thetidesthatturn

[thetidesthatturn]

i wasnt feeling well and was in need of a good angst with a good ending to maybe release some emotions and stuff and i have to say that YOU DELIVERED! i am literally SOBBING at 2am bc of how good it is and i wanna thank u bc now i feel better and also satisfied with how great it is! :D u wrote it so well!

AAAAA thank you sm!!!! This makes my heart so happy!! So glad you enjoyed it 🥹🤍🤍

If you like angst, I’m sure you’d love my ongoing series Tides of Gold 😌🫶🏻

[thetidesthatturn]

Against All Odds

Pairing: ex-boyfriend Yunho x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, explicit sexual content (head freceiving, implied unprotected sex ig, biting) soft dom Yunho, heartbreak - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Eight years prior

The sun is setting when he pulls up outside your house.

It’s golden in that soft, syrupy way you always loved—the kind of light that makes everything feel suspended. Like maybe time could hold its breath a little longer, just for the two of you.

But it doesn’t.

Yunho steps out of the car, hands stuffed in the pockets of his grey hoodie—your hoodie, technically. You let him keep it months ago, but now it feels like you should’ve asked for it back. Maybe that would’ve made this feel less final.

You’re already waiting by the mailbox, pretending to scroll through your phone, pretending you haven’t been crying on and off for the last hour.

He walks over. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands in front of you, tall and awkward in the way he gets when he’s hurting.

You look up at him, and your chest caves in.

“I got the call,” he says softly, eyes flickering to yours.

You nod. “I figured.”

“I leave in two days.”

You nod again. Too much and not enough all at once.

You both know what this means. You’ve known it for weeks—ever since the final audition round, ever since the scouts started talking contracts and relocation and “no distractions.”

You’re the distraction. The one thing he can’t take with him.

“Say it,” you whisper, even though it feels like dragging glass through your throat. “Say we’re breaking up.”

Yunho’s jaw clenches. “I don’t want to.”

“But we are.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Instead, he pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your shoulders like it’s the last time. You bury your face in his chest. It still smells like laundry powder and warmth. Like home.

“I’m so proud of you,” you choke out. “You’re going to be incredible.”

“I don’t want to let go,” he whispers into your hair.

“But you will.”

He swallows hard. “I’ll miss everything. You. Us.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are shining, and there’s a tremble in his bottom lip that makes your heart shatter all over again.

“Promise me something,” you say, voice shaking. “When you debut—when the world knows your name—don’t look back for me. Not if it’ll hurt. Just… go live your dream.”

A long silence passes between you.

Then, quietly, “But what if I already know the best part of it was you?”

You can’t breathe. Can’t speak. So instead, you kiss him—slow, sad, and final. And when it’s over, he presses your forehead to his, eyes closed, pain radiating off him in waves.

“I’ll never stop thinking about you,” he whispers.

And then he lets go.

Eight years later

You’re already halfway through your second coffee by the time the morning briefing starts.

The boardroom is too bright, the air conditioning too cold, and your inbox too full. But you sit tall in your chair, blazer buttoned, eyes sharp, nodding at the right times while your manager runs through the itinerary. This is what you’re good at now—keeping things professional. Efficient. Polished.

“Y/N,” your manager says, tapping the screen to bring up the slide with your name, “you’ll be heading up the client engagement for the LA sector. They’re hosting a launch event midweek, but you’ll need to be there two days earlier to prep the brand assets with the US team.”

You nod, pen already scratching notes into your planner.

“You’ll be staying at the Faye Grand downtown. They’ve got a long-standing corporate arrangement with the client.”

The Faye Grand. You recognise the name—it’s one of those bougie hotels influencers love to tag in their thirst traps. More luxury than you need, but it’s not your budget to argue with.

“When do I fly?”

“Monday morning. It’s all booked and confirmed. Your brief is already in the shared drive.”

You close your notebook. “Understood.”

By the time the meeting ends, you’ve got three follow-up emails and two Slack pings waiting for you. It’s just another day. Another trip. Another campaign. Except… you feel it this time. A shift in the air. The tiniest pull in your chest, like something old has stirred.

You brush it off.

Later that evening, you toss your suitcase onto the bed and unzip it, beginning the familiar routine of travel prep. Blouses rolled neatly, chargers coiled, toiletries double-checked. You work with the kind of practiced rhythm that comes from flying for business more than for fun. Your passport sits on your desk, a neat itinerary tucked beside it.

Once your packing is mostly done, you drop onto the edge of the bed and open your phone. TikTok launches before you even realise your thumb’s moved. You scroll through a few campaign hashtags first—#SustainWithUs is performing well. The eco-themed filters are getting traction, and the influencer you paid way too much for actually posted on time for once. That’s a win.

You scroll again. And again.

And then—

There it is.

A stage. Lights sweeping across a stadium. Screams loud even through the tinny speakers of your phone.

ATEEZ.

The caption reads: “Yunho in New York last night. THIS MAN IS UNREAL???”

It’s shaky, fan-filmed, zoomed in on his face as he laughs into the mic. Hair pushed back. Sweat glinting on his temple. His grin is wide and unfiltered. A happiness you haven’t seen in years.

Your finger hovers over the screen. You don’t press like. You just… watch.

It’s surreal, seeing him like this. Not in a grainy old photo, or your memories, or the quiet ache in your chest. But real. Here. Alive in the glow of something you always knew he was destined for.

You smile. But it hurts. Because the boy on your screen isn’t yours anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.

You lock your phone and place it screen-down on the nightstand.

The silence after feels louder than the screams ever were.

~

The weekend moves past in a blur.

There’s laundry to finish, final edits to send, and a dozen tiny errands that keep you moving from one end of the city to the other. You barely register the passage of time—just task after task, coffee after coffee, until Monday is staring you down.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, you make time for a few last-minute catchups. Lunch with Seoyeon at the new rooftop spot. Coffee with Eunji in the sun-soaked window of your favourite bakery. You’re trying to squeeze in little bits of normal before a week of business formal, time zones, and client-side niceties.

It’s Sunday when it happens. A late lunch with Junhee and two of her friends—people you’ve only met a handful of times. It’s easy conversation at first. Weekend plans. Skincare. The best place to get shoes repaired.

And then someone says, “Oh my god, did you see ATEEZ are in the States right now?”

You freeze for a second. Just a blink. Just enough to take a breath.

“Yeah,” another chimes in, flipping her phone around. “They’re doing a full U.S. leg again. My cousin saw them when they played Seoul last year—said it was insane.”

The screen flashes images of the group—eight members mid-performance, lights and fire and raw energy. You don’t look too closely.

Junhee leans in. “I swear the tall one—what’s his name? Yunho?—he doesn’t even look real.”

You sip your iced tea and give a noncommittal shrug. “Haven’t heard of them.”

A white lie. Polished and neutral.

Junhee doesn’t press. None of them do. And the conversation shifts just as quickly—back to someone’s new job, then to a disastrous Hinge date. You laugh where you should. Smile where it matters.

But inside, there’s a quiet throb you can’t quite shake. Because you have heard of them. Of course you have. You’ve watched every milestone from the shadows—saw the trainee showcase poster go viral, the debut announcement take over your timeline, the steady rise from underdogs to sold-out arenas.

And through it all, you said nothing.

Only a handful of people from school ever knew about you and Yunho. And none of them are in this café. So you keep the truth folded neatly in the corners of your memory. A story you don’t owe anyone.

After lunch, you walk home alone. The sky is overcast, your suitcase still waiting half-packed by the front door.

But something inside you stirs.

Like the past is waking up.

~

The flight is uneventful.

You sleep through most of it, half-curled against the window in a position your neck definitely won’t thank you for later. You wake up only for lukewarm food and weak coffee, then drift again, lulled by the hum of the engine and the vague nerves of what the next few days might hold.

By the time you land, the sun is bright and unrelenting, glaring off the terminal glass as you haul your suitcase into a waiting cab.

The driver doesn’t talk much. Just polite small talk, clipped and easy. Where you’re from, how long you’re in town, whether it’s your first time in LA. You answer with the same friendly detachment you always do, grateful for the silence that follows. You watch palm trees flash by the window like a slideshow, distant and unreal.

Eventually, the car pulls up in front of the Faye Grand.

It’s just as extravagant as the photos suggested—marble, gold trim, towering glass. You step out, thank the driver, and accept help with your bags. The concierge greets you with a rehearsed smile and hands over your keycard. Everything is smooth. Efficient. Normal.

You take the elevator to the 14th floor, wheel your suitcase into your room, and stop for a beat.

The room is sleek and quiet, full of muted neutrals and soft linens. You toss your bag to the side, peel off your travel clothes, and make a beeline for the shower. The water is hot, the pressure perfect, and for a few minutes, you just let yourself breathe.

When you step out, skin warm and towel wrapped tightly, everything feels slightly more manageable.

You check the time. Late afternoon. Your stomach growls—loudly.

You dress quickly in something casual. Not business-formal, not dinner-out fancy. Just… simple. Comfortable. You grab your bag and head for the elevator, checking your phone for any food spots nearby.

You’re still reading reviews when you hear footsteps and voices coming down the hallway.

You glance up briefly.

Eight men pass you in a cluster, chatting and laughing amongst themselves. Most of them wear caps or hoodies, faces half-obscured, but something about them tugs at your memory.

You frown.

You’ve seen them somewhere. Recently.

The elevator dings. You step inside, turn, and press the button for the ground floor.

That’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

Your name. Soft. Uncertain. But unmistakable. You look up from the panel of buttons, and there he is.

Standing just outside the elevator doors, chest rising slightly faster than before, eyes locked on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Yunho.

He looks different. Bigger somehow. Sharper jaw. Broader frame. But the expression—wide-eyed, disbelieving, full of something too raw to name—that’s exactly the same.

You freeze. The doors close between you. A breath. A split second. The elevator begins to descend.

And you’re left alone, heart thundering in your chest, Yunho’s voice still echoing in your ears.

~

Yunho doesn’t believe in fate.

Or at least, he didn’t—until about ten seconds ago.

The elevator dings just ahead of them as he walks with the others down the hall. He’s laughing at something San said, the familiar chaos of tour life buzzing around him—jokes, music, talk of food and sleep and what time they’re due at the arena the next day.

Then he sees you, and the world tilts.

He almost doesn’t recognise you at first. The years have changed you—refined, confident, graceful in a way he didn’t know how to expect. But your eyes… your eyes are the same.

And they meet his.

Time shatters.

He stops walking, the air caught in his lungs like it doesn’t know how to move anymore.

“Y/N?”

Your name comes out in a whisper, the softest prayer. He takes a step forward just as the elevator doors close between you. Gone. Just like that.

The hallway spins for a second, and it’s only Wooyoung’s hand clapping his shoulder that jolts him back.

“Hyung? What’s up with you? You look like you saw a ghost.”

San glances at him too, brows furrowed. “Who was that?”

Yunho swallows hard, eyes fixed on the silver elevator doors.

“Someone… very important to me.”

There’s a pause. Silence stretches around him. And then he moves. Without a word, Yunho spins on his heel and bolts down the hallway.

“Hyung?” Yeosang calls after him.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think. Just pushes open the stairwell door and takes the first step like it might save his life.

Behind him, Wooyoung’s voice echoes.

“Yah! We’re on the fourteenth floor! You gonna run all the way down those stairs?!”

Yunho doesn’t stop.

Because for the first time in years, something has cracked open in him—something he tried to bury with rehearsals and world tours and platinum plaques.

~

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. You step out like you’re in a daze.

There’s no way. No way that just happened.

You walk blindly through the marble lobby, past the velvet armchairs and sleek check-in desks, eyes unfocused. The glass doors ahead blur with your reflection.

Yunho. Not in a dream. Not through a screen. Here.

Your heart is still hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. What are the odds? What are the actual, statistical chances that you’d be put in the same hotel, in the same city, at the same time that your ex—your first love, now a world-famous idol—is staying?

You push through the glass doors and step outside, into the thick, hot air of a late LA afternoon. The sky is a soft haze of gold, traffic rumbling in the distance, but all of it feels muffled. Like you’re underwater. You stumble toward the edge of the sidewalk, gripping the cool metal railing just beyond the hotel’s front steps.

Deep breath. Another. Your lungs won’t listen. You press your hand against your chest.

This can’t be real.

You haven’t seen him in eight years. Eight years of silence. Of wondering where he was in the world. Of telling yourself not to look him up again. Of swiping past his name in headlines and playlists and fan posts because it hurt too much. And then he was there. Just outside that elevator. Saying your name like it still meant something.

You close your eyes, head tipped toward the sky, trying to breathe. Trying to slow the chaos rising in your chest.

You’re just beginning to steady yourself when the door behind you slams open. There’s a thud of rapid footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

“Y/N?”

You turn just in time to see him. Yunho, running toward you like his life depends on it.

He skids to a stop a few feet away, breath ragged, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his temple. He looks like he just sprinted a marathon. Hair slightly disheveled under his cap, expression wrecked and hopeful and completely, utterly undone.

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

“Is it really you?”

You don’t move. Because suddenly, the world feels very, very still.

“Yunho,” you breathe.

The name tastes like memory. Like the past crashing back into the present before you’re ready.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. Hesitates. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake up if he gets too close. But your face—your face gives you away.

The sharp inhale. The tremble in your lips. The way your eyes shimmer like you’ve just remembered what it feels like to be eighteen and in love with a boy who promised he’d never forget you. Emotion takes you by the throat. It surges up too fast to hide, and suddenly you’re unraveling, breath hitching, hands shaking at your sides.

He moves.

In a few long strides, Yunho is in front of you. And then—just like that—you’re in his arms. They wrap around you. Tight, warm, familiar. One slides up your back, the other curves around your shoulders, and you melt into him like you never left. Like no time has passed. Like this was always waiting.

Your face presses against his chest, right where it used to rest on quiet nights in his room, long before the world knew his name. His heartbeat thunders under your cheek. Too fast. Too real.

He exhales, voice soft against your hair. “How are you here?”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. You’re clinging to the fabric of his hoodie like if you let go, he’ll vanish all over again.

