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nothomegal · 2 years ago

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"Safe and sound"

(Pyramid Head x GN Reader)

Summary: after being caught and claimed by the executioner, Silent Hill became a rather tranquil for you. However, a one particular entity, or rather entities, of this town kept bugging you anyways... Pun no intended.

Warning: mention of bugs and/or insects crawl on (Y/N)(?)

World count: 1.2k (kinda short ik hshalsdha)

(sorry if this is freaky, but I literaly dreamed about something similar and I just had to write it down hahdajkdha)

Waking up in this place is a bittersweet experience, on one hand, it's nice to wake up with some extra energy to tolerate the surrounding nonsense, but on the other one, it hurts and sucks to realize that one is still trapped in this hellhole. And today, (Y/N) woke up with the negative thought, but the sight of the broad muscular chest of their lover made their 'morning' a bit better, and also more flustering.

The shift from sleepy and grumpy to shy and akward seemed to amuse the beast, as he let out an low rumble, which resembled a purr.

—"Y-Yeah yeah... Good morning to you too."— you say a bit shy, looking away and gripping his clothes.

Though they don't look away for too long, because soon a large hand grabs their jaw and moves their head just enough for Pyra to see their face. Oh how much he adored that flustered and innocent expression of theirs, a great contrast from the faces of pain and horror he've seen on his daily basis before meeting (and then pursuing) (Y/N).

The mentioned person simply stares back at his massive metal helmet, slowly and involuntarily melting into his warm touch.

—"Do you really like to stare at my face so much?"—

As an answer, Pyra gives them a little squeeze on their cheeks and let out another low amused purr when (Y/N) tries to pull away.

—"He-Hey! Nyo, shtop!"—

Pyra messes with them for a bit longer, clearly enjoying to see them getting upset as they speak funny. This little playfight ends up with the beast wrapping his arms around his little human and pulling them back against his torso, letting them know that he's not ready to let them go, not just yet.

(Y/N) simply sighs and accepts their fate, this is still better than having their face licked and end up with saliva all over it. They start to get comfortable but...

—"Ah...- Aah-!"— you yelp suddenly as your body shivers violently.

Pyra instantly let go of them, allowing (Y/N) to sit up and put their hand underneath their shirt to then pull it out, holding...

A creeper.

That goddamn stupid roach-

—"AGH! For fuck's sake!"— you exclaim as you throw the insect against a wall.

Call this animal cruelty or whatever, but when these little shits keep crawling under your clothes and shirt every damn time you lay down and doze off for a moment, one kinda becomes annoyed with it. And feel their insect limbs and scaly body cling and brush against your soft skin or make the low hissing noises whenever you try to pull them away is straight up disgusting! Ew!

(Y/N) then lift their shirt, to make sure they spot any sneaky ones, and of course there is another one because life sucks. Yet this one resulted to be more stubborn.

—"Ugh, just get off! Is there really no other creature whose warmth you could leach on?!"— you grumble angrily as you try to shake the insect away, yet it kept clinging to your sleeve tightly.

Thankfully their struggles didn't last long, a single growl from the massive beast was enough to set the little roach-like thing into flee, quickly crawling away from them and disappearing into a random crack on the wall.

After a second check and coming out clean, (Y/N) let out a relieved sigh as they fix their clothes a bit.

—"Thanks... Sorry for the yelling, but I'm just tired of waking up with these little shits on me."— you admit tiredly. —"I mean, I'm no snowflake and definetely can handle them crawling on me, but when they go under my shirt..."— you instinctively shiver after mentioning that.

Pyra does nothing at first, not even a movement or a sound. (Y/N) knows that sometimes he goes into this stiff position, and it never fails to kinda freak them out because it's impossible to tell if he's thinking or holding back his anger.

He eventually moves, which caused them to flinch a bit because it was way too sudden. Pyra then began to slowly uncover his torso by opening the upper part of his vest while (Y/N) simply stares at him with a confused and kinda concerned expression, oh god don't tell his possesion over them made him feel lustful again-.

Luckly, Pyra seems not interested in any heated activities (for now). He remains completely still again with his vest opened, revealing his torso all the way down to his toned and scarred abdomen as he 'stares' back at (Y/N), like expecting them to do something.

They remain quiet and hesitant, eyes flickering between his torso and his helmet until it finally clicks.

—"Hold up... You want me to get in there?"— you raise your brow.

A metallic clank resonated from Pyra as he tilts his helmet slightly, movement resembling a nod. (Y/N) blinks a couple of times before doing as told, they're not sure what Pyra's plan is but they won't question it, and if he wanted to take them he'd ripped off their clothes a while ago-.

They slowly slide inside of his vest, their body getting a little spine chill at the sudden warmth of the beast's bare skin, it feels even warmer when exposed. They settle down, their head resting on his chest and their body slightly curled in a ball. The monster then closes his vest, wrapping the clothes around (Y/N) and keeping it closed with his arms wrapped around their smaller form.

Do you know how an owner sometimes let their cat hand out inside of their shirt? Well this is basically the same, but instead of the owner and a cat, it's a giant piramid headed beast and his little lovely human (Y/N).

Despite how weird of an idea it may seem, this is incredibly comfortable and cozy, (Y/N) just can't help but to nuzzle into Pyra's chest as they let out a content hum.

—"Not gonna lie, that's a very clever idea."— you momentarily stop nuzzling, then give a small kiss on one of his pecs before comfortably settling in place again. —"Thank you, really."—

A pleased rumble resonated from Pyra's helmet, making his chest and (Y/N) vibrate a bit. They slowly start to doze off again, and the little gentle nuzzling from the beast against their back isn't making their task to stay awake any easier. The sound of his breathing also resulted incredibly soothing, the way his chest raise and fall with each large breath he takes only lulls them further into sleep.

They feel one large hand slide up and rest in the back of their head, pressing them further against him in a protective manner. They involuntarely smile, childishly grin at the though of them being the only living thing to ever witness and experience this side of the fearsome executioner, who will do anything to keep other creatures away from them, him being the one and only allowed to be this close to (Y/N).

A sane mind would tell that such obsession and posessiveness is absolutely awful, but who said (Y/N) is sane? They lost it the moment they accepted to be taken away by the monster, or maybe they never even had any sanity in the first place! Who knows? Who cares? They surely not, not when they can enjoy being in the beast's arms, bathing in his warmth, listening his heartbeat...

Being kept truly safe and sound.

