selisverse

[selisverse]

Nocturne

Warnings : Physical violence, Physical and psychological pain, Forced isolation, War scenes / battle violence, Identity loss / crisis, Moral ambiguity, Romantic ambivalence / emotional tension, Risk of death, Implied death of secondary characters, Claustrophobic atmosphere

pirate!caleb × diplomatic!reader

WC : 5K

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

Chapter 6 - Wreckage

Silence, first. That too-full silence, saturated with tension, with salt, with a wind that bites without warning.

You’re still on the deck. Frozen. Arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to trap what little warmth remains. The taste of salt on your lips. The sting of a memory clinging to your skin like a wound that never healed. The sea is black. Heavy. With a calm so still it feels almost insulting—too still to be real.

And then, a voice. Almost nothing. A breath, as if the night itself hesitated to speak.

"Light to starboard. Three points. Lanterns."

The sound slices the air. Sharp. Precise. A cold blade driven into the belly of the silence. You don’t see Caleb, but you feel him. He tenses. Just a flicker, but brutal. A breath caught, hanging on the edge of a cliff. He knows. He’s guessed. Even before seeing.

He rises.

One single movement. Controlled. Unnaturally fluid. He climbs the railing, fingers curling around the wood with that cold precision of men who’ve stared death down too many times.

You watch him. It’s not fear he inspires. It’s the silence he brings with him. That stripped-down authority. No theatrics. He watches. The horizon. The threat. The judgment.

Your heart pounds. Hard. Too hard. Like it’s trying to escape your chest.

You move forward. Slowly. Instinctively. You don’t need confirmation.

You already know. Out there… in the dark…

Three lanterns.

Aligned. Steady. Too calm to be fleeing. Too clean to be chance.

And the sails. Those blue sails. You’d recognize them anywhere.

Even in the dark, they shine with a funeral glow. The ones you’ve watched since forever. The ones that carried tales of honor, duty, victory—stories your father laid across your shoulders like a mantle of inheritance. That blue, woven by loyal hands, dyed with the blood of the victorious. Symbol of an empire… you once believed was just.

And now it’s here. Facing you.

"Flag? Caleb murmurs."

His voice is calm. But something beneath his skin betrays the alarm. A vein at his temple. A tightness in his throat. He’s already somewhere else. Where choices are merciless. Where numbers matter more than names.

A breeze. A second.

"Royal Navy, captain."

The word cracks. Harsh. Like an executioner's blade.

Caleb doesn’t react right away. He stays still. But in his eyes… something breaks. Or hardens. A naked blade, ready to cut what must be cut.

And you…

You know.

This isn’t a meeting.

It’s a threshold.

A before. An after.

And whatever happens next… No one will cross back untouched.

You no longer feel the wind. Only that dull, primal panic crawling up your spine like something awakening. It grips your throat, knots your insides, chokes every breath. You step forward. Then again. Like you’re underwater.

The words are already burning on your tongue. They haven’t even formed, and they’re trying to escape.

"Don’t attack, you whisper, voice cracked. Caleb… please… let them pass."

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at you. His silence is a wall. His back, a locked gate. He stays fixed on the horizon, where the enemy lanterns cut golden lines through the dark—straight, cold, almost regal. Their light slices through the night like a verdict.

Caleb doesn’t move. His body is still, tense, carved from the wood of the Nocturne itself. A statue of cold blood.

Then, in a breath too calm to trust:

"Trim the sails. Keep quiet. Let them pass if they want."

His voice doesn’t shake. Not a quiver. It’s ice. Or exhaustion. Or surrender. But every word lands like a blade. Clean. Final.

Behind you, a shiver runs through the crew. Murmurs rise like a heavy wave. Boots scrape the deck. Teeth grind. You don’t need to turn to feel the eyes. They want a fight. Fire. Blood. Not this veiled waiting, not this retreat that tastes like humiliation.

But Caleb holds. Unshaken. He hasn’t shouted. He hasn’t threatened. And still, they obey.

Because he’s Caleb. And even those who hate him know—he never speaks without a reason.

So slowly, the sails come down. The ropes tighten in silence. Arms freeze. Blades stay sheathed. No one even dares light a pipe.

The Nocturne becomes shadow. It vanishes from sight, folds into its nature. A predator hidden in the night. True to its name.

You breathe. Poorly. Too fast. And when he finally turns, your heart leaps in your chest. He doesn’t wait for you. But you follow. As if staying behind him tonight is more dangerous than whatever waits out there.

You could grab his arm. Hold him back. Shake him, maybe. But you don’t.

You don’t know if he’d yield.

He takes the helm. His fingers rest on it like a vow. And you stop just behind him. Close enough to feel the tension in his shoulders. The weight of the choice he just made.

He doesn’t turn. But he knows you’re there.

And you wait.

The lanterns from the royal ship grow larger as it nears. The glow turns sharper. Crueler. Silence tightens around you like a noose. And your heart, pounding in your chest, feels loud enough to draw fire.

But he… he still doesn’t move.

He is the shadow.

You, the echo.

And in that moonless night, you wait. Together. Like two suspended heartbeats. Two souls silently hoping death will look away.

The wood groans beneath your feet, an old, living sigh—almost human. A quiet reminder: you’re still here. Balanced on the edge of a sea that seems to be holding its breath with you.

You’re by his side. Close. Just behind the helm.

Your shoulders brush. Barely. A faint pulse, a suspended vibration, almost accidental. But you feel the warmth of his arm. So close. So real. And it’s enough. Enough to ground you. To remind you that in the middle of this void, this cold, this fear— He’s still here. Not a memory. Not a ghost. A man. Alive.

The silence is total. So thick it seems to swallow even your thoughts. As if the sea itself, that vast shifting thing, had gone quiet.

You don’t dare look at him. Not fully. You can feel the tension in every inch of his body. His clenched jaw. His fingers tight on the polished helm. He doesn’t speak. He listens, measures, waits. Every muscle primed for the sound that could break this balance.

You inhale. Slowly. The salt burns your nostrils. You open your mouth, and your voice—almost foreign—slips out in a whisper:

"You could run."

Nothing. No flinch. Not even a blink.

So you add, even softer:

"It’s not too late…"

He turns his head. Just slightly. Just enough for his eyes to meet yours.

A quick glance. Sharp. And beneath the blade—a fracture. A pain held too long. He says nothing. But in his eyes, you read what he can’t say. What he refuses to name. 

He’s already run too long.

His lips tighten. His jaw clenches. A breath flares through his nose. And in the silence that follows, you hear what he’s holding back: The buried rage. The ancient exhaustion. And that fear… not of dying. No. Something worse. The fear of betraying what still holds him upright.

He listens. The wind shifts. A sail cracks somewhere in the distance. A creak. A groan of wood.

You see it in his eyes. He’s calculating. Counting. The meters. The seconds. The odds of making it out. Or going down.

And the silence around him turns colder than a scream. Heavier than cannons. It demands a stillness so sharp, even the air seems to hesitate.

You want him to speak. To say something. Even something harsh. Even anger. Anything.

But Caleb doesn’t speak when he doubts.

And tonight… he doubts.

He grips the helm like it holds a truth. A life. Maybe yours. 

And you, at his side, stop moving too. You feel your heart slam too fast, too hard, like it’s trying to break free. Your breath catches in your throat.

But you stay.

Brushing his shadow.

Sharing his silence.

Waiting… for the world—or him—to tip.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

A bead of sweat slides slowly down your neck. You shiver. Is it the wind? Or that silent fear winding beneath your skin, sharp as a blade no one dares to name.

Around you, everything is too still. Too tight. Even the sea seems to hesitate before breathing. The Nocturne creeps forward like a wolf, sails nearly closed, shadow against shadow in the hollow of darkness. Every breath, every movement is restrained—like even the faintest sound could break something invisible.

At your side, Caleb doesn’t move. He’s literally frozen. His silhouette looks carved from the ship’s own wood, but the tension pouring off him hums in the air like a live wire. He feels the fault line beneath your feet. He knows. It won’t hold. Not for long.

And that thread… snaps.

A sharp crack splits the night. Brutal. Snapping.

A rope, poorly coiled, slips, snaps, and whips free—carelessness, haste, human error. The sound tears through the air like a whipcrack. Followed by a choked scream, ripped straight from the gut. Not a battle cry. A raw cry of pain.

A sailor collapses, hand pressed to his face. Blood spills between his fingers. The rope struck him square in the temple.

And the sail—

It unfurls in an instant, caught by the wind like a beast loosed by mistake. A massive sheet of canvas swells and thrashes, beating the air with a sound far too loud to go unnoticed.

The sound slices across the sea like a slap. A crack of fury. An alarm that can’t be undone.

You don’t have time to move. Not even to breathe.

But Caleb—He understands. Instantly.

He straightens. A jolt of force shoots through him. His eyes—dark, sharp, wounded, alive—flash with a light you’ve never seen before.

"Shit, he breathes."

One word. But in that word—everything. The weight of the shift. The luxury of ignorance, gone. Instinct takes over—wild, furious, focused.

He doesn’t glance at the wounded man. He doesn’t need to. Every second counts now.

"Battle stations! Draw sails, pivot the guns, fire on my command!"

His voice isn’t human anymore. It cleaves through the night like a blade. It crashes, commands, takes over. It’s no longer a voice. It’s a storm.

And the men move. Without hesitation. Because they know. Because they’ve survived under his command. Because he leaves no room for doubt.

You stay frozen for one second, breath caught between two heartbeats. The impact hasn’t come yet, but you know—it’s here. It’s closing in.

"No!"

Your voice erupts—raw, sharp, too loud, too exposed in this night soaked with silence and threat. He moves forward, but you cut him off. Arms outstretched. Useless gesture. Your legs tremble. Your breath burns. But you stand your ground. In front of him.

Caleb halts.

A fraction of a second. Just enough for the air to shudder. His eyes pierce through you—black with shadow and pride. That look is a wall. A border.

"Don’t do this… you whisper, breathless. You don’t have to attack. Not this time…"

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But you feel the tremor in him. His short breath. His clenched jaw. The veins pounding at his temples like a silent war. He’s holding back— From exploding. Or from giving in.

So you hold on. To him. To yourself. To the words that still might reach him.

"You’re going to lose everything, Caleb. Your ship. Your crew. Everything you rebuilt. Everything you’ve become…"

It's true. He might lose everything. But not you. Not today. You see the crack. Barely there. A flicker. Something fractures behind the mask. It’s not doubt. No. It’s anger. An old, rumbling rage— At a world too narrow. Too unjust. At this sea that always takes more than it gives.

And he snaps.

He grabs your arm.

Rough. Hard.

His grip burns. Too strong. A shock rises in your throat. You choke on a cry.

"Let me go!"

You protest, yanking back, heels digging into the rain-slick wood of the deck. But he doesn’t. He drags you from the moment. From the storm. From the edge. He pulls you, without care, toward the cabin. Toward the door. Toward absence. He wants to shut you away. Protect you. Erase you. You don’t know anymore. 

And your voice breaks into a scream:

"Caleb! You’re leading them to their death!"

He stops.

Right there.

One heartbeat. Just one.

Then—The world shatters.

A shriek cuts through the night. High. Distant. Like a scream vomited by the sea itself.

The Nocturne groans. The deck tilts. Wood screams. A cannonball has struck. You don’t have time to think. Or scream. Everything explodes. Air. Blood. Planks. And you— You fall.

You hit the deck. The shock knocks the air from your lungs. You try to rise— But your eyes are already searching. For him.

Caleb.

He’s on the ground, a few feet away. His body jolted. Shirt torn. A dark stain spreads across his sleeve—thick, slick. Blood. Too much.

You call his name. Nothing. No answer. 

But he moves. Slowly. Teeth clenched. Breath ragged. One knee anchors to the deck. His arm curls against him, useless. Bleeding. But the other pushes. Pulls. Fights.

He stands.

No scream. No complaint.

And in his eyes—there’s fire. Not just pain. Not just rage.

Something deeper burns there.

Something no cannon will ever silence

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The world tilts.

No hesitation. No pause. Caleb barely finds his footing before he roars. His voice tears through the air like lightning, hoarse, breathless, but still burning with a fire that refuses to die.

"To your stations! Starboard fire, now!"

And in the chaos he commands—in the rising tide of violence driven by his voice—you see him. Not the captain. The man.

His bloodied hand grips the helm with a slowness he can't control. His jaw clenches. His eyes blink, just once, fighting to stay open. He sways. Only for a moment. Then he forces himself upright, as if refusing to accept the fall.

But you saw it.

You felt it.

Beneath the fury, beneath the command, beneath the fire: fatigue. Dizziness.

Around him, the men charge. One breath. One instinct. No panic. No waste. They rush forward, swords drawn, faces taut, pupils wide. The crew of the Nocturne knows how to dance with death—and tonight, Caleb leads the waltz.

The cannons turn. Instinctively. Fuses ignite. And thunder erupts.

A salvo tears the night apart—raw and magnificent. Fire bursts, painting the sails with red shadows, warping shapes in an end-of-the-world haze.

The Nocturne strikes back.

Fierce. Precise. Beautiful.

And you... you stand there.

Frozen.

Your breath too shallow. Your arms trembling under the weight of what you can’t carry. You don’t move. You can’t.

You no longer see the lines. Not Caleb. Not the men. Not the enemies beyond the horizon. What you see is your world collapsing.

On one side: the Navy.

The banner of your childhood. The colors you once wore. What your father taught you to salute like a prayer. Duty. Order. Home.

On the other: blood.

Broken chains. The choice you couldn’t make. And Caleb.

The man you were supposed to hate. Promised yourself you would.

But now you look at him differently. Too differently.

And you—stuck in between. A fragile boundary. Too late to turn back. Too early to understand what you truly feel.

The deck tilts. The wind slaps your face, as if to wake you. A cannon explodes nearby, so close your skin heats up, your body stumbles back a step.

And your heart. Your heart pounds too hard. Like a war drum. A reminder. This isn't fear. Not this time. It’s because you’re watching them kill each other.

That’s when you understand. The war isn’t just around you. It’s already inside you.

Another shot. The umpteenth. It rips the air from your chest like it struck you directly. The Nocturne groans under the blow—a deep, almost human moan. You stumble, nearly fall, catch a salt-and-scorched-rope for balance. The fibers bite your palm. Splinters fly, hissing, slicing the air. One grazes your cheek, opens a thin, burning line. A drop of blood slides down, salty. You taste it before the pain hits.

You look up. And you see it. There. The Navy ship. Midnight blue sails. Perfect. Cruel. The golden crest gleams under firelight. And the emblem hoisted high... the one you saluted your whole life.

Sails crack. Cannons roar. The uniforms move with methodical precision. Nothing out of place. Nothing unsure. It’s beautiful. And it’s terrifying.

Because you recognize everything. The volleys. The maneuvers. Even the intervals between shots. You learned them in a polished wooden room, over an ink-stained map, under a father's calm voice who believed in borders drawn with a compass.

"A true shot is a loyal shot. A shot that protects."

You believed that. You nodded, straight as an arrow. You wanted to be worthy. You wanted to belong to that world of justice in uniform.

But tonight... This shot protects nothing. It destroys what you’re beginning to love.

And something snaps. Somewhere inside you. A clean break. Quiet. Not a scream. Just a hollow widening in your gut. The certainty that nothing will ever be simple again.

You remain frozen. Caleb shouts behind you. His voice cuts through the roar—low, raw, woven with rage and fire. You hear the deck tremble, blades drawn, men falling.

The Nocturne bleeds. And still you don’t move. Your eyes stay locked on the other ship. Its gold. Its discipline. Everything it was supposed to stand for.

But today, it’s no longer your home. It’s the shadow of what you thought you loved.

Another cannon shot shakes the hull. The Nocturne groans but holds. You’re not sure if you’re praying or suffocating.

Caleb turns. His eyes search, find you. He sees the pale skin, the fire inside. He reads the fracture, the vertigo. He understands. You’re breaking.

But you stay. There. Standing. Not because you're strong. Because you can't go back. And because this ship—even if it sinks into the abyss, even if it burns to the bone—is the one you chose.

The noise doesn’t relent. Shots echo like steel heartbeats. Every blast shakes the deck beneath your feet. Smoke burns your throat, stings your eyes. The stench of powder, salt, and scorched wood clings to your skin like a filthy hand that won’t let go.

The Nocturne bleeds. You see it. Flames lick the sails, greedy. Ropes snap, collapse. The boarding failed, leaving behind a wreckage of shattered planks, half-drowned bodies, screams torn between steel and fear. Some cry out in rage. Others in pain. And others... not at all.

And yet—it holds. It still holds.

Caleb is standing. There, in the heart of chaos. His wounded arm clutched against him like a memory he refuses to release. But he remains upright, taut as a cord about to break. His voice booms, raw, exact. He yells orders, directs fire, dodges, leans in, pushes forward through the carnage without ever fully faltering. He’s everywhere. He is the captain. To the bone. To the edge of the abyss.

But inside... you feel it. He’s cracking.

"Captain!" A sailor collapses near him, soot-blackened face, wide eyes. "We’re taking on water in the hold!"

And there—right there—you see Caleb stop. One second. Just one. But it’s enough.

His eyes close. His jaw clenches so tight you can almost hear it snap. He knows. You see it. Too many shots. Too many wounds. Too much fire. Too late.

The Nocturne is dying. And for what?

You feel it—the doubt that cuts through him. He won’t say it. He never will. But you feel it. Like a blade lodged deep in the flesh, left there on purpose. Because he hesitated. Because he listened to you. Because he loved. Even if he didn’t want to. Even if he still forbids himself.

He opens his eyes. Searches for you. Finds you. Just a flicker. Blinding.

But you see everything. The rage. The clarity. And that burn behind the gaze—the one without a name.

You want to speak. To stop him. To tell him he did what he had to. That it’s still possible.

But he’s already turned away.

And there, ahead—in the flickering light of a sky ablaze—a shape emerges. Blurred. Distant. Almost unreal. A dark silhouette. Low. Nearly swallowed by fog.

An island.

You see it now, too. But he... he recognizes it. You don’t need words. You read it in the subtle shift of his stance. The way he straightens. Calmer. Heavier. He knows where he is. And more importantly... he knows where he’s going.

Those reefs are deadly. No sane captain would dare them. But Caleb—he’s crossed them before. Once. Maybe twice. And he’s gambling again. With blood. With the sea. With death.

And the Nocturne? It can still dance. Even wounded. Even dying. If guided by a hand that knows it down to every fiber of wood.

You stay frozen, coated in soot, legs heavy, heart raw. And you understand. He’s going to try the impossible. Not to win. Because he has nothing left to lose.

The wind howls like a chained beast. The hull groans, protests, threatens. The deck bucks and twists, a battlefield lit by fire and the shatter of stars. And him. Caleb. Standing at the helm. Alone. A man facing the end of the world.

Blood streams down his arm. His torn shirt flaps in the wind like a makeshift flag. His flank is scorched, marked. One arm is pressed against him—useless, likely broken. But the other... the other still grips the helm. White-knuckled. Sea-worn. It’s his last link to the living. To hope. To everyone still standing behind him.

And he grips. He holds. Like everything depends on it. Because everything does.

"Northwest heading! Ease the fore sails! Oars ready on starboard!" His voice slices through the flames. Hoarse. Ragged. Wrenched with pain. But stronger than the fire. Stronger than fear.

And his crew... obeys. No questions asked. They run, slip, rise again. The Nocturne pitches and screams, but doesn’t break. Not yet.

He knows this island. You see it. In his eyes. Fixed ahead, drawing an invisible line between life and the abyss. He knows its currents. Its traps. Its rocks. He knows exactly how to slip through the jaws of stone. He’s done it before.

And he believes—no, he bets—the Nocturne can do it one last time.

He doesn’t blink. Not even when the smoke scorches his eyes. He breathes deep, like a wounded animal refusing to fall.

Behind him, the mainsail threatens to ignite. Flames crawl the canvas, inching along the rigging. Aft, the water rises. You hear the hull groan, crack under pressure. Every second is another slap from fate.

And still... he holds.

You don’t look away. Not for a second.

You should move. Help. Speak. Scream. But you can’t. You stay there. Motionless. Driven by a cold, unshakable truth: Everything rests on him. Still. Always.

And he knows it. You see it in the tension in his face, in the way he grits his teeth, forces his broken body to stay upright. To lead. To steer.

You watch him. And you understand. He’s not just sailing toward an island. He’s sailing against fate. Against everything the world ever promised him.

A low sound cuts the night. You turn—heart strung on a thread of shadow—just in time to witness the inevitable.

The Navy ship slams into the reefs. A monstrous groan tears through the darkness. The hull twists, screams, shatters like overripe fruit under an invisible blade. Planks fly. Voices rise—screams of men, of metal, of memory. Then... nothing.

Silence. Absolute. Freezing. A silence that strikes harder than sound ever could.

And while the other world breaks apart... the Nocturne presses on.

Wounded. Burning. Gasping like a hunted beast refusing to die.

It charges the shore. Into the unknown.

It races, sails snapping, prow foaming.

No one speaks. No one slows. It’s too late for doubt.

The men cling to the rigging, fists tight, eyes wide or clenched shut. Some whisper nameless prayers. Others hold their breath like they’re holding on to life itself.

And you… You watch only him. Caleb.

Still at the helm. Still standing. Breath ragged. Flank torn. Blood soaking his shredded shirt. One hand grips the wheel—the other hangs useless at his side.

He staggers. Just a second. But it’s enough. You know him too well. You know it’s not pain that bends him. It’s the edge. The brink. And he’s there.

So your body moves before you can think. You run.

You cut through the wind. Leap through the screams, the fire, the wreckage. No time to think. Only this heartbeat.