“I’m here on business,” you manage, your voice cracking at the edges. “Marketing campaign. I didn’t know—I didn’t know you were here.”

He laughs, but it’s a breath of disbelief more than humour. “Of all the hotels. All the cities…”

You pull back just enough to look up at him.

His eyes search yours like they’re memorising something precious.

“You look…” he starts, but trails off. “You look like you.”

“So do you.”

There’s silence. A thousand unsaid things hang between you. But neither of you moves.

“Where are you headed?” Yunho asks gently, like he’s trying not to shatter the fragile magic of the moment.

You wipe at the corners of your eyes and manage a quiet laugh. “I was just going to get some food… I’ve only been in the country for a few hours.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile but doesn’t want to assume too much. “Do you… Can I—”

He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. That nervous habit he always had when he wasn’t sure if he was overstepping.

You tilt your head, already softening. “Are you joking? Yeah. Of course.”

His brows lift. “Really?”

“Really. But can you even do that? I mean like, is it safe for you to just be walking around?”

Yunho’s grin finally breaks through. It’s shy, boyish, achingly familiar. He reaches up and pulls his hood—which had fallen down sometime during his dramatic descent—back over his cap. It casts a shadow across his face, disguising the unmistakable features you’ve seen on screens for years.

“If I’m careful,” he says, eyes twinkling, “yes.”

You shake your head, lips twitching. “You literally sprinted down here. That wasn’t careful.”

“It was worth it.”

That silences you for a beat. The weight of it. The way his voice drops just enough to make it feel real.

He steps back, gestures toward the street like a gentleman. “Lead the way?”

You nod, finally allowing your feet to move. And as the two of you fall into step, shoulders brushing, you wonder if the universe might still have a few stories left to write for the both of you.

You end up at a small, tucked-away restaurant a few blocks from the hotel. It’s nothing fancy—no reservations, no wine lists, no influencer bait lighting. Just good food and the kind of quiet that feels like a secret.

The smell hits you the moment you step inside—rich broth, slow-cooked pork, garlic and sesame and something warm that lives in your memory like home. There are only a few other tables occupied, and the woman who greets you—short, grey-haired, and wearing an apron printed with tiny cranes—smiles like she’s known you forever.

“Sit wherever you like,” she says, voice soft and warm.

You slide into a booth by the window, and Yunho sits across from you, pulling his hood down now that the coast is clear. His hair’s slightly damp from the run, his cheeks still a little flushed. It makes him look younger somehow.

The waitress hands you each a menu, but it’s almost a formality. You already know what you want.

When she returns to take your order, you both speak at once.

“Pork belly ramen,” you say.

“Pork belly ramen,” he echoes.

Your eyes meet over the menus, and you can’t help the little laugh that escapes.

“Some things don’t change,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Guess not.”

“I’ll bring two,” the woman says with a knowing look, scribbling it down. “And I’ll let this one pick the extras.”

Yunho’s face lights up. “Can we get kimchi mandu, takoyaki, and—oh, gyoza, please. Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” She winks at you before turning away.

The moment she disappears, your eyes flick to the table—and that’s when you notice it. Yunho’s phone, buzzing against the wood like it’s vibrating with urgency.

You glance at him, teasing. “Someone’s very popular.”

He sighs, flips it over. “I probably should’ve texted someone.”

Curious, you lean in slightly.

The screen is lit up with notifications. A missed call from Hongjoong. Two messages from Wooyoung. Three from San—one just says “DUDE” in all caps. Mingi’s sent a selfie of him and Jongho looking somewhere between impressed and concerned.

You raise your eyebrows. “Let me guess. You bolted and left them to figure it out?”

“I may have… exited without much context,” he admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blink. “You mean you actually ran away?”

“Down the fire escape.”

You stare.

“From the fourteenth floor.”

“Oh my god.” You burst into laughter, covering your mouth. “That is so dramatic.”

He grins, ducking his head. “I panicked!”

“They probably think you were kidnapped.”

“San did say he’d file a missing person report if I didn’t answer in the next ten minutes.”

Your laughter fades into something softer, warmer. Your gaze lingers on him for a second longer than it should.

You say it before you can stop yourself. “You didn’t have to run.”

He looks up.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I couldn’t just let the elevator doors close and pretend it didn’t happen.”

Something in your chest twists. And for a second, the air between you shifts. But before either of you can say anything more, the waitress returns with a tray full of food. She sets it down with the kind of care only someone who loves what they do can offer.

“Here you go,” she says, sliding your bowls in front of you. “Two pork belly ramen. Just like it’s meant to be.”

You both begin to eat.

There’s a peaceful rhythm to it—soft clinks of chopsticks, quiet sips of broth, the occasional hum of satisfaction as the flavours settle into your bones. It’s the kind of silence that feels safe. Not awkward. Not filled with pressure. Just… present.

You sneak a glance at him between bites.

He’s still Yunho.

Even after everything—the fame, the years, the distance—he holds his bowl the same way. Tilts his head when he chews like he’s thinking about something else. Like his mind is always a little too full.

You go for another bite of gyoza when he draws in a breath.

“I, uh—” he starts, then pauses, glancing down at his food. “I kept thinking about reaching out.”

Your chopsticks still for just a second. Your eyes lift to meet his. He doesn’t look up, he just stares into his ramen like it might hide him.

“But every time I remembered how painful it was to say goodbye to you,” he says softly, “I never ended up pressing send.”

You swallow—food, emotion, the sudden rush in your throat. It takes a second too long.

“I wanted to,” he continues, his voice gentler now. “So many times. Debut night. Our first win. When we did the world tour and stopped in Seoul again. Every time something big happened, you were the person I wanted to tell.”

You set your chopsticks down carefully.

“But I kept thinking… maybe it would hurt you. Maybe it would drag you back into something you didn’t ask for. So I convinced myself it was better to leave it alone.”

You’re quiet for a moment. The words sit between you like steam rising off the bowls. Not angry. Just honest. The kind of truth you didn’t expect to hear tonight.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, voice soft. “I thought about reaching out too.”

That makes him look up.

You offer a sad smile. “But I figured you were too far away. Not just in distance, but in… everything. You were living your dream. What right did I have to interrupt that?”

Yunho stares at you like he’s seeing something he lost a long time ago.

“I would’ve answered,” he says.

You nod. “And I would’ve read every word.”

Another silence. But this one feels warmer. Less fragile.

“I guess we were both trying to protect each other,” you whisper.

He exhales. “And still ended up hurting.”

You smile, barely. “Some things never change.”

He mirrors it. “Some things do.”

You shift in your seat, hands wrapping around the warm ceramic of your ramen bowl. “So… tell me. What’s it been like?”

Yunho tilts his head, smiling softly. “What, being in ATEEZ?”

You nod. “The world tours, the fans, the lights… all of it.”

He leans back slightly, arms folding over his chest as he considers the question. “It’s everything I dreamed of. And nothing like I imagined.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“It’s… amazing,” he says slowly. “And exhausting. We’re always moving. New countries, new stages, no sleep, no privacy. But then you’re onstage and thousands of people are screaming your name, singing every word of a song you helped create—and in that moment, it feels worth it. Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

You smile, genuinely. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

He looks up at you, eyes soft. “I wondered if you ever were.”

“Always.”

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable now. It’s full. Like there’s too much to say and not enough time.

He nods toward you. “What about you? What’s life been like for you all this time?”

You laugh under your breath. “Less glamorous. Lots of spreadsheets. I started as an intern, worked my way up, changed companies a few times. Eventually landed where I am now—marketing manager for a global brand.”

His eyes widen. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

“It’s stable,” you say, swirling your spoon in the broth. “Challenging. Some days I love it. Some days I think about quitting and opening a bookstore-slash-café in Busan.”

He grins. “That actually sounds perfect for you.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t romanticise my mid-life crisis at twenty-five.”

“You always talked about that, though,” he says, voice quieter now. “Books. Writing. Something yours.”

You pause, surprised. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“I remember everything.”

There’s a weight to those words. A depth you don’t know how to touch yet. So you change the subject before it swallows you both whole.

“Dating?” you ask lightly, raising your brows. “You been with anyone?”

He huffs a short laugh. “Nothing serious. It’s… complicated. You’re not exactly encouraged to settle down when the whole world’s watching. And even if you try to, it’s never really private.”

You nod slowly. “Makes sense.”

He watches you. “What about you?”

You shake your head. “No one worth mentioning.”

The truth is, no one ever fit the way he did. You stopped trying to force it after a while.

Neither of you says that part out loud.

Instead, you both return to your food for a moment, eating slowly, the silence between you warm with the weight of everything you’ve shared—and everything you haven’t yet.

~

The last of the ramen disappears between soft conversation and even softer silences. The gyoza’s long gone, the mandu barely touched. Neither of you were ever really here for the food.

You reach for your purse the moment the waitress begins to clear the table.

“I’ve got it,” you say casually, pulling out your card. “Company’s covering everything. Business trip perks.”

Yunho straightens in his seat. “Wait, no—let me.”

You shake your head. “Seriously, it’s fine. This is the one time I get to use corporate money for something enjoyable.”

“I want to,” he says, a little firmer this time.

You glance at him, brows raised.

“It’s not about who should pay,” he adds. “It’s about me wanting to do this. For you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say another word, he’s already standing. Already handing his card to the waitress with a sheepish smile.

“I tried,” you mutter under your breath.

Yunho grins. “You’ll just have to owe me next time.”

Next time. Your heart stumbles over those words.

The waitress brings back the receipt, nodding at both of you with a knowing little smile. You thank her, bow slightly, and walk outside together.

The air has shifted since earlier—still warm, but cooler now, the sun long set. A balmy breeze drifts through the palm trees lining the quiet street. The city hums around you, alive but not overwhelming. It’s one of those rare moments of peace that only seem to exist when you’re walking slowly through a place that doesn’t know your name.

Yunho slips his hood back over his cap, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. You fall into step beside him.

For a few quiet blocks, you don’t say much. The world feels quieter at night. Softer. It lets you listen to things like the rhythm of his footsteps, the swish of your coat, the steady sound of your breathing slowly falling in sync again.

“How long are you in town?” he asks eventually, voice low.

“Just the week,” you reply. “Unless they extend the campaign.”

He nods, eyes still on the sidewalk ahead. “Do you think… we’ll see each other again while you’re here?”

You glance over at him.

He’s still walking, but there’s something in his posture that’s changed—just slightly. Like he’s bracing himself for the answer.

You stop. So does he.

You turn to face him, a smile tugging at your lips. “I hope so.”

Relief flickers across his features like light.

“Me too,” he says.

You’re standing just outside the hotel now, lobby lights glowing behind the glass. Neither of you moves to go in. Not yet.

Because now that the space between you has closed, it’s so much harder to open it again.

“Will you let me walk you to your room?” he asks, sheepishly, as if he’s not sure it’s still allowed after all this time.

You nod. “Of course.”

The elevator ride up is silent, but not empty. It crackles with something neither of you dare name. You stand side by side, not touching, but you swear you can feel the heat of him just inches away. The floor numbers blink upward in slow, steady increments, far too loud in the hush between you.

Neither of you look at the other.

When the doors slide open, you step into the hallway and lead the way, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. You stop in front of your room, hand dipping into your bag for the key card.

“This is me,” you say softly, turning back to him.

He offers you a smile—gentle, honest. “Thanks for letting me tag along. It was… really nice. Seeing you again. After all this time.”

You smile back, but it’s the kind of smile that trembles just slightly around the edges. Like part of you is already mourning the moment ending.

You both linger.

The hallway is quiet. The kind of quiet where you can hear your own heart in your ears. You glance down at your hand on the key card. Then up at him.

And before you can stop yourself—before you can second guess it—you say it.

“Did you… want to come in?”

His eyes widen, just slightly. You see the surprise flash across his face, but it softens almost immediately.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low.

You nod once. “Yeah. I am.”

He doesn’t move right away. But then he takes a breath and steps forward.

You swipe the key card, the lock clicks open, and you push the door wide to let him in.

The room is dim and quiet, lit only by the soft ambient glow from the city outside. Your suitcase is still half-open near the closet. The bed is made. Everything feels untouched, suspended. Like time’s been waiting for you to come back to it.

You close the door behind you, and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Yunho stands by the window, looking out over the skyline, hands still buried in the front pocket of his hoodie. His silhouette outlined by city lights.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what this is. What it’s about to become.

So you sit down at the edge of the bed, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “Kind of weird, huh?” you murmur.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. A little.”

The silence stretches again. Not heavy. Just uncertain. Two people tiptoeing through the ghost of something that was once everything.

“I’ve missed you,” he says suddenly.

Your eyes lift to him.

He’s still facing the window, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. Like saying it out loud cost him something. Like the truth has been sitting in his chest for too long, and now it’s clawed its way free.

He turns to face you.

“I used to think about this all the time,” he says. “What I’d say to you, if I saw you again. How it would feel. But now that you’re here, I… I still can’t believe it. You’re actually here.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I never really left.”

The air shifts.

It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Just a breath, a pull, the gravity of something real.

He steps closer, slow, cautious, gaze locked on yours. And then he leans down, lips brushing against yours in a kiss so hesitant, so unsure, it feels like a question.

You kiss him back.

But he pulls away too quickly, eyes searching yours, already apologising. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

You reach up and grab the front of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

You pull him back in.

And this time, when your lips meet, it’s no longer a question. It’s an answer.

He kisses you like he remembers. Like he’s been carrying the echo of your mouth in his memory all this time. His hands find your waist, tentative but desperate, holding you like you might vanish if he lets go.

And you let yourself fall into him—slowly, quietly, completely.

His mouth moves against yours with growing urgency, each kiss a little deeper, a little more desperate. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, like he can’t stand the idea of even an inch between you.

You shift, rising up slightly on your knees to meet him, and your fingers reach up, brushing the edge of his hood. He stills for a second—not stopping you, but waiting.

You slide the hood back gently.

Then your hands lift to the brim of his cap, and with careful fingers, you remove it, setting it aside on the bed. His hair is slightly tousled from the chase, soft and warm beneath your palms.

You run your hands through it—slowly, deliberately—letting your fingers glide from the crown to the nape of his neck.