#nothomegal fic #nothomegal oneshot #pyramid head #pyramid head x reader #gn reader #slasher x reader

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gotta-winwin · 3 months ago

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(🛢️) piledriver waltz | L.C (a choose your own adventure)

⭐ starring: dino

💌 genre: fluff, angst

💬 preview: the fates have been calling with a quest: close the gates of Hell with your lover by your side and the power of true love. except for the fact that chan is neither your lover or someone you love.

tw/cw: magic au (akin to percy jackson au but slightly different), fire x wind summoners, the nickname: my pyra (my firey one), the struggle for true love, the inabilityto love someone back, pathetic and downbad!chan, banter, mentions of hell and death

🪽fic rating/teaser rating: pg 🪽wc: 4.6k

☁️ masterlist & a/n: we have successfully killed the writing slump...in a way i could never have imagined. this is a choose your own adventure story, with 4 alternate endings: all vastly different in both genre and meaning. so my question for you is...what do you see at the gates of Hell? tysm a (@chugging-antiseptic-dye ) and tiya (@gyubakeries ) for listening to me figure this out

this is a part of my 500 followers event!

PRESENT TIME

Chan’s house is right next to yours. You know this. It’s as painfully evident as the wound on both your shoulder and his, the souvenir of a fight gone wrong. You know you were only a few feet away from no longer running, from the warm embrace of Chan’s arms– from the fate you both had tried to thwart for so long. Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to knock on his door first.

No. If the Fates wanted the two of you to fall in love with each other so badly, they’d make Chan come to you instead.

THREE YEARS AGO

Chan’s fingers grazed lightly against yours as he looked at you from the corner of his eye, his lips set in a stubborn line. The fact that you were pointedly refusing to look at him infuriated him.

“You know I could send you flying straight into that fountain if I wanted to, right?

The only response he got was an eyeroll.

“I’m serious.” He muttered, glaring at you. Even now, the hatred he was pretending to have in his stare was coming off as more of an exasperated, loving glance. “I could kill you.”

He watches as you analyze your fingernails, your expression seemingly bored of him. “But you haven’t.”

“I could. I will.”

You laughed, a snarky and cold sound, yet Chan basked in it anyways. “You wish. I’ll set you on fire before you could even raise your hands to summon wind.”

Chan knew you were right. Despite being top of his class, you had always been faster, wittier, braver and hungrier.

“I don’t understand why the general won’t just let you train with us.” He leaned back, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be kind.”

His lips pursed, confusion written over his crafted features. “Why not?”

You shook your head, turning away. You didn’t have the words or the heart to explain to him how kindness sounded awful coming from his tongue– how it made your face flush and your mental walls weaken. Lee Chan couldn’t know the physical and emotional impact he had on your heart. He would never.

DAY 0

A harsh knock sounded against your door, shaking the brittle walls that you called home.

“Stop being so stubborn!” His voice rang through your ears. “Open the damn door, Y/N.”

You curled yourself tighter on the dampened mattress in the middle of the room. “No.” The words were too quiet to reach Chan’s ears, but you knew he had probably predicted your answer already.

“Open the door, my pyra.” The incessant knocks slowed to a gentle one. “Please.” His voice turned almost honey smooth, the flow of it melting into your ears. “Please.”

You open the door to find him leaning against the door frame, his face pressed up against the wood, a pathetic look on his face. His eyes drift over your body before landing on your face.

“I knew you’d come to me.” You can’t help but rub it in.

“And I knew you’d wait till I did.” He makes no effort to come in, instead, his feet are firmly planted on the grassy moss that encircled your hut. “You’ve always had too much pride to fold first.”

The teasing smile suddenly drops as he focuses back on the pressing matter at hand. “You know we can’t run from Fate.”

You nod. The oracle had sent the two of you a mission, and despite all you had done to avoid it: distancing yourself from the others, refusing to meet basic training requirements, never burning sacrifices to the Gods in hopes they’d just forget about your existence, Fate had funny ways of catching up to people.

“If the Gods want us to close the gates to Hell and save the world then so be it.”

You shake your head. “You know it’s impossible.”

“Why not?”

You stare quizzically at him, wondering if he had hit his head too hard during sparring class. “You know the gates of Hell can only be closed with an element as strong as Death. True love.”

Chan nods. “Yeah, so? We’ll hop on down there, say hello to Death himself, close the gates and get the Hell out of there.”

“We don’t have true love, Chan.”

He frowns. Your heart sinks.

“I love you.” He mumbles, his hand raising to grab your fingers, an awkward fumble– an attempt to hold your hand.

You look away. “Chan…”

He lets out a loud sigh, dropping your hand. “I know you don’t love me now, but-” He smiles, and you can’t help but wonder how he could despite everything you had thrown at him. “But it takes 22 days to make it to Hell, and I’m sure you’ll fall in love with me by then.”

“I’ve known you for 10 years and I haven’t loved you.”

It’s blunt and awfully cruel, yet Chan’s smile doesn’t drop.

“That’s okay.” He pushes past you into your hut. Clapping his hands together, he begins rummaging through your kitchen drawers, throwing various cans of food onto the counter.

“Come on, my pyra.” He looks back at you when you remain frozen by the doorway. “Smooth those eyebrows. You’ll love me at the gates of Hell, I’m sure of it.”

You have neither the heart or the energy to tell him you think you might never love someone enough for it to defeat Death.

DAY 1

The trek towards the gates of Hell was long and frankly boring. The roads were void with any life other than the two of you, and the only sounds were the ones coming from Chan’s harsh breathing.

“Stop that.” You can’t help but snap at him, your head threatening to burst from the glare of the afternoon sun.

Chan glances back at you, a stupid smile across his face. His misguided happiness both infuriates and soothes you. “Stop what?”

“Stop breathing.”

Chan frowns, slowing in his step to walk beside you. “I need that to live.”

You roll your eyes and resist the urge to light the ends of his hair on fire. “Then stop doing it so loudly.”

Chan doesn’t say anything in return. Instead, his hands move to the nape of your neck, summoning a breeze to tickle the hairs on your skin. It’s calm and refreshing and you hate him for it– how he handles your anger so well, how he tames your fire with a simple touch. How he’s kind despite your rudeness.

You feel your annoyance melt with the heat. “Thank you.” You mutter. You try to ignore the loving glance he gives you as he continues to summon cool wind around you.

“Of course.” He mumbles back, because of course Chan would do anything for you. Of course.

