had never really been finished. 

She shifted uncomfortably, noticing his intense gaze on her, like he was weighing every word. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed this place—the familiarity, the feel of being home. But it also hit her like a ton of bricks, the reality of what she’d left behind. 

Oscar set the glass down, his hand brushing the countertop with a soft scrape. His gaze never left hers, studying her like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. 

“You just show up, after five years, and that’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp, his eyes cold. “No explanation? No... nothing?” The anger in his voice made her flinch. 

She swallowed, guilt creeping into her chest. “I—I didn’t know how to explain, Oscar. I didn’t think you’d understand.” 

His chuckle was low, bitter. “And you thought running away was easier?” 

Y/N's stomach twisted. She hadn’t expected to hear that in his voice—the years of hurt, the bitterness. It stung more than she’d anticipated. 

She took a small step forward, but the distance between them felt monumental. “I didn’t want to leave. But I had to.” Her voice faltered, but she pushed on. “It was personal... Too personal that I couldn't even tell you about it.” 

Oscar’s jaw clenched, and his gaze flickered briefly to the floor. “You could’ve told me, Y/N. You didn’t even give me a chance to understand.” The words were raw, exposed, the kind of words that could break a person if they weren’t careful. 

Oscar’s expression shifted then—anger flaring briefly in his eyes before it was quickly masked by something colder, more distant. "You think I wouldn’t have understood?" he asked, his voice tight. "You think I wouldn’t have been there for you?" 

She quickly shook her head, feeling the weight of his accusation in her chest. “I thought I was protecting you,” she whispered. “But I was wrong.” 

"I didn’t want to drag you into it," she whispered. "I didn’t want you to feel responsible." 

Oscar’s lips twisted into something that could have been a smirk, but it was empty. "I’m not a little kid anymore, Y/N. I’m Oscar Piastri now. You think I don’t have my own burdens to carry?" 

She could hear the echo of his Formula 1 fame in his words—the pressure, the expectations, the weight of a career that had taken him far from this dusty town. But beneath it, beneath the success, there was still a man who had loved her and still carried the scars of her leaving. 

The bartender's voice broke the silence, offering them both drinks, but neither moved to take one. The tension in the air was thick, heavier than the summer heat outside, and all Y/N could do was stand there, staring at the man she had once loved, wondering if there was any way to undo the damage.  

The silence between them was heavy, thick with everything they hadn’t said in years. Then, without warning, Oscar turned his back to her, grabbing his empty glass and beginning to inspect it. 

“Do you want a drink?” he asked, his tone colder now, guarded. 

Y/N hesitated, unsure of what she wanted. Everything felt wrong, like stepping into a dream she couldn’t wake up from. The man she thought she’d never see again. The town she thought she’d forgotten. And yet, standing here now, she realized she hadn’t been able to move on, not fully. 

She nodded, her voice soft. “A gin and tonic.” 

Oscar didn’t reply as he requested the drink from the bartender, his back still turned to her. But the tension in the room had shifted. She could feel it in the air. The unsaid things were heavier now, waiting for the moment when they would finally have to confront everything. 

He handed her the glass without a word, their fingers brushing just for a second. The warmth of the gin mingled with the warmth of the evening as the first crack in the wall between them began to show. 

---

The tavern was nearly empty now. Outside, nighttime had fully settled over the countryside, a velvet sky scattered with stars, cool wind sweeping in through the open windows. Crickets chirped steadily in the distance, and the scent of dry grass and old smoke hung in the air. 

Inside, only a soft, flickering pendant light remained above the bar, casting a honeyed glow across the polished wood. Y/N sat alone on a stool, her fingers tracing circles in the condensation of her untouched drink. The glass had gone warm. 

Oscar sat by the bar, pretending to count the bottles on the back shelf. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. Neither had she. 

Finally, she broke the silence. “You’re quieter than I remember.” 

He didn’t turn around. “You’re not.” 

She let out a small, humorless laugh. “Right. I’m still the mouthy girl who left.” 

Oscar turned then, slowly, a bitter smile ghosting across his lips. “You don’t get to make jokes about it.” 

Y/N’s chest tightened. “I’m not trying to.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “One minute we’re planning a future, the next you vanish. Gone. No note, no message. Just—nothing. Like I never existed.” 

She stared at him, jaw clenched. “You think I wanted to leave like that?” 

“You didn’t stop yourself.” 