He shudders.

A full-body kind of shiver, like your touch short-circuits something in him.

His grip on you tightens instantly, one arm wrapping fully around your back, the other sliding up to cradle your jaw as the kiss deepens. His tongue grazes yours, slow and intentional, coaxing, remembering. And you gasp against his mouth, your hands gripping tighter in his hair, anchoring him to you.

The sound makes him groan—low and muffled—like he’s been starving for this and didn’t realise just how badly.

You fall back together, your bodies angling closer. It’s all heavy breathing and hands grasping, fingers digging into fabric and flesh, trying to relearn what used to be instinct.

His hand finds the curve of your waist, your hip, then slides up, tracing the shape of you like a map he used to know by heart.

“God,” he breathes against your lips, voice raw, “you feel exactly the same.”

You kiss him again, harder this time, like it’s the only answer you have. And maybe it is. Because there are no more words in this moment. No room for the past, or the years lost, or the what-ifs.

Just this.

The press of his body against yours. The heat blooming between you, slow and steady and unstoppable.

His lips leave yours only to trail across your cheek, down your jaw, breath hot against your skin. His hand cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious, even as the rest of him presses into you with growing urgency.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice low and rough at the edges.

You shake your head, breath hitching. “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes. Something in him shifts.

The soft edges melt away, replaced by something deeper—hungrier. His hand tightens on your waist, and he pushes you gently backward onto the mattress.

He hovers above you, gaze locked to yours, jaw clenched as though barely holding back. And then he leans down and kisses you again—harder this time. His body settles between your legs, one arm braced beside your head, the other dragging slowly down your side.

When he pulls away to look at you, his pupils are blown wide, his chest rising in uneven waves.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, the words pulled straight from his gut.

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, and he helps you tug it off, revealing the sculpted lines of his torso beneath. He’s stronger now. Broader. Every inch of him matured and carved with years of discipline and devotion. But the way he looks at you—that’s the same. Like you’re the centre of his world.

You drag your fingertips down his chest, slow and reverent.

That’s all it takes.

He growls—actually growls—and leans back in, catching your lips with his again. His hands are everywhere now—under your shirt, skimming your ribs, thumbs brushing your skin like he’s trying to memorise every inch. But it’s not frantic. It’s focused. Intentional. Controlled chaos.

You tug his mouth back to yours just as he moves to speak again. “Yunho—”

He cuts you off with a kiss so deep it leaves you breathless.

“No more talking,” he mutters, voice low and firm. “You’ve said enough. I’ve waited long enough.”

His hands glide up your sides, slow and reverent, pushing your shirt higher until you lift your arms and let him pull it over your head. Now there’s nothing separating skin from skin except breath and tension.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember.” He whispers, more to himself than to you,

Your fingers skim across his stomach, feeling the tight lines of muscle, the way his breath catches at your touch. You let your palms roam upward, brushing his chest, his collarbones, threading into the soft hair at the back of his neck.

His tongue slides against yours with practiced control, like he’s savouring you, coaxing you open inch by inch. His hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until your hips shift beneath him. He’s not moving fast. He’s measuring you—finding the exact pressure that makes you gasp, the precise rhythm that makes you arch.

When he breaks the kiss, his lips trail down your neck, then across your chest, tongue flicking teasingly over your skin. “Still so responsive,” he murmurs, lips brushing your sternum. “You always were.”

“Yunho,” you breathe, voice trembling.

He hums against your skin. “Say it again.”

“Yunho.”

That does something to him.

His teeth graze lightly, then he kisses the spot he bit, soothing it. One hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, testing the waters. You give him all the permission he needs with the soft gasp that escapes your lips.

Your remaining clothes fall away, slow but desperate. Each layer revealing more heat, more skin, more need. When you’re finally bare beneath him, his eyes drag down the length of you like he’s memorising a painting that belongs only to him.

He kneels back between your legs, fingers pressing into your thighs to open you wider. His mouth parts slightly as he exhales. “You’re perfect.”

Then he leans down, and his mouth replaces his fingers. You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, one hand flying to his hair, gripping.

He moans into you, like the taste of you ruins him. And then he devours you.

There’s nothing tentative now. He’s steady, confident, relentless in the way his tongue flicks and circles and drags, like he’s determined to wring every sound out of you, to make up for all the years he couldn’t touch you. His arms lock around your thighs to keep you exactly where he wants you, his grip possessive, dominant.

“Yunho—” your voice breaks, “please—”

He pulls back, lips slick, breath ragged. “Tell me what you need.”

“You.”

He climbs back up over you, settles between your legs, and presses his forehead to yours.

“Look at me.”

You do.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and your breath catches in your throat at the way he fills you—completely. His eyes never leave yours, and for a moment, it’s just you and him, two bodies finally finding their way back to the same rhythm.

He moves inside you with devastating rhythm, slow at first, then building—every thrust deeper, every breath heavier. His hands are gripping your hips now, grounding you to the mattress, and all you can do is hold on.

The feeling is overwhelming—his weight, his warmth, the stretch, the pressure. Your body arches beneath him, your voice caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea. Your hands slide up his back, desperate to anchor yourself to something.

And then it gets too much.

The eye contact. The intensity. The way he’s staring down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense. You try to turn your head, to bury your face in his chest—to hide, to catch your breath.

But he’s faster.

His hand catches your jaw, firm but careful, and suddenly your face is cradled between his palms.

“I told you to look at me,” he growls, breath hot against your lips. “Eyes on me.”

The command makes your breath catch, your core clench around him, and he feels it.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. “Yeah. That’s it.”

He rocks into you again, deep and hard, and this time you don’t look away. You can’t. His gaze holds you there—utterly, completely—while your body falls apart beneath him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks like contrast to the force of his thrusts, and everything about him feels like fire and worship all at once.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice rough, eyes locked to yours. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp.

He kisses you then, hard and claiming, and you don’t look away again.

He purrs against your neck, voice low and guttural. “You feel so fucking good. I forgot—I forgot what this was like. How good you are. How good you sound.”

You can’t speak. You just cling to him, body arching, breaths stuttering, eyes wet with everything this moment means.

And he takes you there—again and again—until you forget the years, forget the silence, forget everything but the feeling of him inside you, around you, with you.

Until all that’s left is heat, skin, and the sound of your name on his lips like it still belongs there.

The air is thick with shared breath and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Yunho stills inside you, his chest heaving, forehead resting gently against yours. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Your bodies are tangled, slick with sweat, your fingers still curled into his back like you’re afraid he’ll slip away again.

But he doesn’t move, he just holds you.

And then, with the gentlest sigh, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one just beneath your eye, like he’s apologising for everything he missed.

He eases out of you carefully, and the emptiness makes you whimper before you can stop yourself. He hushes you, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

His voice is different now—softer, quieter. Like the storm inside him has passed, and now all that’s left is the boy you knew, cradling you in the afterglow with trembling hands.

You roll toward him instinctively, letting your body melt into his. He opens his arms and pulls you close, wrapping you up like something breakable. You bury your face in his bare chest, your breath syncing to his.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

Then he speaks, voice barely a whisper.

“I didn’t mean to be so… intense,” he says, suddenly sheepish. “I just—I’ve wanted that for so long. You. Like that. And I guess something in me snapped the second you said yes.”

You smile against his skin. “You think I didn’t want that too?”

He laughs softly, the sound warm and disbelieving. His hand traces slow, soothing circles on your back. “I didn’t expect you to still feel that way about me.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His cheeks are pink now, his gaze shy despite everything he just did to you.

“I never stopped feeling that way,” you whisper.

His eyes soften.

He leans down, kisses your nose. Then your lips—slow and sweet and far too tender for someone who had you trembling minutes ago.

He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking it gently around your shoulders before gathering you into his chest again, your legs tangled, his thumb brushing lazily against your arm.

“Stay,” you whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Not this time.”

And in the quiet that follows, for the first time in years, you both sleep easy.

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, slave trade, use of Y/N, abuse, alcohol use - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @ninjakitty15 @autieofthevalley @idknunsadly @fallendebil

Masterlist

A/N: I’m sorry that I’m late posting, I saw Stray Kids yesterday and it has been a hell of a comedown 🥲

<< CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER TEN >>

CHAPTER NINE - DUTY OR DESTINY

The sea is calm. Too calm, for a ship that’s been through fire and blood.

You wake still tangled in his sheets, in his arms, in the echo of everything last night carved into your bones. His arm lies heavy over your waist, his breathing steady behind you. But there’s no time to stay in this quiet. Not today.

The crew is already stirring above deck. You hear it in the footsteps, the clatter of barrels being moved, voices trading tired orders.

When you finally part, slipping quietly into your own garments, you find the Halcyon already in motion. Ropes are being pulled taut, sails adjusted.

They’re preparing to set course.

Jongho leans against a rail, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re near empty,” he says when you pass, nodding toward the dwindling stores. “Captain says we make for the closest port—three days out if the wind’s with us.”

Yeosang and Wooyoung are already charting the course on the map laid over the war table, San and Yunho barking orders to ensure every remaining supply is rationed. The weight of reality is settling fast. The celebration is over. Now, survival looms again.

You’ve only just reached the quarterdeck when something strange catches your eye.

A speck in the sky. White against the pale dawn.

A dove.

It shouldn’t be possible—there’s nothing but ocean around you, no land but the barren Isle of Gold. And yet the bird glides toward the ship, unhurried, deliberate. You step forward slowly, instinct already stirring.

It lands on the bowsprit, graceful and silent. And tied to its leg—

A scroll. Thin, bound in gold thread.

You reach out.

The dove doesn’t flinch.

You untie the parchment and unroll it with cautious hands. The moment your eyes touch the ink, your breath catches.

Y/N,

The work is not yet done. You’ve unlocked the gate, but there is more still buried beneath the Isle. The past runs deeper than even I knew. Come to me. Come home.

—Mother

The parchment glows faintly, the script beginning to fade like mist in sunlight the moment you finish reading it. The dove is gone before you can blink. And something in your gut twists.

The port will have to wait.

The war cabin doors slam open moments later. Hongjoong’s head lifts from where he’s hunched over the table. Seonghwa straightens from his place by the map. The rest are gathered already—San, Yunho, Mingi, Jongho, Wooyoung, Yeosang.

Your gaze lands on the Captain. “A dove found me,” you say without preamble. “It was from her.”

“The Queen of the Isle?” Seonghwa asks.

You nod once. “My mother. She summoned me.”

“But we are still anchored,” Seonghwa notes. “We have not yet left these shores.”

“She knew that,” you reply, setting the parchment on the table. “She sent the dove to find me before we departed.”

Hongjoong’s eyes darken. “Then we do not lift anchor.”

“But we have scoured the Isle already,” Mingi interjects, arms folded. “We found the mausoleum, unlocked the crypts—”

“She did not summon me to uncover tombs,” you interrupt. “She summoned me for something else. Something more.”

Jongho leans forward. “Do you think it’s dangerous?”

“Yes,” you say honestly. “But it’s necessary.”

Wooyoung shifts where he’s perched near the map. “So what you’re saying is… we’re still not done with this haunted island?”

You meet his eyes. “I don’t think we ever were.”

Silence settles like fog.

Then Hongjoong rises slowly from his seat. His injury still restricts him, but it does not diminish him. “We stay. Lower the boats. Prepare another party. If Y/N is to return to the Isle—”

“Then we go with her,” Seonghwa finishes solemnly.

The orders go out immediately. The crew disperses with renewed energy, purpose burning in their chests. They’d seen what this island could do—what you could do—and still they follow.

As they move, Hongjoong lingers.

He steps close, voice low. “She called you back.”

“She always knew I would return,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker over your face, resting on your lips for just a moment before he turns away.

~

The cliffs part before you as you make landfall once more, this time not alone.

Hongjoong walks beside you, still healing, but steady. Behind him trail Seonghwa, San, Yeosang, Mingi, Yunho, Jongho, and Wooyoung—each armed, alert, and silent as their boots press into the golden-black sand. None of them speak, though the air is thick with unspoken questions. This place feels different now. The island no longer slumbers.

It waits.

You guide them without knowing how you know, your steps driven by something older than memory. The path you take veers away from the battleground and tomb, into a narrow crevice between the cliffs. It would be easily missed by anyone who didn’t feel it—but you do. You always have.

The stone winds downward in a spiral, each step cooler than the last. The deeper you descend, the more a strange, golden glow begins to bloom from beneath the walls. Until finally, the stairway opens—and the crew stumbles into silence.

Before you lies a hidden city. Not ruined, not abandoned.

Alive.

A domed world carved beneath the Isle, lit by a magical sun suspended in a cavern sky. Marble towers rise in flawless lines, gold filigree crowning every rooftop. Canals shimmer beneath bridges. Trees bear fruits you’ve never seen. Statues watch from every corner, their faces unfamiliar, yet somehow… familial.

Jongho breathes out low. “What is this place?”

Your voice comes quieter than expected. “Home.”

They follow you through the great archway, past the gardens and through the golden gates. At the heart of the city lies a long corridor flanked by blazing braziers, leading to an open court.

And she waits for you there.

Your mother stands at the centre, radiant in flowing silks the colour of molten light. Her eyes land on you first, a thousand emotions in their depths. Then they shift—sweeping over each member of the Halcyon behind you. There’s no fear. No surprise. Only knowing.

“I had hoped,” she murmurs, “that you would not return alone.”

Hongjoong steps beside you, his presence steady at your side. “She doesn’t need to be.”

There’s a moment—quiet, charged—before she inclines her head to him in acknowledgment.

“I am glad,” she says simply.

Then she turns, walking toward the great hall.

“I brought you here for a reason,” she calls back over her shoulder. “There is more you must see. And more your crew must understand. For what lies beneath this city… may change the course of everything.”

And you walk forward again, with your crew behind you—no longer shadows, no longer strangers. They are with you.

After the warm reception, the others remain in the outer court, speaking in hushed tones, voices swallowed by the gold-lit stone around them. Your mother gestures silently for you to follow, and you do—past the gilded pillars, through a narrow hall adorned with ancient script, and into a small chamber lined with translucent drapes that catch the light like fire.

