𝐒ummery: Stranded in the heart of the marsh on the HMS Pogue after a bitter, multi-day standoff, the silence between Kiara and the reader finally collapses into a feverish reclamation. What starts as a desperate making-out session on the sun-bleached floorboards evolves into a raw, primal encounter where all the unspoken words of their fight are channeled into a salt-aired, uninhibited intimacy under the stars.
𝐏airing: Girlfriend!Kiara x girlfriend!reader
𝐖arnings:
Hardcore WLW Smut
Explicit Language (Pussy, Clit, Cum, Fuck)
Detailed Fingering & Oral
Squirting
Outdoor/Public Setting (Stranded on a boat)
Established Relationship (Make-up sex)
Post-Sex Cuddling & Emotional Fluff
( requests open ! )
The marsh is a landscape of shimmering, oppressive silence, broken only by the rhythmic slap-slap of water against the hull of the HMS Pogue. The sun is hanging low, a bruised purple and orange smear across the horizon that turns the winding saltwater creeks into ribbons of liquid gold. Usually, this is where you feel most alive, but today, the air feels thick enough to choke on.
You’re sitting on the sun-bleached wood of the deck, your back pressed against the metal railing. Across from you—exactly three feet away, a distance that feels like a canyon—sits Kiara.
The boys are gone. They’d pulled the ultimate, meddling Pogue move, luring the two of you onto the boat under the guise of a "serious meeting," only to jump onto the dock and untie the lines. JJ’s laughter is still echoing in your ears, his shouting about "sorting your shit out before the bonfire" fading as they sped off in John B’s beat-up truck, leaving you stranded in the middle of the cut with no oars and a dead battery they’d definitely tampered with.
Kiara has her knees pulled up to her chest, her chin resting on her kneecaps. She’s staring out at the tall marsh grass, her dark curls messy from the wind, blowing across her face in a way that makes you ache to reach out and tuck them behind her ear. But you don't. You can't. The fight is still too fresh, a jagged thing sitting in your throat like broken glass.
The silence between you is heavy, vibrating with all the words you haven't said since the screaming stopped two days ago. It’s the kind of silence that happens when two people know each other so well they can practically hear the other one thinking. You know she’s angry, but beneath the anger, you can see the slump in her shoulders—the exhaustion of carrying the weight of this distance.
"JJ is a dead man," Kiara finally says, her voice low and raspy, cutting through the quiet like a blade. She doesn't look at you. She keeps her eyes fixed on a white crane landing in the distance. "I’m going to actually kill him. I’m going to feed him to the gators."
"Pope helped," you remind her, your own voice sounding foreign to your ears. "He’s the one who probably pulled the spark plugs. He looked way too guilty when he jumped off the dock."
A tiny, bitter huff of laughter escapes her nose, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She finally shifts, her gaze sliding over to you. It’s a brief contact, but it’s enough to make your heart hammer against your ribs. There’s so much history in the way she looks at you—countless nights spent on this very boat, summers where your skin smelled like salt and SPF 30, and the quiet, domestic moments that make being her girlfriend the only thing that matters.
"They think they're being helpful," she mumbles, picking at a loose splinter on the floorboards. "They think if they just lock us in a cage together, we’ll magically forget everything."
"They don't get it," you say softly.
"No," she agrees, finally turning her full body toward you, her dark eyes searching yours. "They don't. They don't understand that sometimes... sometimes it's not that easy to just fix it."
The boat shifts as a gentle wake from a distant skiff rolls under the hull. The movement pushes you slightly closer to each other, the space between your sneakers narrowing to inches. The sun is lower now, casting long, dramatic shadows across the deck, and the temperature is starting to drop. You can see the goosebumps forming on Kie’s arms, the way she shivers almost imperceptibly.
You want to offer her your hoodie. You want to move across the deck and pull her into your lap and tell her that the fight was stupid, that you’re sorry, that you can't stand the way the air feels when she’s not talking to you. But the pride is still there, a cold, stubborn wall that neither of you is ready to tear down just yet.
"You're cold," you state, the observation feeling like a confession.
"I'm fine," she snaps, but the bite isn't really there. It’s a reflex. She sighs, her head dropping back against the side of the boat. "God, I hate this. I hate that they did this. I hate that we're here."
"Which 'here'?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper. "The marsh, or... here?"
Kiara finally looks at you, and the "Queen of the Pogues" mask slips. Her lip quivers for a fraction of a second before she bites it down. "Both. I hate that we're in the middle of nowhere, and I hate that I’m sitting three feet away from my favorite person and I feel like I’m in a different zip code."
The honesty of it hits you like a physical blow. You shift, sliding off the railing until you're sitting flat on the floorboards, mirroring her position. The wood is rough and smells of salt and old bait, but it feels grounding.
"I missed you," you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Even when we were yelling. Even when I was mad. I just... I kept wanting to tell you things. I’d see something funny and reach for my phone to text you, and then I’d remember."