“Because you made it impossible to stay, Oscar.” Her voice cracked. “You made everything about racing. Everything was about the next circuit, the next win, the next interview. There was never room for me.” 

He scoffed. “That’s not fair.” 

“Isn’t it?” she said, her voice rising. “I came second to your career every day for two years, and I was supposed to be okay with that.” 

“I was doing it for us,” he snapped. “To give us a better life.” 

“No,” she said. “You were doing it for you. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I was stupid to think I’d ever matter as much as the next podium.” 

Oscar stared at her, and for a moment, she thought he might yell. Instead, his voice dropped low, tight with something darker. “I used to imagine you in the crowd. Every time I got behind the wheel. I used to look for your face.” 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

“I used to tell myself that if I just won enough, if I just kept going, maybe you’d see me on TV and… I don’t know. Remember you loved me once.” 

“I never forgot,” she whispered. 

“Then why didn’t you come back?” 

“Because I was scared,” she snapped. “Because every time I thought about you, I felt like I was being tortured from the inside out. Because I couldn’t remind myself that I was just someone who once mattered to you.” 

Oscar’s face shifted, something soft cracking through his carefully held anger. “You never stopped mattering.” 

There it was again — that unbearable ache. The one that settled into her bones the moment she saw him next to the bar. 

She looked down at her hands. “I thought if I left, it would hurt less than staying and watching you drift further away.” 

“You should’ve stayed.” 

“You should’ve asked me to.” 

That silenced him. 

The air between them buzzed with the weight of everything they hadn’t said in five long years. It was too much. Not enough. Something in between. 

He stood and walked slowly, each footstep with purpose until he stood in front of her. 

“You think I didn’t feel abandoned?” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t sit in that empty apartment and wonder what I did wrong?” 

Y/N’s voice was trembling. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I was being suffocated by how overwhelmed it made me” 

“I would’ve made space for you.” 

“You didn’t see me, Oscar,” she said, eyes glassy. “You saw a girl who was supposed to wait. Who was supposed to clap from the sidelines and smile while you chased everything we dreamed about together — but you did it on your own.” 

He looked stricken. And more than anything else, he looked like a boy who had lost something he hadn’t realized was irreplaceable until it was already gone. 

“I hated you for leaving,” he whispered. “And I hated myself for not stopping you.” 

Tears welled in her eyes. “I hated that I had to leave to save myself.” 

Oscar exhaled like he’d been punched. He stepped back slightly, pacing a few steps away, running a hand through his hair. The silence returned, but now it was shaking, fragile, raw. 

Then, the faint hum of a song they both knew too well began playing over the radio. He began to tap his fingers on the bar along with the melody. 

Y/N froze. 

Their song. 

He still remembered every note. 

She walked over slowly, standing beside him. “I haven’t listened to this since…” 

“After you left,” he finished. “Yeah. I couldn’t. Felt like it hurt too much.” 

“It still does.” 

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “But maybe some things are meant to hurt. If they didn’t, it’d mean they never mattered.” 

She didn’t answer. She just watched him tap his fingers, the pain in his movements, the years stitched into each tap on the wooden bar top. 

When he finished, she stepped forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “You’ve changed, Oscar.” 

“So have you.” 

“But I think part of me still knows you.” 

His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Then don’t go again.” 

She swallowed. “I can’t promise I won’t. But I can promise I’ll try.” 

He stood, close now—so close the tension between them was electric. 

“I hate that I still want to kiss you,” he said, breath warm. 

“I hate that I want you to.” 

They didn’t kiss—not yet. The moment lingered like a breath not yet taken. 

A door creaked in the distance. A chair scraped. Someone was still here. 

The moment passed. 

Oscar stepped back, eyes burning. “You should go.”  

Y/N hesitated, heart pounding. “Yeah. I should.” 

But neither of them moved. 

---

The sun bore down mercilessly on Albert Park, casting a shimmer over the track and painting the race paddock in hues of black and red. The smell of gasoline and scorched rubber clung to the air, thick and sharp. Crowds pressed at the fences, their excitement electric, a kind of collective heartbeat that pulsed louder than the engines in the distance. 

Y/N stood on the edge of it all, fingers curled tightly around the lanyard that bore Oscar Piastri’s name. 

She hadn't planned on coming. She’d told herself over and over she wouldn’t. That she couldn’t. 

But when she’d found the VIP pass slipped under her door, attached to a single note — “If you come, I’ll know” — something in her cracked. 