She turns only once the curtain falls behind you.

“It is more than blood that ties you to this place,” she says quietly, her hands folded in front of her. “It is destiny. And it is time you accepted it.”

Your chest tightens. “You want me to stay.”

“I want you to return.” Her gaze sharpens. “To lead. To claim what is yours by birth, by blood, by flame.”

You swallow hard, unsure where to place your hands, unsure how to breathe under the weight of her words. “I don’t… I never knew this place. I never knew you. You left me.”

Her eyes don’t waver. “To save you.”

A moment of silence passes between you.

“I lost your father protecting this island. I lost my people. So I chose to save you. I gave you to someone I trusted and sealed away every trace of your lineage. I made the hardest decision a mother can make. But it was not to abandon you—it was to give you a future.”

You lower your head, every muscle taut.

“I found my future,” you murmur. “But it wasn’t here.”

She crosses the room in a single step and gently lifts your chin until you meet her eyes. “That ship of yours,” she says softly, “those men—they’ve brought out the fire in you. But what they see as fire, we see as divinity. You were never meant to remain hidden in the world of mortals. You were born to rise. And now that you’ve awoken the city, it knows you.”

You shake your head, whispering, “I’m not ready.”

Her thumb brushes across your cheek. “Neither was I, when the flames first answered me. But this place, Y/N—our people—they’ve waited long enough.”

The silence pulses.

“You must come home.”

The words echo like a tolling bell inside your ribs.

She steps back slowly. “You do not have to tonight, I will give you time to say your goodbyes. But know this—the city has opened because of you. And its fate, as well as ours, now rests in your hands.”

She moves to leave but stops at the curtain.

“And I do not just mean the city beneath our feet. I mean the kingdoms above. The world is shifting, daughter. And soon… it will burn.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone, trembling in a chamber of golden light—unsure whether the fire in your heart is one of duty… or doubt.

The walk back feels longer than it is.

Your boots echo against the marble, your hands curled tightly into fists at your sides. You pass beneath stone archways carved with stories of gods you now understand were your kin, flanked by sunlit walls that seem to shimmer with ancient life. But all you can feel is the weight.

When you emerge back into the courtyard, they all look up.

Yeosang, seated on a low step, his chart rolled out but forgotten in his lap. Mingi with arms crossed, worry carved into his brow. Wooyoung, as always, catches your eyes first—but the grin that starts to form falters the moment he sees your face.

Hongjoong straightens immediately from where he leans against the column. He takes one step forward—just one—but it’s enough to ground you.

“What happened?” Seonghwa asks, voice calm, even. But you hear the undercurrent. He already knows something has shifted.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

You walk until you’re standing in their midst again, until their warmth surrounds you—but it doesn’t comfort the way it usually does. You feel exposed, like the truth is written all over your skin.

Wooyoung finally breaks the silence. “You’re quiet.”

“I had a conversation with my mother,” you say, voice low.

Yeosang’s head tilts. “And?”

You hesitate. “She wants me to stay.”

There’s a sharp breath somewhere behind you—San, maybe. Mingi utters a quiet curse under his breath. Wooyoung’s brows knit together. Hongjoong doesn’t move, but you can feel his eyes burning into you.

“She believes it’s my duty. That I’m supposed to… lead.” You laugh, but it’s hollow. “To come home.”

A heavy silence settles over the crew.

“So,” Jongho says, voice soft but strong, “what do you want?”

You look at him. And then at the rest of them. These people who saw you for what you were before you even did. These men who became your family when you didn’t know what the word meant.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Then we wait,” Seonghwa says simply.

You turn to him, startled. “What?”

“We wait,” he repeats. “Until you do.”

One by one, they nod.

“Whatever choice you make,” San adds, “it’s yours.”

You glance once more at Hongjoong. His face is unreadable, but his eyes—they carry every storm inside you.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod once, curtly.

“Thank you.”

But even as the moment settles, something still lingers in the air. A sense that the decision ahead of you could very well shape the future—not just of the Isle, but of the Halcyon… and your heart.

~

The galley is quieter than usual.

Plates scrape in dull rhythm. Cutlery clinks half-heartedly against chipped ceramic. The laughter that once filled this room has thinned, replaced by silence and sidelong glances. The ship has been anchored too long. Supplies are stretched thin; rationed to the bone. The stew is mostly broth now, watered down to feed more mouths than it ever should have.

Still, no one complains. They eat in peace, or at least, they try.

You sit at the table with them—at the centre, where your new seat lies. The steam from your bowl curls upward, catching in the low glow of the lantern overhead. You stare through it. Past it. Into the war happening behind your eyes.

The words from your mother echo like a brand on your skin. You must come home.

Home. What does that even mean, now?

You glance around the table. San nudges Wooyoung with his elbow as he says something about the stew’s taste resembling seawater, and Wooyoung fires back a dry remark that earns him a slap. Jongho huffs a tired chuckle. Yunho rests his chin on his hand, eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Seonghwa, at the far end, is quietly observing—always watching.

And Hongjoong.

He’s watching you.

You haven’t touched your food.

Your fingers curl against the edge of the table, your throat tight.

You thought you’d found your freedom here—escaped the chains that bound you your whole life. And now the Isle pulls again. The blood in your veins thrums with it. You were born of it. For it. But… are you ready to give yourself up?

Your crew would starve before they left you behind. You know that. They would suffer quietly, stoically, for as long as it took. And that’s what breaks you.

Not the call of destiny. Not the fire in your bones.

Them.

You rise, slowly. Your chair scrapes back across the floor. Every set of eyes lifts toward you.

You lift your chin, steady your voice, and say “Set sail for the nearest island as planned.”

Silence.

Absolute, unmoving silence.

Wooyoung’s spoon halts midair. Mingi blinks, as if he didn’t quite hear you right. Yeosang straightens slowly. Even Seonghwa’s hand pauses where it rests on the table.

And Hongjoong.

His gaze doesn’t shift. But his jaw tightens—just a fraction. He knows what it cost you to say those words.

“I’ll give her my decision,” you add, quieter now. “When I’m ready.”

Stillness holds a moment longer.

Then Seonghwa clears his throat gently. “Understood.”

One by one, the crew nods, returning to their food with a sense of new energy, quiet relief blooming like a fresh wind on tired sails.

You sit back down, the knot in your chest loosening slightly. You feel Hongjoong’s hand settle over yours beneath the table, hidden from view.

You don’t look at him. But you hold on.

Because tonight, that’s what matters most.

~

The mood shifts.

As dawn breaks over the horizon, a renewed sense of purpose hums through the timbers of the Halcyon. You feel it in the deck beneath your boots, the way the crew moves—faster now, purposeful, not with desperation but drive. Orders are barked, sails are checked and tightened, crates secured. The groaning creak of pulleys and the rhythmic thud of barrels echo across the ship.

Above, the sun is veiled by clouds, but the light is enough.

You move among them silently, not quite giving commands—but not absent either. Wooyoung and Yeosang are already at their post, going over coordinates for the nearest island port. Mingi loads weapons with Jongho at the stern, sharp-eyed and quiet, ready for anything, even now. Yunho is at the rigging with San, adjusting tension with efficient precision.

“Fresh ropes are fraying on the aft side,” San calls out, hand cupped around his mouth. “Reinforce before we leave.”

“Already on it!” Yunho yells back.

Seonghwa approaches you at the mainmast, clipboard tucked under his arm.

“The crew are ready,” he says formally, voice clear. “We will be prepared to lift anchor within the hour.”

You nod, a thread of tension still winding tight around your ribs. “And the supplies?”

“They will last until we reach the port, provided we encounter no unforeseen delays.” His gaze lingers on you. “You have made a difficult choice, Y/N. One I do not believe was made lightly.”

You manage a faint smile. “Thank you, Seonghwa.”

He nods once, and walks off toward the stern.

Then—behind you—a familiar presence approaches. You feel it before he even speaks.

“I ordered the crates below deck to be shifted,” Hongjoong says as he comes up beside you. “There’s something about the tide. It’s heavier now. Pulling west.”

You glance at him, his face still bruised from the last encounter, a bandage just visible beneath his collar. But his eyes are sharp, focused, the storm behind them tempered for now.

“It’s pulling us away from the Isle,” you murmur.

“No,” he replies. “I think it’s guiding us. To where we need to go next.”

You stare out over the railing together for a moment. Wind catches in the sails with a satisfying snap.

“Are you ready?” he asks quietly.

No. Not fully.

But you nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

He studies you for a long moment, then touches your shoulder. “Then let’s go home.”

The anchor is raised.

The sea groans as the Halcyon shifts her weight, keeling slightly with the pull of the tide. You stand at the bow, watching as the shoreline of the Isle of Gold grows smaller behind you. The golden haze that once shimmered across the sand now dims, as if the island itself mourns your departure.

You’re leaving it behind.

Not forever. But for now.

Salt stings your eyes—not from the wind, not from the sea. You blink it away and keep your spine straight, jaw set.

Hongjoong appears beside you silently. His fingers brush against yours, just briefly, enough to say I’m here, without needing to speak it aloud. You take comfort in that.

Below deck, the crew moves with practiced unity. Sails catch, ropes strain, and the Halcyon begins to glide through the parted waters, cutting a path away from the divine soil that birthed you. No one speaks. No one dares. The weight of what they leave behind presses into their lungs.

Then—

A flurry of motion in the sky.

San, positioned in the crow’s nest, squints into the distance. “Something’s flying,” he mutters. “Not a gull…”

You look up.

And there it is.

White, cutting through the grey—a dove. It circles once, then dives low, wings flashing like blades of light. The bird lands on the railing in front of you, delicate and impossibly still for a creature so recently in motion. Its beak holds a tightly folded piece of parchment.

You lift it carefully, fingers trembling, and slowly you unfold.

My dearest Y/N,

It is difficult for me to find the right words, and harder still to watch you leave. I know the sea has its hold on you. I know you are not the little girl I carried in my arms beneath the sand-lit skies.

But you are still something more. You were born of this island. Of fire. Of legacy. There are threads in this world that only you can hold, and duties that only you can fulfil. I fear for you out there—not because you are weak, but because the world is cruel. And because I have already lost you once.

I did not build this sanctuary to cage you, only to protect you. But I see now that perhaps the two have become one.

Still… the Isle needs you. And I need you. Please, do not forget who you are. Or where you belong.

With all the love I have,

—Your mother

The words blur slightly, but you blink it away.

The dove doesn’t leave. It stays on the railing, head tilted, waiting.

Waiting for your reply.

You glance down at the letter once more, the ink gently smudged now by your thumb. She doesn’t understand. Not really.

That this ship is your freedom. That you were never meant to live beneath stone walls and expectation, even if those walls were built from love.

Behind you, Hongjoong finally speaks. “What did she say?”

You fold the letter slowly, eyes still on the bird. “Nothing I didn’t already know.”

He doesn’t press. And the dove stays. Waiting, like your mother, for an answer you’re not ready to give.

Not yet.

~

The port bustles with life before the anchor has even kissed the water.

Sunlight bounces off the bobbing ships docked along the crescent harbour, their sails flapping lazily in the breeze. Voices rise and fall like song—bartering, laughter, music from a plucked stringed instrument. Spices perfume the air; saffron, cinnamon, smoked salt, and citrus rinds drying in the heat.

You step off the gangplank, and the moment your boots hit the wooden dock, something shifts. It’s nothing like the day your feet met the black sand of the Isle of Gold. This… this is different.

You’re not running.

You’re not hiding.

You’re free.

The realisation hits you slow, like warm honey spreading through your chest. Your eyes lift to the market ahead—rows of vivid fabrics, trinkets, fruit stalls and street performers. A woman laughs as she haggles with a merchant. Children dart past, dragging wooden toys on strings. For the first time in your life, you are just someone in the crowd.

And you let yourself be.

You drift from stall to stall, eyes wide. You linger at a table lined with glass bottles; each filled with shimmering powders and dried petals. You trail your fingers over bolts of dyed cloth. You reach into a rack of handmade clothing—tunics, skirts, shawls stitched with metallic thread—your thumb brushing the embroidery like it might vanish if you press too hard.

Behind you, the crew watches. Not as guards. Not as protectors. Just… men who would follow you into fire. Men who have.

Even Mingi softens, his lips quirking into the ghost of a smile as you spin in place to take in a display of colourful beads. “She’s glowing,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Wooyoung chuckles, elbowing Yeosang. “Should we be worried she’s going to buy the whole market?”

Yeosang says nothing—he just watches you, head tilted, thoughtful.

San sighs, arms crossed as he leans against a sun-warmed post. “I like her like this,” he says simply.

Yunho grins. “Me too.”

And Hongjoong—quiet, unreadable—stands just a little further back. But his eyes never leave you. Not for a moment.

He sees it too.

The way you breathe deeper here. How your shoulders loosen, your fingers flutter freely over trinkets like they’ve never been allowed to wander.

You glance back over your shoulder once, and when your eyes meet his, he offers the smallest of nods. This is yours now, it says. The world. The choice.

But even in the warmth of freedom, a chill brushes your thoughts. Can you ever go back? After this taste, this life, could you return to the Isle’s ancient weight? To duty?

To a cage, no matter how gilded?

You don’t know. Not yet.

As if summoned to shatter the fragile haze of your thoughts, Wooyoung appears like a flash of sunlight, mischief already blooming in his grin. “Come on!” he says, grabbing your wrist without waiting for your reply.

He pulls you through the crowd, weaving past fishmongers and fruit carts until you’re at a long wooden stall shaded by colourful cloth canopies. The scent of oiled leather and sun-warmed linen greets you as your eyes scan the racks—sturdy, well-crafted pieces made for life aboard a ship. But nestled among them are finer garments too. Silken scarves, vests embroidered with gold thread, tunics dyed deep crimson and midnight blue. A few dresses hang behind the counter, flowing and light, unlike anything you’ve ever worn.