DAY 8

Chan’s arm draped across your stomach as his face pressed against the crook of your neck. You stayed painfully still, timing your breath to rise and fall with his.

His night terrors often involved the image of you leaving– at least, you assumed so.

You never spoke of it once he awoke, but you often heard him call out your name in his sleep, a quiet, pleading whisper falling from his lips. His eyebrows would scrunch along with his nose.

At first you had found it quite annoying and a bit pathetic. Chan’s sleeptalk intruded on your nights, and the thought of him even dreaming about you felt unsettling. Yet as time went on and more of the same nights occurred, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity.

No, not pity. Guilt.

You wanted to throttle the version of you in his dreams– the one that was walking away from him and causing him so much pain in his sleep. You wanted to make it stop.

A particularly harsh breath from Chan tickled your cheek and you stared up at the twinkling stars in the night sky.

You were never one for prayers, but you found yourself praying anyway.

Help me love him, you pleaded with the Gods you hoped were listening. Let me love him like he deserves. I want to love him. Please.

You tilted your head closer to his, allowing the tips of his hair to brush against your cheek. You let yourself breathe in tandem with his– yet the whole thing still felt awfully wrong.

DAY 13

Chan’s calloused fingers glide across your wrist as he pulls you away from the flames.

He doesn’t utter a single word as he bandages your wounds, rubbing your burns with salve– because despite your affinity and control over fire, you weren’t immune.

You hang your head in shame, refusing to meet his eyes. It was your fire that had burned you, and it seemed awfully poetic in a sense– as if the lack of control you had over your powers mirrored the lack of control you had in yourself.

You know he’s only pretending to not know it was your fault.

“I’m a mess.” You muttered after a period of silence, your hair covering your face as you stared at the grimy jungle floor.

You feel his hands still. “Don’t say that.”

“I am though. I can’t even control my own flames.” How am I supposed to control my heart? You don’t utter the last question, yet it burns your insides with its insistence.

Chan seems to hear the silent question anyways. His hand moves from your wounds to your pulse, the pads of his fingers pressing against the thready heartbeat. He does nothing but listen– feel.

And you remember something he had said to you, years ago.

“I like listening to your heartbeat.” He had said, in the silence of a shared lunch after school. “It dances.”

“You jest.” You counter, because you know Wind Summoners couldn’t hear hearts– that was for witches and wizards only.

Chan shakes his head and leans in, as if about to share a secret. “I don’t need powers to hear your heart, Y/N. I just do.”

You pushed his shoulder and rolled your eyes, breaking off a piece of his beef jerky despite his late protests.

“Are you listening?” You ask now, eyes roaming across the concentrated look on his face.

He blinks back to reality, to you. “Mhm.” He looks up, his brown eyes sparkling like how some sidewalks do. The sunbeams that split through the dense jungle leaves glow against his face.

“It dances.”

You pull your hand out from under his grasp. “Whatever.” Pressing your hands against your face, you stand. “It’s getting warm, let’s keep moving.”

You feel Chan’s breeze against your face again as you walk. It tickles your cheek and brushes against your hair like phantom fingers.

DAY 21

It’s another day's trek away from the gates of Hell. You see it on Chan’s face: the fatigue, the anguish, the eventual loss of hope. The two of you had spent the majority of last night sleeping in separate corners of the sleeping bag, nothing touching but the sides of your arms.

Chan had noticeably stopped calling out your name in his dreams. Actually, he stopped saying it altogether.

Each moment of heavy silence that passed made you regret every word you had said to him the night before.

“Goodnight, I love you.” Chan mumbled as he settled into bed.

“Goodnight.” You snuffed out the flames illuminating the camp space.

It had felt like any other night, where Chan would tell you he loved you and you’d pretend you hadn’t heard. You expected him to close his eyes like he’d done before, yet this time, as you settled into bed yourself, you could still feel his eyes trained on you.

“When are you going to say it back?” Chan’s voice was quiet over the steady hum of the forest.

You kept your eyes shut, desperately hoping he’d think –or at least pretend– you were asleep.

“I know you’re awake.”

You don’t open your eyes, but you respond. “I don’t know.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“I know. I know.”

A sniffle sounds from next to you and you could feel your heart twist. “What have I done wrong?” He asks, as if the reason you couldn’t love him was as simple as something he could’ve changed.

“Nothing.” You force your voice to lay flat. “It’s not your fault.”

“It has to be.” Chan countered, and you hear him sit up in the dark. “It has to be.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever love someone as much as you deserve to be loved, Chan.” You finally tell him, and you feel your eyes prickle with sudden tears. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t respond. You say nothing more.

You have to admit it’s strange, to fall asleep without the warmth of his touch, the usual spots on your stomach, arm and neck void of his presence. It’s strange to miss, you realize, as you find yourself wishing you had just said it back, the three words that seemed to suffocate the air between you and Chan. It’s strange that you burn for his touch. It’s strange.

You roll the complex emotion through your mind as you listen to Chan’s breathing. It takes time for you to place it into words: hurt, frustration, want, love.

The feeling comes to you moments before sleep does. Yearning.

You had never yearned for anything before, but you found yourself learning how to anyway.

DAY 22:

The gates of Hell look…colder than you had imagined them to be. They lack the fire and heat you had pictured in your mind, as the two you ventured further and further into the depths of it.

Fire would have been much more comforting than whatever this was. It didn’t make it any better, the fact that the only times Chan had spoken to you since the night before had been nothing but courteous and professional.

The mischievous winds had disappeared alongside his witty banter, the ones he used to summon to play with your hair as you walked.

“We’re here.” You break the silence. Your voice echoes through the dark and cold.

Chan says nothing.

You turn to face the black gates of Hell and the only thing behind it: clear glass.

You hear Chan’s breath hitch from behind you and you turn to face him.

“What?”

It’s the look in his eyes that spur you to step closer to him, reaching out to grab his arm. Fear seemed to radiate through his irises, jarring you as he broke his gaze with Hell to look at you. It felt entirely different to see fear in his eyes when all you had ever received from him was looks of gentle love.

“What is it, Chan? What do you see?” Your voice grows louder as you panic, shaking him gently, as if to wake him from a bad dream.

It takes him exactly five seconds to break out of it.

He blinks. “Nothing.”

You know he’s lying, but you don’t push it. Turning back to the gates and the glass behind it, you take a longer look, watching as it morphed into a different thing altogether.

You hear Chan’s voice from behind you. “What do you see?” He repeats your question back at you.