The one where he falls. And you catch him. You crash into him—raw, instinctive.

Your arms wrap around him. Your chest presses to his back. Your breath tangles at his neck.

You hold him. Tight. Tighter. Like you can take the impact. Like your small, shaking body is a wall.

And then—The crash.

The Nocturne slams into sand with the scream of a dying world.

Wood howls. Spars explode. Bodies fly. Everything splinters. Everything twists.

But you don’t let go. You stay wrapped around him. His pain. His exhaustion. That fever burning at his temples. You feel his chest clench. His breath break—and then surrender. He doesn’t push you away. Not this time. He lets you stay.

And you wrap him in everything you are. You absorb his weight, his blood, his heat. You breathe with him. You tremble with him. And you know. You know he felt it. That it was you who protected him. That you risked your body for his. You know he understands. And he can’t say a word. Because now, there’s only this: the raw truth. Unbearable. Irreversible. He could have lost you. And you chose to fall with him.

One heartbeat. Two. Then, slowly, he moves. His arm finds your shoulder. He stumbles, but stands, grabs your neck like a drowning man clings to a lifeline. And in his eyes—when he finally looks at you—there are no walls left. No silence. He’s not commanding anymore. He’s admitting. He’s burning.

And you… you’re burning too. Without a word, you leave the shattered deck. Your steps sink into wet sand. He leans on you. You barely carry him. But it’s enough.

Around you, the world still screams. But you… you are elsewhere. In that suspended space. That place where two hearts finally beat in time. Where everything has collapsed… and something unnamed has just begun.

The sailors disembark one by one, like survivors returning from a place no one truly comes back from. Their feet sink into the sand, slow, worn from salt, smoke, the sheer will it took to hold on. Soaked, dazed, standing more from instinct than intent, they don’t speak. They don’t cry. Not yet. The silence is too thick for that. It clings to them like mist stuck to the skin, full of all the things that could’ve been said, shouted, begged—but remain, suspended between breaths.

You drift away, unable to stay within that procession of suspended souls. Your legs move without purpose, driven by a need to breathe, to step back, to see things from afar, hoping you might finally understand them. You walk with that strange caution that follows storms, as if the ground might still collapse beneath your feet, as if your own survival burns at your heels.

And when you raise your eyes, there it is. The Nocturne. Still. Broken open. And yet… still standing.

Its hull lies half on the beach, half in the waves, as if unsure whether to leave the sea. Its torn sides expose its smoldering insides. The snapped masts hang like severed limbs—and still, it holds its shape. Its strange posture of shattered grandeur. A kind of nobility in the fall. A pride that refused to die.

You stop, unable to take another step. And in the breath that barely escapes you, a phrase rises—unbidden, nearly whispered, meant only for you:

"It held."

You don’t know if you mean the ship, or him.

So your eyes search. And find him.

A little further down the beach, half lying in the sand. Body spent. Shirt torn. Side streaked with dried blood and salt. Caleb isn’t asleep. You can tell from the tension still alive in his chest, from the way his fingers dig into the sand like he's trying to anchor himself. His wounded arm is tucked against him, held like a promise he won’t release. His head is tilted back, eyelids half-closed, but you feel it—he heard you before you even reached him.

You walk closer. Slowly. The way one approaches a tired animal that might still bite. He doesn’t move, but he knows. And so do you.

You kneel beside him, at the distance where silence doesn’t bother, where words aren’t needed. He turns his head. Just enough to see you. For your eyes to meet, unobstructed.

And in a voice rough and cracked with pain but bare with truth, he murmurs:

"I knew that island was there…" (He hesitates. Swallows the rest.) "I bet the ship… and our lives."

You don’t answer. Because there’s nothing to say. Because you know it was the only way. Because what’s in his voice isn’t regret—it’s truth. Brutal. Final.

So you stay. By his side. Legs folded, arms resting on your knees, heart still beating to the rhythm of the wreckage.

The silence between you is no longer empty. It’s full. Heavy. Alive. It holds all the things you haven’t said, all the things you haven’t dared to face. But also this strange certainty, strung like a thread between your breaths:

You crossed together.

And what you left behind… wasn’t you.

Around you, the world slowly unravels, dims like a fire long fed.

But you…

You are just beginning.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

✧₊⁺˚⋆ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ⋆⁺˚₊✧

𓆩 ⚓︎ 𓆪 Written by selisverse. No reposts, no translations, no plagiarism — respect the ink and the salt. ⚔️ Like & reblog if the tide pulls you in. It keeps the ship afloat.

[selisverse]

Nocturne

Warnings : Physical violence, Sexual assault reference, Post-assault trauma, Power imbalance, Torture and corporal punishment, Blood and bodily fluids, Psychological distress, Survivor’s guilt and shame, Emotional manipulation, References to war crimes, Death of family members (mentioned), Identity crisis, Oppressive atmosphere, Romantic tension under traumatic conditions, Sensory dissociation, Grief and emotional breakdowns

pirate!caleb × diplomatic!reader

WC : 9.4k

A/N : Guess what? Chapter 5 finally decided to show up! ✨ Sorry again for the delay — the writing gremlins were strong, but we made it. This chapter is a bit of a chunky one, because I tried experimenting with a different writing rhythm and structure. Maybe it’ll feel too long, maybe it’ll feel just right… either way, I’d love to know what you think. Do you prefer this new format or the old one? Feedback = stardust for my brain ✨🧠

Thank you for sticking around — you’re all little constellations in my galaxy 💛

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

Chapter 5 - Echo

You awaken slowly.

Not from a peaceful sleep, but from a thick, muffled stupor—as if every motion reluctantly draws you back to the surface. Your eyelids are heavy, your throat parched, muscles stiffened, almost refusing to obey.

The first sensation isn't pain. Nor fear.

It's absence.

The emptiness left behind by a vanished warmth. The sensation of his arm no longer wrapped around you, the gentle rhythm of his breathing no longer brushing your neck. Your head still rests on the pillow creased by his presence, where just hours earlier, your face had nestled against his chest. Your body remembers the shadow of a gesture he almost made but didn’t quite complete—yet one he didn’t shy away from either.

You open your eyes.

He’s gone. Your body already knew. Your gaze slowly accepts the inevitable.

Not a sound in the cabin. No hint of presence, only the hollow echo of your own breath. Instinctively, your eyes search the room, desperate for proof, a trace, but everything confirms what your body already knew—he has left.

You didn’t imagine it. He was here last night. You still feel the weight of his breath in your hair, the suspended silence heavy with words he never spoke. Even forgiveness remains unspoken on this ship.

Yet something else strikes you.

The sheets are still warm.

Your skin retains the burning imprint of his touch—the way he carried you, broken and bruised, silently, without averting his gaze. On that freezing night, his arms shielded you from darkness, holding shame and fear at bay.

You still feel the faint brush of his fingers against your lips—a single, unique gesture before darkness took you.

Next to the bed, a cup of water stands. A quiet gesture. He could have slammed the door behind him, abandoned you—but he didn’t. So why does the void of his absence cut deeper than his silences? He stayed up late, too late. Perhaps he watched you sleep. Surely, he did.

And yet—nothing.

No word. No sign. Not even a hastily scribbled note.

Just this cutting silence.

Harsher than absence itself.

Crueler than any threat he ever made.

Your gaze catches the dark leather bracelet left on the desk—his bracelet. Forgotten there, as though he intended to leave a piece of himself behind. Draped over the back of the chair, a piece of his coat hangs heavily, scented with salt and shadow, suggesting either a rushed departure or the promise of return.

You no longer know how to handle his presence. You hate him for sinking your ship, for letting those who trusted you perish. Yet last night, he saved you. His voice became your anchor when you thought you’d vanish. He wants to use you as a bargaining chip, yet his silences echo with regret. Sometimes he sees you as a weapon, other times as a mistake he wishes to erase. You don't understand his intentions, nor why he stays. Nor why he leaves.

Slowly, you sit up. Every movement protests through your body. A dull pain radiates from your shoulder to your lower back. Your wrists, still ringed in angry red marks, burn. Your throat scraped raw, your lip split open—your entire being bears visible scars. You’re a shipwreck, barely able to stand. Every step creaks beneath you like an old pier battered by storms. Your breath is a torn sail, ready to shred apart.

Unbidden, images of violence resurface: the sickening crack against the railing, the metallic taste of blood, raw animal fear. The silent plea—not for your life, but for your mind, your spirit, not to shatter completely.

You place your feet on the cold floor, shivering slightly.

You sway, but refuse to acknowledge it. Today, simply standing upright is enough.

A mirror hangs crookedly, catching your eye.

You approach, immediately regretting it.

Your reflection stares back, marked and weary. Your skin is striped—some traces will fade, others will remain forever. Your eyes—they hold a deep fracture. Something inside has shifted.

Unconsciously, your hand brushes the wound on your collarbone, jerking away quickly, rejecting the memories of that terrible night.

Suddenly, a gentle, unexpected memory washes over you: a large, calloused hand running softly through your hair, tender yet strong. A deep voice murmurs inside you, “You don’t have to prove anything, Love. You’ve got that fire inside you.” This memory jolts you, emerging from a forgotten past. It’s neither your father nor a dream. It’s something else—something lost, stolen. Your breath catches, your stomach knots, troubled by this abrupt return of a deeply true, unknown past.

You breathe slowly, pushing away dizziness. Staying upright.

Your fingers instinctively clutch the brooch hidden against your chest, the cold metal biting into your palm.

You’re alive. Not broken.

But this morning, something within you has changed.

And you know he’ll sense it—even from afar.

The wood groans, deep, like a moan rising from the belly of the Nocturne. Then other sounds—heavier, closer.

Rushed footsteps. Voices cut by the wind, smashed by the rain that drums dully on the deck, just above you. You strain to listen. Orders barked. Muffled scuffles. Something—or someone—is being dragged.

Your heart skips a beat.

Silence returns. But it no longer feels the same. It’s heavy, hanging. As if the ship itself is holding its breath.

A sharp knock hits your door.

You freeze. Your fingers grip the edge of the bed. Your gaze drifts to the handle. The light flickers. A cold draft slips under the threshold.

A second knock.

And a voice, coarse, without warmth:

“The captain awaits you on deck.”

Not a threat. Not a command. Just a summons, steeped in shadow.

Your stomach tightens—a reflex. Survival. Or memory.

You think about fleeing. But there’s nowhere to go. Not outside—the outside doesn’t exist. So you escape, just for a second, into your head. In vain.

You get up. Slowly. A dull ache pulses in your neck, as if your body itself refuses the effort. This isn’t strength. It’s pride. Necessity. They let you live. You fully intend to make them regret it—or understand.

You dress in silence. The shirt Caleb gave you clings to your skin where the blood has dried. The memories, however, don’t peel off. You push them aside with a mental gesture. You tighten a wide belt around pants too big. Before leaving, you unpin your royal brooch. You fix it. A breath of loyalty. Then you place it in a drawer and close it softly. This gesture, you know, is a farewell. Maybe temporary. But final for today.

You count on no one now. Least of all the Navy. Especially not here.

You brush your coat’s fabric. It’s heavy. You wear it without flinching. It weighs on your shoulders like a pact. Its smell fills your lungs: salt, powder, burnt wood. You inhale. And against your will, part of you settles. Just for a moment. You hate that part.

The latch turns. It’s your hand. But you don’t remember telling it to.

The pirates around you step aside. Not out of respect. Out of fear. You’re no longer what they tried to break. You’re what’s left when the storm has gone quiet.

The wood groans beneath your steps. You climb the stairs one by one. Jaw tight. Neck straight.

You’re trembling, but not from fear.

It’s because of the floor. Red. They scrubbed all night. The water didn’t wash it all away. The blood slipped between the planks. You see their eyes again. Their hands. You shut your lids—too late. The images are still there.

The rain greets you, thin, acrid, soaked in salt and shadow. You squint. The deck emerges in fragments: frozen silhouettes, the clink of chains, the muffled murmur of the crew.

One of them grips a rope. Too tight. Too long. The hemp bit into his skin. He doesn’t look at you. But your wrists haven’t forgotten.

A sound. Behind you. You flinch. Just enough to clench your fist, knuckles pale.

Your feet move without you. Your body pushes against the biting wind. But your mind stays elsewhere. Trapped under a glass dome. You’re here. And not. You move because you never stopped. And it’s that motion, absurd and vital, that keeps you going.

Your fingers rub the rough fabric of your sleeve. You force yourself to stop.

A wet strand sticks to your temple. You brush it away with a sharp, irritated flick. The shiver running through you isn’t from the cold. It’s a memory. Your body hasn’t forgotten either.

The guilty are on their knees, bound, heads lowered, lined up like actors in a brutal play they no longer control.

Aron is at the center. The one who held you down, the one who turned away when you screamed. He doesn’t tremble. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, but he doesn’t really see it. He’s already left his body — or clings to it so faintly that he’s become nearly absent. To his right, the survivor — the one you bit. His mouth is split, swollen and his eyes brush over you but don’t land. He isn’t looking for you. He’s looking for Caleb. Like the others.

And he is there, standing at the bow of his ship, a figure carved from rock, shaped by wind and light. Around him, the rain-slicked deck gleams like a cracked mirror. Ropes hang limp from the mast like sleeping snakes. The sails snap softly in the damp wind, and the air is thick with salt, tar, and rusted metal. Even the planks beneath your feet seem to groan with a memory too fresh. The sun rises behind him, casting his shadow like a blade. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s frozen. Magnificent. Almost unreal. He is no longer the man who held you last night. No longer the one who protected you without a word. That man vanished at dawn—erased by the captain.

The one who commands. The one who decides. The one you no longer want to touch.

You see the tension in his shoulders. His silence isn’t calm. It’s strained, on the verge of breaking. He hates what he has to do — you know it. But he’ll do it anyway, because he isn’t fighting for you. He’s fighting for the ship. For order.

The rain keeps falling—thin, acidic—tracing cold lines down your neck. Your soaked shirt clings to your skin, every fold stiff like a second skin. Your trousers still hang loose around your waist, too big, not yours. You’re wearing someone else’s world. And the water seeps in like a warning: here, justice is handed out without fanfare, without shouting—just the weight of silence.

He hasn’t looked at you. Not once.

He steps down from the quarterdeck. Each step echoes. He stops in front of the mutineers, in front of the gathered crew. His arms hang at his sides. His voice rises, deep, slow — like a blade being sharpened.

“You broke our rules.” 

Silence falls instantly. Heavy. Thick. Even the sea seems to still. Your heart hammers in your chest, erratic, like it’s trying to signal someone. You inhale — but the air sticks halfway.

“You crossed the line.

He takes a step, turns his head slightly. His gaze lands on those who didn’t lay hands on you, but who watched. Those who let it happen. Their faces are drawn. There may be regret. Or maybe resentment.

“We protect what’s ours.”

He pauses and that sentence hits you like a punch to the gut. He’s not just talking about you. He’s talking about his ship. His crew. The Nocturne. And maybe — just barely — something else. Something he won’t let himself name.

“We do not rape. We do not betray.”

The words fall without force. But they strike, sharp and final. No one speaks. The silence pulls tight, ready to snap.

He raises his hand.

And the order is given.

Three men are dragged away. Roughly. Not the ones who struck. The ones who stood still. The ones whose eyes were complicit. The ones who hesitated.

They cry out. Struggle. Beg. But no one answers. The watchmen pull them to the railing. Their protests turn to panic. Then — a sharper scream — and the harsh sound of a body slamming into the sea. Then another. And another. The ocean swallows them without ceremony.

You flinch. Your knees buckle slightly. It isn’t pity that breaks you. It’s a raw truth: here, nothing is forgotten. Least of all weakness.

The second man is forced forward. The one who hurt you.

He doesn’t resist. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t deny.

He walks without needing to be pushed. As if he knows. As if he’s already accepted it.

And then the sound comes — sharp. Animal.

The whip cracks through the air.

The first strike is almost clean. The second tears through him. By the third, a low groan escapes his throat, a sound no longer human. He doubles over — but doesn’t fall. His knees shake. His mouth opens without sound. He takes it.

You can’t.

Your eyes close. But you hear everything. The flesh tearing. The sharp, stolen breaths. The horrified whispers weaving through the crew. Boots stepping back — instinct, or shame.

The scent of blood. Again. And that other smell — harsher —salt, wet rope, soaked wood.

Even the sea seems to recoil. To grow opaque. Heavier. As if it were swallowing screams it cannot digest.

You want to scream. Run. Throw up.

But your body stays still. Your fingers tremble. Your jaw clenches so tight your throat burns. You can barely breathe, as if the air itself has thickened.

And in this blur, you lose track of where Caleb stands. You don’t see justice in him. You see law.

His law.

He hasn’t moved through any of it. His face has shown nothing — no pleasure, no rage. 

Just one flicker. His fingers, briefly, twitching.

But his gaze isn’t on the man screaming. It’s fixed on Aron.

That’s when everything shifts.

He speaks. Calm. Clear.

“The brand.”

No more words. No threats. No fury. Just a sentence.

And everything stills.

The word lands like a blade. Even the rigging seems to fall silent. You hear the crew’s breath change. They understand.

And so does Aron.

He stiffens. His eyes flicker — just once — but it’s enough. It’s not fear. Not yet. It’s recognition. That nothing, not even he, will be spared.

His jaw tightens. His hands clutch the wet rope at his wrists. He holds onto the moment. It’s useless.

The brand is brought.

They press it just below his collarbone. And he screams. A torn, primal cry. Not from a sailor. Not from a man.

From a beast being marked.

And in your mind, something shatters. A memory erupts.

His breath on your neck. The weight of his arms. The impossibility of escape. The cold of his cowardice.

You no longer see a man kneeling. You no longer see a sailor, nor a pirate. You see what he was to you: A shadow. A prison.

And now, fire marks him. A burn that won’t fade.

The mark sears his skin. A barred circle. The traitor’s brand.

He screams again. But this time, it’s barely sound, as if he’s snuffing himself out.

Without a word, they drag him away. Now he resists. Too late. His arms thrash. His legs claw at the void. He shouts a name — maybe yours — but you refuse to hear it.

And then — he falls. The sea closes around him.

The silence that follows isn’t silence. It’s a weight. A leaden shroud. Cold. Wet. Unbreakable.

No one speaks. No one moves.

And at last, Caleb lifts his eyes.

He scans the crew. One by one. Slowly. As if committing each face to memory. No one dares meet his gaze for long.

He isn’t looking for fear. He’s looking for the crack.

Then, he turns.

Toward you.

Your heart contracts so violently you feel it echo in your throat. You want to look away but you can’t.

He sees you.

And you know he recognizes you.

Not just your face.

The coat.

His.

The one he gave you, without a word, the night before. A shield between you and the world. And now, he looks at you. Just a second too long.

You don’t know what’s in his eyes. Shame? Anger? A trace of tenderness? You don’t know. You don’t want to.

But that second breaks you. Like an electric shock under your skin, in your chest, in your gut. Your breath catches. Your legs weaken. Your heart beats off-rhythm. You want to step back. Call him. Slap him. Hold him. All at once. Nothing comes out. Your mouth opens, but the silence is stronger than you.

And he says only:

“Order has a price.”

Then he turns away.

And you’re left there.

Standing. Alone. Surrounded by ghosts. Trying to breathe.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The punishment has been dealt. Sharp. Undisputed. And the silence it leaves behind is worse than the screams.

They all watched. All obeyed. Some with fear knotted in their gut, others with a colder fire in their eyes— the kind that sparks in wounds too deep to show, the kind no one ever admits to.

You didn’t look away. You stood still, upright, breath tight, fists clenched in the oversized sleeves of the shirt he gave you. You thought you’d feel something clear. Relief. Some form of justice. But there’s none of that. Just a bitter taste. A brutal, fleeting thought you push away immediately: what if he’s worse than the men he punishes? 

Under your boots, the wood burns your soles, as if the deck itself refuses to forget. An acidic lump rises in your throat, metallic— a mix of fear and iron. You swallow it back, your gut twisting, as if your body is trying to reject what your eyes just consumed. The air is heavy, thick with salt and silence. Too calm. Too dense. As if the Nocturne is slowly digesting what’s just been done.

Around you, silhouettes of the crew emerge through the morning mist—leathered by the wind, covered in rope and salt-soaked grime. And you… you’re still foreign here. Draped in borrowed clothes. Too large. Too clean. Even stained, they betray you. A rope lies at your feet, abandoned, soaked with seawater and blood—an open vein no one dares to see. This is not a victory. Not even revenge. Just necessity. Cold. Mechanical.

Caleb hasn’t said a word. Not once during the ordeal. He stood frozen. Impassive. But for a heartbeat—almost nothing—you felt his eyes find yours. A fraction of a second. Just long enough to check if you were still there. Still standing.

His orders snapped like blades. No hesitation in his voice. No tremor in his hands. He commanded like someone cuts a rope— with the kind of coldness one wears when even a hint of emotion would be too much. But you saw him falter. Not in his body—in his gaze. A crack. Fleeting. Quickly covered. But it was there.

After the final blow, his shoulders sagged. He didn’t speak, but his gaze drifted—past the faces, past the sails. Further. As if searching for a shore he gave up on long ago. He’s still there, in front of you. Upright. Present. But something in him has already slipped away. His anger no longer holds him. It’s draining him. 

He runs a hand across the back of his neck. Quietly. No pain. No fatigue. The gesture feels like an attempt to wipe away a memory. Or a voice. Maybe even a doubt.

And you—your shoulders finally sag. Your knees give, just a little. Not enough to fall. Just enough to know you could. Your body reminds you: you’re not really standing anymore. You keep going out of habit. Out of pride. Out of need. You rub your palms against the shirt, as if you could erase something from the fabric—something you’re still not ready to face.