Wooyoung is already sifting through them with giddy delight, holding one tunic up to your frame, then tossing it over his shoulder before plucking another. “You’d look lethal in this,” he mutters, then louder, “And this one—Yunho, back me up, she needs this one!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Woo, I can’t have all this. I don’t even—” You lower your voice, eyes flicking to the merchant who’s now watching you both with vague interest. “I don’t have anything to pay for it with.”

Before he can respond, a familiar hand reaches past you. A handful of gold coins glint in the sun as they arc through the air, landing in front of the merchant with a clean, melodic clatter.

Hongjoong.

He stands just behind you, calm and composed, though his eyes are darker than usual. Watching you, always. “Take whatever you like,” he says softly. “The Halcyon provides for its own.”

Wooyoung whistles low. “Guess that settles it, then.”

The rest of the crew has started to drift over. San snorts as he catches the stack of garments in Wooyoung’s arms. “Planning to dress her for every day of the year, are you?”

Mingi smirks. “He’s just excited someone finally matches his level of flair.”

Yunho chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’ll be the best-dressed pirate this side of the sea.”

Even Yeosang smiles—just barely—but it reaches his eyes.

You glance back at Hongjoong. “You didn’t have to.”

He tilts his head, stepping close enough that only you can hear what follows. “I wanted to.”

It’s not about the clothes. It never was.

You nod slowly, fingers brushing over the fabric in your arms, the weight of it unfamiliar. New. Just like everything else in your life now.

Freedom. Choice. Belonging.

And somewhere deep within, the faint whisper of a life you want—not the one carved out for you in prophecy or duty. But the one you’re building here, stitch by stitch.

The sun hangs heavy in the sky, beginning its slow descent toward the horizon as the crew moves through the port with purpose. Crates of dried meats, salted fish, fresh fruit, and barrels of grain are bought and rolled toward the dock. Sacks of gunpowder are exchanged discreetly for coin, along with replacement cannon fuses and freshly forged blades. There’s laughter and occasional shouting, bargaining over prices, and the thud of boots on sand-packed roads.

Yunho supervises the loading, Jongho moves with mechanical precision, hoisting a barrel of rum onto each shoulder like they weigh nothing at all. Even Yeosang is haggling over maps and rare ink, a quiet gleam in his eyes.

But it’s Wooyoung—naturally—who finds the opportunity for trouble.

He leans against a stack of crates, hair tousled from the sea breeze and a devilish grin playing on his lips. “We’ve done the work,” he says, flicking his gaze across the gathered crew. “I say we stay for a bit. Find a tavern. Let Y/N see what it really means to be part of this crew.”

Mingi perks up immediately. “Now that’s a good idea.”

“She has already seen what that means,” Seonghwa replies coolly, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Last night was more than sufficient. We are not here to relive it.”

“But that was celebration,” San cuts in, slinging an arm across Wooyoung’s shoulder. “This is initiation.”

Yunho chuckles, folding his arms. “You’re outnumbered, Hwa.”

The crew turns, murmurs and smirks circling like sharks. Even the lower deck boys, still lugging supplies, pause to nod in agreement.

And then—softly, firmly—you speak. “I’ve never set foot in a tavern.”

The words hush them for a moment. Not for long—but long enough.

Seonghwa’s gaze lands on you. His posture softens, just barely. The crew may not notice it, but you do. The subtle shift. The flicker of something warm, respectful.

He sighs, long and measured.

“I suppose… one drink would not sink us.”

Wooyoung cheers like he’s won a battle.

“Then it’s settled,” Hongjoong announces from beside you, voice smooth and commanding. “We’ll leave at first light. Tonight, we drink.”

The crew erupts in shouts and hollers, San already racing off to ask a passing fisherman for the direction of the loudest, rowdiest tavern on the island. Mingi pulls you forward, linking arms, grinning. “You’re in for it now.”

Yeosang murmurs to no one in particular, “We’ll need to keep count of how many get thrown out.”

And with that, the crew of the Halcyon makes their way through the dusky streets, following the scent of roasted meat, the sound of fiddles and laughter, and the golden light spilling from crooked windows.

A proper pirate’s night awaits.

Inside, the tavern is alive—no, possessed—by the chaos of sailors set loose.

Tankards clash together in wild toasts. Ale sloshes onto the floorboards, over boots, into open mouths. Someone in the back is playing a fiddle so fast you’d think it was being hunted. Bodies swirl across the uneven floor—dancing, spinning, shouting sea shanties none of them really remember the lyrics to. Laughter rings off the beams, loud and loose, riddled with stories that grow taller with each round poured.

You are in it. For the first time, completely.

You slam back a shot of something burning and sweet, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. San grabs your wrist and twirls you under his arm before Wooyoung sweeps you up, spinning you in a dizzying circle. You’re laughing—really laughing—as he pretends to trip and lands in Jongho’s lap, spilling both their drinks. The entire table roars. Yeosang sips calmly from his mug but his smile gives him away. Yunho is bartering for a game of darts and winning.

Even Seonghwa is loosening. His coat is unfastened, his posture relaxed, and you could swear you just saw him smirk.

Hongjoong watches you from across the room, one elbow resting on the bar, eyes soft with something unreadable. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t call you over—he just watches, like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time.

You feel… free.

But freedom, as always, tempts danger.

You’re at the bar, reaching for another drink when a rough voice slurs behind you. “What do we have here then?”

A meaty hand grabs your waist.

“Don’t find ‘em this fine in places like this,” the stranger continues, his breath thick with rum. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Your crew notices. Wooyoung is already halfway to standing. San’s jaw ticks. Jongho slowly sets his mug down. But you lift a hand—not for help—for silence.

You twist.

In one fluid, practiced motion, you catch the man’s wrist, spin beneath his arm, and wrench it back behind him until he howls. He drops to his knees with a thud as you slam your boot between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor.

Then you draw your dagger, the blade cool and gleaming in the tavern light, and press it gently—just enough to draw a bead of blood—against his throat.

You lean down, voice like silk soaked in fire.

“I don’t give my name to corpses.”

The room stills for a heartbeat, then you hear a single cheer.

“THAT’S OUR GIRL!” Wooyoung cackles.

The tavern erupts. San slaps the table so hard it nearly splits. Mingi is on his feet, banging his mug against a barrel. Even Seonghwa can’t stop the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You step off the man and sheathe your blade, walking back toward your crew like nothing happened. The pirate groans behind you, sprawled on the floor like a sack of meat.

Hongjoong’s eyes follow you the whole way.

When you reach the table, Wooyoung throws an arm around your shoulder. “Remind me never to make you angry.”

Yeosang hums. “I believe that is exactly why no one ever has.”

Another tankard is passed to you. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

And for the first time in your life—no chains, no obligations, no secrets—you drink to your freedom.

~

The sun rises too fast.

Its golden rays pierce the cabin windows like knives, unforgiving and far too loud for the heads it’s waking. Around the Halcyon, groans echo like ghosts—some from the deck where a few passed out beneath the stars, others still slumped over tables in the galley, arms tangled with empty tankards and half-eaten fruit.

You awaken to the soft roll of the sea, a dull pounding behind your eyes, and the faint scent of citrus and gunpowder on your clothes.

Your boots are by the door, one inside out. Someone’s coat—not yours—is draped across your shoulders. You don’t even remember whose drink you were finishing when the world started to blur, only that Wooyoung was definitely shouting something about “one more for the legendary lass who flattened an entire man,” and that Seonghwa had not been impressed.

As you push yourself up and brace against the cabin wall, your mind starts to clear.

The laughter.

The music.

The way Hongjoong’s hand had lingered on the small of your back as he walked you up the steps, both of you flushed from drink and far too aware of it.

The way he kissed your cheek at the top and didn’t say a word—just smiled.

On deck, the air is thick with the scent of salt and hangovers. Yunho, face pale and posture slumped, is nursing a waterskin like it holds the meaning of life. Mingi is shirtless, scrubbing with furious determination, refusing to admit the pounding in his head. Seonghwa is already barking soft commands, too experienced to drink beyond his limit.

“You lot look like ghosts,” he mutters, eyeing the sluggish crew. “Get this ship ready. We sail at once.”

And sail you do.

Sails are hoisted. Supplies stored. The Halcyon groans softly, waking with her crew as she turns from the port and heads back into the open water.

But far behind, in the haze of distance and heat, sails unfurl. You don’t see them. Not yet.

Aboard a darker vessel, wind-scarred and blood-painted, a bruised and bitter man stands at the helm.

His lip is split where you struck him, his pride shattered where you stepped on it. His crew—rough men with nothing to lose and scores to settle—watch the horizon through cracked spyglasses.

“There she is,” one of them mutters. “The Halcyon.”

The man grins, teeth stained with rot and revenge.

“She won’t see us comin’ next time.”

His fingers close around the hilt of his blade.

“They think that was a warning?” he spits on the deck. “That was a hello.”

Out at sea, the Halcyon cuts through the tide like a blade. The skies are calm. The waters smooth.

But in the distance, just beyond the curve of the world—trouble is coming.

Time slips by, quiet and steady, like waves brushing the hull.

The Halcyon sails smooth beneath an open sky, the sting of rum still lingering on the wind from the port behind. The crew finds rhythm again—not just in duty, but in each other.

You and Hongjoong sit on the deck rail one evening, the stars scattered above like secrets waiting to be told. His shoulder brushes yours as he leans back, legs stretched out, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. You don’t say much. You don’t need to. His hand, resting close to yours, eventually links with it—thumb sweeping over your knuckles, grounding you.

Later, you sit cross-legged in his quarters, going over trade route maps he’s pulled from a locked drawer, relics of merchants long swallowed by the sea. “Too straight,” you murmur, eyes narrowing. “A ship trying too hard to stay clean.”

He smirks. “Said like someone who knows dirty.”

You flick the shell that you’ve been fiddling with at him. He catches it without looking.

In the intelligence quarters, you sit shoulder to shoulder with Wooyoung and Yeosang, narrowed eyes scanning fresh parchment. Symbols. Coordinates. A pattern emerging.

“You see this?” you ask, fingers dragging over a cluster of marked sea routes. “They’re not moving randomly.”

Wooyoung leans in, elbow knocking yours. “They’re pushing us east.”

Yeosang frowns. “But there’s nothing east.”

“Exactly,” you reply. “They want to corner us. Herd us.”

Jongho trains on the lower deck, fists slamming into rope-bound posts. His blows are heavier now. Purposeful. You pass by, nodding to him. He offers a quiet one in return, sweat dripping down his brow.

Nearby, Yunho patches sails with practiced hands while Mingi and San argue over barrel weight versus ammunition placement. Seonghwa mediates—calm but sharp, reminding them the Halcyon is no place for petty pride.

This crew isn’t just surviving anymore. They’re preparing.

And still, the ship follows.

Far behind. Always behind. Distant enough not to raise alarm. Close enough to never be shaken.

Only Yeosang notices a flicker once, while stargazing. “That’s not the moon,” he mutters to himself, but by the time he points it out, it’s gone.

Another day passes.

The Halcyon cuts through fully open waters now, unshaded by islands or ports. She’s exposed. Vulnerable. Exactly where they want her.

And now—now—is when they strike.

~

The wind shifts.

Not enough for the untrained to notice—but aboard the Halcyon, nothing goes unseen.

You’re standing near the helm when Jongho’s hand stills on the wheel. His brows crease, eyes narrowing at the horizon behind you. “They’ve picked up speed,” he mutters, low and sharp.

Seonghwa appears beside him almost instantly, a hand shielding his gaze from the afternoon sun. “Too fast for open water. They are closing the gap.”

Yunho, halfway up the rigging, swings down to the deck in one fluid motion. “Orders?”

“None yet,” Seonghwa replies. “But be ready.”

Below, Mingi checks the cannons without being told. San disappears below deck and returns moments later with a heavy bandolier and two cutlasses. Yeosang snaps the spyglass shut with a single twist and calls across the wind, “They’re not flying colours. No flag.”

That’s all Wooyoung needs to hear. “That’s no merchant ship,” he spits. “That’s vengeance.”

You move across the deck, steady on your feet as if the boards know your weight. You say nothing, but your eyes find Hongjoong’s.

He’s already watching you.

His jaw clenches, and he gives a nod—not one of reassurance, but confirmation.

Something’s coming.

Not the Serpent Fang. Not the Viper. Not sirens or sea beasts.

Something else.

A second silence falls across the deck, the kind that comes before impact. The crew aren’t panicked. They’re pirates—trained, armed, sharpened by storm and steel. They’ve survived the Fang, the fire, and the secrets of a god-forged island.

But this…

This ship chasing them holds a grudge.

“What do we know about them?” you ask, falling in step with Wooyoung and Yeosang near the portside rail.

“Nothing, but we’ve pissed them off somehow, it seems.” Wooyoung replies with a grin that’s a little too sharp.

Yeosang adds, “But they’re armed. And bold. No one follows us this long without knowing what they’re doing.”

“They don’t want cargo,” you murmur, watching the approaching vessel slice through the surf. “They want a fight.”

Hongjoong steps up beside you. “Then we’ll give them one.”

His voice is calm, steady.

Deadly.

The cannon fire doesn’t come first. The shouting does.

Crude voices carried by sea wind, thick with mockery and venom. The enemy ship draws close—too close—and across the narrowing waves, you hear them:

“Hand over the girl!”

“She’s worth more than your gold!”

“The one who dared to touch the Captain—come now, darling, he’d like to return the favour!”

You step forward to the rail, boots braced wide, and let the wind whip your hair back. You don’t flinch. You dare them to come.

Their sails are tattered, the wood of their hull scored with age and violence. Not Serpent Fang… but not far off either. A mongrel crew, cobbled together from splintered allegiances. They aren’t after treasure or territory.

They’re after you.

“A trophy,” San growls beside you, spinning a short axe in one hand. “They want a bloody symbol.”

“They’ll die for it,” Hongjoong says coldly from the other side of the deck.

The order is given.

“Hoist the colours!” Jongho bellows from the helm.

The black-and-silver flag of the Halcyon soars high into the air. The enemy answers with a crooked standard of their own—red, with a jagged mark like a bleeding tooth.

You narrow your eyes.

“No mercy,” Hongjoong calls. “Drop sails. Turn her starboard. Let’s make them earn their mistake.”