You look, carefully. You see…

THE FOLLOWING DECISIONS WILL HAVE CONSEQUENCES

A faceless man in a suit and tie, watching as you walk down the aisle in your white dress. It’s intimate, it’s cute– it’s entirely too much for you. You can physically feel the restraint your corset gives you and you know it’s not the outfit: it’s the sinking, awful feeling that you’re throwing the rest of your life away.

CLICK HERE TO VIEW YOUR ENDING

Chan’s frail and limp body propped up against a tree as you sit beside him, your hand clenching his as you watch him breathe. You try to match the rise and fall of his chest like you’re used to, but his breaths come too slow– too weak.

CLICK HERE TO VIEW YOUR ENDING

Chan lays in bed beside you, his head tucked against the crook of your neck. He’s all bone and whispers of a person, his body a shell of his former self. You hold onto him despite all this– despite the fact that you know the exact moment he stops breathing. You refuse to let him go. You rot.

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Nothing. You see absolutely nothing.

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please only repost and comment on this main post-- all the other posts with your potential endings are private and cannot be seen without the link.

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prince-toffee · 1 month ago

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Jumpstream Answers Pyra Magna's Booty Call | Transformers (2019) | #26 | Lineart by Anna Malkova | Colours by David García Cruz

#transformers #maccadams #maccadam #idw2 #tf idw #anna malkova #david garcia cruz #jumpstream #pyra magna

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thetidesthatturn · 9 days ago

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Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, eventual sexual content/references, abuse, alcohol use - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and all characters are not based on reality

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FIVE >>

CHAPTER FOUR - TO THOSE WHO DARE

You both remain close, forehead to forehead, neither of you ready to speak – until you do.

“I can’t be what you want,” you murmur.

“I never asked you to be,” he answers, steady. “But I think you already are.”

You shake your head. “This changes nothing.”

He steps back slightly. “Then tell me to leave.”

But you don’t. You can’t.

A long silence stretches between you. Then—

A knock.

You both freeze as three soft raps ring out against the door. Familiar rhythm. Lighthearted.

Wooyoung.

“Hey,” comes his voice through the wood, “you skipped half your dinner again. I brought you something before San could lecture you about starving to death.”

You don’t move.

Hongjoong looks at you, but you give him nothing. He exhales quietly, then walks to the door, composed but not cold, and opens it.

Wooyoung blinks – tray in hand. A plate of small brown sugar biscuits and a steaming cup of tea. He opens his mouth to speak.

Then sees who answered.

He stops cold. His eyes flick from the tray to the captain’s face, to the half-lit room behind him. “…Right,” he says slowly. “Didn’t realise I needed to knock harder.”

Neither man speaks for a beat too long. Then, Hongjoong steps aside. “She’ll take it.”

Wooyoung nods once, carefully, handing the tray into the captain’s waiting hands.

“I’ll… see myself out,” he mutters. “Captain, Pyra.”

The door clicks softly shut, and you, still standing in the centre of the room, watch as Hongjoong places the tray down, silent.

The tea steams between you like a secret.

Wooyoung walks briskly; one hand shoved into his coat, the other still tingling from the awkward handoff. His mind is racing. He doesn’t know what he expected when he knocked, but it sure as hell wasn’t Hongjoong opening the door to her room. He rounds a corner too fast and nearly slams straight into a wall of muscle and frustration.

Mingi.

They both freeze mid-step. Mingi’s eyes narrow immediately. He doesn’t ask if Wooyoung’s okay. Doesn’t apologise. He just stares.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he mutters.

Wooyoung opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. “Maybe I have.”

Mingi tilts his head. “You saw her, didn’t you.”

Not a question.

Wooyoung hesitates, voice quiet. “I brought her something to eat.”

“And?”

Wooyoung exhales, scratching the back of his neck. “Hongjoong answered the door.”

Mingi goes still. “What?” Voice low. Dangerous.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung says, nodding slightly. “Still in her room. Looked… calm. Real close.”

Mingi’s jaw clenches. You can see it in the way his temple tightens. In the fist that curls at his side. He steps back, shaking his head like he’s trying to knock something loose.

“I knew it,” he mutters. “I knew this was going to happen.”

“Mingi—”

“No.” He cuts him off. “No, don’t try to smooth it over. You saw what I saw. He’s not thinking straight anymore. He’s compromised.”

Wooyoung doesn’t disagree. But he doesn’t fully agree either.

“He’s still the captain.”

Mingi’s eyes flick to him, sharp. “Not when it comes to her. When it comes to her, he’s just another man chasing a storm.”

Silence stretches for a beat.

“If she’s playing him,” Mingi says darkly, “we’re all dead.”

He turns sharply and walks off, leaving Wooyoung alone in the corridor, still gripping his empty hands like he’s holding something fragile that just cracked.

Seonghwa stirs in his quarters, feeling the unease that has settled across the ship before he even knows the cause. The room is spartan – maps laid out on the table, lantern-light flickering low, the scent of ink and weathered parchment hanging in the air.

There’s a knock, sharper than necessary. Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. He knows who it is before he opens the door.

Mingi.

He storms inside without waiting for an invitation. Shoulders stiff, jaw locked, eyes already blazing.

“He’s lost his damn mind,” Mingi says, barely containing himself. “He’s in her quarters.”

Seonghwa closes the door slowly. Doesn’t speak.

“She has him wrapped around her little finger. I saw Wooyoung in the corridor, he brought her food. The captain was the one who opened the door.”

Still, Seonghwa says nothing. Just crosses the room with that infuriating calm and picks up a quill, eyes scanning the map like Mingi’s fury is just background noise.

“He’s compromised,” Mingi snaps. “You know it. I know it. She could be feeding information to the Fang this whole time and he’d still bleed for her!”

“Has she?” Seonghwa asks mildly, not looking up.

“What?”

“Has she fed them anything? Given any signal? Sent any message?”

Mingi hesitates, just for a beat. “Not that we’ve seen.”

“Then we do not deal in guesses, Mingi. Not now.”

Mingi paces, dragging a hand through his hair. “We need to do something.”

“We will.” Seonghwa finally sets the quill down. Meets his gaze. “We hold a meeting. Tomorrow. At dawn.”

Mingi frowns. “What kind of meeting?”

“The kind that includes her.” He says it with intent. “If she is going to walk among us, eat with us, fight beside us – then she talks with us, too.”

“You think she’ll say anything?”

Seonghwa doesn’t blink. “If she wants to stay on this ship, she will.”