You want to leave. Not run. Just step out of this moment. This shard of time frozen in steel, in screams, in salt. Your legs pull you away. Toward the shadow of a stairwell. Toward the cabin. Even if it’s not yours. You want to find a place where breathing doesn’t hurt.

You take a step.

And you wait—against your will.

Not for him to speak. Not for him to stop you. Just… for him to hesitate.

But he doesn’t turn around.

But, his voice drops.

“Not yet. Follow me.”

It’s firm. Dry. But there’s something beneath it. A thread. A tone you’ve never heard from him before. Weariness. Maybe even pain.

You stop cold. Your heart slams against your ribs. You don’t answer. You don’t move. He doesn’t give you the chance.

He turns. Walks away. No more words. No glance back. As if the decision had never been yours to make. He walks the length of the ship without slowing.

And you follow.

Not him exactly.

You follow the invisible pull between you—that tight line of silence, of glances, of unfinished gestures. You follow because he called you. Because you don’t know where else to go. Because in his voice, and in that retreating back, something still has its hold on you.

Maybe anger. Maybe fear. Maybe… something else.

You don’t want to think about it.

You walk.

The hold is empty. Or nearly. Just a few hanging lanterns, swaying slowly with the ship’s motion. The wood creaks beneath your steps, soaked with salt, damp, and that particular smell: rusted metal, frayed rope, silence lying in wait. All around, barrels, nailed crates, ropes hastily coiled. And that golden light slicing in sideways through the planks of the upper deck, cutting your shadows like a knife across the floor.

Caleb says nothing. He walks ahead of you, steady, focused, strung tight like a bow. Not a hint of hesitation in his movements. He stops in the center of the space, right between two rope-laced pillars. Then he turns. His gaze locks onto yours. No pity. No anger either. Just… a kind of raw demand. Like a trial already decided.

You open your mouth, ready to ask what you're doing here. But he cuts you off.

An object flies toward you. You catch it on pure reflex. Your fingers close around a wooden handle. Heavy. Unbalanced. An old broomstick, roughly cut. You look at it. Then at him.

He doesn’t smile.

“You don’t know how to fight.” His voice is low, rough. No warmth. Not even provocation. Just a statement. Brutal.

You lift your head, throat tight. The image of Aron—his hands, their laughter, your body pinned to the railing—hits you like a wave. You try to shove it away. But it returns. Clinging. Stuck to your skin like sea salt.

“What are you going to do if it happens again?” You stare at him. You want to slap him. Insult him. Scream that he has no right. But nothing comes out. He doesn’t let up.

“Beg?”

Your jaw tightens. You grip the stick so hard your knuckles pale.

He waits. Still calm. But his eyes—his eyes are at war. With you. With the world. With himself. He wants a reaction. He wants to push you. To force out what you keep swallowing. To drag you out of that diplomat’s shell, out of that illusion of control. You take a step forward.

“And you?” you whisper. “You’d rather strike before you understand?”

He doesn’t move.

“I’d rather you stay alive.”

A silence follows. Sharper than a blade.

You raise the stick. Wrong. Too high. Too stiff. He sees it instantly. Takes one step. Disarms you in a swift motion. The wood hits the floor with a loud crack. You step back half a pace, startled, ashamed of your slowness, your weakness.

But he holds the weapon out to you again.

“Again.”

Not an order. A challenge. You snatch it, breathing hard. Your breath short. Your heart pounding in your chest. A burn rises—not fear this time. Rage. Humiliation.

And in his eyes, a flash. No mockery. No. Pride. He saw you step forward. He saw you grit your teeth. He wants to see how far you’ll go.

You breathe in—hard. You brace yourself. And you strike.

The air is heavy—thick with salt, silence, and something else. A tension, almost electric, suspended between you. Caleb stands in front of you, arms crossed, his silhouette carved in the early light. He doesn’t speak. He watches you, still, like he’s reading through your skin.

Then finally:

“Left foot back. Further.”

His tone is dry. Measured But his gaze cuts right through you.

“Open your chest. Breathe.”

You obey, awkwardly. Every movement is a struggle. Your body protests—taut side, wrist still red, deep bruises blooming like memories beneath your skin. But you hold. You refuse to bend.

He steps closer. One pace. Then another.

Too close.

You hold your breath. He smells like salt and tension. His warmth brushes against you. Then suddenly, without warning, he pushes you. Not hard. Just enough. Your shoulder gives, your feet slip on the damp wood, and you lose your balance. Your arm hits a pillar, softening the fall.

“You’re already falling, he says.”

His voice isn’t mocking. It’s sharp. Not a rebuke—more like a verdict.

“You think the world’s going to reach out a hand, princess?”

You lift your eyes. Your cheek burns—not from pain, but from humiliation. It rises quickly, bitter—but you don’t let it out. You breathe in deep. Stand up straight. Solid.

And he watches you. For a long moment. You catch the faint twitch in his jaw. Frustration? Pride? You’re not sure. But he hasn’t looked away. And neither have you.

You strike.

An instinctive move. Nothing controlled. Just a reaction your body tears from fear. Your hand reaches for his wrist. He dodges—fluid. Circles around you. You go again. And again. He blocks. Redirects. Your breath quickens. Sweat beads on your brow. Your arms tremble—not from fear. From rage. From resolve.

And you touch him.

For a fraction of a second. Your foot anchors. Your elbow catches his arm. And this time—he doesn’t slip away.

He corrects you—instantly. His hand snaps to your wrist, sharp and precise, forcing you to bend, to reset your stance. His body brushes yours. Closer than ever.

“This isn’t dancing, he murmurs at your ear. If you want to survive, you strike to kill.”

His voice chills and ignites you at once. It vibrates against your skin. You close your eyes for one heartbeat too long. Your temples pound. You refuse to step back, to give in. 

You retreat one step. Then return just as fast.

And this time—you break through.

A feint. A better shift. Your weight moves in the right direction. You connect. He falters. Slightly. But it’s real.

His brow lifts. A flicker crosses his gaze. Not mockery or arrogance. Something unsettled. Brief.

You could believe in it.

But he disarms you at once, in a swift, almost gentle motion. The stick slides from your grip. His arm stays extended a moment too long. You’re close. Too close.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

You hear your breaths collide in the thickening silence.

He doesn’t speak.

And you don’t move.

Because part of you doesn’t want to step back. Because he hasn’t, either.Sa voix, basse, fauche l’air contre ton oreille.

“You want to learn? Start by breathing.”

Just that. A whisper. But it shakes everything.

Your ribs lock up. So do your lungs. As if you’d forgotten even that. As if even your own breath escaped you when he’s near.

You inhale, slowly. A lungful of salty air, thick with tension—and something else. Something warmer. Older. A sensation slipping beneath your skin before you can name it.

He doesn’t back away. He steps closer. Again. And this time, his hands touch you. Not hard. Not rough. Just enough to guide. Just enough to unnerve. He traces an invisible arc with your arms, adjusts the curve of your wrist, corrects the angle of your elbow. His palm brushes yours—brief heat. Precise. Deliberate.

He doesn’t speak. He watches.

And you feel it—that gaze that clings to you. Like a thread of fire. He studies you like he’s searching for something he already knows. Something he’s been waiting for too long. You don’t know what he sees—but you know what you feel. That shiver beneath your skin. That tightness in your gut. That warmth rising, uncontrollable.

You fight it. To stand straight. To not give him that.

That shiver. That reaction. You just want to learn.

Just that.

But his breath brushes your neck, and your muscles tighten.

“Let go, he murmurs. Focus on your center of gravity. Not your fear.”

You close your eyes. You obey. You repeat the movement. The weight shift. The imbalance. But your breath speeds up. And it’s no longer fear.

It’s something else.

It’s him.

It’s that closeness, that voice too low, those hands too precise. It’s that heat at the small of your back. That blurred memory of something your body remembers—but your mind can’t name.

And you break.

No pain. No humiliation. Just an overflow—of intensity, of contact, of unsaid words.

You pull away, suddenly. You push his arm back. Take a step back. As if the air around him had become too dense to breathe.

You’re out of breath. Cheeks burning. Throat tight. It’s not shame shaking you this time.

It’s that furious beat in your chest. That nameless dizziness.

He doesn’t move. He watches you. He stays there—still, impassive. But you feel it. Inside, it’s burning. Beneath his skin, something is tensed—a muscle, a jaw, an emotion. A thread ready to snap.

And you understand. Without fully understanding. There’s something in him… waiting. For a long time. Too long.

A silence falls. Dense. Electric.

Then he says, almost voiceless:

“Again.”

One word. Rough. Swallowed. Inevitable. A word that doesn’t command. A word that calls.

And you understand: He isn’t confronting you. He’s waiting for you.

And something in you, deeper than fear, older than anger—Something you haven’t yet named—Is already answering.

You nod.

Without a word.

And take your stance again.

There’s a silence, right after he speaks.

Not an empty silence. But the kind that hangs in the air, like a breath no one dares to release. A full silence. One that tightens your chest. One that touches you.

You stand there, upright, almost stiff, half in shadow. Your breathing slower, but still uneven. The adrenaline fades, but your heart keeps pounding—not from fear this time. From something else. Something you refuse to name.

Caleb has straightened. He’s no longer touching you. But you still feel his warmth. The imprint of his hand on your wrist, the weight of his gaze on your skin. He doesn’t smile. And yet, something has shifted.

He no longer looks at you like a body in recovery. Or a piece to be moved. He looks at you like a possibility. Like a decision.

His eyes meet yours, and this time, you don’t look away. You hold. You hold, even though everything inside you wavers.

He slips a hand to his belt, unfastens something slowly. A gesture without threat. Without pressure. Then he steps forward. Gently.

“Here.”

He holds out a small knife.

Not a symbol. Not a trophy. A tool. Light. Solid. The blade is simple, a little worn, but razor-sharp. You hesitate. You don’t understand right away. 

“To defend yourself, he says plainly.”

He pauses then adds, quieter:

“From others… Or from me.”

He offers it without force. Without commentary. Just that. A blade. A permission. A confession.

You reach out. Your fingers brush his as you take the handle. The contact is brief—but enough to make your heart pound harder. He doesn’t step back. Neither do you.

And that moment—you feel it draw a line inside you, like someone marking a map. He just handed you a weapon. Not to make you fear him. But to give you a choice.

And you take it. Not to use it. But because you understand what the gesture means.

He looks at you for another second. Long. Silent. You feel that strange tension between you—something burning, unspoken. Ancient.

His gaze lingers a moment too long on your lips. As if he might kiss you. But he won’t.

He turns toward the door, no urgency in his movements. His shadow already melting into the doorway. You think he’s going to leave without looking back. Then he stops. His voice—low, almost hoarse:

“Get some rest.”

And he disappears into the dark. Without another glance. But you stay there, knife in hand, heart in pieces, mind in turmoil. And you’re no longer sure if what you’re holding… is a weapon—or proof that he saw you before you saw yourself.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The silence is dense. A silence of still sea, of water without ripples, without breath. No moon tonight. The sky has emptied of all light, keeping only the stars—cold, distant, indifferent. You open your eyes. Darkness wraps around you, damp, almost sticky. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at the ceiling of the cabin. Maybe an hour. Maybe the entire night.

You can’t sleep.

Your breath is too shallow. Your mind, too full. You turn, again. The sheet scrapes against your skin. A stifling heat clings to your throat. So you sit up. Silently. You push back the covers, set your feet on the floor—cold, rough, alive. You shiver, but not from the cold. It’s that thing inside you that refuses to die out.

You cross the cabin like a ghost, your hand brushing the furniture to guide you. No light. No lantern. Just the stars, behind the door. You open it gently, close it without a sound.

And you step outside.

The deck is empty. Asleep. But not dead. It breathes. Beneath your bare feet, the wood exhales the sea, the salt, the battles, the unspoken screams of the day before. The air is thick, heavy with spray and secrets. You walk slowly, each step a muffled note on an invisible score. You don’t know where you’re going. You follow the stars.

The wind lifts a strand of hair, brushes your cheek like a whisper. The sails flap softly above your head, giving the night its slow, rhythmic breath. And all around, the steady lapping of waves against the hull. Nothing else. No voices. No trace of what you’ve become.

You keep walking, eyes raised toward constellations you don’t know how to name. You wish you could ask them where you are. Who you are. But they don’t answer. They just watch you.

So you sit.

There, against the foremast, in a corner no one monitors. You pull your knees to your chest. Wrap your arms around your legs like holding onto a memory too heavy to let slip away. And you stare at the sky.

The wood is warm against your skin. The wind slips under your shirt, barely lifting the fabric, reminding you that you’re alive—barely. You inhale, deeply. You want this silence to fill you, empty you, soothe you.

But there is no peace tonight.

You’re not trying to escape. Not really. You’re searching for air. For something to prove that the world isn’t only built on lies, betrayal, and chains. You look at the stars and wonder if somewhere, there’s still a place where the water is gentle, where the wind carries only the songs of the living.

You don’t cry. You no longer have the strength.

But you stay. Still. Silent. A fixed point in the shifting night.Tu crois être seule.

A timid rustle pulls you from your thoughts. You turn your head, slowly. He’s there. The deckhand. The one Caleb replaced at the helm the night before.

He’s young. Fifteen, maybe. No more. His features are still soft, not yet shaped by life, as if the sea hasn’t fully decided to carve into him yet. He doesn’t come closer at first. He hesitates, lingers in the background, as if he senses that what you wear around you isn’t armor—but a boundary.

He’s seen you. And he knows who you are.

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You don’t invite him in. But you don’t push him away either. So he takes a step. Then another. Until he sits, at a respectful distance. Not out of fear. Out of respect. Or maybe an instinctive caution, born from too many silent encounters on this deck.

“You can’t sleep?”

His voice is soft, steady. Just loud enough to rise above the regular snap of the halyards. It doesn’t intrude—it offers.

You turn your head just slightly toward him. A simple look. Not hostile. Just… attentive.

He adds, almost apologetically, as if speaking is still a right he hasn’t fully claimed:

“It’s often like that the first week. The noise… you get used to it eventually.”

You nod. Not to encourage him, not really to respond either. Just a small gesture that says: I hear you. Continue if you want. And he stays there, sitting upright, hands clasped between his knees, shoulders drawn in, as if trying to take up less space.

He tries a glance at you, then lifts his eyes to the sky. Maybe looking for something to say. Or maybe just hoping for permission to stay.

You let the silence settle. Not heavy. Not awkward. One of those quiets that breathes.

Then softly, you ask:

“You sleep on deck?”

He shrugs, a half-smile flickering and vanishing almost immediately.

“Sometimes. When I’m off watch… and the captain takes the helm.”

He pauses briefly. Then adds, quieter:

“He did that for me, the other night.”

You turn your head toward him. Your gaze catches his.

“Caleb?”

He nods. His eyes shine—but it’s not blind admiration. It’s raw, unpolished respect.

“I’d lost my heading. I was exhausted, not thinking straight. I could’ve messed up. He saw it… and he let me sleep.”

You listen without interrupting. Something tightens in your throat. An emotion you don’t yet recognize. Maybe because it brings you back to Caleb. The way he sees everything without a word. Does without explaining. Understands what you hide—before even you do.

The boy looks at his hands. Young hands, already weathered, marked by rope and saltwater.

“The captain doesn’t say much. But he sees everything.”

And in those few words, something pierces you. An image. A feeling. Caleb’s silhouette in the night, always moving, always watchful, yet carrying that strange, almost tender calm he never shows anyone.

You look away.

“Why are you here?”

The question slips out. Not out of curiosity, but because this boy doesn’t look like a pirate. He’s too young. Too straight-backed. Too… clean, in a world that stains quickly.

He inhales. Not in pain. Not dramatically either. Just long enough to find the words.

“My town was destroyed.”

No pause. No tears. He speaks like someone rereading a memory too many times.

“Royal Navy.”

You freeze.

He goes on, holding your gaze:

“My father refused to bend. He wanted to stay free. No annexation. No imposed flag.”

His fingers clench slightly on his trousers.

“They landed at dawn. Burned the houses. I lost my sister. My parents.”

The air grows denser around you, as if even the wind holds its breath. But he stays calm. As if he’s told this story a thousand times, or doesn’t have the strength to relive it any other way.

“The captain found me on the beach. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes were full of ash. He took me aboard the Nocturne.”

A silence.

“He gave me a compass.”

His gaze drifts for a moment, distant, almost fragile.

“And a heading.”

You don’t answer right away. You look at him. And in the silence that follows, you realize that this boy—despite all he’s seen—still carries hope like a light. A light Caleb rekindled.

And maybe, without meaning to, he’s just sparked something in you too.

You lower your eyes, unable to hold his gaze a second longer. The sea around you—vast, familiar just moments ago—suddenly feels wider, more distant, less beautiful. As if it, too, now knows. As if it carries on its waves the reflection of a truth you didn’t want to see.

You don’t know what to say to what he just told you. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every word you could offer would sound false. You are the envoy of the kingdom that did this. You are the daughter—adopted, trained, shaped—by a man capable of ordering the destruction of a city in the name of order, peace, unity.

And you think of him. Of your father. Of his hard stare, that voice that never left room for doubt. Of his speeches on honor, on the greatness of the realm, on the duty owed to those who looked up to you. You think of your own words, repeated like prayers, like vows. Of those phrases you once spoke with pride, believing they came from you. Of the emblem you wore on your chest like a banner. Like an inheritance.

And now, faced with this boy and his clear gaze, his calm voice, and all that he’s lost—You feel small. Empty. Foolish.

He watches you. Silently. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t trap you in judgment. And somehow, that’s what tightens your throat. That gaze—not condemning, just waiting.

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. You close it again. You inhale. And finally, in a breath that sounds like a confession, you whisper:

“I don’t even know where I come from. Not really.”

You slowly lift your eyes—just enough to feel that saying it out loud changes something. That you no longer have the luxury of lying.

“My father… took me in. Raised me. Prepared me.”

You pause. Not for drama. Just because the words get heavier. Harder to shape. You search for something to hold onto—an anchor in the distance, a star, a sail, a memory—But there’s nothing steady enough.

So you go on, quieter, more honestly:

“But every word I say, every choice I think I’m making… he’s the one who wrote them.”

And in that exact moment, you feel something break inside you. Not a clean snap— An old fracture. One you’ve never looked at straight on. And now… You can’t unsee it.

He looks at you. Really looks. Not like someone watching a prisoner, or a fallen figure of authority. He looks at you like a boy who’s just seen someone fall from very high, and who understands—without saying it—that the fall isn’t over yet.

“You sing, don’t you? I heard you the other night.”

His question catches you off guard. You weren’t expecting it. Not now. Not here.

You nod gently. A smile touches your lips—discreet, almost shy—like a memory you're afraid to disturb.

“I have a song… more like a melody. Always have. I don’t know where it comes from. But sometimes, it returns.”

You don’t try to explain further. Because you don’t have the words. Because it’s not something you fully understand yourself. And maybe—because nothing more is needed.

And then, without thinking too much, pulled by a strange, ancient need—you start to sing.

Not loud. Not to impress. Just a few notes, slow, suspended. A melody without name, without age, your voice tracing it faintly above the roll of the ship. The sounds float, drift, dissolve into the salty air.

And for a moment, everything seems to slow down. The sea calms, as if it’s holding its breath too. Even the wind softens. The ropes stop swaying. A shiver runs across the deck, and somewhere far off, the watchmen lift their heads—puzzled by a voice that shouldn’t be there.

The boy watches you without moving, lips parted, eyes wide. And when your voice fades—like a book closed too quickly—he whispers, almost in awe:

“They say… singing at night, on a still sea… calls the sirens.”

You raise an eyebrow, a half-smile on your lips.

“You believe in those stories?”

He lowers his eyes a little, then lifts them again. And in his gaze, there’s a surprising weight. Something older than he is.

“I think there are things… that want to hear what we no longer dare to say. And sometimes, they listen.”

You don’t respond. You have nothing to add. Not because you doubt him. But because his words hit something true. Because, without knowing it, he just placed his hand on something you didn’t realize was still alive.

And somewhere behind you, in the silent shadow of the quarterdeck—Something—or someone—has already heard.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The Nocturne sleeps. Its sails sag into the night, ropes slacken their tension, the wood exhales softly under the stars. But Caleb, he cannot sleep.

The cabin feels narrow, suffocating, unable to contain what stirs inside him. The silence here isn’t soothing. It’s too thick. Too full. He sits at the edge of the bed, torso hunched forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on an invisible point on the floor — a point where the world could shrink, disappear. His fingers drum slowly against his thigh, a steady, forced rhythm — the only barrier against the chaos pounding behind his temples.

The images loop. Blood on the deck. Muffled screams. Aron on his knees. And most of all — your face. That frozen mask, silent, more painful than any blow. The bitter taste of betrayal has returned. Again. And this time, he hates himself for letting your silence take root.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you now. He knows that. But it’s stronger than him. Since the mutiny, your absence haunts him like a discordant note in a song he thought he knew. You didn’t speak. You demanded nothing. And yet, everything in you called out — for a response, a gesture, a recognition. He heard you leave. Your footsteps, slow, almost hesitant, passed down the corridor. He could’ve stood up. Stopped you. Spoke to you. He did nothing. He let you go — like one lets go of something precious they no longer know how to hold.

And then, suddenly, a voice. Distant. Fragile. Alive.

A song.

It begins like a breath, slipped between two heartbeats — barely a whisper, a fragile vibration you could almost believe imagined. Then a note takes shape. Another follows. A melodic line, faint but clear, unfolds in the darkness.