Now she was here, at the very place she’d sworn never to return to. The world she’d tried to leave behind. The life she'd tried to untangle from her heart. But it never really left her. And neither did he. 

Oscar stood by his car in the garage, helmet under one arm, race suit hugging his form like a second skin. He wasn’t looking at her. But he didn’t need to. He knew. 

She didn’t know what they were now. But she knew she couldn’t walk away this time. 

Not again. 

Now she stood in the shade of the garage awning, watching the man she’d once loved — maybe still loved — suit up, visor down, the sun glinting off his helmet as he prepared for the race. 

Oscar didn’t look at her, but she knew he knew she was there. 

He always knew. 

The race began with the scream of engines and a blur of motion. 

Oscar took the first few corners clean, locking into P2 by Lap 3, breathing down the neck of the Ferrari in front. His movements were precise, razor-sharp. But there was something underneath — something Y/N could feel more than see. 

He wasn’t just racing. He was pushing. 

Too hard. Too fast. Too much. 

And she recognized it. That desperate, reckless edge. He was driving like he had something to prove — or something to lose. 

The commentary praised him. "He's on fire today—like a man possessed." 

Y/N’s stomach twisted. 

The commentators said it was brilliant. Ruthless. But Y/N’s chest tightened with every lap. 

By Lap 20, Oscar was still in second but gaining, corners carved with fury, tyres crying against the asphalt. The engineers were calm, but Y/N could hear the tension in their voices as they radioed him. 

“Oscar, box in five.” 

No response. 

“Oscar, do you copy?” 

Still nothing. 

Her heart climbed into her throat. 

She knew this Oscar — the one who didn’t hear anything but the roar in his own head. The one who couldn’t stop until the fire inside him burned out everything around him. 

Then, Lap 41. 

He went wide into Turn 10, trying to force a move where there wasn’t one. The Ferrari twitched. Oscar overcorrected. 

The car clipped the curb. 

Sparks exploded from under the chassis. The rear end snapped. 

And then it happened. 

A sickening spin, tyres lifting momentarily before the car slammed sideways into the barrier with a thunderous crack that silenced the crowd. The halo held strong. But the front wing had completely disintegrated. Smoke poured into the sky. 

The screen froze on the impact.  

The screen showed the wreck: smoke pouring out, marshals racing toward the scene. The safety car was deployed instantly. Mechanics scrambled. 

Gasps rippled through the paddock. 

Y/N couldn’t move.  

She didn’t breathe. 

Her mouth was dry. Her body ice-cold. She felt everything and nothing all at once. Around her, the team was in motion, alarms blaring, radios crackling. 

But all she could hear was the silence in her chest. 

Then—movement. Oscar’s head, helmet still on, shifting. 

He was alive. 

But she was already running. 

She didn’t wait. 

She ran. 

The medical center was a blur. She pushed through crowds, security, yelling voices — she didn’t care. Not when she could still see the image of his car mangled against the wall. Not when every second that passed without seeing his face felt like a countdown to collapse. 

"Miss, you can't be here—" 

“I have to be,” she snapped. “He left me a pass. He wants me here.” 

The nurse gave her a cautious look, then sighed, stepping aside. 

“Y/N?” 

And there he was. 

Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, shirtless, bruised, a long scrape down his ribs, and his arm cradled in a sling. He looked up at the sound of the door. 

And everything in her broke. 

“You complete idiot,” she whispered. 

His lips curled into the faintest smile, worn and pained. “Hi.” 

She crossed the room in two steps and shoved him. 

“You reckless, stupid, arrogant—” her voice broke as she hit him again, this time open-palmed to his chest, and he winced. “You could’ve died, Oscar! What the hell were you thinking?!” 

“Y/N—” 

“You could’ve died!” repeating as she sobbed. “I saw it. I saw your car hit that wall and I thought—god, I thought that was it. I thought I’d lost you again.” 

He grabbed her wrists, gently, holding them between them. “I’m here.” 

“Why were you pushing so hard?” she asked, shaking. “You were leading! You had it.” 

He flinched. “I just thought that maybe if I won, you’d see I’m not the same guy you left.” 

“I never needed you to win anything!” she shouted. “I needed you to fight for me. For us. Not throw yourself into a wall just to prove some twisted point!” 

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now. “You were always enough. It was never about the trophies.” 