The crew moves as one. Blades are drawn. Cannons loaded. Mingi’s voice echoes commands below deck while Yunho and San prep the ropes for boarding, should it come to that.

Then—

BOOM.

The first cannonball screams through the air, ripping a hole through the edge of the opposing ship’s mainsail. A warning shot.

A challenge.

They answer with a blast of their own—this one closer. Splinters rain down on the deck of the Halcyon. Still, no fear. Not here.

You move across the deck like a flame on the wind, every inch of you ready to burn.

“Y/N!” Wooyoung calls from beside the long gun. “Care to make a statement?”

You grin, flames sparking along your irises. “With pleasure.”

The enemy closes in. Grappling hooks arc through the air, clamping onto the rails.

“Boarders incoming!” Yunho shouts, blades already drawn.

The first of them climbs over—and you meet him head-on, slamming your blade into his chest before he has time to blink. San barrels into two more, tossing one overboard with ease. Seonghwa’s blade dances like a whisper, cutting clean, efficient.

But they keep coming.

“Where’s the girl?” one shouts, scanning the chaos.

You answer him yourself—by driving your knee into his gut and flipping him over your shoulder onto the deck.

“I’m right here,” you hiss. “Come and get me.”

Two more charge—only to be engulfed in a wall of flame that erupts from you. Controlled, precise. You’ve learned from your past mistakes. This isn’t rage. This is war.

Beside you, Hongjoong carves through his opponents with deadly grace. Blood spatters his coat, and his eyes never leave the battlefield. Not until one of the enemy crew gets too close—heading straight for you.

He moves like the wind.

One slash, clean through.

“Eyes up,” he growls, “or they’ll take more than your name.”

You offer him a breathless smirk. “I’ve got more to give.”

The battle wages hard and fast. It’s chaos, it’s fury, it’s survival—but in the eye of it all is you, blazing, fighting, standing your ground. The crew of the Halcyon—your crew—has your back.

Further members of their crew board with laughter, clearly missing the scene unfolding before them.

Swagger in every step, steel glinting in the sun as they swing onto the deck of the Halcyon like they own it. This is just another raid to them. Another tavern-born grudge to settle. A girl who embarrassed their captain—a trophy to be taken, a message to be sent.

“She’s small,” one scoffs, eyeing you from beneath his weather-worn hood. “Didn’t think the stories would be this off.”

Another chuckles. “Don’t look like she’s got a bark, let alone a bite.”

You don’t speak.

Not yet.

The crew of the Halcyon stands firm behind you, tense but quiet. They know better than to move. They’ve seen what happens next.

The leader of the rival crew steps forward. “You’re coming with us,” he says. “Our captain’s been itching to make you pay. And hang your pretty head on his mast.”

You tilt your head.

“You really should’ve stayed in your lane,” he adds with a grin.

In one breathless instant, the air around you ignites—not in wild chaos, but in a controlled blaze, fire rising up around your body like a cloak of living light. The man’s grin falters. The others flinch. The sneers vanish.

“What the hell—?”

You lift your hand, and the deck around the intruders roars to life.

Flames surge in a perfect arc, driving a wedge between them and your crew. Not a single Halcyon soldier is touched. The blaze moves with purpose, carving paths that leave only your enemies surrounded.

Panic hits fast.

“She’s a witch!”

“What the—what IS she?!”

“You really should’ve stayed in your lane.” You taunt, with the voice of a mockingbird.

The one who threatened you falls back, stumbling into the wall of fire that licks toward his boots. He screams, dropping his sword as he scrambles away.

One of his men tries to strike. You don’t move. Your flame does.

It lashes out, catches his blade mid-air—and melts it.

Mouths drop open. Weapons hit the deck with a clatter.

“You want me right? Didn’t I tell you to come and get me?” you say quietly, voice laced with heat.

That’s when they run. But a wall of fire blocks their path. Trapped.

“Enough!” he shouts. “We yield!”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Hongjoong steps forward, blade angled to the man’s throat. “You came for something that is not yours.”

“She shamed our Captain—he swore he’d make an example—”

“She is an example,” Hongjoong cuts in, voice dark. “Of what happens when you pick a fight with the Halcyon.”

Then, quietly, to you, “Finish it, Y/N.”

The fire comes fast.

One by one, they fall—screaming, thrashing, begging. But you offer them nothing. No mercy. No last words. No prayers.

They wouldn’t have given you any.

The flames writhe like serpents at your command, slithering across the deck, winding up their legs, crawling over their chests before exploding in a burst of searing heat. Skin blisters. Steel bends. You move like wrath incarnate, eyes burning brighter with each life you extinguish.

You leave him for last.

Their Captain.

The one whose ego set this in motion. Who thought you’d be taken like a prize, humiliated like a trophy. Now he stumbles, ashes clinging to his sleeves, his eyes wild as he watches his crew disintegrate around him.

He drops to his knees. “Wait—”

You step forward, flames parting for you like loyal beasts.

“No,” you say, your voice low, final. “You don’t get to beg.”

Your fire retreats, not because he deserves it, because he doesn’t.

This one, you want to feel.

You draw your blade.

He tries to crawl back, to escape the inevitability, but your boot pins him in place. He looks up at you, trembling.

You tilt your head.

“This is for putting your hands on me.”

And then you drive your blade through his chest, clean and swift, feeling the final shudder of life leave him beneath your palm.

Silence.

Smoke rises into the sky, thick and dark as the sea. Behind you, the crew stands at the edge of the Halcyon’s deck, watching.

Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the aftermath like a blade of its own.

“We board. Clean up any stragglers. Take what’s valuable. Then set it alight.”

You pull your blade free, wiping it on the deceased captain’s coat before stepping away, not looking back.

They wanted fire.

You gave them hell.

~

The stench of gunpowder still lingers in the air as your boots hit the enemy deck. Around you, the crew of the Halcyon moves like a storm; swift, calculated, efficient.

Hongjoong gives the order, voice sharp as a blade. “We board, clean up any stragglers, take what is valuable, then set it alight.”

You lead one of the groups, flanked by San and Mingi, pushing through shattered doors and bloodstained corridors. The ship is barely holding together—splintered beams, torn sails, cracked masts—but it’s not the structure you’re here for. It’s what’s hidden inside it.

The first room you breach is the captain’s quarters.

Gold.

Stacks of it—coins spilling from crates, ornate goblets, fine-cut gems scattered across a shattered desk. Maps. Ledgers. A bottle of wine that’s worth more than most entire islands. You whistle low.

Mingi lets out a curse. “Bastard was loaded.”

San kicks open a chest. “And not even clever enough to hide it well.”

You grab one of the ledgers, flipping through. Slaver’s routes. Cargo manifests. Sales.

This wasn’t just a pirate vessel—it was a business. A cruel, violent, wealthy one.

The rest of the crew fans out through the ship, shouting back reports. More gold in the cargo hold. Weapons. Spices. Textiles. All of it is quickly confiscated, passed over to Wooyoung’s team for logging and storage.

But something gnaws at you as you move deeper.

There’s too much gold. Too much product. Too much silence. And not enough crew.

Further below deck, the air changes.

Gone is the smell of smoke and blood, replaced by something fouler—mildew, piss, and despair. You lead the way, blade still slick in your grip, the heat of your fire dimmed now to a low simmer in your veins. The wooden stairs groan under each step, the darkness thicker here, clinging to your skin like a second layer.

You push open the final hatch—and freeze.

At first, it is silent. Then, movement. Dozens of eyes blink at you through the gloom. Wide. Hollow. Terrified.

Women. Children.

Huddled in corners. Chained. Some bruised. Some broken. None of them speaking. Not at first. One of the smaller children—couldn’t be older than six—lets out a strangled gasp, and the rest begin to recoil, expecting the worst.

You step forward slowly, sheathing your weapon, the fire in you flickering low but warm.

“It’s alright,” you murmur, voice softer than you’ve ever known it to be. “You’re safe now.”

Behind you, footsteps. Mingi, Wooyoung, Yeosang. They fall silent when they see.

“Gods,” Mingi breathes, his voice breaking.

Wooyoung’s fists clench at his sides.

Yeosang doesn’t say a word, he just drops to his knees and begins unlocking the nearest shackles.

You move with purpose now, unbinding wrists, whispering comfort. The children shrink at first, but then a little girl reaches for you. Touches your sleeve. Her hand is so small.

You kneel, offering your palm. “Do you want to come with me?”

She nods, once, and throws herself into your arms.

Your crew moves like a well-oiled machine, spreading out, breaking chains, guiding people gently toward the light above. There’s not enough room aboard the Halcyon for them all, but you’ll find a way. You must. You always do.

Hongjoong is waiting when you emerge topside, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He sees them. All of them.

And his expression crumbles.

He steps toward you, eyes locking with yours. You give a single, solemn nod.

“No survivors,” he says to the rest. “Except them.”

And behind you, the ship begins to burn.

~

The Halcyon cuts a steady path through calm seas, the wind thick with salt and promise. But below deck, the atmosphere is heavier—quieter.

The women and children you rescued have been given safe quarters, despite the cramped conditions. Sailcloth has been strung up to offer some privacy, cots fashioned from spare linens, hammocks cleared for the smallest. They’ve been fed, clothed in whatever garments could be salvaged from the enemy ship—simple things, oversized tunics and worn trousers, but it’s more than they had.

Wooyoung lingers at the entrance with a jug of water, his usual sharp tongue softened to something gentler. Yunho kneels beside a young boy, helping him lace the boots that once belonged to a Halcyon deckhand. Mingi and Jongho distribute fruit and bread with careful hands, speaking only when spoken to. Even San, ever restless, sits on the floor with two girls who are trying to braid flowers into his hair.

You watch them all from the doorway, your arms folded across your chest. It still stirs a sick knot in your stomach—what you found below that deck. What would’ve happened had you not intervened.

Above, on the quarterdeck, Hongjoong stands beside Yeosang, surveying the route ahead. As you step up beside them, his gaze meets yours, steady and unreadable.

“We’ll reach the port by first light,” he says. “They’ll be safe there.”

You nod, but say nothing. The wind ruffles your hair. The scent of citrus trees lingers faintly on the breeze.

He pauses, then speaks again—quiet, firm. “When we let them off, they won’t leave with just the clothes on their backs. We’ll give them coin. Enough to start again. A house, maybe. Or freedom somewhere no one can touch them.”

Yeosang tilts his head. “We’ll be light on funds, even with what we found aboard.”

“Then we go heavy on risk,” Hongjoong replies. “We’ll find more. We always do.”

You glance back toward the lower decks, toward the women and children now wrapped in the safety of your ship’s steel and crew’s hands. You never imagined this would be your life—saving others, protecting the vulnerable.

But you do now. And you’ll keep doing it.

And that is exactly why you summon the senior crew to the war cabin.

The air is thick with anticipation as the last of the crew files in. Boots thud against wooden boards, quiet murmurs exchanged, but all attention shifts as you take your seat, the flicker of purpose already etched into your face.

Hongjoong leans against the table, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving you. The others gather around—Seonghwa, poised and calm; San with his usual restless energy; Mingi, still brushing gunpowder off his jacket; Yeosang and Wooyoung, side by side, both alert; Jongho leaning back with arms folded, ready to listen. Yunho enters last, quietly closing the door behind him.

You glance around at the faces you’ve come to trust—some gruff, some wickedly mischievous, all of them loyal. Your voice cuts through the silence.

“What is the Halcyon’s purpose?”

For a moment, no one answers. Then San shrugs, tossing a dagger from hand to hand. “We’ve been taking down the Fang. That’s purpose enough for me.”

“Erasing them,” Wooyoung adds, “and maybe causing a bit of havoc with other crews along the way. You know—accidentally earning a terrifying reputation.”

A few of them chuckle. Even Yeosang allows a small smirk. Seonghwa clears his throat, more serious. “Thus far, our purpose has been vengeance. Survival. And freedom.”

You nod slowly. “All valid.”

Then you push your chair back and stand, every inch of you steady and sure as you look around the table. “But I think it’s time we go beyond that.”

Their attention sharpens.

“I think our new purpose,” you continue, “should be fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves.”

A beat of silence follows. Then, Yeosang speaks. “The women and children we found… no one was coming for them.”

“Exactly,” you say. “And how many more are there, trapped or broken, suffering under the boot of crews like the one we just faced? No more. If we can stop it—we should.”

Jongho nods. “We’ve already got the reputation. Might as well put it to good use.”

Wooyoung grins. “From outlaws to outlaws-with-morals. Has a nice ring to it.”

Hongjoong remains silent for a moment, eyes searching yours. Then he straightens. “It will be dangerous.”

You meet his gaze. “So was everything else we’ve done.”

Another long pause—then he nods once. “Then we do it. The Halcyon sets a new course.”

You watch as each of them leans forward, a new glint behind their eyes. Not just survival anymore. Not just vengeance.

Purpose.

The moment the war cabin empties, the energy aboard the Halcyon shifts. Purpose sharpens like a blade newly whetted.

You’re the last to leave, trailing just behind Wooyoung and Yeosang as they make their way toward the navigation table tucked within the war room annex—their unofficial domain. Maps are already unrolled. Quills are inked. It’s time.

Wooyoung cracks his knuckles with a grin. “Alright. Slavers, corrupted merchants, crooked ports… let’s make their lives hell.”

Yeosang, ever precise, draws a circle around a string of southern ports. “We start here. Known for quiet trade routes and a lack of patrols—prime territory for unregulated slave traffic.”

You nod, stepping in beside them. “Cross-reference any shipments that claim ‘delicate cargo’ or ‘private goods.’ We follow the coin. Who’s selling, who’s transporting, who’s looking the other way.”

“And who’s buying,” Wooyoung adds grimly. “Always follow the buyers. The bastards never hide for long.”

Yeosang’s fingers sweep across the map again, pausing over a coastal line thick with merchant flags. “I’ll track patterns in merchant fleet movement. If any are docking off-schedule or too frequently at minor ports, they go on the watchlist.”

You lean over his shoulder, studying the symbols and coded notes. “We’ll need eyes in those ports. Quiet ones.”