He lifts his head in a single movement. Freezes.

Even the ship seems to have heard it. The Nocturne hums faintly beneath his feet, as if each timber held the echo of your voice. The ropes shiver. The air holds still. It’s imperfect, uneven — but unbearably pure. And something in him tightens. Then breaks.

Without a word, he stands. Pulls on his boots in a blur, without thinking. He opens the door to his cabin in a hush — the way one opens the door to a memory too old, too fragile to wake roughly.

The corridors are empty. The floorboards creak beneath his steps, like they protest his passing, like they try to hold him back. He climbs the stairs slowly, but each step pushes him further toward the source of the singing — that invisible thread he follows without thought.

He doesn’t yet know why he’s going. Why this voice pulls him out of himself. But he climbs. Because he cannot stay below. Because he cannot not go.

The air shifts as he nears the deck. It turns wetter, sharper. Cold bites at his wrists, slips under his open shirt. But your voice continues. It slices through the night like a soft blade, sharp and unstoppable. And he knows. He doesn’t need to see you. It’s you.

A breath escapes his lips, quiet, stolen. His heart slams against his chest. It isn’t rational. It isn’t fair. But it’s there. An unstoppable pulse. No use denying it.

He climbs, drawn by the trembling light of the stars.

And you, you sing. Not knowing he’s there. Not knowing that every word, every note, every breath is splitting him open more deeply than the sea ever could.

You sing.

And he listens, torn apart more surely by your voice than by any storm.

The wood of the deck gives a faint, muffled creak beneath footsteps you didn’t hear coming. You don’t move. You don’t have the will, or the strength. You remain there, seated against the foremast, knees drawn up, chin resting lightly on your crossed arms. Your eyes stay fixed on the horizon — or what’s left of it: a black line fading into the infinite of a moonless sky. A sky smooth, deep, emptied of everything except a few distant stars blinking like weary sentinels.

Around you, silence reigns. Only the steady lapping of water against the hull slightly disturbs the fragile balance of the night. The sails occasionally shift in the wind, like a stifled sigh. And you — you barely breathe, as if even the smallest exhale might shatter this improbable bubble of calm.

The young sailor is still there, a few steps away, sitting in his own way — slightly hunched, arms resting on his knees. He hasn’t spoken for several minutes. He said what he had to say. Now, he’s quiet. And that silence — he doesn’t impose it; he shares it. He holds it like a secret too precious to be entrusted to the wind.

And then you feel it.

Even before you see him.

Caleb.

He’s stopped a few paces behind you, just out of your field of view, but his presence alters the air. A new density. A silent tension. Like a shift in gravity. You don’t need to turn your head. You’d recognize him without seeing, in any darkness, from any distance. It’s that particular silence — heavy, taut like a drawn bowstring that refuses to snap. His.

He doesn’t speak right away. He observes.

His gaze lingers on you. You don’t see it, but you feel it — on your curled form, your arms wrapped around your legs, the tense curve of your shoulders. He takes it in, without judgment. But he knows when to look away, when looking too long would cost him too much.

So he looks at the boy.

His hand lands on the boy’s shoulder. The gesture is firm, measured. Neither rough nor gentle. A silent command, needing no explanation.

“You’ve got a watch to stand.”

His voice is deep, low, without reproach. Not a hint of anger. Just that calm, authoritative tone — enough to make it clear it’s time.

The boy stands immediately. He gives you one last look — not worried, not curious, just a little solemn, like a promise that this moment won’t be erased. Then he vanishes into the shadows, light on his feet, almost invisible. Only the echo of his steps lingers briefly on the damp wood before the silence reclaims it.

Caleb doesn’t move.

You know he’s watching you. You feel his gaze on you, tracing your skin like a slow, attentive blade. You refuse to turn your head. Not yet. You’re not ready. You won’t give him that gesture — that crack, that weakness.

He stands there for a while. You hear nothing. No step. No sigh. And yet, you feel his hesitation. His weight. His presence.

Then, slowly, he sits.

Not too close. Not close enough for your shoulders to touch. Not too far either. Right at the edge of your isolation, on the threshold of the void you’ve built around yourself like an invisible barrier.

He says nothing. He doesn’t seek you. He doesn’t force anything.

He’s simply there.

Like silent ink — thick, still — spreading around you without quite touching. A steady presence. Heavy. Warm, without being soft. A promise, without words.

And you breathe a little deeper. Not relief. Not yet. But as if his silence, his alone, offered shelter. A truce.

The silence stretches — dense, almost sacred. Not an empty silence. Not the kind born of ignorance or awkwardness. No — the kind of silence that doesn’t want to be broken. The kind that holds more than words will ever say. You remain there, motionless, eyes lost somewhere between the horizon and memories that won’t come.

The wind lifts your hair gently. It brushes the nape of your neck like an old, soft hand. Around you, the Nocturne breathes slowly. The sails snap in the distance, but without urgency. The sea is smooth. A sheet of oil — dangerously calm. As if it, too, is holding its breath.

Then, finally, his voice. A breath. A thought spoken aloud. As if he’d forgotten you could hear him.

“You sing like you’ve already lost something…”

There’s no joke. No irony. Not tonight. His voice is deep, rougher than usual. Tired. Worn by the sea and everything it takes with it.

You turn your head slightly. Just enough for him to see your profile in the dark. You don’t smile. You don’t look away.

You simply say, as if releasing a truth you’ve held in too long:

“Maybe I lost it without knowing.”

A current passes. Silent. Invisible. But real. It stirs something between you — a memory without an image. A pain without a name. Something you share — without ever having chosen it.

Your eyes finally meet. And he doesn’t look away. Not this time.

He looks at you as if he’s trying to guess what you’ve lost. Or as if he recognizes that emptiness — because he’s known it too.

There’s something torn in his eyes. Not openly. Not like a wound. But like a thread stretched too tight — and about to snap.

You don’t need to ask questions. He doesn’t need to answer them.

In this suspended moment, there’s no war. No roles. No bitterness.

Just the two of you. Two souls worn down by all that’s been taken from them. Two solitudes, finally resonating — without touching.

A fragile peace. Temporary. But real.

The silence is nearly perfect. A silence of world’s end, where the too-clear sky seems frozen in a breath no one dares to break. You’re still there, sitting near the mast, legs drawn up to your chest. The song has been gone from your lips for a while now. And yet, its echo still lingers, suspended in the curve of the sails.

Caleb doesn’t speak. He’s stayed seated near you, arms crossed, the wind barely playing with his hair. His eyes are fixed elsewhere.

A sound. Subtle. Almost drowned by the sway of the sea. But you see him tense. Just a flicker. A ripple on the surface of his tightly held calm. He turns his head slightly. Then rises — in one fluid, controlled movement. You feel the shift instantly. The weight in his stance. The tension in his back.

He doesn’t need to speak. Something has stepped onto the invisible line between calm and chaos.

His gaze hardens. His chin lifts. He listens.

“Caleb?”

Behind you, a breath. A low, rough voice. One of the lookouts, hidden in the shadow of the mainmast.

“Captain… light to starboard. Three points. Lanterns.”

A three-masted ship.

You rise to your feet without realizing it. Caleb doesn’t answer. He walks toward the rail, slowly. No panic. No rush. He climbs in one smooth step up to the gunwale, his fingers gripping the wood as if it were part of him.

You watch him. His eyes narrow. A vein pulses at his temple. You recognize that way he holds his breath — as if he could read a ship’s intent in the vibration of its sails.

He sees them.

You do too, after a moment. Simple golden dots drifting on the black sea. Three. Aligned. Too straight to be fishermen. Too slow to be fleeing. Too precise to be coincidence.

They’re approaching.

And it’s not a friendly visit.

He stands there, still for a beat. You hear his heart pounding. He’s already thinking. Calculating. Assessing.

Then he turns to you. And in his eyes, you read what words won’t say.

Something’s coming. And it’s not kind.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

✧₊⁺˚⋆ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ⋆⁺˚₊✧

𓆩 ⚓︎ 𓆪 Written by selisverse. No reposts, no translations, no plagiarism — respect the ink and the salt. ⚔️ Like & reblog if the tide pulls you in. It keeps the ship afloat.

[selisverse]

Tiny update to say I totally failed the deadline boss fight for this week’s chapter. I caught a nasty bug and I’m currently battling it with tea, naps, and questionable amounts of blankets 🫖😷. The chapter is looong and my brain said “nope” every time I tried to work on it. I really don’t want to half-bake it, so… next week it is! Pinky promise. Until then, take care of yourselves and send soup.

Also, a massive thanks to my early followers — you’ve unlocked the “I was here before it was cool” badge. It’s virtual, but still sparkly. ✨🖱️

✧₊⁺˚⋆ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ⋆⁺˚₊✧

[selisverse]

Nocturne

Warnings : Attempted sexual assault, Explicit physical violence, Bound and gagged scenes, Threats of death, Sexual intimidation / verbal harassment, Post-traumatic stress, Captivity / power imbalance, Domination dynamics, Graphic sensory descriptions, Sexual tension under duress / blurred consent, Crude language, Dissociative reactions, Psychological eroticism (non-smut but charged), Discussion of childhood trauma, Morally complex relationships / emotional ambiguity

pirate!caleb × diplomatic!reader

WC : 6.5k

A/N : his chapter is pretty heavy, with a fair amount of trigger warnings. Lots of emotions, so definitely for mature readers. 6.5k words... I may have gotten a little carried away 😅

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸���

Chapter 4 - Before the Storm, the Fire

The sun hasn’t risen yet.

In the dimly lit cabin, the sea echoes against the hull of the Nocturne—a slow, almost sneaky rhythm. You’re sitting on the floor, back against the wall, wrists numb, jaw clenched.

Caleb is on his feet, his silhouette outlined in the dim glow from the porthole. He’s putting his shirt back on—the one he took off last night—taking his time. Button after button. As if he’s savoring every movement. He stretches, calm, almost lazy. He knows you’re awake. He knows you’re watching him. And he likes it.

You don’t look away.

You stare. With all the fury you’ve got left.

He enjoys it. He opens a crate, pulls out a small bottle of water. He drinks. Slowly. Then grabs a piece of fruit and bites into it like it’s nothing. Every move is deliberate. Unhurried. Just slow enough to make your skin crawl.

“Long night. I mean... for one of us, at least,” he says with half a smile.

You want to scream. You spent the whole night talking. Pushing him. Throwing anything you could think of at him. Stupid stories, barely veiled insults, ridiculous comments about the weather or his crustacean face. You just wanted to break him. Keep him from sleeping. Make him snap.

He didn’t snap. He gagged you without a word, like snuffing out a bothersome lantern.

And now here you are. Same spot. Still tied up. Still gagged. Humiliated. But not broken.

Your whole body aches. Your neck burns. Your wrists throb, raw where the metal bit into your skin. But you hold on. You won’t give him what he wants.

Finally, he walks over. Every step makes the floor creak like a metronome. He crouches in front of you, elbows resting on his knees. And he looks at you. Silent.

It feels like he’s reading you. Taking his time. Taking you apart, piece by piece.

His fingers trail up your cheek. They brush the fabric. Find the knot. He undoes it with a single, practiced motion. Then the chain. The metal falls to the floor with a sharp, clean sound. The kind that sticks in your head.

Still, he says nothing.

“You just gonna stare at me all day or do you actually want something?”

Your voice is rough, lower than usual. But each word lands sharp. And for the first time, he looks… interested.

A smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking. Curious.

“You’re not the type to bend, huh?”

He straightens up. You think he’s going to walk away.

But he doesn’t.

“Remember what I said, you sleep when I say. You speak when I let you. And you breathe… because I still allow it.”

You hate him. You feel your pulse pounding in your temples. He grabs an orange from the crate and rolls it toward you, like he’s feeding a wild animal. You look at it. You don’t move. You’d rather die than pick it up.

He smiles. Confident. Of course he is.

He steps closer, grabs your arm. It’s firm, not rough. You try to resist, but your legs give out. Exhaustion crashes over you. You sway. One hand against the wall to keep from falling.

He still doesn’t speak. Just watches you. And his eyes… they’re not full of contempt. Not pity either. It’s something else. You can’t tell if it’s comforting—or if it’s what scares you most.

He gestures toward the door with a tilt of his head. Not a command. Not a question.

Just a fact.

Fresh air, he said. It’ll do you good.

You step outside. The wind smacks you in the face. You shiver.

Maybe you’re free. But you’ve never felt so trapped.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The wood creaks softly beneath your feet. Caleb walks you out of the cabin without a word, his hand light against your back. It’s not a command, not a gesture of comfort. Just presence. Just enough to make you move.

The sea air hits your face. Cold, sharp, salty. You breathe it in, reluctantly. Your hair whips in all directions, slapping your cheeks, tangling like it's trying to flee too. A few crew members are already working on the deck. No one speaks to you. But you feel their eyes, especially on the captain’s hand, still resting on your back. Like a mark.

He doesn’t slow down. He leads you up to the quarterdeck, at the ship’s stern. Then he stops.

And that’s when you see it.

The sun. The dawn.

The horizon is burning slowly. The sky melts into the sea—pink, gold, red—as if the ocean itself is catching fire. It’s so beautiful it knocks the air out of your lungs. Violently. Like the world just slapped you across the face for the first time. You grew up on the sea. Lived your life on it. And still, you never really stopped to look at a sunrise. Not like this.

You don’t know if this is freedom… or just a mirage you’ve never dared to stare at too long.

And before you even realize it, you take a step forward. Too close to the edge.

You glance down. And it’s like the ocean opens its mouth beneath you.

It’s beautiful. And terrifying.

You step back half a pace. Your fingers grip the rail. Vertigo climbs up your throat like a cold hand brushing your skin.

“Tempted, are you? Want me to help you jump?”

Caleb’s voice is calm, but you can hear the smile in it. He knows.

You shake your head. You want to hide that panic, that crack in your armor. But he doesn’t look away.

“Spending your life at sea while panicking at the first swell… You've made an interesting choice of career.”

He tilts his head slightly, half-amused, half-curious. His gaze scans you. He’s measuring how far he can push.

You look away, shame crawling up your neck. And without really meaning to, you mumble:

“I almost drowned. I was a kid. Too far from the shore. No one could hear me… just the water. Everywhere. Since then…”

You stop. You hadn’t planned to talk about that. Not now. Not to him.

And then, like something slipping out:

“I didn’t choose the sea. It was forced on me.”

You regret it immediately. You don’t even know why you told him that. It just… slipped. Something from deep down you couldn’t hold in.

You watch him. Waiting for a joke. A remark. Anything.

But no. Nothing.

He says nothing. Doesn’t move. Just looks at you. For a long time. Then he turns on his heel. As if you hadn’t said anything. Or as if it meant too much.

He walks to the helm, where a young sailor was holding the line. The boy steps aside. Caleb ruffles his hair in passing. And you— You stay frozen.

You didn’t expect that. That gesture. Light. Almost gentle. A detail that doesn’t belong on a face like his.

He takes the wheel. Eyes on the horizon. He doesn’t speak to you again.

You don’t know if you should stay or go. You’re not even sure if his silence is permission or a trap. So you step aside, sit on the steps, arms wrapped around your knees.

Around you, the ship lives. The sails snap. The wood creaks. The crew moves, shouts, laughs.

And you— You just sit there. On the edge.

Trying to keep your head above water. As always.

“You’re really going to spend the whole day staring at the horizon?”

His voice cuts through the wind, calm, like he’s just commenting on the weather. You thought he’d ignore you. That he’d get bored. Clearly, you were wrong. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. Caleb is still at the helm, fingers resting with that infuriating ease. The ship glides, perfectly aligned, like it breathes with him. And then he holds out a hand, almost mockingly, as if inviting you to join him.

“Come on. Might as well get something useful out of your captivity, don’t you think?”

You straighten abruptly, spine stiff as a mast. A strand of hair sticks to your cheek, caught by the wind. You brush it away with an irritated flick, your gaze sharp.

“I don’t want to learn anything from you.”

He barely shrugs, then releases the helm.

One second. Two. The Nocturne tilts, not dangerously, but enough to make your heart tighten. Your body moves before your brain catches up. You leap forward, grab the wheel, correct the course with a curse.

“You’re a fucking jerk !”

He laughs. A real laugh. Rough, raw. And you hate the way it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ah, so the diplomat knows how to swear. Good to know.”

“Take the wheel back.”

He approaches slowly. His coat brushes your waist, a mix of leather and salt in your nose. Then his chest presses lightly against your back. You can’t move. The heat from his body settles over you like a silent weight—steady, solid. Too close. Far too close.

He places his hand on the wood, exactly where yours rests. You pull back instantly, but he catches your wrist and places it back. Not forcefully—just firmly enough to make it clear who's in control.

“What are you doing?”

“Be quiet.”

It’s not a command. It’s a whisper. Almost a caress shaped into sound.

With the tip of his boot, he nudges your feet apart, adjusting your stance. One hand on your hips, steady and deliberate. His breath is steady, calm, as if he’s assembling you like a structure.

“Pick a spot. Straight ahead. Where the sky meets the sea.”

You obey without thinking. Hands tight on the wheel, your back tense, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Every inch of you is taut, but you don’t move. Not yet.

“You handle this better than some of my crew. Almost like your hands were made for it. Careful... I might want to keep you just for that.”

You snap upright, stiff as a blade.

“As your prisoner? Sounds like a dream.”

His gaze slides down your neck. He sees the shiver ripple across your skin. And he smiles.

His breath brushes your skin. The silence thickens around you. You feel his eyes. Heat builds. Too fast. Your temples throb. Your breathing stumbles. Your grip whitens around the helm.

“No one’s chained you, he murmurs. If you want to run, go ahead.”

You stay frozen. Every part of you vibrates, torn between bolting and giving in.

He leans in closer. His voice slips into your ear—low and sharp as a blade.

“But look me in the eyes… and tell me you don’t want to stay.”

That’s it. Too much. Your legs tremble. You want to break away, but your body won’t move. So you flee. The only option left. You tear yourself from him, from the heat crawling over your skin. He doesn’t stop you. He even smiles, like he knew exactly how this would end. You leave the quarterdeck without looking back, your heart hammering, your steps too quick to be casual.

You retreat behind a stack of crates, under the shadow of a furled sail. Far from him. Far from this tension that’s still humming under your skin.

You sit down, pulling your knees to your chest. Shame creeps in. Anger, too. At him. At yourself. At the way your body betrayed you.

You refuse to admit the absurd pull of it.

So you deny it. All of it.

And you blame him. It’s easier that way.

But deep down, you know this isn’t just a power game. Not only. And that’s what terrifies you.

What if he was right? What if this vertigo isn’t fear of him— But fear of wanting to stay?

You’ve felt this before. Once. Just before you drowned. That suspended moment when everything blurs, then quiets. That vertigo… It’s back.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The night is heavy, moonless. The Nocturne sways gently, cradled by a lazy wind. In the captain’s cabin, everything seems quiet. You sleep. For once, in a bed. His bed. A silent concession Caleb offered without explanation. You let yourself sink into it, exhausted, barely covered by a coarse sheet. Your breathing is slow. Your mind still floats somewhere between dream and waking.

Until something creaks. For a moment, your sleepy mind thinks it’s Caleb returning. The familiar groan of wood, almost comforting. You’re about to mutter a sleepy complaint.

You crack your eyes open. The darkness is thick. The air has changed. Heavier now. Like it’s holding its breath. Then—a sharp sound, too close. And then, a hand. Rough. Calloused. It clamps around your throat. You try to scream, but something forces into your mouth—hard, fast. The cloth crushes your tongue, scrapes your palate. It smells damp, almost moldy.

You choke. Your heart explodes in your chest. You try to move, but your legs are pinned under weight. Your wrists are yanked back, tied in a single brutal motion. The rope already burns your skin. Every heartbeat thunders up into your throat, mingled with the metallic taste of panic.

A knee slams into your thigh. You cry out. And then your body acts before your brain can catch up. You strike.

Your right leg—your only free limb—whips around in an arc. Your heel connects with a jaw. A sickening crack.

“Fuck, she cracked my tooth!”

“Then hold her better, idiot!”

You keep going. You don’t think. You’re all muscle and fury now. You feel them closing in, pinning you down. But you won’t make it easy. You never do.

A blow lands against your temple. Bright bursts explode behind your eyelids. The world tilts. Nausea hits hard. You fight to stay conscious, to hold on.

Your breathing crashes against the gag. Too loud. Too fast. You hear grunts, ragged voices, a hand groping for your arms and missing. You turn your head, scanning the dark, searching for an opening. Just one crack of light. One break.

The world narrows. All that’s left is their filthy fingers gripping your skin. Their rancid breath turning your stomach. Their clothes scraping against your bare flesh.

You close your eyes. Not to give up. To stay clear. Just for a second. One small, stolen second. To breathe. To survive.

The wind lashes the sails like a whip. The air is cold, salty, full of anger. The deck’s planks scrape against your bare feet, soaked through with moisture. Your wrists burn under the too-tight ropes. Your legs, still numb, struggle to move. You stumble, shoved roughly out of the cabin.

Ahead of you, three men. Among them, Aron—Caleb’s second. And him—the one who, during the boarding, had let his hands linger too long. Today, his gaze is that of a scavenger.

Aron approaches slowly, eyes locked on yours. A thin scar splits his lower lip, twisting his smile with something warped. He slips his fingers under the knot of your gag. The fabric scrapes your lips. The cold air bites your throat when you breathe in—too fast. He says nothing. He waits.

“There. But make one sound… and it goes back on. This time, until it makes you cry.”

The sailor gripping your wrists shoves you toward the railing. Too close. You feel it deep in your gut—that dizzying drop. That dull, primal fear.