Mingi exhales slowly, trying to bottle the storm inside him.

“The Fang will come again,” Seonghwa continues, quieter now. “That was not a raid. That was a message. And next time, they will not slip aboard quietly.”

Mingi doesn’t argue. He knows Seonghwa’s right.

“So, we put her in the room,” Seonghwa says, “and we find out just how much of a threat she really is… or how much of a weapon.”

There’s a silence between them. Then Mingi nods once. Sharp. “Dawn.”

Seonghwa inclines his head.

Mingi turns to go, but before he opens the door, he says, “If she puts a knife in your back, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Seonghwa’s voice is low. Steady. Unshaken.

“If she does, I will be ready.”

Hongjoong is gone, but the air lingering from his presence is still warm, almost stifling.

You don’t move. Not for a long moment. You just stand there, the kiss still clinging to your lips like something branded. Heat in your blood, ache in your chest, silence pressing down like the weight of the sea.

He kissed you, and you let him.

You press your fingers to your mouth. Slowly. Like you’re not sure if it really happened. But it did. And worst of all, you actually wanted it to.

You sit down heavily on the edge of the cot, letting the weight of everything settle into your bones. Your eyes drift to the untouched tray he left behind. The biscuits, the tea still faintly steaming. You don’t touch it. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep, either. You lie back on the cot, eyes open, staring up at the low ceiling where shadows flicker against the wood. Your pulse won’t slow. Not from fear. Not even from guilt.

From change.

Something is shifting. Inside you. Around you. You can feel it in your gut, like a tide turning beneath the surface, waiting to drag everything you know out to sea. He is not what you expected.

The knock comes at dawn. A short, firm rhythm. Not hesitant.

You rise slowly, dress in silence, and open the door to find Jongho standing there, posture straight.

He does not ask how you are. He simply says, “They are waiting.”

Waiting for what, you are unsure. But for reasons beyond your comprehension, you follow him into the rising light.

The lanterns are still lit inside the war cabin. Maps are spread across the central table, corners pinned with weighted daggers. The crew stands around it; arms folded, eyes sharp, tension so thick it makes the air taste of iron.

Seonghwa stands at the head of the table, composed as ever, his coat immaculate, his posture unshakable. Mingi leans in a dark corner, arms crossed, gaze locked on the door. Yunho, San, Yeosang, Wooyoung, and Jongho are present, quiet but coiled, each reading the room in their own way. Hongjoong stands by the vast window, spanning the back of the cabin. He’s looking out, as if he’s not really in the room, but dancing amongst the waves.

Then the door opens.

You enter, steady-footed but far from relaxed. You meet no one’s gaze – not yet. And for a moment, no one speaks. Until Seonghwa breaks the silence.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, voice smooth and precise. “Take your place.”

It is not a request.

You step forward, standing at the edge of the table. The eyes that land on you are not cruel, but cautious. Measuring. This is not an execution.

This is a test.

You take your seat, and Seonghwa folds his hands behind his back.

“We have called this meeting because the events of the last forty-eight hours have made one thing clear; the Fang are not finished. Their pursuit was not a strike of opportunity, it was calculated.”

He looks at you now. Fully. Without flinching.

“You were their objective. Whether you intended it or not, you are at the centre of this conflict. And we can no longer afford silence.”

You say nothing.

Mingi’s voice cuts in, sharp as a blade. “If you want a place here, you’d better earn it.”

Wooyoung shifts, watching you carefully. Jongho stands still, but his shoulders are tense.

Seonghwa continues. “No one expects full trust overnight. But if you wish to remain on this ship, you will contribute to its safety. That begins now; with information,” He nods once. “Tell us what they want. Tell us who you are.”

All eyes are on you now. Waiting. Not with hope, but with the weight of survival.

The silence stretches.

What you say next could change everything.

You stand at the table, the maps spread before you like open wounds. Eyes burn into your skin from all sides. Mingi’s suspicion, San’s guarded curiosity, Seonghwa’s commanding silence.

But it’s not them you look to. It’s him.

You glance toward the far side of the room where Hongjoong stands, having turned from his post at the window. His arms are folded, face unreadable – but his gaze is locked on you. Not hard, not soft. Watching.

Waiting.

His eyes flicker with something. Something you can’t name. Not yet. Something that sits in the space between hope and warning.

You swallow thickly.

You know what they want. You also know what you can never give. So, you choose your words carefully. You keep your voice even.

“They trained us to forget where we came from.”

That makes a few heads tilt. It’s true. It also says nothing.

“The Fang don’t just recruit. They collect.” You pause, letting that land. “They take in those with… rare talents. People no one will come looking for.”

“Like you,” Yeosang says quietly.

You nod once. “Like me.”

You raise your eyes then, letting them meet the crew’s, one by one. “I was with them long enough to know their movements. Their tactics. Their hierarchy. I can tell you how they’ll come next. I can tell you who they’ll send.”

Seonghwa’s voice cuts in, smooth as glass. “And why they want you?”

Your chest tightens. You let the silence stretch, just enough to suggest there’s something there. But not enough to give it shape.

“Because I left,” Another half-truth. “Because no one leaves the Fang.”

Mingi exhales, sharp. “That’s it?”

“No,” you say. Calm. Controlled. “I can help you stop them. But only if I stay alive long enough to do it.”

Your gaze flicks again, briefly, to Hongjoong. He doesn’t speak. But he nods.

Once.

And it’s enough.

The war cabin falls into a hush as your words fade. No one argues. Not openly. But you feel the weight of unspoken doubt like a fog crawling under the floorboards. Seonghwa nods once. Measured, unreadable.

“That is sufficient for now, you are dismissed.”

His tone offers no room for further interrogation. Only containment. You hold his gaze for a beat, then turn and leave the room as instructed, Jongho quietly falling into step behind you as a silent escort.

Once the door clicks shut, the temperature in the cabin shifts.

Hongjoong steps forward, slowly. Deliberate. His eyes are on Seonghwa, but his voice carries to them all.

“The rest of you are dismissed.”

There’s something in his tone now. Final. Unshakeable.

The crew begins to file out, slow, glances exchanged, boots heavy on the wood. Mingi hesitates the longest, jaw tight, but Wooyoung gives him a quiet shove, and he follows. Seonghwa remains at the table, hands still clasped behind his back, his expression as composed as ever. Only when the room is empty does Hongjoong speak again.

“You took command when I could not. I will not forget that.”