“Leave that to me,” Wooyoung says with a wink. “I’ve got shadows in half of them already.”

You tap the table, voice steady. “And let’s not forget the routes between. That’s where they’re most vulnerable. If we catch them en route, we can cut the supply at its root.”

The three of you share a look.

The mission is clear now. No more ghosts. No more children hidden below deck in darkness. Not if the Halcyon has anything to say about it.

The intelligence unit has a new priority. And the hunt begins now.

[thetidesthatturn]

😩😩😩😩😩😩

Puff, Puff, Pass

➾In Which: Two things get passed around; the joint — and you.

RATED XXX. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥Park Seonghwa x Kim Hongjoong x Kang Yeosang x fem reader

♫In Your Fantasy - ATEEZ♫

➯a/n: AH AH AH AH NOBODY LOOK AT ME NOBODY TOUCH ME IM HEJFIWBDKEQ- i really liked the new songs and im totally normal about them <3. totally not foaming at the mouth. totally not losing my mind. totally —

(>ᴗ•)genre: pure, filthy, unfiltered debauchery

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: i am ovulating. strap the FUCK in lovelies. ROUGH, MEAN, DIRTY. hongjoong and reader in an established relationship, he shares her <3 (he's still possessive though dw), implied chubby reader (squishable boobs, thighs, and tummy), doms hj and ys / switch (?) sh / sub reader, incredibly filthy but also completely safe: hongjoong is much more sober and makes sure reader feels safe / doesn't do anything she's uncomfortable with, that being said: free use reader gets her shit rocked, sub space, unprotected; pull out method + (1) creampie, orgasm control + edging + overstim, dry humping, high as some mfing kites, spit, messy kissing, face fucking, face sitting, breath play, giggly moments, fingering, hair pulling, m x m; kissing + grinding + sexual tension, cum eating, dacryphilia, manhandling, yeosang is a mean little weirdo (i luv him), praise + degradation, a few light spanks / slaps, park seonghwa's oppa kink. pet names + name calling: (dumb, little, sweet, messy, dirty, stupid, pretty, needy) baby, angel, slut, cumdump, fleshlight, love, girl, fuck(er), dummy / oppa, sir, joong(ie), sang(ie), hwa, pervert

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy @kyomiingi @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @klllerwaifu @seonghwasslytherin @yoonglesbae @wolviejex @estrnrea @lover-ofallthingspretty @willowwyy @jaerisdiction @peelingpaint-heavyheart @satsuri3su @bubbly-moon @hannahstacos

18+.MINORS WILL GET IRREVERSIBLE BRAIN DAMAGE.

─..puff.puff.pass.─────

"Are you sure she's okay with this?" Seonghwa asks while he nervously bites at his thumb, looking over to where you sit with Yeosang at the table.

Your fuzzy socked feet pulled up on the chair, your chin on your knees as you roll a large joint; making small talk with the younger member. You don't even look the slightest bit nervous or shy despite what you all know is coming.

Yeosang looks a bit more shy than usual, and he keeps his eyes locked onto your nimble fingers after you caught him staring at your nipples through your thin tank top.

"Yeah," Hongjoong answers simply, dropping his phone in his lap and leaning back to look over at you with a small smirk. "She's excited."

"What about you?"

"Me?" Hongjoong raises a brow, "what about me?"

"Are you... excited?"

"Oh," he breathes, before a large smile spreads across his face, "very. She's actually super slutty, I want to see how she acts with you guys. I bet she'll cum s-"

"Hongjoong!" Seonghwa yells, eyes wide and hand over his mouth, "you can't call her that-"

He laughs, meeting his eyes with yours as you and Yeosang look over to the commotion, "baby, come here for a second?"

You slide the small tray with the paper and buds on it to Yeosang before you hop down and come over with a smile. "What's u-"

"Get on your knees." Hongjoong says flatly, staring up at you.

You can feel Yeosang staring at you from the table, and Seonghwa is looking up at you with eyes still wide.

You sink to your knees without a second thought, even if it does make your heart beat a little faster. "You still want to-" Your boyfriend goes to speak, when you cut him off.

Nodding eagerly, "I really do."

"You do?" And you nod. "Because you're my slut, right?" Another nod — and you hear Seonghwa's breathing picking up a bit. "And you like it when I tell you what to do?"

Seonghwa thinks he might explode as you keep nodding your head obediently, knelt between them; a bit more towards Hongjoong. He's never seen someone so... pliable. It's making his pants tight around the crotch.

"And you really, really like it when I use you as my personal fleshlight, don't you, baby?"

"Yes-"

"Give me a kiss," he doesn't even give you time to respond before he's leaning down and grabbing you by the throat, lips pressed to yours roughly. It's even rougher than usual now that his friends are watching. Like he's showing off.

Because he most certainly is.

He pulls back and spits into your gaped mouth, spreading the saliva that misses all over your chin as you look up at him dazed. "You want to be their fleshlight, too?"

"Yeah," you pant quietly, "I want to make them feel good."

"How are you going to do that, sweet girl?" He smiles, devilish under the surface as he feels Seonghwa shifting on the couch next to him.

"Let them use me."

"Yeah? C'mere," he says softer, pulling you up to straddle him, "you want us to use you however we want?" He hums as he rubs your thighs gently.

"Yes."

"Do you want me to stay sober so I can make sure you don't do something you'll regret?"

You hesitate for a moment before you nod, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, "a little bit. Just, not as high?"

Yeosang almost scares Seonghwa with how he's snuck up on you all, holding out the lit joint to him as he blows the smoke out of his lungs.

He takes it quickly so he can calm his nerves about the whole thing, taking a long puff while listening to Hongjoongs soft reassurances to you.

"I can do that, baby," he whispers as he wraps his arms around you, voice low in your ear — but purposefully not so low that his friends can't hear him. "I'm going to share you, but don't forget who you belong to, okay? I'm the only one you share your bed with. I'm going to let my friends use your little pussy and when they're done, I'm going to fuck you so good you forget what they even felt like inside of you. Do you understand?"

"Sounds good, Joongie," you reply airily, your cheeks suddenly hot from his words; and from the way you can feel their eyes on your lower back as Hongjoong slides his hands under your shirt to caress your back.

"And if you want them to quit, you let me know. My girl comes first. Yeah?"

"Okay," you nod, looking down at him as he leans back, "love you, Joong."

"Awe, I love you too," he says with a peck to your lips, hands on your hips as he pulls away, "now show them how much of a slut you are."

You and Seonghwa both gasp as Hongjoong all but throws you into his lap; his hands clumsily coming to steady you by your waist. "H-hey, Oppa."

It's his turn to feel hot, ears practically burning as you settle over his lap; just as you were atop your boyfriend. "Hey..."

"Don't be shy, love," Hongjoong says as he takes the joint from his lips, having taken a small hit — just like you asked of him. He leans and places it between your lips, allowing you to suck on it as he says, "get nice and high for us. You always get so wet~"

"Fuck, I can't believe this is happening," Seonghwa groans, rubbing his face.

"Why not?" Yeosang asks as he sits on his other side, eyeing you slowly as Hongjoong holds the joint for you to take another hit. "If you don't want to touch her, let me."

Seonghwa stops you when you go to move towards him; hands firmer on your sides. "Don't-" He hesitates, "I want you to grind on me."

Hongjoong smirks as you immediately start moving your hips, your hands settled on your thighs — afraid to touch. "You can touch, can't she, Hwa?" He reaches between you and hands Yeosang the joint.

He looks between you before nodding quickly, "yes- yeah, I don't mind."

"Of course you don't," Yeosang chuckles before taking a quick hit, "pretty girl grinding on your cock, you'd be stupid if you were complaining."

His casual calling of you 'pretty' makes you even more shy, whining as you move to press your face into Seonghwa's chest; holding onto his shirt as you swirl your hips lightly.

"Awe, my little slut is shy, huh?" Hongjoong giggles, giving a small spank to your ass and making you jump. "I know you can do better than that, don't embarrass me now."

"Fucking-" Seonghwa gasps, instinctively grabbing at you as you grind into his growing bulge — deep and perfectly paced, "oh my god~" He bites his lip quickly, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling.

"See, that's more like it," Hongjoong hums, rubbing your sore cheek, "be a good whore for Oppa~"

Seonghwa snaps his head down to glare at him, mouth open to chastise him when you give a particularly nice roll of your hips and all he can get out instead is a moan. "Oh, shit-" He grips your hips, guiding you to repeat the motion, "like that."

Yeosang places the blunt in his lips, letting it hang as he stands up; tired of watching. He quickly unbuttons his pants, pulling his zipper down to give some relief to his aching cock. He comes behind you, gathering up your hair before pulling you up, "come here, slut."

Hongjoong laughs at the lost look in your eyes as you come up; inebriated brain lagging behind as you catch up to someone else calling you that.

"Finish it off," Yeosang hums as he places the joint into your mouth, a good four hits still on it. "I want to you to be so high you forget where you are when I fuck your brains out."

Seonghwa pants out a laugh as you cough, shocked by his bluntness so much that your hips still. Hongjoong does the same, adding to your shock when he smacks your ass again, "did we tell you to stop, dummy?"

You steady yourself with your hand on Seonghwa's stomach, the other pinching the joint as you catch your breath. "Sorry..."

"It's okay, pretty baby," Hongjoong leans and kisses your cheek as Seonghwa starts pulling your hips again, "now, do what Yeosang asked. Don't disappoint our guests."

You nod, shakily bringing the joint back to your lips and taking a large puff.

"She really will do anything you ask, won't she?" Yeosang asks, eyes filled with lust and curiosity as he watches you finish off the joint.

Hongjoong only smirks in response while he takes the ending from your lips, tossing it to the ashtray. "Baby," he tilts his head, and you look to him immediately, "open your mouth."

You do so with zero pause, tongue rolled out.

Seonghwa and Yeosang curse in tandem, the latter pulling you faster along his bulge as the lewd gesture makes his cock twitch.

Hongjoong stands up, tilting your head back slowly to look at them, "spit in her mouth."

Yeosang's eyes widen slightly, "really?"

"Yeah, really. She'll swallow it like a good girl," he looks to you pointedly, silently telling you to make him proud.

You hum affirmatively, locking eyes with him as he leans closer; "you'll let me spit in your mouth while you grind on someone else's cock? All while your boyfriend watches?" You nod, immediately met with his hand gripping your face as he spits right onto your tongue.

All three watch in various degrees of awe as you swallow it quickly, tongue stuck back out with a soft, "ah."

"Fuck- sorry, Hyung," Yeosang mumbles quickly as he leans down and wraps his arms around you, yanking you from Seonghwa lap and making him groan. "My turn," he breaths out as he falls back onto the couch, settling you in his lap.

Hongjoong sits next to Seonghwa, patting his shoulder with a grin, "don't worry, she's got stamina. We'll all get to use her."

"You asshole, Yeosang," he huffs softly, resting his head against the cushion and watching your hips closely as you grind down on his exposed boxers; it's almost like he can still feel it if he thinks hard enough.

"You were taking too long, I want some of her too," Yeosang pouts, but he definitely doesn't mean it — not when you're rubbing your clothed heat over his cock so deliciously.

You whine quietly as your high from the last few long hits sneaks up on you; making you light headed, along with the pleasure you're getting from pressing your clit onto him.

"Feeling good, baby?" Hongjoong asks quickly, guiding your head to rest on Yeosang's shoulder. He leans to your level and smiles as you nod quickly, "yeah? Are you getting needy?"

"Yeah," you admit tentatively, grabbing Yeosang's biceps as he grinds up into you.

"Needy little slut," Hongjoong coos as he slides his fingertips down and slips your tank tops sleeves over your shoulders. "Lift her up, Yeosang."

He groans a bit, but then he sees his intentions and moves quickly. Standing up, he steadies you with a hand on your lower back; the other carefully holding your head to his shoulder after it rolls.

Hongjoong rubs your arms softly before pulling your shirt down to your hips. Seonghwa leans forward, elbows on his legs as he watches closely, only able to catch a glimpse of your chest with the way Yeosang holds you upright.

"You're so wet," Hongjoong smiles at the evidence of how much you're enjoying yourself already, sliding all of your clothes down your legs in one slow pull; leaving you in nothing but your socks. "Come here, pretty, let me show you off~"

Yeosang pretty much falls back into his seat, eyes trailing every inch on your body wildly as Hongjoong rubs up and down your waist slowly.

"Good goddamn," Seonghwa whispers, swallowing thickly. "What the fuck." It doesn't really sound like a question, more of a way to express his disbelief as he soaks in every detail he can and commits it to memory — because there's no way he'd not be jerking off to this for years to come.

"Isn't my slut just gorgeous?" Hongjoong slips a hand to your cunt, cupping and squeezing it softly and making you gasp; grabbing at his arm for something to hold onto. "Needy little baby~" He giggles as you pout up at him beggingly.

"Please-"

Seonghwa stands up quickly, the simple sound of you begging — not even desperately or urgently — making his willpower completely disappear.

"You are such a tease, do you know that?" He says as he sandwiches you between them, suffocating you with his presence as he cups your jaw, still admiring your body. "Do you know how long I've wanted to fuck you? But, no, I just had to be a good person and not bend over my best friends girl." He meets your fuzzy gaze, slipping his hand under Hongjoongs as he grins; watching you both closely.

"R-really?" You ask shakily, feeling shrunken under his suddenly intense and dominant eyes.

"Dead fucking serious," he nods, slipping his middle finger into you and groaning as he feels around slowly; savoring the softness of your insides and making you tremble in the process. "I've jerked off to you so many times," he admits quickly, "thinking about how lucky Joong is, how he gets to fuck you. I know we all have."

"Maybe I'll invite them next time," Hongjoong purrs in your ear, massaging your breasts slowly, "would you like that? Each of my members getting a chance to feel that wet little cunt?"

"Yes-" You gasp as Yeosang sneaks up on you, gripping your jaw and turning you to look at him.

He looks from you to Hongjoong for a moment, and when he nods; Yeosang leans forward and kisses you. Messy, rough, completely overpowering your mouth with his and shoving his tongue between your lips.