Below, the ocean waits. Cold. Deep. Bottomless.

Your breath catches. Your heart pounds so hard it drowns out the waves. You try to stay composed, but your throat tightens. Words spill out before you can stop them.

“You gain nothing by killing me. Caleb’s keeping me alive for a reason. If he finds out about this, he’ll have you all executed.”

Silence. Aron crosses his arms, unreadable. Another sailor snickers.

“Your captain? He doesn’t give a damn. Maybe he’ll be annoyed that his whore jumped ship before he could finish screwing her… but he’ll get over it. You’re just a pawn. A toy. Leaving with a shred of dignity—lucky you.”

You fight against the hands holding your arms. Ahead, there’s nothing. Just the void. The dark. You feel pressure at your back. So you throw the last thing you’ve got:

“Maybe… But even a living pawn is worth more than a corpse.”

Aron stares at you. Long. Then shrugs, almost amused.

“You’ve got bite. Shame it won’t help you now.”

Your breath quickens. Behind you, mocking laughter. One shows a set of yellowed teeth in a broken grin; the other slides a rope between his rough fingers like he’s testing its strength.

“Caleb will know this wasn’t an accident.”

“No doubt, Aron replies. But by then, it'll be too late.”

He steps closer. Your heels brush the edge. He tilts his head, smile twisted.

He licks his lips, brushes a strand of your hair, then sniffs it like an animal.

“Pretty, for a diplomat.”

His hand drops to your shoulder. Your body stiffens. He feels it. And he likes it. He steps in. His chest brushes yours, radiating a sticky, rancid heat.

Your legs tremble. You pull at your bindings, but the grip tightens.

“You think you’re untouchable? Just because he’s watching you? Aron growls.”

His hand grips your waist. The other seizes your jaw, forcing you to face him.

“You looked us in the eye. Thought your silence, your pride, would protect you? Out here, they mean nothing.”

You turn your head. He squeezes harder.

“Move again, and I swear, the sea won’t be the first to take you.”

His breath scorches your cheek. The damp of his words, the salt of his skin, his greasy stench. Everything closes in. The deck. The sky. Your own body.

A hand creeps toward the hem of your shirt. Too slow. Deliberate.

You don’t want to die. But to vanish beneath their hands… no. Not like this.

Your hair sticks to your forehead, soaked in sweat—or is it fear? You can’t tell. Your whole body screams.

So you brace against the railing. Grit your teeth. And in a flash of rage, you drive your knee up. Hard. Brutal. Right where it hurts the most.

Aron bends in half with a strangled grunt. He staggers, his hand clamped between his legs.

But he doesn’t fall.

He straightens. Slowly. Eyes blazing. Then his hand slices through the air.

You don’t have time to react.

A sharp crack—and your head slams against the railing. The blow knocks your shoulder out, crushes your side. You slide down. Drop to your knees. The wood bites into your skin. Pain floods everything.

Your hands search for support—nothing. Blood pulses on your tongue. The world sways.

Only one thing matters now: staying conscious.

You know they won’t stop.

One of the pirates grabs you roughly under the arms and lifts you like dead weight. His shirt, open and soaked with salt, clings to sunburned skin. You slam into his chest, and the rope around your wrists wrenches a muffled cry from you. A dull pain explodes through your shoulders. You’re trapped, choking on a rising tide of helplessness. The stench of sweat, rum, and filth nearly makes you gag. He slams you against the railing, his hand already too familiar on your body.

You fight back. You twist, pull, writhe. Nothing works. Every movement tears at your skin. He laughs behind you—a low, filthy laugh that scrapes down your spine. His dagger presses against your throat. No words. Just pressure. And a thin line of blood slipping down without warning.

You look around. Someone. Something. A sound. A voice.

Aron stays still. Arms crossed. That same twisted smirk frozen on his face. He watches. He enjoys it. Says nothing. Does nothing. And your stomach knots so tight it makes you sick.

Another sailor steps forward. You know who he is. You felt him before you saw him. That same crooked smile from the boarding. He touches your cheek, mutters something. You don’t listen. You won’t. He leans in. And crashes his lips against yours.

You’re nothing but rage. You bite him without thinking, drawing blood. He spits a curse. Then grabs you by the collar. Your shirt tears with a sharp crack. The cold air lashes your skin. You don’t scream. Not yet. But you feel their eyes. You feel them stabbing into you like blades.

His mouth crashes down. His breath scalds your bare shoulder, his teeth sinking into your chest. You cry out—a sound that vanishes into the night, smothered by his hand. He yanks the gag around your neck, twisting it tight, until you can barely breathe. Everything blurs.

Your body freezes. The world slips away. Fear floods you, eats through you, cold and rough and sticky. You tremble without meaning to. Your heart pounds too fast, too loud. It wants to run too.

And then, far off—Caleb. His name rises, reflexive, like a lifeline you can’t let go. You’ve got no air left. But you think of him.

Then, suddenly—everything stops.

He shoves you away. You hit soaked ropes, cold and slick. The contact knocks the air from your lungs. You gasp. You want to move, but your body won’t respond.

A sharp sound. Like an ending.

The pirate’s body collapses beside you. Rigid. Silent. A blade buried between his shoulder blades

Your eyelids flutter without you realizing it. The image blurs for a second. The metallic scent of blood grabs your throat. A nervous shiver runs through you, as if your body knows before you do that the danger isn’t truly gone. Every breath scrapes your insides a little more. You want to back away, but your legs refuse. Everything in you screams to run. But you don’t.

Shouts erupt, followed by dull, violent impacts. The wood groans under pounding feet, blades clash in sharp bursts of fury. You lift your gaze—slowly. Caleb is there.

His black coat snaps in the wind, his silhouette drawn taut like a bowstring. He walks straight into the fight, the tension in his body like a cord about to snap. His sword, still wet with the first pirate’s blood, seems to drink in what little light there is. The second man lunges at him. Caleb dodges, counters, disarms him with a shoulder strike. The pirate screams, stumbles—too slow. The blade slices his throat. He falls without a sound.

The third hesitates. Just one second. Caleb gives him no time for another. A strike to the temple, and the man tumbles into the void, his cry cut off by the splash of black water.

And then, another figure steps forward. Aron.

He charges Caleb, blade drawn. Their fight is brutal, precise—like they always knew it would come to this. You, frozen in place, are pulled back to days earlier. The belladonna, Caleb’s words. That resistance he’d built, as if he lived expecting betrayal like this. As if he knew it would end like this. Boots slam the deck, blades clash—sharp, tense. Aron is fast. But Caleb reads his every move like a book he’s memorized.

You want to scream, to move, to do something. But nothing responds. Your arms are heavy, your legs nailed to the floor. A buzzing fills your ears, your heart pounds in your temple. You stay there, caught in something thick and burning. Your torn shirt clings to your skin. The wind snakes into every rip, reminding you where they hit you. Every shiver is a different kind of sting.

A louder crash makes you flinch. Two figures charge into the fight. You recognize them. Men loyal to Caleb. They step in without hesitation, disarming one of the mutineers. The tension snaps all at once, like a rope stretched too far.

Caleb finally overpowers Aron. The man’s sword skitters across the planks with a cold rasp. Caleb pins him down, his own blade pressed to his former second’s throat. You think he’s going to kill him.

But he doesn’t move. He breathes hard. Straightens, slowly. A shadow flickers across his face. He looks away, and his voice falls—low, cold:

“Lock him up.”

Two men obey instantly. They drag Aron up without care. His soaked hair clings to his temples, his clothes hang in tatters, but his gaze clings to Caleb. Still burning.

Then, nothing. The deck freezes. Only the slap of the waves dares to make a sound. You haven’t moved. Your knees ache, your back too. But you don’t get up.

Caleb turns to you. His eyes find yours, hold them for a breath. And in them, you see it. He knows. He saw. He understands. Time stretches. He says nothing. Not yet. But something inside you breaks loose. You want to be angry. To scream. To run. But there’s nothing. Just this emptiness. And his eyes. And this strange current between you—held in the air, too full to be spoken.

You haven’t moved. You don’t even know how anymore.

The night has swallowed everything else. Only him remains.

Caleb approaches. Not like a captain. Not like a tormentor. Just... himself. He walks slowly, almost silently. Like he’s stepping over something broken. Like he’s afraid of reaching you too fast. You’re curled up, hunched against a pile of wet rope. What’s left of your shirt clings to your skin. You try to pull it over yourself, to hide what you can. To salvage something of yourself.

He crouches down. The wood creaks beneath him. The air around you warms by a single, almost imperceptible degree.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t force anything.

His fingers reach for you. You flinch—barely. Reflex, muted. They brush your neck, right where the gag left its mark. He removes it carefully. Then, with a single clean motion, he cuts your bindings. You swallow a cry. Blood rushes back too fast—like a fire you didn’t see coming.

You lift your eyes. Slowly. Like opening a door you’re not sure you want to go through.

And there he is. Close. His face drawn tight. His eyes dark—but not cold. Cracked. Not with anger. With something rarer in him.

Fear.

Not the fear of battle. Not of death. No. The fear of almost losing you.

“You can hate me. But don’t disappear like that again.”

His voice. Rough, low. Like he’s swum across an entire sea just to get here.

You don’t have time to answer. He slips off his coat, wraps it around your shoulders. You breathe him in—wood, sea, fire, iron. You hold onto it. Not because he asks you to. But because your body doesn’t wait for permission.

Then he lifts you. Just like that. One arm under your knees, the other at your back. You could say no but you don’t. You rest your head against him, against his shirt still damp from the fight. You hear his heartbeat. Loud. Too loud. Maybe louder than yours.

He walks across the ship. Toward your quarters. The cold fades with each step. The air thickens. Heavier. Warmer.

You pass other crewmen. Some stop. They look. They understand. But no one says a word. No one would dare. Caleb’s gaze alone is enough. It carries more weight than any command.

He holds you tighter. Like he needs to keep you tethered to him.

When he sets you down on the bed, he doesn’t step back.

He stands there. One moment too long. Doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

And you understand. In that silence. In that space he doesn’t try to fill with empty words.

He’s not playing anymore. Not this time.

You matter too much. You’ve become what he never planned for. What he doesn’t know how to handle.

And now, even he can’t pretend otherwise.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The door closes with a dull click. A turn of the key. Nothing harsh, but firm. Final.

Silence falls instantly, as heavy as the night outside. The Nocturne’s wood creaks softly beneath the hull, and the water taps against the side in a slow, almost soothing rhythm. Lanterns bathe the cabin in a trembling light. The scent of salt, damp rope, and a trace of blood lingers in the air. You sit on the bed, straight-backed, hands placed at your sides. You’re not trembling. You’re not crying. But something inside you is starting to give.

Caleb says nothing. He crosses the room, grabs a shirt from a trunk. He brushes it with his fingertips, distant, then finally looks at you.

“It’s clean,” he says simply, his voice a little rougher than usual.

You reach out without lifting your eyes. Your fingers don’t touch.

He turns away at once. He rummages through a chest, pulls out a white cloth, then a bottle of alcohol, which he sets gently on the desk.

You let the coat slip from your shoulders and pull off your torn shirt. Every movement is an effort. Every muscle protests. You inhale slowly to keep your composure.

A faint sound stops you. You look down — the brooch. The one you had hidden. The one that ties you to your father, to the Navy, to everything you're trying to hold onto.

You reach for it, but Caleb is quicker. He crouches, picks it up. A flash of metal dances across his expressionless face. He remains silent.

He straightens, looks at you. Your arms are marked — bruised, scraped, red. You don’t know what he sees: a broken diplomat? A troublesome hostage? Or a reflection of his own fall? He hesitates. His jaw tightens. Then he hands you the brooch, his gaze hard.

You take it without a word and clutch it to your chest. Too tightly. As if it could still anchor you. You no longer know whether you want him to understand — or to look away. It would be easier if he hated you.

He takes back the coat he lent you. Holds it a moment, folds it carefully, places it on a chair. A slow gesture. Pointlessly slow.

Then he pulls a stool close to the bed.

He sits, back straight, shoulders stiff. As if he’s afraid he might fall apart.

His knees brush yours.

You almost flinch. Just a little.

You want to move back, but you don’t. A part of you wants him to stay. Even like this. Even now. Your hand grips the sheet, quietly.

You feel his warmth. The barely-there breath he lets out. The air between you hums.

His rolled-up sleeve reveals the compass tattoo on his arm. The needle seems to point straight at you. And you don’t know if it’s an accusation — or a call.

He gently brushes away a strand of hair stuck to your temple, stiffened by dried blood. His fingers barely graze your skin, almost by accident, just enough for the strand to fall back over your shoulder. You shiver. Your body tenses, as if this gesture—too gentle for what it is—awakens something you’d rather keep buried.

He doesn't move. His gaze lingers on your face, on the bruises, the swelling, the marks. You can feel he’s holding his breath. He says nothing. But you read in his eyes what he might not even admit to himself.

He picks up a cloth, pours a little alcohol onto it, and applies it to your temple with measured care. His free hand comes to rest against your cheek. It doesn't force you. It doesn’t shake. It’s just there. Almost comforting. You close your eyes. The sting is sharp, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of a sound.

He glances at you, quick and fleeting. He saw the discomfort. The breath that caught in your throat. The way your neck stiffened. A flicker of something crosses his face.

His gestures are precise. Sure. Not tender, but not cruel either. He moves like someone stitching a wound that isn’t his—yet feels like it is.

He lowers the cloth, notices your split lip. He begins again, slower this time. The fabric slides over your skin. It barely burns, but the shock of it hits deeper. More than a treatment—it’s a silent confession. You keep your eyes closed. As if the darkness could hide you. A thought flashes through you, violent, shameful: you don’t know what scares you more—that he sees what they did to you, or that you want him to keep touching you anyway.

His hand stays against your cheek, warm and still. Then it slides, slow as a tide, along your jawline. His fingers trace your face with the care of a sculptor in front of something too fragile. They stop beneath your chin, in a breathless pause. His thumb brushes your lip—a touch so light, like a salted breeze at the edge of a breath. A hand made for war, now touching you like someone might touch a forgotten prayer.

You shiver. He feels it. You know he does. You hate it. You want him to pull away. You want him to stay.

His gaze drifts downward, slowly, to your throat. The cut. Then the bruised mark from the gag. He doesn’t move. Not yet. He just looks. For a long time.

You open your eyes. Swallow hard. Every movement reminds you of your body’s state. The Nocturne sways slightly. A shadow moves across the wall—slow, alive. A quiet reminder that the world keeps turning, even when the two of you remain still.

Your eyes meet.

For a long time. Too long.

You see anger. Not explosive—contained. Sharp. Burning. And him—he sees what you fail to hide: the fear, the tremble, the exhaustion. He understands that you’re fighting, still resisting. And it hurts him more than he’ll ever admit.

He parts his lips, searching for a word he’ll never say. Then looks down, as if ashamed of what his hands betrayed. He goes back to his task. Slower this time. But his hands—they’ve changed. Less rigid. More careful. More human.

His gaze stops. You instinctively follow the direction of his eyes—and you understand. Just under the opening of your shirt, the bite—deep, violent, swollen. He stares at it, hesitates. You see him inhale slowly, as if holding back something even more painful than the wound.

“Tell me if you want me to take care of it.” His voice is rough, restrained, like he’s already apologizing for what he’s about to do.

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes catch his, a second too long. You shake your head. Reflex. Fear. Instinct. But he’s there, still, not forcing anything. He waits. And in his silence, there’s no threat, no impatience. You breathe. Once. Twice. Then you nod, softly. Yes.

He doesn’t comment. With a slow, careful gesture, he pushes back the collar of your shirt. Not abruptly. Just enough to expose the wounded skin. But the closeness unsettles him. His fingers brush your skin with unfamiliar care, and a heavy silence settles between you. He avoids your eyes, but his gaze lingers briefly on the bite. His throat tightens. A shiver rises—desire, shame, guilt. He doesn’t know what to call it, but he feels it in his gut like a tension he’s held too long.

He soaks the cloth in alcohol and presses it against the wound. His hand trembles slightly. He holds his breath, but it’s useless—you could almost hear the storm inside him. He clenches his jaw, trying to steady himself.

You wince, breath short. He murmurs, almost too quietly, not daring to meet your eyes:

“I know it burns.”

And suddenly, you grab his hand—the one that’s treating you. A reflex. A need to stop him, to hold him—you don’t know.

You stare at him. Your breath becomes uneven. And he feels everything. Your heartbeat beneath his palm. Your skin reacting. Your whole body vibrating with pain and exhaustion.

A suspended moment. Too intimate. Too dense. As if one more word might make everything tip over.

He swallows discreetly, then adds, his voice even lower:

“It’ll be over in a moment.”

So you let go of his hand. He says nothing. He simply makes sure the wound is clean. Then he straightens. Steps back. Stands, as if ready to leave this moment behind for good.

But your hand catches his wrist.

He stops. His eyes slide to you, then down. The light flickers on his face and catches his violet eyes, making them almost unreal. They barely shine, touched by a shadow you can’t name—anger, fear, or something even older. He sees the marks on your skin, red, purple, carved by the ropes that cut into you. And he returns. Wordless.

He gently wraps his fingers around your wrist, barely touching the damaged skin. You let go immediately. He looks at you and murmurs:

“Rest. I’m here. No one gets past that door.”

A shiver runs through you. Something inside unknots, suddenly, like his words dissolved a tension you didn’t realize you were still holding.

You nod, too tired to answer otherwise. You lie down on the bed, carefully. When he covers you, the fabric feels heavier than the pain—like a hand saying, “You can stay as long as you need.” He pauses, as if still questioning how close he’s allowed to be.

Then he lies down beside you. He stays there. Doesn’t touch. And curses himself a little for wanting to.

And then, in the dark, you slowly turn toward him. Without thinking. Your face buries against his chest, seeking warmth, an anchor, something steadier than the night swaying around you.

You fold into his arms. A breath escapes him—small, sharp—and his fingers clutch the sheets, betraying what he’s still trying to hold back. And this time, he holds you. Gently. Like you might break. His arm wraps around you, warm, solid, an invisible barrier against everything you want to forget. You catch yourself thinking you could fall asleep like this forever, in that steady beat, safe. You tell yourself you shouldn’t get attached. But it’s already too late. This silence, this heat—you want them for yourself.

His heart beats against your temple. The salt on his skin reminds you of the sea—and the man it hasn't broken yet.

A muffled sound echoes from the hull of the Nocturne. You flinch, muscles suddenly tense, breath caught.

“It’s nothing,” Caleb murmurs without turning his head. “Just the wood. The wind. Sleep.”

You don’t sleep. Not right away. You listen to his breathing, slow and deep, like the sea rocking you. You match your own to his, without meaning to. You count the beats of his heart like waves returning, over and over.

And slowly, you drift off.

He stays awake.

His eyes locked on the door, dark, silent, ready to kill the first thing that tries to breach this cocoon. This fragile refuge he carved out of silence—for you—and no one will break it.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

༒ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ༒

𓆩 ⚓︎ 𓆪 Written by selisverse. No reposts, no translations, no plagiarism — respect the ink and the salt. ⚔️ Like & reblog if the tide pulls you in. It keeps the ship afloat.

[selisverse]

Nocturne

Warnings : Captivity, Dubious consent, Implied sexual threat, Abuse of power, Threats of sexual violence, Forced undressing, Invasive touch, Psychological manipulation, Degradation, Toxic relationship dynamics, Murder attempt, PTSD triggers, Physical violence, Emotional abuse, Discussion of civilian massacre

pirate!caleb × diplomatic!reader

WC : 4.9k

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

Chapter 3 - The Enemy Beneath

His eyes pin you in place—violet, unreadable, like the sea on a moonless night. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. His gaze alone sends panic rising in your throat, choking out any coherent thought.

He takes a step. You retreat, instinctively. Another step. Until your back hits the cold wood of the cabin wall.

Caleb closes the door behind him. Slowly. The click lands sharp, final—like a sentence being passed.

“Going somewhere, princess ?”

His voice drags low, sharper than a threat, colder than a scream. He steps closer. And with each movement, the air thickens. The room seems to shrink around you.

Your heart pounds, off-beat, too fast. You can’t think.

Your hand slides toward your boot—almost a reflex. He’s too close. His gaze wraps around you, dissects you. The door, the walls—they vanish. Only him remains. And that fear drilled into you since childhood—the one he embodies perfectly. Your breath shortens. Your thoughts scatter like smoke.

You won’t give in.

Your fingers find the letter opener. Pathetic. But it’s all you’ve got. A gesture. A line drawn. A way to say no.

You lash out. No scream. Just breath. Reflex. You want to stop him. Push him back. Steal a second of space, of control.

He blocks your arm like swatting a fly. Grabs your wrist. Wrenches the blade free. One motion. Clean. Precise. The metal clinks to the floor, pitiful.

You want to scream. Slap him. Your instinct screams to fall back on diplomacy, to talk, to defuse. But you swallow it down. No. Not this time. You won’t be that girl.

So you fight. Scratch. Swing. Twist. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t budge. You’re a storm crashing against rock. And the harder you try, the more the failure sinks its teeth into you.

You’re not who you were. Not the envoy. Not the thinker. All of it has burned away. You’re a body now. Just that. And that truth, more than his grip, crushes your breath.

A sound escapes you—maybe a scream, maybe just a wordless gasp. You want to run. To be someone else. But he’s everywhere. On your skin. In your breath. In the spinning of your thoughts.

And then his hand finds your throat.

Not to strangle. Just to stop you. To root you in place. To make you feel his will pressed against the most fragile part of you. His palm is rough, warm. And your voice dies.

You freeze. Your body locks. Silence falls. As if even the Nocturne is holding its breath.