Kiara’s expression softens, the hard line of her jaw relaxing. She reaches out, her fingers hovering over the wood between you before she finally lets them rest there, palm up. "Me too. I saw a sea turtle yesterday near the wreck, and I almost called you. I actually had the contact open."
The tension doesn't disappear, but it changes. It goes from sharp and aggressive to something soft and melancholy. The marsh grass is turning a deep, dark green as the twilight takes over, and the first few stars are starting to blink into existence. The HMS Pogue is drifting slowly toward a patch of reeds, the engine silent, the world around you completely still.
"I don't want to fight anymore, Kie," you say, reaching out to finally cover her hand with yours. Her skin is cold, but she flinches toward the touch rather than away from it. Her fingers immediately lace with yours, her grip tight, almost desperate.
"Then don't," she whispers, sliding closer until her shoulder is pressed against yours. "Just... be here. Right now. Just us and the stupid boat."
You lean your head against hers, the scent of her coconut hair products and the salty marsh air finally settling your nerves. The boat rocks gently, a cradle in the middle of a vast, dark world. You’re still stranded, you still don't have a way home, and the boys are still going to get their asses kicked whenever you finally get back to land—but for the first time in days, the air feels like you can actually breathe it.
Kiara sighs, a long, shaky sound of relief, and pulls your joined hands into her lap. "I'm still mad at you for what you said about the bonfire," she mutters, though there's a tiny, genuine smile tugging at her lips now.
"And I'm still mad at you for being so stubborn," you counter, nudging her shoulder with yours.
"Yeah, well," she huffs, closing her eyes and leaning into you. "At least we're stubborn together."
The twilight has deepened into a thick, indigo velvet, and the only light left is the silver reflection of the moon dancing on the black water of the marsh. The air has turned sharp and cool, but the space between you and Kiara is radiating a heat that makes the cold feel miles away.
She doesn't pull her hand away. Instead, she tightens her grip, her thumb tracing the line of your knuckles with a frantic, shaky rhythm. The silence isn't heavy anymore; it’s charged, a physical hum in the air that makes your skin prickle.
"I hate that I can't stay mad at you," she whispers, her voice breaking just enough to reveal the raw edges of her heart.
She turns her head, and suddenly your faces are inches apart. You can see the reflection of the stars in her dark eyes, the way her pupils are blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated longing. You don't wait for her to bridge the gap. You lean in, your hand sliding from the floorboards to cup the back of her neck, your fingers disappearing into the thick, salt-tangled curls at the base of her skull.
When your lips finally touch hers, it’s like a fuse hitting a powder keg. All the frustration, the pining, and the stubborn silence of the last forty-eight hours explode into a kiss that is anything but gentle. It’s a collision. Kiara lets out a small, desperate sound into your mouth, her hands flying up to grip the front of your shirt, pulling you closer as if she’s trying to drag you right into her lungs.
She tastes like the sea and the faint sweetness of the lip balm she’s been chewing off all afternoon. Her mouth is hungry, her tongue flickering against yours in a frantic, messy rhythm that mirrors the way the boat rocks beneath you. It’s a reclamation—a silent vow that no matter how much you fight, the gravity between you is too strong to break.
You shift your weight, moving from the wood to hover over her. Kiara doesn't hesitate; she leans back, her spine meeting the sun-warmed floorboards of the Pogue as she pulls you down with her. You settle between her thighs, your chest pressing against hers, and the contact makes her gasp into the kiss.
Now you’re looking down at her, your hair falling like a curtain around both of your faces, shielding you from the rest of the world. Kiara looks breathtaking in the moonlight—her skin glowing, her lips swollen and dark, her chest heaving as she tries to catch a breath that you keep stealing away.
She reaches up, her hands sliding under the hem of your shirt to find the warm skin of your waist. Her touch is frantic, her palms hot against your ribs as she arches up into you. "Don't stop," she breaths against your lips, her voice a jagged, needy rasp. "Please, just... don't go away again."
You lean down, your mouth finding the sensitive curve of her jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her throat. Each touch makes her shiver, her fingers digging into your back as she tries to pull you even closer, wanting every single inch of you pressed against her. The boat drifts aimlessly into the reeds, the tall grass brushing against the hull with a dry, rhythmic hiss, but you don't notice.
In this moment, there is no marsh, no boys, no fight. There is only the weight of your body on hers, the frantic drumming of her heart against your ribs, and the taste of Kiara Carrera finally, finally being yours again.
The rocking of the boat is a slow, rhythmic grind against the reeds, but it’s nothing compared to the friction building between your bodies. Kiara’s legs are locked around your waist, her heels digging into your lower back as she pulls you down, her mouth seeking yours with a desperate, frantic hunger. The wood of the deck is hard beneath her, but she doesn't seem to care; all she feels is you, finally back where you belong.
You pull back just an inch, your breathing coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Her dark eyes are clouded with a heavy, liquid heat, her lips parted and swollen from your kisses. Without a word, you reach down, your fingers hooking into the waistband of her denim shorts and the thin lace of her underwear beneath.