Seonghwa nods once. “It was necessary.”

“I agree,” Hongjoong says. But his tone sharpens. “But it is no longer.”

He steps closer now, one hand resting on the edge of the table, his stare direct. “I am the captain of the Halcyon. I will be the one to steer her – through storm, through silence, through war. That has not changed. And it will not.”

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. “I have never claimed otherwise.”

“You held the line,” Hongjoong says. “And I thank you for it.” A pause. “But I will not tolerate a quiet mutiny. Not from the crew. And not from you.”

Finally, something flickers in Seonghwa’s eyes. Not offence. Not anger.

Pride.

He inclines his head, slowly. Formally. “Then I return the helm to you, Captain.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Not tense. But full of history. Then Hongjoong exhales and turns toward the maps again.

“Good. Because the next move belongs to us.”

You close the door behind you with a quiet click, and exhale. Only then do you realise how long you’ve been holding your breath.

The moment you stepped into that war room, everything shifted. You gave them just enough: facts, formations, tactics. You painted yourself as an asset, not a threat. You told the truth – just not all of it. But every word felt like a gamble.

Every glance from Seonghwa, every half-step of trust from Hongjoong, every flicker of suspicion in Mingi’s eyes. It lingers now, echoing louder in silence than it did in the room.

You sit on the edge of your cot, jaw tight, hand clenched around the edge of your coat. You didn’t lie, but you didn’t tell them about the fire. The Isle.

The name they burned from every record but could not erase from your skin. And now they expect more. They always will.

There’s a quiet knock.

“Come in.”

The door opens a little, and Yunho steps inside. He doesn’t speak right away. Just closes the door behind him and leans back against it, arms folded. He’s watching you like he did on the deck the other morning. Not accusing. Just… seeing.

You meet his gaze.

“Say it,” you mutter.

He raises a brow. “Say what?”

“I talked too much. I gave too little. I told them what they wanted to hear.”

Yunho tilts his head. “Did you lie?”

“No.”

“Then you said exactly what you meant to.”

You look away. “I’ve just never had to mean it before.”

He steps closer, gentler now. “You’re not what they think.”

Your voice sharpens. “You don’t know what I am.”

“Don’t need to,” he replies. “I just need to see who you’re becoming.”

You look at him then. Really look. He’s not afraid. Not searching for weakness. He’s not even asking you to explain yourself. He’s just there. And somehow, that’s worse than all the suspicion in the world.

He turns to leave, hand on the door, when you speak. Quietly. Rough around the edges.

“Thank you.”

He stops. Looks back. For a moment, he says nothing. Then a soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, gentle, but knowing.

“Any time.”

And then he’s gone, leaving nothing behind but the swill of emotions now tightening in the pit of your stomach. You’re left staring at the space he occupied, wondering why two words cost more than any blood you’ve ever spilled.

The faint ochre hues of burning candlelight flickers across scrolls, scraps of coded parchment, and ink-smudged maps pinned across the wall. Symbols. Ships. Names. Rumours.

Wooyoung leans over the desk, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp, fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against the edge of a decoded message. The room smells of wax, salt, and ink – but more than that, it hums with tension. This is where he listens to the sea speak.

Outside, the crew mends sails and checks the hull for cracks. Inside, he follows trails no one else sees. One by one, he sifts through letters from informants – dockmasters, mercenaries, orphans with ink-stained fingers. Every one of them owes him a favour. Every one of them knows better than to lie.

And still, he’s found nothing. Until now.

His gaze locks on a tattered scrap tucked between updates about Fang movements in the Western Straits. A different ink. A different hand.

The message is brief. Unassuming. But he reads it twice. Then a third time.

“…Foundling girl. Taken from the island with blackened sand. No name. No mother. Nothing left but fire.”

His eyes narrow. Black sand, the kind only found in one place. His pulse kicks once in his throat.

He moves to the map. Fingers trace the jagged edges of a tiny island, often left unmarked, whispered about only in fishing villages and old seafarers’ riddles.

The island that swallows light.

No one goes there. No one comes back. Except, maybe… one. Wooyoung doesn’t smile. Not this time. He simply tucks the scrap into his coat, smooths his gloves, and leaves the room. Tomorrow, he’ll bring it to the table. But for tonight, he wants to see how far the past can stretch before it snaps.

Below deck, the light is dim. Secrets breathe in the shadows; whispers dance upon the waves licking against the hull. No summons, no full crew – only a select few trusted voices.

Seonghwa. Hongjoong. Wooyoung. Yeosang. Jongho.

The door is closed. Maps litter the table. Coordinates etched into margins. Wind routes. Tides. Every detail precise. Wooyoung lays down the scrap of parchment. His fingers don’t shake, but his eyes are sharp, unreadable.

“It came through the Western Net,” he says. “Dockworker’s boy in Mirren’s Port. Father’s a drunk, but the boy has a memory like steel.”

Hongjoong leans forward, scanning the message.

‘Foundling girl. Taken from the island with blackened sand. No name. No mother. Nothing left but fire.’

He looks up. Doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to. They all know who it’s about.

Seonghwa studies the edges of the scrap, voice calm. “The Isle of Black Sand. I had thought it was myth.”

Wooyoung shakes his head. “Most do. Sailors claim it swallows the light. That it burned and still smokes beneath the sea breeze. But it exists.”

Yeosang frowns. “And she came from there?”

“She was taken from there,” Wooyoung clarifies. “No survivors. No records. The Fang erased everything. But someone remembered.”

Silence.

Hongjoong folds the parchment slowly. “Set the course.”

Seonghwa raises a brow. “Without informing her?”

“She is the key,” Hongjoong replies. “And I intend to find out what she unlocks.”

Jongho shifts slightly. “If she finds out…”

“Then we deal with it,” Hongjoong says. “But this is the first truth we’ve had. I will not let it pass.”

No more objections. Orders are given. The Halcyon’s course shifts that very night – sails tightened, stars followed, heading for a place none of them truly understand. And you sleep, unaware that the waters beneath you are carrying you to a place you once called home.

Further afield, in the eastern quadrant of the Deadwind Reach – a place where compasses falter and fog clings low to the sea, The Serpent Fang’s vessel cuts through the water like a shadow torn from the ocean itself. It’s sails are stripped of any markings. It’s hull is blackened, as though fire once licked it, and the wood simply refused to scream.

No bells ring aboard her. No orders are shouted. Her crew moves in silence. Precision. Obedience.