His eyes lock onto yours, inches away. You see something darker than the sea—a storm of anger, of disgust, maybe doubt.

Then he shoves you with humiliating ease. Your back hits the mattress. You lose your breath. He kneels on the bed with deliberate slowness, like a predator sure of his prey.

His knees on either side of your hips. His hands already reaching for yours.

You struggle, but he grabs your wrists and pins them to the bed. His breath is calm. Yours, frantic. His fingers loop through the lace of your pants, pulling with a motion too slow, too precise. Your hips lift from the pressure—not by will, but by force. You scream louder, a mixture of fear and fury.

“Want to play the grown-up? Then own it, he breathes, almost amused.”

He knots the lace tight. Just enough for you to feel your control vanish. And that’s even worse. You pull, but the rope laughs silently, indifferent to your dignity. That’s when you understand. You can try anything—he’s stronger. He could do anything to you. And in this locked cabin, it won't be your will that has the last word. It will be his. It isn’t the rope that holds you. It’s the brutal truth of your physical powerlessness. You inhale—too sharp, too fast. Panic surges, but you swallow it with pride.

“Let go of me !”

He doesn’t answer. His fingers glide up your arm, stroke your collarbone. His breath brushes your skin, hot and slow, laced with apple and alcohol. A scent that clings to your throat, flips your stomach, unsettles you for reasons you can’t name. You tremble. From fear. From rage. From something else you refuse to name.

“You’re trembling. Is it fear I feel, or excitement, princess ?”

You turn your head, refuse to meet his eyes. But you feel them on you. Burning. Intrusive. He's waiting. For you to break. To beg.

This isn’t how you were trained to respond. You should stay calm. Speak. Convince. But you’re not in a council hall. You're chained to a bed. And your voice means nothing.

Your body betrays you. You shiver under his hand, against your will. A sound slips from your throat—tiny, strangled. You freeze. Not that sound. Not now. Not in front of him. Your breath quickens. A strange heat coils in your belly. Creeping. Unwelcome. It blurs the line between fear and something darker. Forbidden. You don’t know if it’s rage... or worse. And that flicker of doubt—you try to crush it. But too late. Caleb sees it.

His eyes freeze. Just for a second.

A subtle tension crosses his jaw. He stops.

A tear of rage rises, slips down your cheek. You want to vanish. You want to hit him. You want to feel nothing at all.

“Admiral’s daughter... Do you know what I do to girls like you?”

He leans in, his chest grazing yours. His voice drops a notch—hoarse, almost frayed—like he’s slipping a truth straight into your ear. Every word sharp, measured, loaded with tension—not meant to convince, but to dominate.

“I watch them sink. Slowly. Their pride first. Then their name. Their rank. Until they understand… out here, at sea, their survival depends only on my will.”

His fingers slide beneath your shirt, barely brushing your skin. They travel upward, tracing a burning line. Too slowly. Like he’s weighing every inch.

“Not your father. Not your country. Not your mission. Just me.”

Your body tenses. Your breath catches. Then, without warning, his hand grabs your hair. Harsh. He yanks your head back. You cry out. Not in panic. In rage. In refusal.

“So stop testing my patience.”

His eyes lock on yours—steady, direct. Something raw flickers there. Almost feral. Like a cornered animal, too aware to strike… but one breath away from it.

And then, suddenly, it breaks.

He freezes. His breath stops. He steps back. Curses under his breath. His hand runs through his hair, restless. He fumbles with his shirt, rolls his sleeves—again, again. As if clinging to the motion to keep from falling into something he can’t control.

He says nothing.

You hear his boots click softly on the floor. A chair creaks. He sits. Turns his back to you. His silence isn’t retreat. It’s a wall. A makeshift barrier between him and whatever just surfaced.

And you— you stay there. Breathing shallow. Arms wrapped tight around yourself, like trying to push away a cold that’s rising from within.

For the first time since he took you aboard, you don’t know what scares you more: Caleb... or what he’s just awakened inside you.

You don’t move. But something inside does. It rises. Slowly. It’s not fear. Not shame. It’s rage. Old. The kind you were taught to soften. To bury under manners. To disguise behind charm.

But now it pulses. Alive.

It burns.

You inhale. Hard. You lift your head. Your jaw is locked. Your eyes dry.

You won’t bend anymore. You won’t say “yes” when every part of you screams “no.”

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The silence, at first, is heavy. Almost sticky. It falls over you like a blanket too thick, too rough.

He says nothing. Doesn’t even glance at you. He moves to a cabinet against the wall, pulls out a quill, an inkwell, and a sheet of paper wrinkled by time. He sits at the desk with lazy slowness. As if there’s nothing to say. As if the fact you’re still tied to the bed doesn’t matter.

The scratch of the quill against paper cuts through the silence. Steady, almost soothing — and somehow worse for it. Because you’re breathing in short bursts. Your chest struggling to keep up. Your hands tremble. You do everything you can to keep it hidden.

You want to hate him. To crush him with your stare. But your body betrays you. You can still feel his mark. What he took. What you didn’t even know how to protect.

You try to sit up. Nothing moves. Your back clings to the mattress like you’ve been nailed there.

You close your eyes. Try to breathe. You refuse to be reduced to this moment, this sensation of helplessness glued to your skin. You refuse to think about the warmth still lingering on your belly, about the memory of his hands. You refuse to admit that part of you is still trembling.

You inhale. Deeply. In your mind, you repeat the phrases you were taught. The protocols. The calm. You cling to them like driftwood.

Then the quill stops. Abrupt. The silence turns sharp again.

"Get up."

Flat. Like a reflex. You don’t move. Your eyes stay locked on the wall, as if you could melt into it. As if looking at him would give him too much.

He rises without a sound, walks around the bed. You feel his presence. Heavy. Pressing. Like a tide slowly rising.

His fingers find your wrists. Not brutal. But firm. He pulls you up, forces you to move. The bindings resist. He draws his knife. A quick slash. The cords fall away. You rub your sore wrists, but you don’t even have time to feel the freedom before he pushes you out of the cabin.

The captain’s quarters. A different world. Too neat. Too polished. A table set like in a dream of kings: polished silver, trembling candles, fine porcelain. And above all, dishes that shouldn’t exist here: golden-crusted meats, syrupy fruits, still-warm bread, wine black as ink.

It’s too much. Too rich. Too beautiful. Too false.

And you, in the middle. Like a chess piece misplaced on someone else’s board.

The sweet scent of candied fruit makes your stomach twist. You grit your teeth.

You don’t know what disgusts you more: the misplaced luxury, or the fact your fingers are still shaking.

The air is thick. Too still. As if no voice had ever screamed here. As if no body had ever broken.

You stand there. Frozen. Eyes slowly scanning the room. Caleb sits at the far end of the table. As if he’s inviting you to dinner. As if nothing inside you matters.

You open your mouth. You want to say something. But a knock comes at the door. Three sharp raps.

“Captain. It's about the shift.”

You don’t recognize the voice. Caleb doesn’t flinch.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he mutters, leaning toward you. His voice is low, rough—more a tired warning than a real threat. “Next time, I won’t be so lenient.”

He opens the door. A sailor you’ve never seen lets out a laugh. Too wide, too pleased with himself.

“Didn’t know someone could scream like that just from an interrogation.”

The look Caleb throws him could freeze fire. The pirate swallows his laugh and vanishes. The door shuts behind them, slicing the outside world away.

And finally, you breathe. Like you hadn’t been allowed to until now.

Your eyes land on a plant set on the window ledge. Belladonna. Glossy, black berries. Pretty little poisons.

A bitter smile slips out.

“Idiot,” you mutter. “Leaving that here, really…”

He left you alone. For the first time. A luxury? No. A crack. An opening.

The air still holds something of him. A lingering heat, a weight. Like he hasn’t fully left. Like you’re still breathing against his skin.

You glance at the door. You know he could come back. You almost hear him—his steps, too heavy, too calm.

You cross the room. Your hand barely trembles, but your stomach knots. You reach out. Pick the berries. Crush them in one sharp motion. The juice stains your palm. Viscous. Cold. Like a decision you can’t take back.

And then—a doubt. Small, but sharp. Is it really him you want to punish? Or the part of yourself you can’t quite face? The part that gave in. That shivered under his touch. That didn’t scream. That still isn’t sure.

You move toward the decanter. Time is pressing. You pour. The poison glides into the wine without a sound. The liquid ripples just slightly. As if it, too, agreed to betrayal.

You hold your breath.

And you sit back down. Straight. Quiet. But every heartbeat slams against your ribs.

You’re ready. To meet his gaze. To face him. And if you must—break him. For every word. Every gesture. Every silence that cracked you a little more.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The door closes. Slowly. A dull thud, almost intimate.

He’s back.

Caleb. Silent. Tense. He wipes his hands on a dark cloth and tosses it in a corner without a word—as if trying to erase what he just did, but not quite believing he can. You can see it: his shoulders are stiff, his gaze too fixed. Everything in him still vibrates with the fight, or something close to it.

He pulls out a chair, sits across from you. Says nothing. No threat. No apology. Just that stare—raw, direct, searching for what you’re hiding behind your silence. What keeps you standing through it all.

“You should eat. It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering.” His voice is rougher than usual. Worn. “You haven’t eaten in hours.”

He gestures to the table. Calm. He doesn’t push. He waits.

Your stomach knots—hunger, anger, disgust, all tangled. But your hand moves. Almost in spite of yourself. You grab a small roll. The crust scrapes your fingers. You bite. It’s dry, bland, cold. But it’s something. You chew slowly, as if each mouthful reminds you you’re still here.

A piece of meat, a slice of cheese, a dried fruit. Not a feast. Just enough to remind your body it exists. That you exist.

But with each bite, something starts to crack. It’s not the taste—it’s what it stirs: the spices remind you of a full table, a family meal, a life that still smelled of normalcy. Of before. Of what you’ve lost.

You eat faster. Not from hunger. From need. Eating, so you don’t speak. So you don’t think.

He doesn’t touch the food. He rolls a red apple between his fingers, brushes it against his lips. Distant. Or too present.

And you—your cheeks flush warm. A stir you didn’t expect. Unjust. Unexplained. It rises, wraps around you, irritates. You lower your eyes, angry at your own weakness.

“You don’t want to know why you’re here?”

You lift your head, slowly. You take another bite—just to buy yourself time.

“I doubt it’s for my charm.”

A quick smile escapes him. Not mocking. More… amused.

“Still sharp-tongued, huh? Even now.”

You raise an eyebrow. Nothing more. But the silence that follows is thick. It hums between you. Ready to break.

He sets the apple down. Leans in. His elbows rest on the table. He doesn’t move. Nothing moves. But you feel it—the moment has shifted. Something’s about to be said.

“I sailed for a long time under your father’s command. I was the captain of the Sovereign Grace.”

Your head snaps up. That name—you know it. That ship. That lie.

Officially sunk. Officially vanished.

“Do you remember the day Bellport was attacked?”

Your blood runs cold. Yes. You remember. All too well.

The screams. The flames. The blood. The cobblestones slick under your boots. Panic gripping your throat in the narrow alleys. And that small hand you couldn’t hold on to. Again. Always.

You saw them appear. You saw them strike. You saw them kill.

And nothing—nothing could stop what fell on the city like a curse.

“I was there,” you say. Your voice barely wavers, but the taste of metal already rises in your mouth. “I was trying to calm things down. They said Islesbury had attacked to seize the territory. It was a slaughter. Men, women, children... No one was spared.”

Caleb looks at you. For a long time. His eyes, usually hard, darken, perhaps clouded by a trace of memory. Of regret. Then he says:

“It wasn’t Islesbury. It was a mission from the admiral. He hired mercenaries, soldiers. Faithless men. He wanted them blamed. Wanted to start a war. Change the order.”

You don’t respond. But your heart is pounding so hard you feel each beat vibrating in your throat. A dull anger rises in your gut. Or maybe... an older fear.

“I was there. Watching. When the carnage began, my ship couldn’t leave the bay. The Sovereign Grace sank under fire. My crew was gunned down. And on the shore... only bodies. Too many to count.”

He speaks with a calm that hurts. As if every word has already been chewed over a thousand times. As if that’s all he has left: the ashes of memory.

“I crawled to the city. There was nothing left but silence. Red puddles. Muffled cries. Then voices. The admiral was speaking to someone. A man demanding his payment. And the admiral... killed him. One blow. Like erasing a problem.”

His fists clench. The wood creaks under the pressure.

“I wanted to speak up. I fled to the capital. I wanted to warn them. But they were waiting for me. They locked me up. Called me a traitor. Said I was helping Islesbury rebels. It was a trap.”

He pauses. His gaze drifts into a corner of shadow.

“Since then, I’ve survived.”

You stare at him. You want to scream that it’s a lie. That you were there. That you saw. That you know. But he slowly rolls up his sleeve.

A tattoo. A compass rose. The name Sovereign Grace. An anchor. A memory branded in your mind.

You recognize it. The mark of a senior navy officer.

And your world tilts.

You want to shout that it’s not possible. That your father would never... No.

But a thought slips in, crawls under your skin, whispers softly. And you can’t ignore it anymore.

A doubt. Thin. Sharp.

A crack.

And it widens.

Your heart skips a beat. A sudden dizziness grips you—brief, but real. As if the floor just gave way beneath your feet.

You freeze. Holding your breath. Listening. You want to reject what you just heard, deny it outright. But it’s too late. The truth has already slipped under your skin, thin and sharp as a blade.

“You’re lying,” you whisper. “My father would never do that.”

But your voice trembles. Just a crack. Barely there. And deep down, you already know. Something pulls taut inside you—an old, dusty string you’d forgotten. You don’t have all the pieces yet, but the image is taking shape.

Caleb doesn’t look up. He watches the wine swirl in his glass, slowly, almost absentmindedly.

“I don’t need you to believe me. Not yet.”

Finally, he turns toward you. His gaze has darkened. Heavier now.

“But I need you to survive. Whole. Clear-headed. Able to speak. To understand. To act.”

The slap isn’t physical, but it lands all the same. Sharp. Brutal. You’re just a piece on his board. A lever. Anger rises in your chest, hot and sharp. You clench your thighs. A wave of nausea threatens.

“You’re going to sell me?”

A humorless twitch flickers across his face.

“No. Trade you. For the truth. For the freedom of those who have nothing left.”

You don’t know what to feel anymore. But something broke. Quietly. Inside you. A fracture you didn’t know was there.

Your chest tightens. The air thickens, choking. Your fingers shake without you noticing. You try to breathe in.

But nothing comes back.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

You stare at the tattoo.

It’s still there, dark against his sun-worn skin. Not hidden. Not denied. He wears it like a chosen scar. A compass, the name of the ship, an anchor. Marks that scream his past, the one he doesn’t bother to conceal.

But you don’t look away. You trace every black line, as if you could spot a crack, a lie, a detail he might have tried to bury.

Then, without raising your voice—almost calm:

“Does your crew know about all this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers turn the cup, slowly. Like he’s searching for his words in the dregs of the wine.

“They don’t need to know. Only to obey.”

His voice is steady, but it hits like a blade. No hesitation. No warmth. Just that bare, cutting truth.

You could stop there. You should. But the moment has cracked open—fragile, taut as a line ready to snap.

So you straighten your shoulders. Lift your chin. Your voice is soft, but it carries a bite you no longer hide.

“I just wonder… what would happen if they found out their captain once wore the Crown’s uniform?”

You want him to picture it. Doubt creeping in. Balance shifting. You want him to feel a little of what you’ve carried from the start.

He lifts his eyes. Slowly. A calculated motion. The glass still in his fingers. He looks at you. And he smiles.

A slow smile. Cold. Sharp as a razor’s edge.

“And I wonder what would happen to you… if I wasn’t here.”

He drinks. Calmly. The wine vanishes between his lips. And you hold your breath.

A flicker in his jaw. Slight. But you catch it. Your words landed. Something in him shifted.

Your heart slams in your chest. Hard. Too hard. You know you’re playing with fire. But you don’t step back.

Silence falls. Heavy. Loaded.

The air scrapes your throat. You picture him falling. Slipping. Vanishing. And you, still standing. Free. But he doesn’t move.

He sighs. Long. Worn.

Then he sets the cup down. His gaze moves slowly from the ceramic to you. And in his eyes, there’s something new now. Colder. Steadier. Maybe a trace of disappointment. Or worse—a warning.

“You think I keep a belladonna plant here for decoration?”

He tilts his head slightly. His voice lowers. Almost gentle. But it’s not reassuring. It’s sharper still.

“I built up immunity. Belladonna. Arsenic. You’d be surprised what a man learns to anticipate when he lives with a target between his shoulder blades. Me? I learned how to survive.”

He stands. Calm on the surface, but his breathing has changed—slower, heavier, like he’s fighting something inside. You hate his voice, but when it vanishes, it’s worse. The silence becomes a blade hanging in the air.

Then he moves. Without a word. His steps are slow, controlled. Before you even realize it, his hand closes around your arm. His grip is dry, firm. Not angry, but not gentle either.

You expected it. Still, your body tenses. His touch is a jolt—not pain, but resonance. Something old. You want to hate him. You want to pull away. But your stomach knots, tight with a feeling you refuse to name.

He forces you to stand. The chair screeches in protest. You stumble. A cold shiver climbs your spine. You don’t know if it’s fear—or something else, duller, dirtier: the rage of having no control.

He pulls you toward the door. You try to break his hold, sliding your fingers against his. Useless. You fight back, more out of reflex than hope. Your feet slip on the wooden planks. You miss a step. Nearly fall.

He doesn’t slow. His hand still grips you—firm, alive. And you, breathless, can only think of one thing: what is he going to do? What’s waiting for you? You thought you had a sliver of control. Now you see it—just a lure. An illusion of power.

You remember what he said. What he never promised. And you know, deep down, he never bluffs. You could beg. But you won’t. Not him. Not now.

The door slams behind you. A sharp, final sound. Like a guillotine.

Your stomach twists. Your knees want to give. But you stay upright. Out of pride. Out of instinct. And in the shock of that closing door, you hear a truth sharper than anything else: something just broke. Maybe your freedom. Maybe you.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

You're thrown into the cabin without care. Your shoulders hit the wall, the air knocked clean from your lungs. Behind you, a key turns in the lock. The click echoes—sharp, final. It seals you in. Like a burden no one knows what to do with.

Caleb says nothing. Not a word. Just silence. Heavy. Razor-sharp. You push yourself up, gasping, wrists still trembling. He stands there, unmoving, eyes locked on you. You can feel the tension in the air, ready to snap. And when you can’t take it anymore, when the silence becomes unbearable, you slap him. Hard. The sound cracks like a snapped rope.

He doesn’t react immediately. But his eyes shift. Something dangerous flickers. He grabs your hand—the one that hit him. Presses it against your back. Firm. Not painful. But firm.

His other hand grips your nape, and he kisses you. No—he crushes his mouth to yours. It isn’t a kiss. It’s a warning. You freeze. Just for a second. One too many. When your breath returns, the cold bite of chains already tightens around your wrists.

“You hit like someone afraid of what it might unleash.”

You pull at the chains. He looks away. You’re restrained. Pinned to the wall like a trophy. Not an opponent.

“You’re no different from the men you claim to hate.”

Your voice is raw. Thick with rage. With humiliation. The lock snaps shut behind him. Again. Louder this time. You close your eyes. It’s worse than pain. It’s this shame, this dry burn in your throat.

You hear his footsteps. The rustle of his coat. The clink of his sword as he sets it down. Then the shift of his shirt as he takes it off. You don’t want to look. But you do.

His skin catches the light. Shadows follow the lines of his muscles. He’s all there, fully present. And you—your body reacts before you can stop it. Your legs press together. It’s too late. You feel it in your stomach. In your chest. In your stuttering breath.

He sees it. Of course he does. You look away, flushed. He knows. And says nothing.

The mattress creaks. He lies down. His scent drifts to you—salt, leather, ash. You breathe it in without meaning to. You hate yourself for it.

He lies on his back. Still. But you know he’s not asleep. His breathing is too steady. Too controlled.

You stay curled up, against the wall. The floor steals your warmth. Dampness eats at you. The chains bite your skin.

But the worst part isn’t that. It’s not the cold. Not the pain. Not even the fear.

It’s the desire that won’t leave you. The anger churning inside. The shame of having faltered. Of feeling your body respond.

You wanted to break him. And you’re the one cracking.

He didn’t say a word. He barely did a thing. But he has the upper hand.

And you still feel him—like a mark. Under your skin.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

You’re not sleeping. Not really. Just flashes of black between jolts. The wood gnaws at your back, dampness creeps up your neck, and every breath feels stolen. But it’s not pain that keeps you awake. It’s the silence. Caleb’s silence.

He’s there, lying a few meters away. Motionless. Too still. Like a sheathed blade that never dulls. Even his breathing—too calm, too steady. As if he’s pretending to sleep. Or as if he’s forgotten how.

You turn your head. He hasn’t moved. A figure carved from shadow. Out of reach. Even bathed in flickering light, he seems elsewhere. Alert. His fingers twitch—barely. A ripple in the air. Like a threat held in check.

You look away. And that’s when you hear it.

A sound. Small. Muffled. Outside.

You stop breathing. You strain to listen. Then sit up, as far as the chain lets you. The metal bites your wrist—a sharp sting. You crawl, slow and low, each movement peeling skin. Your breath pounds like a frantic drum. You press your ear to the wood.

Voices. Faint. But there.

“… time someone else took the Nocturne’s helm…”

“… he listens to no one…”

“… you want to sink with him?”