“I missed you,” he said, voice raw. “Every single day. Even when I hated you. Especially then.” 

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “You don’t get to say that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you didn’t come after me. Because you let me go.” 

“I thought I was giving you what you wanted,” he said, looking at her like the truth might kill him. “You left without a word.” 

“Because I was falling apart!” she cried. “Because I didn’t know who I was outside of you, and I was terrified you wouldn’t love the version of me that didn’t orbit your world.” 

Oscar swallowed hard. “I loved all of you. Even the parts you tried to hide from me.” 

Y/N moved closer. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Then why did it feel like I was always chasing you?” 

“Because I didn’t know how to slow down.” He met her gaze, broken and honest. “Until now.” 

The silence between them was thick — loaded with pain, regret, and everything they'd never said. 

He looked at her then — really looked — like he was seeing every version of her he’d ever loved, ever hated, ever mourned. 

“You came back.” 

“I couldn’t stay away this time,” she said, voice shaking. 

There was a pause, the kind that holds all the weight of things finally understood. 

And then he kissed her. 

It wasn’t soft. 

It was desperate. 

A collision of grief, guilt, love and longing, five years in the making. Her fingers threaded into his curls as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her between his knees. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, hungry and terrified and real. 

His hands pulled her in, even with the pain in his arm. Her fingers gripped the back of his neck, their mouths crashing, devouring, pleading. 

She pulled back first, breathing heavily. Her forehead rested against his. “Don’t do that again.” 

“I won’t,” he whispered. “Unless you leave again.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Oscar’s fingers brushed down her cheek. “Promise?” 

“I promise,” she said. “But you need to promise something, too.” 

“What?” 

“That next time you want to prove something to me… just tell me. Don’t nearly die over it.” 

A breathy laugh escaped him. “Deal.” 

Y/N smiled through her tears and gently, slowly, leaned into him again. This time the kiss was softer. Tender. Like the feeling of forgiveness. 

And outside the walls of the medical center, the race raged on. 

But here, time finally slowed. 

--- 

Outside, the city pulsed with celebration. A dull roar of nightlife drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but up here, the world had narrowed into something quiet. Almost sacred. 

The suite smelled faintly of rain on pavement and clean cotton sheets. The lamps cast a warm, amber glow, softening the sleek modern lines of the room. A forgotten bottle of sparkling water sat half-finished on the nightstand. The television playing the news on mute, replaying the crash over and over — the same brutal spin, the same moment Oscar’s car hit the barrier. 

Y/N had turned her back to it. She couldn’t watch it again. 

Instead, she watched him.  

Oscar stood by the window, one arm braced on the glass, the other resting in a black sling across his torso. The light haloed around him, outlining the sharp lines of his shoulders and jaw, the mess of his dark curls slightly damp from a rushed post-hospital shower. His T-shirt was wrinkled from the day but still clung in the right places. Bruising peeked from beneath the collar, dark and angry against his otherwise golden skin. 

She hadn’t been able to stop touching him since they returned. Just little things — her hand on his arm, her fingers brushing his ribs to make sure he was real. 

Oscar hadn’t stopped looking at her either. 

“You don’t have to hover,” he said quietly, not turning around. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust.” 

She sat on the edge of the bed, heart a clenched fist in her chest. “You kind of already did.” 

He finally turned. 

There was something showing in his eyes emotionally stripped raw. His defenses were down, fractured open by the impact and her lips hours ago in the medical centre. The heat in his gaze wasn’t just desire. It was regret. Longing. Need. 

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. 

“For crashing?” she asked. 

“For everything.” 

Y/N stood and crossed the room slowly, until she was inches from him. The city lights outside cast fractured reflections across his face — half in shadow, half in gold. 

She raised a hand to his chest, letting her fingers splay over his heartbeat. “Don’t be sorry right now” she whispered. “None of that is important now.” 

A beat passed. 

Then she added, softer, “I missed you. I hated how much, but I still did.” 

He exhaled slowly. “Every time I thought I was over you… it would blindside me again. In the shower. In the car. Walking past someone who smelled like your perfume.” His hand lifted to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Tonight, when I saw you in the garage, I thought I was hallucinating.” 

“You weren’t,” she murmured. “You pulled me back.” 

Oscar leaned in, breath ghosting her cheek. “I’m tired of pretending it didn’t miss you.” 

“So, stop pretending.” 