At the highest point of the aft deck, cloaked in the mist that always seems to follow them, stands the Viper. No name. No face known to the world. Only eyes – sharp and inhuman, tracking the waves with unblinking patience. A chart is clutched in one gloved hand. The other rests on the hilt of a curved blade that has not seen its sheath in days.

The wind shifts.

Another crew member approaches from below deck and stops just short of the Viper, bowing their head. “The Halcyon has altered course. She sails toward the isle. The black sand.”

The Viper says nothing at first. Just lifts the map, unfolds it with a flick of their fingers, and stares at the marked coordinates. The same coordinates their spies intercepted.

They tap a gloved finger once, twice against the inked crescent of the island. A place long thought dead.

Pyra.

The name hangs in the air without being spoken.

“Let them go,” the Viper says at last, voice low, calm, and genderless in its tone. “Let them dig.” A pause. “Let her remember.”

The second-in-command shifts. “And then?”

The Viper folds the map. Steps back into the shadows of the quarterdeck.

“Then we take what is ours.”

The Halcyon rocks gently beneath a sky of veiled stars. But sleep does not come gently.

You lie still, breath shallow, the warmth of your blankets no match for the chill threading through your veins. The course has shifted. You do not know it yet.

But your bones do.

And when sleep finds you, it pulls you not into rest—but into memory.

Four years old. Small. Barefoot. The sand outside your door is warm, black as obsidian, glittering where the sun hits it. You hear the sea first, calm, familiar.

Then the screaming begins.

You clutch the edge of a table too tall for you, heart thundering. Through the open window you see fire on the horizon – not from the sky, but from the sails. Red. Marked with a serpent’s head. Boots strike the path outside your home. Not running. Marching.

You back away from the door. A woman, the one you called mother, rushes into the room, grabs your shoulders. Her hands shake. Her voice doesn’t.

“Don’t speak. Don’t scream. Don’t burn.”

You don’t know what she means.

She pulls something from her neck, a small, worn key, and forces it into your palm.

“Hide. If they find you, don’t let them take this.”

She doesn’t say goodbye. She runs into the light. And you are left in the dark.

You do not cry. You do not speak. You do not understand the sound of steel meeting flesh. But you remember the silence that follows, and the heat that blooms inside you. Not on your skin, but beneath it. A deep, ancient knowing.

They came for something buried, so you buried it deeper.

You remember standing barefoot on the edge of the island as it burned – not from the fire they brought… But from the fire you unleashed.

You wake in the dark. Chest heaving. Palms damp. And when your fingers uncurl, they’re clenched. As though still gripping that key.

When morning comes, pale light filters through low clouds, and the air tastes of storm that hasn’t broken yet. You step onto the deck, boots silent, coat drawn tight around your frame. You’ve slept, technically, but your body doesn’t believe it. Your skin hums with something you can’t name, and you swear the ship beneath you feels… tense. Like it knows where it’s going. Even if you don’t.

You find a quiet place near the starboard railing. The crew moves around you. Efficient, focused, but their glances linger a second longer than usual. They’re expecting something. And you don’t know what it is.

A shadow appears beside you. San, leaning against the railing with that same offhand grace he always carries. Except today, there’s no playful glint in his eyes.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands beside you, silent. The kind of quiet that says, I’m not asking, but I’m here. Finally, after a long stretch of silence, he says, “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

You don’t flinch. “Still watching me?”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “We all are. Just not all for the same reasons.”

You glance over at him. “And what’s your reason?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know yet. But I figured if something’s coming, I’d rather be near the person it’s coming for.”

You look away, jaw tight. “Brave.”

“Reckless,” he corrects.

A pause.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, more gently this time.

You nod. Once.

Lie.

Because the dream still lingers. The sound of screaming, the feel of that key in your hand, the fire that felt yours. But you don’t say any of it. You just say, “I’m fine.”

San doesn’t push. He just stands there a little longer. And then, without another word, he walks off. Shoulders loose, posture easy, like he didn’t just stand next to a storm that hasn’t broken yet. You watch the sea, and something inside you tightens. Because you know, the island is calling. Even if no one’s said a word.

Throughout the day, the wind carries a strange sharpness, and the clouds hang low despite no sign of rain. You’re moving through the lower deck, boots against wood, something coiling tight in your stomach. It started earlier, barely noticeable at first. A pressure in the air. A certain slant to the light. The sound of the sea against the hull feels… wrong. Like the water knows.

You pause near the midship bulkhead, steadying your breath, eyes narrowing. No one has said a word about a course change. But you’ve sailed this stretch before. Or… something in you has.

And then – the scent hits you. Not smoke. Not blood. But ash.

Memory creeps in like fog, uninvited, unwelcome. You are four years old, and the world has just ended. You’re curled against a splintered crate aboard a dark, foreign ship, your knees scraped, your hands burned, your face streaked with soot. The sea rocks beneath you, gentle, mocking. You can see the island through the bars of the ship’s lower deck grate, burning.

Your island.

The sand glows red beneath the fire. The smoke climbs higher than the clouds. No one else made it. You know that now. You remember the man who pulled you onto the ship. Not a rescuer. A collector.

“She’s the only one.”

“She shouldn’t be alive.”

“Look at her hands.”

You clutched the key so tightly it broke the skin.

You didn’t cry. You watched the island until it vanished from view. And even then, eyes dry, lungs full of smoke, you knew. You weren’t just leaving something behind. You were taking something with you.

Something that was never meant to leave.

You grip the railing, knuckles white. The sensation in your chest returns; deep, ancient, heavy. You know where this ship is going. Even if no one has spoken the name. The wind changes direction slightly, carrying a chill straight off the water, and somewhere beneath it, faint as breath – you hear a voice.

Not a voice in the air, a voice in you.

“Come home.”

Rage. Pure, seething, unadulterated rage. Your feet carry you towards answers, straight to the heavy oak of the Captain’s quarters.

The door slams open. You don’t knock, don’t wait for permission to enter.

Hongjoong looks up from his desk, map pins scattered across the surface, a compass stilled mid-spin. He straightens slowly. Sharp, composed, the captain again.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

You shut the door behind you with a sharp snap. Fury trembles in your chest like thunder begging to break.

“You changed course.”

No denial. No pretence. His silence confirms it.

“Why involve me in your precious council just to make the real decisions without me?” You stalk toward him. “Why pretend I’m part of this when you still treat me like a threat you’re studying under glass?”

His jaw tightens. “Because you are a threat, Pyra.”