A chill slices through you. You know that voice. Deep. Precise. It’s him—the first mate. Every word lands sharp, like a scalpel. He sows doubt, breathes fear. He hunts for cracks. And some listen. Some nod. Murmurs, low laughs, hidden tension. A slow current of something sour and electric.

They want his place. They want him gone. And you—a thought hits, violent: what if they’re right? What if Caleb is dragging you all down with him?

You want to reject it. Crush it. But it’s already there. Rooted.

You pull back. Legs weak. You slide down the wall. Not quite sitting—just... folded in. The walls seem to breathe.

Caleb doesn’t move. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s listening too. Maybe he’s waiting—to see who betrays first.

And you? You’re no longer the envoy. No longer the voice of diplomacy. Just a pawn, forgotten in a dark corner.

But maybe not useless.

Maybe invisible enough to strike. And strike where it hurts.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

༒ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ༒

𓆩 ⚓︎ 𓆪 Written by selisverse. No reposts, no translations, no plagiarism — respect the ink and the salt. ⚔️ Like & reblog if the tide pulls you in. It keeps the ship afloat.

[selisverse]

Nocturne

Warnings : Captivity, Psychological abuse / manipulation, Sexual threat (implied), Violence / trauma (implied), Power imbalance, Objectification, PTSD symptoms / anxiety, Confrontation.

Summary : pirate!caleb × diplomatic!reader

WC : 3.8k

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

Chapter 2 - The Price of Silence

Darkness presses against your closed eyelids. A thick, suffocating darkness, like ink suspended in water. The world tilts. You feel the ship’s sway beneath your body even before your eyes open.

The stench of damp rope, wet wood, and dried seaweed assaults you. With every breath, a wave of nausea rises in your throat. You're alive. But you're no longer on your ship.

A grimy ray of light filters through a filthy porthole, casting an uncertain shape on the wall. You're curled in a corner, sitting on the floor, wrists numb, muscles aching. Your entire body is a memory of the boarding—screams, icy water, that burning, merciless stare—just before everything went black.

The cabin is narrow, without comfort, without warmth. A few stacked crates, a coiled rope like a noose, a rusted hook embedded in the wall—proof that this place has already been used to break others before you. The air is damp, thick with the salty breath of the sea and the acrid stench of hot tar. Somewhere behind you, a droplet falls at regular intervals. Tick. Tick. Tick. The silence is almost total, but it's deceptive. It's not peace. It's the silence that follows chaos. The kind that follows a shipwreck.

You straighten your back. Each vertebra snaps like a protest. Your fingers brush instinctively against the brooch still pinned to your uniform. It's a tiny spark in the vast darkness, a star planted on your chest like a forgotten vow. You cling to it like a shoreline—not to flee, but to remember that you once belonged to something other than this cell. The metal is cold, unfamiliar, but its shape brings you back—to a childhood garden, a laughing voice, promises whispered between lessons. The prince gave it to you, not as a symbol of duty, but as a gesture of affection. You hold on to that thought. You're not alone. Not entirely.

Your uniform is soaked, crusted with salt and dried blood, torn in places. Your hands fumble toward the door—rough, thick wood reinforced with iron. You press your ear against it. Nothing, at first. Then, a faint creak. Distant. You hold your breath.

Heavy footsteps. Rhythmic. Someone is coming. The floor groans beneath their weight. No doubt now—it’s a man’s gait. Unhurried. Confident. The steps of someone who owns this place.

You step back, heart pounding harder. You want to vomit, to run. But you stay put. Your pulse throbs to your fingertips. The handle rattles. A shadow slips beneath the frame.

You scan the room for a weapon. Nothing. Not a shard, not even a splinter sharp enough to threaten. Just you. And fear.

You press yourself against the wall, standing tall, chin raised despite the terror tearing through your stomach. If you’re going to die, it won’t be on your knees.

The footsteps stop.

A metallic click. A bolt sliding free. A moment suspended—a single breath where everything could shift. Then the sharp groan of the door as it opens. Slowly. Deliberately.

The light slices into the room like a blade. Your pupils scream. You squint. A silhouette emerges in the doorway. Broad. Harsh.

It’s just a pirate. Broad-shouldered, thickset, a scar running from his jaw to his temple. He says nothing. He looks at you the way someone studies a lost item, unsure whether to keep it or toss it overboard. His attention lingers a second too long, then he inhales slowly, as if to push the thought away. A brief, almost irritated exhale escapes his nose before he straightens slightly.

He gestures for you to step out. A simple nod of the chin. The command is brief, sharp, indisputable. You hesitate. Every fiber screams not to move. But you do. Because you must.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

You are led in silence through the dark corridors of the Nocturne. The wood creaks beneath every step, the lantern light flickers, casting unstable shadows on the narrow walls. You feel eyes on you. You ignore them.

Your bare feet strike the damp planks, each step reigniting a fresh ache. But you stand tall. You refuse to show more weakness than they’ve already seen. As you move forward, voices fade behind you. Only the steady growl of the sea against the hull remains, and the groaning wood that seems to breathe.

You notice the details despite yourself. A rope tied with precision to a hook, a blade hanging, a calloused hand retreating behind a bulkhead as you pass. The crew watches through slits in the wood, and you feel the weight of every stare on your bare skin—some hungry, some coldly curious. You are the foreign element. A woman in a world of men. An enemy aboard a faithless ship.

Some whisper as you pass. You don’t catch every word, but you hear "prey," "captain," "mistake"—spoken with bitterness or hunger. There's tension in those voices, as if your very presence cracked something fragile.

A door opens into a larger room, its walls covered in nautical charts, iron hooks, locked chests. A rolled-up hammock in the corner, a saber nailed crookedly to the wall. The air is less stale here, heavier, saturated with salt, leather, and a spiced scent you don’t recognize. Harsh, warm, almost alive. This must be his quarters.

He is already there. Leaning against the desk, arms crossed, violet eyes locked on yours the moment you step inside. Caleb. A discreet movement catches your attention: a shadowed shape beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his right arm. A tattoo, hidden beneath the fabric—like a mark he chooses not to show. But it’s there. And you see it.

He sizes you up, without hostility, without blinking. He says nothing. You stand firm, silent. With a single glance from Caleb, your guard shuts the door behind you. You are alone with the captain of this cursed ship.

In a slow motion, he gestures to a pile of clothes laid out on the desk between you. A simple white shirt. Black lace-up trousers. A pair of leather boots. Men’s clothes—plain, utilitarian.

"Change," he says simply.

You lower your gaze to your dress—torn at the side, stained with blood and salt. The hem shredded, the sleeves soaked. You feel the cold creeping beneath your skin. Your mind slips for a moment, dragged back to the terrifying instant when your crew was slaughtered. Your ship didn’t stand a chance. You remember the blood, the fire, the black smoke rising into the sky as your vessel went up in flames. You remember the figures clashing on deck—your own arms restrained, unable to move as everything sank.

Your hands clench. You don’t move. You refuse to give in, even if the dry clothes in front of you taunt you.

"For your information, this ship holds 117 men," he adds in a neutral tone. "They haven’t stepped on land in two months. And they haven’t seen a woman in just as long. Don’t test their limits."

The implication is brutal. Raw. He knows it. He throws it at you like a warning—or a test.

You slowly lift your chin. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away. He won’t grant you the privacy you crave. He wants to see how far you’ll bend.

Your heart races. But your face remains unreadable. Fine. He wants control? He’ll get it. You’ll play this game too. You grab the clothes in one swift motion, glaring at him.

You turn your back to him, unfasten your dress, and let it slide to the floor. Slowly. You hold your breath. The damp fabric slaps the wood. Your fingers loosen the laces of your bodice and drop it atop the pile. You’re bare—wounded, marked.

Caleb doesn’t move. Not a blink. Not a twitch of his jaw. Just that hard stare, weighing you, observing the wounds from the night before.

You pull on the shirt. It’s rough, coarse. The cotton scrapes your salted skin. Then the trousers. Too big. You tie them with a string found on the desk. You look like the shadow of a man. Or a ghost. The boots give you stability. But not comfort. Just enough to stand firm.

When you look up again, he’s still there. Unmoving. Watching—all—your curves.

You breathe deep, swallowing the humiliation like poison.

"What do you want from me?" you ask, voice low but steady.

He shrugs.

"Nothing. For now."

You frown.

He continues, slower: "But you will help me get what I want. Willingly... or not."

You don’t answer immediately. You study him, sharp. He’s not lying. But he’s not telling the whole truth either. You feel the trap. And you won’t walk into it.

"I was raised to serve the Crown. I swore loyalty. I don’t renounce that." Your chin is lifted.

A dangerous flicker crosses his eyes. A brief, joyless smile. Ironic.

"The Crown, huh?" He rolls the word in his mouth like a bitter memory dressed as a promise.

Silence. Longer this time. Heavy. Intense.

He slowly circles you, observing your posture, the tilt of your head, the tension in your shoulders. Not like a predator. Like a captain evaluating an unused weapon. Then, without a word, he picks up a cloth from a chest, dips it in a basin of clear water, and offers it to you. A simple gesture. Almost casual. But charged with something else. Observation. Control. Or perhaps... a fragment of care, buried in silence. Just before you take it, a faint shift passes over his face. A blink slower than usual, a subtle slackening of his jaw. Barely anything. But you see it.

"That mask of arrogance—does it have a name, or shall I make one up for you?"

You hesitate, frozen. Then you reach out, take the cloth slowly. You grip it, and begin to wipe the dried blood from your palms, your wrists. Your movements are slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic. It’s not submission. It’s reclamation. A stolen moment of control in a scene that offers you none. Only then do you give him your name. Sharp. Inevitable.

"No need to ask yours. Your reputation precedes you, Captain Caleb."

He nods slightly. "If my name sounds familiar, then you already know I never make promises I can’t keep."

You expected more. A story. A threat. But no. Just a name. Thrown like a gauntlet.

And you know, in that exact moment, that your title won’t save you. But his—you’ll never forget.

He walks to the door, hand on the handle. Then pauses, turns slightly toward you:

"You’ll stay in my quarters. Don’t touch anything. Be a good girl, and everything will go smoothly."

And he leaves. Without another word. The door slams. The bolt slides into place.

You freeze. A moment outside of time. As if the air itself left with him, abandoning you in a room full of silence and ashes. The calm has nothing soothing about it. It’s suspended, cutting. A scene gone dark, yet its embers still watch you burn.

You are alone. In his clothes. In his quarters. Aboard his ship. At his mercy.

And the war has only just begun.

You bend to retrieve your brooch from your dress. Your fingers tremble slightly as they brush the cold metal. You hold it in your palms for a moment, as if its touch could recall some forgotten protection. Then you hide it beneath your shirt, closer to your skin than ever.

You turn slowly, observing a cracked lantern hanging from a beam, an overturned inkwell on an old notebook, his gloves—worn, carefully placed. As if he could seize anything—or crush it. Everything arranged as if he could leave at any moment. Or as if he controls every object, even the useless ones. Even the air is heavy with him. One item catches your eye: an old compass, carefully anchored to the desk. Next to it, a carved quill and a parchment covered in nervous handwriting. You don’t touch anything. But you memorize every detail.

You move to the porthole. The sky is lead-gray, the ocean dark and churning. The ship cuts through the waves with certainty, indifferent to your fate. A gull passes overhead. Too high to hear your fury. You wonder how many days this voyage will last. If you’ll ever see your homeland again. And above all... what this pirate truly wants from you.

A shiver climbs your spine. Not fear. Clarity.

You return to the massive wooden bed, a rough blanket folded on top. You sit slowly. Close your eyes. Just for a moment.

But even here, in the silence, you still feel the burn of his gaze—intense, cold, unwavering. And you understand: it wasn’t cruelty. It was control. A way to dominate without raising a hand.

So you stay upright. You don’t sleep. You observe. Even locked away, you refuse to yield. He may have won the first round, but you’ll learn his rules. Twist them. Break them.

You trace the grooves in the floorboards, the knots in the wood, the sounds bleeding through the walls. A whistle, somewhere outside. A deep voice barking an order. The snap of a sail.

The Nocturne lives. Breathes. And in its belly, there is you. Alone. Alive. And an old, quiet anger burning beneath your skin—not an explosion, but a promise.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

You wake in a muffled silence, dense and slow, barely disturbed by the creaking of the wood and the regular splash of water against the hull. Exhaustion finally claimed you. Your body is stiff beneath the blanket. You didn’t sleep—not really. You stayed alert, tense as a drawn bow, every breath caught in the fear of hearing the handle turn.

Caleb hasn’t returned—or at least, nothing has disturbed your rest.

You glance around. Something’s off. The candle that burned on the desk last night is now extinguished. Sunlight filters through the porthole, and the door... is ajar. Too quiet. Too easy.

Your hand hesitates on the handle. But the door opens. Silently. No guard outside. As if you’d been forgotten. Or tested.

You step out.

The ship breathes beneath you. No longer a trap, but an animal that accepts you without welcoming you. You move cautiously, each board creaking under your weight. Daylight barely filters through the cracks.

You squint, blinded by a brightness you haven’t seen in days. When you reach the deck, the sky hits you like a slap. Blue, vast, open. The air smells of powder, sweat, and warm tar. You breathe in, despite yourself. You refuse to retreat. Even if your body longs to jump into the sea.

Faces turn toward you.

Some watch you with sharp curiosity, others with raw hostility. One man stares without blinking. Another turns his back and spits on the deck. But what surprises you is the pity in some of their eyes. Fleeting, almost ashamed. As if they know your presence here is a sentence in itself. As if you no longer belong to any side. Suspended between two worlds. She isn’t human. She’s political. An embarrassing variable.

You don’t lower your gaze. You keep walking, choosing not to provoke.

“It’s a mistake, Captain.”

You turn your head, drawn by the edge of a deep voice. On the quarterdeck, Caleb watches his crew at work, hands clasped behind his back. At his side stands a larger man, weathered skin, arms marked with deep scars. He scans the deck with a critical eye, jaw tight. No insignia. But authority radiates in the way the crew stiffens around him. His second-in-command, without a doubt.

“You’re keeping her on board? After what we did to her ship? She’s not one of us. She doesn’t belong here.”

Silence falls. The sails snap in the wind. Caleb doesn’t move. Then slowly, his attention shifts—to you. As if he sensed your presence without needing to look.

“She stays.”

That tone. The same as your father’s, when he made decisions. Cold. Irrevocable.

A memory rises, brutal: a command given, a life taken, and your inability to challenge it. You swallow an old anger, pulsing under your skin like embers beneath ash.

“And if she turns on us? Sabotages the helm? What if the admiral comes for her?” the man presses, teeth clenched.

Caleb steps forward. Just enough to make the silence heavier.

“Then you’ll throw her overboard yourself, Aron.”

The second clenches his jaw. He says nothing. Not aloud. But you see it in his shoulders, in the way his fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword. And in the crew. Not all agree. The order was given. But it hasn’t been accepted. And in Aron’s eyes, it’s not just doubt. It might be the beginning of a fracture. A part of you understands his anger. If the roles were reversed, you’d likely protest too.

Your existence here disturbs the balance. You feel the deck shift with every step. As if your mere presence is enough to crack the equilibrium.

Caleb doesn’t speak to you all day. But you feel his eyes on you like a blade laid flat against your skin. Just at the edge of your vision. When you eat. When you gaze at the horizon. When you try to ignore the whispers.

He studies you.

You don’t yet know what he’s waiting for. But you feel it—he’s weighing, calculating, sorting. In his silence. In the precision of his stare. He’s searching for the crack. The advantage. The moment you’ll let your guard drop. You are not invisible. You are a piece to be used.

Perhaps a trade. A bargaining chip. A provocation to hurl at the admiral.

Sometimes, you catch him staring into the void beyond the railing. His eyes cloud over. Then sharpen again as they return to you. As if he’s already planning the negotiations, the traps, the terms.

You’re not just a hostage. You’re a bomb. And he already holds the match.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The day fades. The sky turns copper, then deep blue. You slowly return to the cabin Caleb left you, the one you’ve never truly accepted as yours. The wood creaks softly beneath your steps. The air is colder tonight, laced with salt and silence.

You close the door behind you and stand still for a moment. The cabin is narrow, almost stifling, saturated with thick shadows and a muffling calm. Every wall seems to draw you deeper into yourself. Everything here is still, sealed, breathless. And yet, beyond this wooden shell, lies infinity.

Outside, the sea. Vast. Wild. Free. The wind moves without restraint, stars scatter across the surface in shimmering constellations, and the moon traces silver paths that no one follows. An open world, unknown, untouchable.

You are locked inside a box of silence. A prison without bars, but full of eyes. The dark belly of the ship, ready to swallow your dreams as the sea swallows the dead. Moonlight spills through the round porthole, carving a pale ellipse on the floor. It’s the only light you’re given. No lanterns are lit aboard the Nocturne. They never are. The ship sails in shadow, like a ghost that prefers not to be seen, sliding over the waves—silent, invisible, unreachable.

You slide slowly down the door, until you’re seated on the floor. Your back bumps softly against the wood. You draw your knees to your chest, resting your chin on them. You stay there, unmoving, for a long time. The silence feels almost too vast to be contained between these walls.

You think of your country. Of the capital. Of its docks flooded with light. The pale stone of its palaces, the bustle of the markets, the ringing of bells in the old districts. You see again the cool sheets, the scent of orange blossoms in the palace courtyard. And your father. The man who raised you, shaped you, trained you to obey, to smile, to bend without breaking. Does he know? Is he aware your ship was attacked? Does he believe you dead? Or has he not even noticed your absence?

You want to believe he’s searching. That he’s sent the fleet. That he scans the horizon each night. But another voice inside you—colder, sharper—whispers he may have already moved on. Perhaps your absence is just a logistical detail. A delay in a report. You are not his daughter. You are his instrument, expected to function.

You close your eyes for a moment. The solitude is acidic, and the thought of facing everything alone burns hotter than fear. And suddenly, your eyes fall on a blank logbook left on a table. You refuse to follow the rules they’ve written for you. So you rise, driven by a quiet, smoldering rage.

If you can only rely on yourself to return home, you’ll have to escape. And soon. Before Caleb decides what to do with you. Before he turns you into currency, into a message, into a threat.

You pull yourself upright again, body taut, movements careful. In the bluish dark, you search the cabinets and drawers without a sound. An empty jewelry box—like the promise you were given. A compass with no needle—like your future. And that logbook... as if they were waiting for you to sign your own captivity.

You stop before the desk. There, carelessly placed at the edge, a finely carved letter opener, darkened metal. Light. Maneuverable. Sharp. A makeshift weapon. Better than nothing.

You reach for it without hesitation. The metal is icy in your palm. You slide it into your boot, against your ankle. It will stay there. Invisible. Reachable.

You inhale slowly, once, then again. You listen.

Outside, everything feels suspended, frozen. The ship sleeps. Or pretends to. Not a cry. Not a laugh. Just the creaking of wood beneath the waves, the low sigh of sails drawing taut, and that almost human rasp of rigging shifting in the dark.

Your gaze settles on the door. You move toward it. Your hand closes around the handle, damp with tension. You hold your breath. Your heart pounds in your chest, deafening. But you refuse to back down.

Tonight, you’ll leave. You’ll untie one of the lifeboats. And you’ll row. If you must, all the way to the lights of your city.

You have no plan. Only fear and instinct. But tonight, that’s enough. You refuse to play a part they’ve written without you. You count the steps in your head. Picture the rope to cut, the silence to keep, the oars dipping into black water. An escape. A chance. A freedom.

But just as you’re about to open the door, a silhouette appears in the doorway.

Caleb.

Still. Silent. As if he’d been waiting for you. As if he knew.

A violent shiver runs through you, as if your body understood before your mind.

And there’s nowhere left to run.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

༒ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ༒

𓆩 ⚓︎ 𓆪 Written by selisverse. No reposts, no translations, no plagiarism — respect the ink and the salt. ⚔️ Like & reblog if the tide pulls you in. It keeps the ship afloat.

[selisverse]

Nocturne

Warnings : graphic violence, ship destruction, death (minor characters), capture, psychological tension, threat, non-sexual physical contact (reader discomfort)

A/n : Welcome aboard the Nocturne. Pirates, tension, hostage dynamics, and a captain who's way too calm to be safe. If you're into toxic slow burns, handcuffs, and emotionally questionable situations — you're exactly where you need to be.

⚠️ Dark content, power imbalance, attraction that stings where it shouldn’t. Consider yourselves warned.

And yes, English isn’t my first language — be gentle, or I’ll toss you straight into Caleb’s arms without a second thought. 😌

Your reblogs, your screams, your ALL-CAPS tags = pure fuel. Taglist is open, treasure chest unlocked.

Summary : pirate!caleb × diplomatic!reader

You were meant to bring peace. He came to burn everything down.

A ghost ship with black sails. A captain with violet eyes. No survivors.

You were sent to make peace. Now you’re locked in his quarters — alive, for reasons he won’t explain.

He looks at you like he wants to destroy you. Or keep you. Maybe both.

You hate him. You can’t stop thinking about him. And the sea shows no mercy.

WC : 4.5k

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

Chapter 1 - Under the Black Flag

The salty wind lashes your cheeks. You stand at the prow, facing the vastness of the sea. Above you, the royal banner snaps in the breeze, a restless symbol of a power you carry without fully understanding it. Ahead, the ocean stretches wide and wild beneath a sky already painted with the dark hues of an emerging dusk.

You take a slow breath, trying to calm the quick beat of your heart. The taste of salt clings to your lips. The air is thick with damp wood and worn ropes—a brutal reminder that you're far from the soft world of palaces, audience halls, and gilded libraries. Here, there is only the sea, raw and untamable, humming its deep, relentless song.