He kissed her gently; he put so much emotion into such a simple and delicate kiss. The kiss was telling Y/N all the words she needed to hear from Oscar. She gently lifted his shirt taking a glance at his bruises and cuts. 

“I should be the one taking care of you,” she whispered. 

“You are.” 

She kissed the line of his jaw, breath stuttering. “You feel like home.” 

He smiled against her mouth. “Then stay.” 

And when they collapsed into the sheets the world outside faded. No engines. No lights. No press. Just the aftershock of something deeply real. 

Oscar pulled her into his chest, his voice barely a rumble against her hair. 

“This time,” he said, “I’m not letting you go.” 

And Y/N, wrapped in his heat, whispered back, “Good. Because I’m done running.” 

--- 18+ (CAN BE SKIPPED)

The city below them had long been quiet, but inside the hotel room, the air still burned. 

Y/N lay stretched across the sheets, chest rising and falling in quiet waves, her fingers tracing idle patterns over Oscar’s bruised skin. He watched her from where he sat, propped against the headboard, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable. His sling was off now, set aside like every other barrier between them. 

Her fingers moved lower. Across the sharp dip of his hipbone. The waistband of his boxers. 

She felt the shift in him immediately — the way his stomach tightened beneath her touch, the soft hitch of breath. 

But he didn’t stop her. 

Instead, he caught her wrist. “Don’t tease me.” 

The heat in his voice made her clench around nothing. 

“I’m not,” she whispered, crawling over his lap, straddling him slowly. “Unless you want me to.” 

His hands gripped her hips. Firm. Possessive. 

“I’ve wanted you,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “since the second I saw you again. And it’s fucking killing me how good you still feel in my arms.” 

Y/N leaned in, brushing her lips over his ear. “Then take me like you’ve been needing to.” 

Something in him broke. 

He surged up, flipping her onto her back with a sharp exhale, mouth crashing onto hers. It wasn’t soft. It was messy, all tongue and teeth and barely contained hunger. Her thighs fell open around his hips as he pressed against her, hard and aching through his boxers, grinding into her like he couldn’t help it. 

“Tell me this is mine,” he growled, dragging her panties down her legs, his fingers slipping through the wetness between her thighs. 

“It’s yours,” she gasped, legs trembling. “It’s always been yours.” 

He pushed two fingers into her without warning, his thumb circling her clit with practiced precision. She cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as her body bowed up against him. 

“Look at you,” Oscar muttered, watching her writhe beneath him. “Dripping for me. I’ve barely touched you.” 

She bit her lip hard. “Stop talking and fuck me.” 

He smirked. “Say please.” 

Her eyes flashed. “Oscar—” 

“Say it.” 

She reached down and wrapped her hand around him through the fabric of his boxers, squeezing just enough to make his breath stutter. 

“Please.” 

He shoved his boxers down, not even bothering to kick them off fully before lining himself up and slamming into her in one desperate, blinding thrust. 

She cried out, the stretch brutal and perfect. 

His hand tangled in her hair, dragging her mouth back to his as he thrust again, hard and deep. “You feel so fucking good.” 

Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper. He moved like a man unhinged — hips snapping, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers. 

Each thrust was laced with everything they hadn’t said. Every heartbreak. Every unanswered call. Every regret that clung to them like a second skin. 

“I thought I lost you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Every day I told myself it didn’t matter — but it did. You did. You fucking destroyed me.” 

Y/N cupped his face with shaking hands, dragging his mouth back to hers. “Then ruin me right back.” 

And he did. 

He fucked her like it was the only way he knew how to continue living. Like claiming her again might put the broken parts of him back together. 

She moaned his name over and over, clawing at his back, thighs trembling around his hips as he pounded into her relentlessly. Every thrust sent stars behind her eyes. Her orgasm hit hard and sudden, clenching around him with a cry. 

Oscar’s rhythm faltered. His jaw clenched. “Fuck, I’m gonna—” 

“Inside,” she begged. “Please.” 

That broke him completely. 

With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside her, hips jerking, body shaking with the force of it. 

They collapsed together, skin slick with sweat, limbs tangled. 

Silence settled around them like ash after fire. 

Oscar didn’t speak. He just pulled her close, pressing kisses to her hair, her shoulder, her temple. Everywhere he could reach. 

Y/N clung to him, heart still racing, the weight of what just happened heavy and terrifying in her chest. 

But when he whispered, “I’m not letting you leave again,” she believed him. 

For now, that was enough.