"Yeah," she breathes, a jagged, needy sound escaping her throat. "Please."
You tug them down in one smooth, impatient motion. She lifts her hips off the floorboards to help you, her eyes never leaving yours as you strip the fabric away and toss it onto the discarded fishing gear nearby. Now, she’s completely open to you, her golden skin glowing like polished amber in the moonlight. The scent of her hits you instantly—a heady, intoxicating mix of salt air and the sweet, heavy musk of her own arousal. She’s already dripping, the silver light catching the slick moisture between her thighs.
You settle back between her legs, your knees prying her further apart. Kiara lets out a long, shaky exhale, her head thumping back against the deck as your hand finds her. Your thumb grazes over her clit, and she jolts as if struck by lightning, her back arching off the wood.
"Fuck," she hisses, her fingers raking through your hair, pulling at the roots with a primal urgency. "You have no idea... how much I missed this."
You don't make her wait. You lean down, your tongue taking the place of your thumb. You swirl over the sensitive, engorged nub, sucking it into your mouth with a heavy, wet pressure that makes her entire body tremble. Kiara’s hands move from your hair to the deck, her nails scratching against the wood as she tries to find some kind of anchor. You’re relentless, your tongue flicking and broad-stroking her until she’s sobbing your name into the quiet of the marsh.
As you worship her with your mouth, you slide two fingers deep into her pussy. She’s so tight, her internal muscles clenching around you in a frantic, milking rhythm. You start a hard, driving pace, your hand moving in a blur of friction against her heat. The sound is filthy—the rhythmic, wet splashing of your hand against her filling the air between the stalks of the marsh grass.
"Harder," she begs, her voice a broken, high-pitched rasp. "I want to feel every fucking inch of you. Don't stop."
You add a third finger, stretching her wide, your thumb grinding down on her clit with a punishing, rhythmic force. You can feel the tension coiling in her gut, the way her breathing has turned into short, sharp gasps. She’s overstimulated, her vision probably blurring as the pleasure hits her in waves. You pick up the speed, your tongue never leaving her, driving her toward the cliff’s edge.
"That's it, Kie," you mutter against her skin. "Give it all to me."
She breaks with a shattered, high-pitched cry that echoes across the water. Her body goes rigid, her toes curling as a massive, white-hot climax ripples through her. A heavy, thick wave of cum drenches your hand, her pussy pulsing violently around your fingers as she squirts, the heat of her release soaking into the wood of the boat. She shivers through the aftershocks, her fingers clutching your shoulders as if she’s afraid she’ll drift away if she lets go.
The sudden quiet of the marsh is heavy, pressing in on the boat like a physical weight, but the air between you and Kiara is still humming with the aftershocks of what just happened. You slowly withdraw your hand, your fingers slick and gleaming in the moonlight, and the cool air hitting her skin makes Kiara let out a long, shaky breath that sounds like she’s finally exhaling the last three days of bullshit.
She doesn't move to get up. She just lies there on the sun-bleached wood, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on the constellations above like she’s trying to remember how to breathe. You shift, crawling up her body until you can tuck yourself into her side.
"Come here," you whisper.
Kiara doesn't need to be told twice. She rolls onto her side, curling into you with a desperation that makes your heart ache. She buries her face in the crook of your neck, her skin still fever-hot and smelling faintly of salt and woodsmoke. Her arms wrap around your waist, pulling you so tight that your heartbeats start to sync up, a steady, grounding thrum against the floorboards.
You reach down, grabbing your discarded hoodie and draping it over both of you, creating a small, warm cocoon against the rising damp of the marsh. You can feel her lips against your collarbone, not kissing you, but just resting there—anchoring herself to you.
"I’m still gonna kill JJ," she mumbles, her voice muffled by your skin and thick with sleepiness. "But... maybe not tonight."
You let out a soft laugh, your hand sliding up to stroke her hair, untangling the knots the wind had left behind. "He’s definitely getting a bill for the battery."
"And the emotional trauma," she adds, a tiny, genuine smile vibrating against your neck.
She shifts, hooking one of her legs over yours, tangling you together until it’s impossible to tell where one of you ends and the other begins. The Pogue drifts into a thick patch of marsh grass, the long green stalks brushing against the hull with a sound like a thousand quiet secrets.
You stay like that for a long time—just two girls on a broken-down boat in the middle of nowhere. Kiara’s breathing starts to even out, becoming deep and rhythmic, her grip on your shirt loosening as the adrenaline finally fades into pure, honest exhaustion. Every time the boat rocks, she nuzzles closer, her fingers lazily tracing the patterns of your ribs through your shirt.
"Hey," she whispers, her eyes fluttering open for a second, looking up at you with a softness that makes everything else—the fight, the boys, the Pogues vs. Kooks drama—feel completely irrelevant.
"Yeah?"
"Don't let go," she says, her voice barely a thread of sound. "Even when they come back for us. Don't let go."