You didn’t choose this mission, but you accepted it. Diplomatic emissary, messenger of peace between a restless kingdom and tense annexed lands—you bear a title heavier than it seems. And you carry a name: the Admiral’s. Not your father by blood, but the man who found you, a war-orphaned child from a ruined village, and raised you in the shadow of flags and oaths.

He gave you shelter, education, a future. In return, you owe him your loyalty, your obedience, and the role he shaped for you—whether you wanted it or not. Sometimes you wonder: when he looks at you, does he see the girl he saved, or the tool he forged?

You remember the first time you saw the sea. You were six, wrapped in borrowed cloth, still blinking in the sunlight after days spent in a cellar. The Admiral had taken you to the docks—said nothing, just let you look at the horizon. You had cried, hoping for a hand, a word. He had remained there, silent, unmoving, as if already watching you through the eyes of a commander.

The sea has never been yours. You weren’t born to it, and it has never offered you comfort. It still humbles you, with its dark and endless reach. Even now, after several days aboard this ship, the swaying still unsettles you. You walk these planks as a stranger, tolerated but never at home.

You cross your arms against yourself, watching the light slip over the water like molten gold. Beautiful but unstable, ready to dissolve with the slightest wave. In the distance, where sea and sky blur into a single indistinct line, clouds gather. You wonder if a storm is coming, or if it’s just your imagination—a reflection of your own unease painted on the horizon.

A murmur dies as you pass. A glance held too long. You can't tell if it's respect or suspicion. You don't want to know. You pass a young sailor—a boy more fragile than the blade he polishes. He looks up as you approach, his gaze a mix of deference and wariness.

"Evening, my Lady," he says, more out of duty than warmth. He doesn’t bow. His gaze slides over your uniform, then away. He sees you, but he doesn’t welcome you.

You offer a nod, keeping your posture composed. Here, there is no room for hesitation. No space for the weight you carry in silence.

In your cabin, letters await you. Missives from the court, instructions wrapped in elegant calligraphy and even finer expectations. You’ve read them twice already. You could recite them if asked. You know the names of every chieftain you’re meant to meet, every treaty clause you’re meant to propose. And yet, it all feels fragile. Ink on parchment, promises on paper, meant to survive in a world carved by wind and steel.

Your gaze returns to the sea. Somewhere out there, beyond your reach, lies a future forged by your actions. And perhaps, just perhaps, by your choices.

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts.

"Miss."

The voice is low, polite. You turn slowly to face the captain—an older man, weathered by the sea, his jaw tight, his eyes heavy with concern he does not try to hide.

"We'll reach the archipelago before dawn."

You nod quietly. He inclines his head slightly and walks away, his boots echoing softly across the deck. You draw another breath, the air sharp with salt and razor-edged promises. You swallow the weight in your throat. This is no longer the time for fear.

There is no room for doubt. Not tonight.

This is your mission. This is your name. This is your inheritance.

And you will carry it across the waters, whatever the cost.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻��︎

Night has fallen, cloaking the ship in a shroud of shadows and whispers. Beneath a sky littered with stars, the deck hums with quiet activity. You walk slowly, each step measured, your gaze drifting toward the distant horizon as if searching for something to hold onto. Around you, sailors move with practiced ease—checking ropes, adjusting sails, their calloused hands never still. But it’s in the pauses, the low voices between tasks, that you hear what truly matters.

"They say he leaves only wreckage behind," murmurs a young deckhand, eyes wide, caught between fear and fascination.

"Not a single survivor," adds another, his voice barely louder than the wind.

"That captain. Caleb… they say he’s a demon," whispers a third, a shiver laced in his words.

You pause, your heart skipping a beat. You listen, pretending to look away, your fingers brushing the cold rail. An old sailor, his beard stiff with salt and his hands cracked with age, sits on a crate. He spits into the dark sea and lifts his gaze. "I saw it once—the Nocturne. Not up close, no. But close enough. Black sails. Dead silence. The water just… parted for it. And when it passed, nothing was left. Only broken boards and ghosts."

You inhale, trying to calm the chill crawling up your spine. Just stories… murmurs to chase away the dark, you tell yourself, not quite believing it. Yet something in their voices, in the flicker of their eyes, unsettles you more than you’re willing to admit.

Why has your father—the admiral, the meticulous strategist, the man who misses nothing—never spoken of this threat? Why the silence, as if this captain and his ship existed only on the margins, between official reports and battle plans?

You pace the deck, your steps muffled on the damp planks. The air feels heavier here, thick with moisture and a tense silence. You sense an undercurrent in the exchanged glances, as if the men aboard carry more than the weight of the wind. And the conversation drifts into deeper, darker waters.

"Ever been to Orven Bay?" says one sailor, his voice low and bitter. "Used to be fish markets and songs. Now it’s barricades and curfews. A curfew in a fishing village—can you believe that?"

"They’re afraid," another murmurs. "Afraid the annexed people might rise up."

"And wouldn’t you?" another voice snaps. "After what we’ve done to them?"

You slow your steps, heart heavy. The words hit harder than they should. You’re supposed to bring peace, to ease tensions. Yet here, anger isn’t hidden—not even beneath the cover of night. It flows like an undercurrent, silent but relentless.

"They took our homes," a younger voice protests, defensive. "My brother died defending those territories. They’re ours now."

A bitter silence follows.

"No one belongs to anyone," the old sailor says at last. "That’s what we forgot. And the Nocturne? Some say it just came to remind us."

You grip the railing tighter, your knuckles whitening. You’re no stranger to complexity, nor to the compromises diplomacy demands. But this raw fracture, this low-burning tension that coils in every word—it fills you, not as a threat, but as an old fatigue, a weariness born of too many swallowed silences.

The ship groans as it rides a mild swell, the lantern light swaying across the deck. Behind you, the bell tolls softly, marking the late hour. Yet no one sleeps. Conversations continue in small clusters, voices quieter but no less intense.

A group near the helm passes around a flask, their laughter sharp, forced. You catch fragments:

"They say the Nocturne’s captain used to be navy—one of ours."

You glance away briefly. The air smells of hot tar and salt-worn wood. A laugh escapes—dry, joyless, like a forgotten reflex.

"Turned pirate? Why?"

"Betrayed, maybe. Or he saw too much. You see what we do, the orders we carry out… it changes a man. »

“And now he kills without mercy?”

“Maybe he kills with purpose.”

You move away from the group, unsettled. This isn’t the kind of talk they’d dare share in daylight—not with you present. But beneath the shroud of stars, the truth seeps out—ugly, raw, undeniable.

You pass a young sailor with pale hair and sunken cheeks, sitting cross-legged near the stairs, sharpening a dagger with care. He looks up at you, somewhere between suspicion and curiosity.

“Do you believe in monsters, miss?” he asks.

You hesitate, uncertain.

“We do,” he says, without waiting for your answer. “Not the kind with fangs or claws. The kind that wear uniforms. The ones who sit behind polished tables and sign orders like death warrants.”

You continue walking, his words still echoing in your mind.

Near the bow, the night feels colder. The wind has shifted, bringing with it a salty bite… and something else: anticipation. You raise your eyes. Clouds are gathering, veiling the stars.

You place your hands on the railing again, staring at the black waves. You wonder what your father would say if he heard what you’ve just heard. Would he defend the orders? Justify the losses? Remind you of your duty? Of the bigger picture?

You already hear his voice. Calm. Cold. Your name is his. And a name, he says, must be protected—above all, even at the cost of silence. But if silence turns to poison, what’s left to protect?

The hush deepens… then footsteps. A throat clears. You don’t move.

“You know what they say? That the captain of the Nocturne only takes prisoners when he has a message to send,” someone says. “Otherwise, he sinks the ships—every soul aboard.”

“And what kind of message do you think he’s sending?”

“Revenge. Revolution. Maybe just a warning.”

The footsteps fade. You close your eyes.

Your mission is clear. Deliver conditions written by others. Extend hands no one wants to take. Rekindle a trust drowned long ago. But these men—they don’t want unity. They want someone to blame. And some of them, you feel it, would welcome the flames if it meant watching the old structures burn.

A sudden gust rips through the sails, snapping them taut. Sailors shout, rushing to adjust the rigging. Instinctively, you step back—your coat whipping in the wind.

Lightning splits the horizon—distant, silent. A warning. Something’s wrong. You feel it. In the air, in the deck’s uneasy groan, in the glances that lift without a word.

Then, as quickly as it came, silence returns. Heavier.

“Starboard… black sails.”

The words are quiet, but they strike the ship like a cannon blast.

You spin around, your heart lodged in your throat. The lookout is pointing, his face pale beneath the moonlight. Silence falls across the deck. One by one, heads turn.

Out there, a shape moves forward—fluid, black as oil. Its low silhouette seems carved to slip beneath the surface, a predator crouched in shadow. At its prow, barely visible, stands a worn wooden figurehead—a nameless beast, mouth open in a frozen snarl. It doesn’t cut through the water—it devours it. No splashing, no breath, not even the cry of gulls: only a silence so thick it seems to swallow the wind itself. And its sails—black as forgetting—freeze the world around you.

Your breath halts. No scream, no flight—only the pounding in your chest, so loud it drowns out the wind.

You don’t know if it’s fear… or something older. Something instinctive. A call you’ve never been able to name.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The scream tears through the night, sharp and brutal, like a mast snapping in a storm. You jerk your head up, breath caught, heart pounding out of control. There—far across the black water—a shadow cuts through the waves, gliding like a ghost. The Nocturne. Its black sails, swollen with a silent wind, slice across the horizon, moving without a sound, as if the ocean itself is holding its breath.

Lanterns swing wildly, casting flashes of gold and shadow over faces you barely recognize. Hands clench, blades hiss from their sheaths — and your breath catches again, as if the chaos around you is pressing down on your chest. 

"To your posts!" shouts the first mate, voice ragged with fear. "Arm the cannons, damn it!" 

An old sailor spits on the deck: "They’re coming down on us like vultures."

Orders fly through the air, boots thunder against the planks, chains clatter, and above it all cracks the sharp snap of sails lashing the wind. A bell rings out suddenly—shrill, three times—the signal of an imminent boarding. A sound that slices through the air like a knife and pierces straight through your bones.

You should shout a command, give an order, honor your father. But nothing comes. Just that cold, old weight lodged in your throat. You stand there, an idle spectator to a well-oiled machine spiraling out of your control. The deck is slick beneath your feet, soaked in spray and fear.

Salt burns your lips... as if your body understands what’s coming before your mind can catch up. It’s not the first time you’ve felt this — this nameless fear, this gut-deep certainty that something is about to be torn from you. You freeze, trapped in a single breath, eyes locked on that unreal silhouette.

Then instinct crashes back. Violent. Your legs give out, tear free from the deck before you even know what’s happening. Your heart pounds—again and again—like it’s trying to escape your chest. You run—or think you do—but your movements blur, unreal. The night thickens, closes in, clings to your skin. It hums with a danger you can’t see, but every part of you screams to flee. Everything becomes too fast. Too loud. Too late. And in that spiral, one truth punches the air from your lungs: nothing will ever be the same again.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

The impact is brutal. The ship shudders beneath your feet, a sharp crack ripping through the air as grappling hooks sink into the wood. You stagger, catching yourself just in time on the railing. Around you, the planks groan, some splintering under the force of the collision, flinging splinters like a rain of needles.

And then—they appear.

The pirates. Fearless, faces exposed. Some scream with savage joy, others advance in silence, focused, methodical—more like trained soldiers than bloodthirsty brutes. Their howls burst into the night, mingling with the clash of steel and the alarmed clamor. You want to move, to flee, to find cover, but the chaos swallows you whole. Bodies already fall—silhouettes collapsing with muffled cries, to the sound of blades piercing flesh.

"Don’t stay there!" the captain’s voice cuts through the din, commanding, almost pleading. You turn your head, meet his gaze for a second before he disappears into the melee. But your legs won’t move. They feel rooted to the deck, as if the ship itself has nailed you in place.

Your breath comes short, too short. The acrid smell of gunpowder stings your nose, the metallic taste of blood already thick in the air. You want to retreat, vanish into the shadows, but suddenly a hand clamps down on your arm—strong, unrelenting. You struggle, heart pounding wildly, but the man—a pirate, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed—pins you against the railing with chilling precision. His hard chest presses into your back, his breath burns hot against your neck. His hands glide briefly over your hips before tightening, locking you in place. You fight, you protest. His grip tightens. A predatory smile creeps across his lips. He savors the contact. The shiver you can’t suppress. His fingers tighten possessively around your throat, as if he wants to leave an invisible mark, as if he's already savoring the idea of returning for you. His gaze slides over you, slow, hungry, and he murmurs something—a guttural, harsh word you don't understand. But you know he's naming you, before vanishing again into the fight.

You stumble back, but your legs feel numb. You cling to the railing as if it might keep you from sinking. Every breath is shallow, as if even the air refuses to reach you. The sounds of battle swell around you—the clash of blades, the screams of the wounded, the desperate orders of officers trying to rally their men. But their voices drown in a maelstrom of sabers and clamor, a din of iron and fire that consumes every word.

And then you understand. You’re not an enemy. You’re not a fighter. You’re a prize. An exception on this battlefield.

Your heart pounds, dull and frantic. Everything around you is too fast, too loud. Some pirates laugh, almost euphoric, as the turmoil, shouts, clashing swords, and stomping boots shake the ship.

Someone yanks you violently backward, nearly throwing you to the ground. You recognize one of your own—a young sailor you’ve passed a thousand times on deck, always the first to salute, always adjusting the rigging with care. His face is tight with fear, but his blade is already raised. He steps in front of you without hesitation, shielding you with his body.

"Get out of here!" he spits, just before a blade runs him through. He stumbles, eyes wide, blood spilling from his mouth. He collapses at your feet, dropped like a broken puppet. You flinch, the sound of his body hitting the deck louder than thunder in your ears. You drop beside him, your hands trembling as you try to press against the wound, to do something—anything. But the blood flows too fast. His eyes are already fading. You press harder. Again. The bleeding doesn’t stop. His gaze is already drifting, far away. You whisper his name—or maybe it’s just a breath. And only then does the raw horror of the scene freeze you. The wood beneath your boots turns slick, and for a moment, you think the sea itself is rising to meet you.

The tumult wraps around you, dizzying. The stench of powder, flashes of steel, cries and chaos blend until you lose your footing. Your senses blur—screams turn to echoes, the lights above twist into strange halos. You stare at your hands, covered in the blood of your own, praying to stay calm, stay clear, survive. A dull rage rises in you, hot and senseless. You hear your adoptive father's voice—his repeated orders, his speeches about duty. Everything is crumbling, and yet something inside you still wants to hold on. Just hold on. Too much noise. Too much blood. Too many eyes. You want to flee. Understand. Breathe. Just one second.

Voices rise nearby—gruff, accented, filled with sharp commands. You don’t understand the words, but the tone is unmistakable: victory. The pirates are winning. This isn’t panic. It’s victory, executed with cold precision.

One of your comrades rushes past, a trembling blade in hand. He doesn’t make it three steps before a blow strikes him down. You hear the sickening crack of steel meeting bone. You swallow your scream.

A cannon explodes behind you. The entire ship lurches. Splinters rain like hail, and you cover your head on instinct. Something burns—tar, maybe the reserves. A rancid heat claws at your throat.

And still, through it all, you feel his gaze. The pirate who marked you with his hands, with his eyes. You don’t see him, but you know he’s watching. Somewhere in the chaos, he’s tracking your every move.

You push yourself upright, trembling. You refuse to break. You scan the deck for a weapon, anything, but all you see are blades in the hands of men who wouldn’t hesitate to gut you. Your fists clench. You’re not useless. You’re not. You’re no warrior. But you have a mind. Eyes. You’re already searching for a weakness. This isn’t just about surviving anymore. It’s about responding. Striking back. Somehow.

You back away, staggering toward the quarterdeck, the soot-blackened rail in your sights. But there’s no escape. The sea is everywhere. And the Nocturne is already securing its lines, pulling your ship into its jaws.

In the heart of this storm, you know: the night has changed its face. And it will never let you go.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

When the last sailor falls to his knees, disarmed, a heavy silence settles over the deck. The screams, the clashes—everything seems frozen, as if the sea itself were holding its breath. And then, he appears.

The captain of the Nocturne.

His boots echo on the wood—slow, measured, filled with icy confidence. Not the savage chaos of a bloodthirsty pirate—no, a presence controlled, almost elegant. He walks through the carnage like an amused spectator, each step falling like a promise. Around him, men scream, drag the wounded, loot. He moves through the disaster untouched. His coat brushes the torn sails strewn across the deck, the long silhouette of a predator calmly observing the wreckage. His purple gaze sweeps over the survivors—cold, methodical—and when it finally meets yours, the world narrows until nothing remains but this suspended moment between you.

He approaches, a faint smile curling at his lips, quiet irony in his eyes. His eyes pause on your clothes—on the royal brooch pinned to your bodice. The piece is finely crafted: a deep blue emblem studded with seven stars, one for each province of the kingdom. A silver sword pierces it from top to bottom—both symbol and fastening pin. A sign of loyalty and protection. The prince himself gave it to you, long ago, in a quiet farewell. A silent promise: if you were ever in danger, the brooch would speak for you.

“Well now, that’s a change from the usual cargo… A noble fallen from the sky, or a shipment gone astray?”

You gasp, heart racing, as a pirate grips your arms, his fingers digging into your skin. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

His smile widens slightly, a flicker of mockery in his gaze. “Oh, I think I’m beginning to. A sharp tongue, a burning stare… You’re not just a passenger, are you?”

You lift your chin. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t impress me.”

He stops just a breath from you, watching. “Not yet, maybe. But the night is young.” His voice is soft, almost amused, but his gaze sharpens—like a silent threat beneath each word.

A heavy pause falls, then he murmurs, lower, “Now tell me… who will mourn your disappearance?”

Your throat tightens, but you hold his gaze. “My father. The Admiral of His Majesty’s Royal Fleet.”

You hear the pirates around you whistling and snickering, feigning awe at the title.

A short breath escapes the captain, and his smile falters, replaced by something darker, more focused. “Oh… now this is getting interesting.”

He seems to think for a moment, never looking away from you. Then he straightens slowly. “Sink the ship,” he says, calm and cutting, never raising his voice.

“No!” you protest, your voice trembling but firm. “There are still survivors on board. You can’t—”

You struggle, trying to pull away, to catch his attention. “They’re sailors. Men. They have nothing to do with this!”

But Caleb doesn’t even look at you. He’s already turned away. The pirates either laugh or ignore you. No one moves to stop the order. Your words vanish into the din of shouted commands, flaring torches, and boots pounding the deck.

Then he adds to the pirate holding you, a hint of irony in his voice, “Bring her aboard the Nocturne. Our crew will be honored to host the Admiral’s daughter.”

A muffled laugh escapes behind you. Around you, orders snap, flames flare, cries rise again. You protest, struggle, but Caleb stands still, measuring you in silence.

As the pirate drags you back, your feet catch on the bloodied deck. You twist, but it’s like his fingers are anchored in your skin. You feel the burn. You feel the fear. And the anger—brief, cold. Caleb watches without a word, unreadable. Something flickers in his eyes—then vanishes. He turns and walks away, his coat whipping in the wind as flames begin to rise.

The wood cracks like it’s screaming. Like the ship itself refuses to die quietly. The cries of your crew dissolve into a rising wall of smoke. You can barely breathe. Heat licks your skin as the night turns into a roaring blaze. And through it all, the silhouette of the Nocturne looms—dark, relentless, inevitable.

They haul you into a rowboat, forcing you between two silent pirates. You’re no longer fleeing. You’re no longer captive. You’re being delivered. You glance back. The ship that carried you—your mission, your protection, your certainty—is now just a silhouette devoured by flame. It’s like watching your past burn.

The Nocturne rises like a monster from the deep. Its hull is blackened, scarred. Its sails stand tall with pride. A ship that doesn’t just sail—it hunts. It waits. And now, it claims.

The climb up the rope ladder is rough. Your hands slip, but the pirate shoves you forward. You collapse onto the deck, breathless. The air reeks of salt, gunpowder, sweat, and something older—something soaked into the wood like blood into cloth.

The crew watches in silence, expressions unreadable. Some smirk. Others look curious. A few glance toward the upper deck, where Caleb has already reappeared, hands behind his back, watching.

He descends the stairs slowly. Every step deliberate, calculated. You straighten your back despite the bruises, meeting his gaze.

“You look less regal now,” he says, casually. “Salt, ash, fear. You finally resemble what you’re hiding.”

You say nothing. You refuse to offer him your fear. Even if it pulses in your throat.

“Lock her in the officer’s cabin,” he orders a nearby crewmember. “No one touches her… for now.”

You lift your head, disturbed by those final words. The man nods, but his gaze lingers on you with a slow drag that makes your stomach knot. Caleb’s gaze lingers too, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

They drag you again, down a narrow, dim corridor, past bolted doors and crates reeking of alcohol and oil. The cabin is too small. The wood too dark. The air too thick. Even the moonlight seems to filter in like through stagnant water. They shove you inside.

The door slams shut behind you.

You’re alone. And for the first time since the assault, silence falls. Heavy. Total.

You curl up on the cot, trembling. Not from cold. Not from pain. But from the terrible, unshakable certainty: you haven’t just been captured.

You’ve been chosen.

☸︎⸻ 𝒩𝑜𝒸𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒 ⸻☸︎

༒ 𝒞𝓇𝒾𝓂𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈 ༒

𓆩 ⚓︎ 𓆪 Written by selisverse. No reposts, no translations, no plagiarism — respect the ink and the salt. ⚔️ Like & reblog if the tide pulls you in. It keeps the ship afloat.