You flinch – like the name itself is a wound.

“That island is not where answers lie. It’s where things go to die. You think you’re going to find some truth buried in the sand?” Your voice cracks. “You’ll find a grave.”

He steps out from behind the desk, arms crossed. Unmoved.

“Then why are you so afraid of it?”

You blink.

He sees it then, the fire behind your rage. Not anger. Not stubbornness. Fear.

Raw. Old. Splintered.

Your hands curl at your sides. “Because I know what happened there. I know what I did.”

He watches you closely now. The mask begins to slip.

You shake your head, voice softening, trembling. “You don’t understand. You think I’m the key. But there are things that even I was never meant to open.”

He says nothing. He can’t. Because in this moment, he doesn’t see the weapon he once feared. He sees the girl left behind in the ash.

You meet his gaze, chest heaving. “This is a mistake.”

And something inside him shatters. Because despite everything – your fire, your fury, your threat, he wants to reach for you. But he doesn’t, he grips the edge of the desk instead. White-knuckled. Silent. Trying to remember he is the captain.

Not the man you’re making him become.

“I said,” Hongjoong growls, his voice cutting through the thick air, “you’re not supposed to be here.”

“You changed course,” you bite back, stepping toward him. “Don’t insult me by pretending I wouldn’t notice.”

He doesn’t answer. Because he knows you did.

“Was it Seonghwa’s idea? Mingi’s? Did they all agree to play the game without me?” You pace like a caged animal, breath uneven. “You bring me to your table, you ask for my truth, and then you, what? Decide behind closed doors to take me back to the place that broke me?”

“It’s not about you,” he snaps. “It’s about what’s there.”

You whirl to face him. “You don’t know what’s there.”

His voice rises. “Then tell me!”

You falter. Just for a breath. And that silence, your silence, hits him harder than your fury ever could. He steps forward now, fast, voice low and sharp like a blade unsheathed.

“You don’t want us to find what’s there. Because you’re afraid of what it means. You’re afraid of what it makes you.”

Your chest tightens.

You shake your head. “I was a child,” you say, voice cracking now. “I watched everything I knew burn. And I burned with it.”

His jaw clenches, hands curled at his sides.

You step closer. “You want to go to that island thinking it’s going to give you answers? It won’t. It’ll give you ruin. You have no idea what you’re walking into.”

He slams his hand onto the table so hard the ink pot jumps.

“Enough of this!”

His voice echoes through the room, hot and furious. “You’re dismissed.”

Silence. He doesn’t look at you. He won’t. Because if he does, he knows what he’ll see.

But then he does, his own reactions betraying him. He looks, and you are burning. Not literally, but your eyes flash like molten gold, like flame rippling just beneath your skin, like something ancient, and furious, and awake.

You don’t leave. You take a step closer, the air between you crackling.

“I am not your weapon,” you whisper, voice low and trembling with control. “And I am not your secret.”

He stares at you, eyes wide, breathing hard. Because this… This is not the girl he pulled from the brig. This is the storm he tried to steer around, and it’s already too late. The silence after his command should have ended it.

You’re dismissed.

But you don’t move. And now, he can’t. His breath catches as he looks at you. Your chest rising fast, jaw clenched, eyes flashing not just with fury, but with something far older. Something deeper. Something burning.

“You should’ve told me,” You whisper.

“I couldn’t,” he says, his voice low, strained. “I’m the Captain of this vessel, the anchor, the balance. My crew need to trust me, and when it comes to you, they do not.” A beat. “You don’t belong to me,” he adds. “And I can’t stop looking at you like you do.”

You don’t speak. You step. Close. Too close.

His fists are clenched. Your hands tremble. The room pulses between you like something living. And then, all at once, you crash.

Your mouths find each other with the heat of everything unsaid. The kiss is hard, urgent, aching. His hands are in your hair, yours pulling him close, clawing at his coat like it’s the only thing holding you up. He pushes you back against the wall – not forceful, but desperate, like he’s trying to get closer than skin will allow. His lips are at your neck, his breath ragged, your pulse wild beneath his mouth. Your coat falls, his shirt rides up. You taste salt and heat and something sharp, and the way his hands move over you, fast, reverent, hungry. It makes your head spin.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he breathes against your throat.

You pull him harder, hips aligning, mouths clashing again, fevered.

“Good,” you whisper.

His hand slides to your thigh, lifting, fitting your bodies together in a rhythm you both pretend isn’t as reckless as it feels. You let a whimper infiltrate his mouth, and he groans, raw, low, lost. You don’t stop. Neither does he. Whatever fragile thread of restraint had held you both together, it’s gone now, consumed by touch, breath, need. His hands are everywhere, yours just as desperate, clothes shifted, skin meeting skin. He mouths along your collarbone, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as you arch into him.

The wall groans behind you.

His lips return to yours with bruising urgency. You’re gasping into each other’s mouths now, lost in the heat, the noise, the relief of no longer pretending. Your coat is already gone. His shirt is half unbuttoned. You tug it open further, feel the warmth of him under your palms. He growls, low and rough, and lifts you without thinking, your legs locking around his hips as he carries you back toward the desk.

You’re breathless, undone. And he’s about to be.

Then – a knock. Three sharp raps on the door.

You both freeze.

“Captain?” Seonghwa’s voice, muffled but close. “We have entered the last straits. We will have the island in sight by midday.”

Hongjoong whispers, rough, breathless. “Under the desk. Now.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

His hands are still on your hips, still holding you up, but his expression has shifted – not with desire, but with urgency. The mask of the captain snaps back into place, hard and fast.

“I can’t be compromised.”

The moment collapses.

You slide down, hands fumbling with your coat as your heart still pounds in your ears. He smooths his shirt, turns toward the door. You slip beneath the desk just as he unlocks it.

Seonghwa enters, eyes cool, voice precise.

“She’ll see it soon. The course is narrowing. We’ve trimmed speed to avoid detection, but there’s no way to mask our heading from here.”

Hongjoong nods once. His voice is flat. Measured.

“Very well. Prepare the crew. I want all senior officers topside by the hour.”

Seonghwa pauses, his eyes flicking over the room. Then he nods, slowly. “As you wish, Captain.”

He exits, the door clicking shut behind him. Hongjoong doesn’t move at first. You crawl out from beneath the desk, breath tight, heart still thunder in your chest. You stand, facing him, and he looks at you like he’s still trying to remember where the line was.

Because whatever it was – you both just crossed it.

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