You grab onto Seonghwa's side for stability as your legs wobble; another one of his fingers slipping into you. "Look at my messy slut," Hongjoong moans, grinding against your ass. When he catches your fingers raising shakily, he grabs Yeosang by his hair roughly; making him hiss. "Let her breathe," he says before pulling him to his lips instead.

He's a bit shocked at first, but he's quickly leaning into it; fighting against his tongue with his own.

You and Seonghwa both watch, and he can't help but giggle a bit. "God, I can't fucking believe this," he repeats his earlier sentiment.

"Hwa," you pant quietly, looking up at him with your chest heaving softly in Hongjoong's grasp.

His eyes widen a bit, nodding quickly. "What- what is it, are you ok-"

Hongjoong pulls away from Yeosang, looking at you with breakneck speed.

"Will you... maybe, eat me out?"

Hongjoong sighs with a laugh of relief, squeezing your chest almost affectionately. "Ah, you litter fucker, you scared me."

"Sorry, Jo- ah!" You squeal as Seonghwa drags you away, throwing you onto the couch.

"Sit up," he rushes, pulling you up to face the wall before all but falling to the floor.

"Eager," Yeosang laughs, licking his puffy lips as he comes to sit next to you.

He lifts your hips and settles his face below you, moaning from the anticipation alone. "A-are you go-"

He cuts you off, "I'm gonna sit you on my face, yeah?" Before you have a chance to respond, he's pulling you down by your hips and holding you tightly while he lands a fat lick up the length of your cunt. "Oh, holy fuck..."

"Don't get addicted," Hongjoong warns him playfully, a hint of seriousness underneath. "She'll get you."

Yeosang chuckles as you grab the back of the couch; Seonghwa immediately licking all over your dripping pussy with an eagerness that makes you tremble. "You like that?" He hums, tilting his head and cooing when you nod quickly. "Yeah, I bet you do, slut~"

"Fuck-" You go to collapse onto the cushion when Hongjoong grabs the back of your neck and holds you up.

"No hiding, remember?"

"Sorry, sir," you apologize with a small whine as Seonghwa sucks on your clit.

"Can't take it anymore," Yeosang snaps as you utter the title, yanking his boxers down and groaning loudly. Grabbing your wrist, he drags your hand over to his hard length, "take care of this, all your fucking fault anyway."

"Mh, go on, baby," Hongjoong encourages you as you hesitate, going so far as to lean over and spit in your hand, "make him feel good."

It's hard to think of how to do that — with his grip on your neck and Seonghwa's tongue in your cunt and Yeosang's powerful gaze locked in on you and your brain entirely too high to process so much information at once.

"Hey," Yeosang notices you faltering and slaps you, gently; just harsh enough to bring you back to reality and listen to his more direct command, "jerk me off."

You swallow thickly, and you're still able to spit into your hand; letting it join Hongjoongs before you wrap your hand around his cock. His head falls back with the simple touch, a groan breaking in his throat as you slowly slide your hand up and down his length.

"You're doing so good, my dirty girl~" Hongjoong grins as he watches Yeosang slump from your attention to his cock — practically melting.

"Can I cum?" You look up at him, eyes wet and a pout on your lips.

"Awe, of course, you needy girl," he slides his hand around and grabs the front of your throat, choking you, "fucking cum all over Hwa's face, why don't you? Show him how nice it tastes."

You manage to give Yeosang a few more strokes before you have to let go, grabbing his arm and squeezing it tightly as you do just as your boyfriend says — cum all over his best friends face.

It's so intense that you lose all of the air in your lungs, a pathetic whimper all that you can manage as it washes over you.

Yeosang is shoving his bottoms off as he watches you, locking eyes with Hongjoong briefly before he snatches up your twitching form; leaving Seonghwa panting heavily and his face blissed out like he just came.

"Shit, you alive down there?" Hongjoong laughs, kneeling down and straddling his lap. "Told you she's slutty~"

He's completely breathless, grabbing onto him out of pure instinct and forcing him down to sit on his begging cock, "Joong, please-"

They both look over as you gasp; watching Yeosang push his fat tip into your cunt. He has you perched in his lap, head held to his shoulder once again, telling you, "take it." Before he slams his length into you with one rough thrust.

You scream into his shoulder, and Hongjoongs lips spread into a large grin as he registers your jumbled words. "Oh, fucking sweet hell! S'good!"

"Messy fucking fleshlight," Yeosang groans, gripping your hair tightly, "taking my dick no problem, so wet..." He closes his eyes, panting a few times while gathering himself.

"She's taking it all just like that?" Seonghwa asks in awe, hands still gripping Hongjoongs hips tightly.

"Course she is, my slutty little angel," Hongjoong reaches and smacks your ass; making both of you gasp, because the impact makes you clench around him.

"Fuck-" Yeosang curses with his jaw clenched, wrapping his arms around you tightly before pounding into you mercilessly.

You kick your feet uselessly, balling up his shirt in your fists as you moan into his neck; hiding your face there.

"Can you handle it, baby?" Hongjoong calls out, laughing along with Seonghwa as you quickly yell out:

"Fuck yes!"

"Good girl," he chuckles before looking back down to him, your arousal still gleaming on his chin. "Ah, she got you all messy," he says nonchalantly before leaning and licking up his chin, all the way to his lips; just hardly grazing the bottom one.

"Oh, fuck me," he sighs, eyes fluttering shut as Hongjoong laps up the rest of it before giving a small roll of his hips.

"That's her job," he giggles, sliding his hands up his chest, "unless you have something different in mind~" He whispers teasingly while wrapping his hands around his neck — just barely.

Seonghwa whimpers: the sounds of you getting pummeled next to him, the taste of you lingering on his tongue, Hongjoongs weight against his cock, his hands around his neck is getting to be too much.

"You pervert," Hongjoong chuckles as he tightens his grip, "you really do want both of us."

"F-fuck, so what?" He says shakily, blush creeping up his face as he hears you yelling for Yeosang to let you cum.

"So," he opens his eyes quickly as he feels Hongjoongs breath on his lips, finding him nose to nose with him, "maybe I'll make that happen if you make my girl happy."

"You will?"

His answer comes in the form of a kiss — not dominance fighting like it was with Yeosang, but not quite loving like with you. More... experimental. Testing the waters with each other.

Hongjoong abandons his lips as he hears you whimpering, looking over to you quickly. "Pretty?"

"He won't let me cum!" You wail, clinging to Yeosang's shirt like a lifeline. "Please, Joongie, tell h-him to let me!"

Yeosang laughs, breathlessly as he continues to practically beat up your insides with his thick cock. "Beg a little more, I'll let you~"

"Yeosang, don't be a jerk. Let the poor girl-" Seonghwa gets cut off when Hongjoong slaps a hand over his mouth, leaving him a bit flabbergasted.

"Baby~" He coos, holding back his own laughter, "I'm not in charge of you right now." He always is, and he continues to be even as someone else is using you like their toy. But he likes seeing you throw your little fits from time to time. And he wants to see how you handle it. "You'll have to do what Yeosang asks."

"Please, please, please-" You do so immediately, pushing yourself up on his chest only to be met with an indifferent stare; only a small smirk playing on his lips.

"You call that begging? Hongjoong has been too soft with you for how big of a slut you are."

"Sang, pl-" He pulls you off of him, leaving you whining and pouting for him to keep going as he throws you to lay across the couch.

"You'll learn how to really beg if you want it so bad." He flips you onto your stomach, pounding back into you the second you land.

You shove your face into the cushion as you cry, kicking your legs until he grips your hair and reels you up. "Try again."

"Please, I want to-"

"Wrong." He says before letting you go, pushing your legs open with his until one of them dangles off the edge next to Seonghwa and Hongjoong.

"Yeosang!" You scream, "fuck! Please, pretty fucking goddamn please! I can't hold it, I need to cum, sir-"

You keep on rambling your pleas, but you've already satisfied him — so he slips a hand under your hips and circles your clit. "Cum."

"J- Ah, thank you!"

The way you clench and tremble around him, the way you hide in the cushion as you moan; it all almost makes him cum inside of you before he remembers Hongjoongs threats before they even set foot in your shared space.

"Shit-" He gasps, pulling out quickly and crushing you to the couch as he sits on the back of your thighs, fisting his cock quickly as he watches the way you twitch.

Seonghwa is practically drooling as he watches Yeosang's cum splatter on the expanse of your back, Hongjoong just the same.

He holds your hip in a way that must be his attempt at comfort as you both just stay for a moment and catch your breath.

"You okay, sweet girl?" Hongjoong whispers, crawling out of Seonghwa's lap and kneeling next to your head as you sniffle. You hold your hand out shakily, opening and closing it quickly. "Awe," he takes it fast, lacing his fingers with yours, "little fleshlight got her brains fucked out after just one round?"

You nod into the couch, sniffling.

"You want to keep on going?"

Again, you nod.

"Atta girl," he giggles, rubbing the back of your head gently as Yeosang stands up.

He hesitates a second, but then he leans down and moves your head to look at him. "Thanks," he says before leaning down and kissing your cheek; earning himself a smile. "You d-" He clears his throat as his heart skips a beat, "you did really good."

"Say thank you, baby," Hongjoong says softly, taking the tissue that Seonghwa offers him and wiping up your back while biting his lip.

"Thank you, Sangie," you moan softly, pushing yourself up on your shaky arms before pointing at Seonghwa.

He points towards himself as well, finger to his chest, "me?"

"Your turn."

"You don't need a break, angel?" Hongjoong hands the soiled tissue to Yeosang, and he's disappearing further into the apartment. "D-"

"No," you giggle, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his chin, "I'm ready for more. Plus, Oppa won't be rough with m-" A yelp slips past your lips as Seonghwa pulls you to the floor, cupping your head as you fall to the hard wood.

"You have got to stop calling me that," he groans as he slots himself between your legs, holding himself up with one hand while the other guides his cock along your soaked slit; impatiently pulled out of his pants.

"Sorry, sir-"

"Fuck," he whines, eyebrows pressed together, "that's even worse."

Hongjoong chuckles, coming to sit by your head as he frees his length. "I think you're making him shy, baby," he leans and pecks your lips while fisting his cock, breathing in your gasp as Seonghwa slides into you slowly. "That feel nice, hm? Needy little fleshlight~"

Seonghwa gasps as you clench around him, leaning his head against your shoulder with a low curse. "Oh, fuck, you feel so good..."

Yeosang falls back onto the couch, turning his head to watch; his dick already half-hard in his boxers again. "Pretty slut," he whispers, to no one other than himself, but given the way Hongjoongs eyes flick to him; he figures he heard.

He did — and a sick sense of pride is in his chest as he looks between Yeosang's spent form and Seonghwa's blissful face. All because of you.

He leans down quickly, taking your lips in his more roughly. Cupping your cheek and pulling one of your hands to his hard length, holding his hand over yours and using it to jerk himself off all while Seonghwa starts thrusting into you with a testing pace. "Good fucking girl," he groans into your mouth, nipping your lips, "being such a well behaved slut for us. Keep it up for me, yeah?"

"Yeah," you pant out with a nod, feeling dizzy and being thankful that Seonghwa is taking you flat on the floor so his thrust don't throw you around as much as he picks up his rhythm. "I wa-want some cum, Joongie."

"Where at?" He grins wide as he hears Seonghwa moaning into your shoulder; clearly very into your neediness in your fuzzy state of mind if the way he grips your hips says anything, if the way he starts pounding you just as hard as Yeosang did says anything.

"Ah," you tilt your head back a bit, your back arching off the floor as he prods your g-spot, opening your mouth wide.

"Oh, in here, dirty girl?" He teases, sticking two of his fingers into your mouth and pressing your tongue down before spitting into it.

Yeosang slides down, already freeing himself from the confines of his boxers and grabbing your other hand to mirror Hongjoong; jerking himself off and spitting into your open mouth as you moan.

"We're going to give you some cum, and you better keep it in your mouth until Hwa is done using your little pussy, okay? You understand me?" Hongjoong asks with a soft slap, moving your hand faster along his length.

"Mmf," you pout as Yeosang grinds his leaking tip on your heated cheek, trying to tilt your head and take it into your mouth — when Seonghwa grabs you by the base of your hair and pulls you back down.

"He's talking to you, baby," he says lowly against your throat, nickname slipping without his permission or his realization. And the way it makes you squeeze him makes him want to do it again and again. "Where's your manners at?"

"Fuck!" You writhe as he stills after a harsh thrust, pressing against everything inside of you that makes you drool; strings of saliva visible in your mouth as you open it wide and hum a, "mhm!"

"That's better, that's a polite little slut," he moans before nipping at your sweat sheened shoulder.

Hongjoong eyes him for a moment, biting his lip as he tries to decide if he's okay with how he's behaving. Seonghwa's never had a dominant bone in his body. Maybe you're such a good sub that you've brought it out of him, or maybe he's just never had the chance to be in control of someone and it's giving him a high that rivals the drugs in his system.

Either way, Hongjoong decides he likes it, because evidently so do you — uncontrollable moans muffled as Yeosang shoves his cock in your mouth and fucks the pocket of your cheek.

"F-fuck," he whines quietly, Hongjoong the only witness to his moment of sensitivity because Seonghwa is drunk on your pussy, and you're... "God, you're so pretty." He can't help but let out his thoughts under the influence of the joint and the pleasure just as much as the two of you are.

You blink up at him with teary eyes, eyelashes starting to dampen.

"Isn't she?" Hongjoong coos, petting your cheek and pressing against it as Yeosang fucks into it, making all three of you moan with the chain reaction he creates: Yeosang cumming into your mouth, you moaning and clenching around Seonghwa to beg silently for him to make you cum, and him burying his face in your chest as he fucks you even harder.

"Don't swallow, you little fucker, I see you thinking about it," Hongjoong warns with a cocky grin stuck on his face as he takes Yeosang's place; the overstimulated man falling to sit next to you all as he catches his breath.

"You've got two more loads coming, angel," he pulls your head to the side, telling you, "suck. And don't let any cum out or you're licking it off the floor."

You whine, but you do what he asks, suctioning your lips around him tightly so none of Yeosang's cum can drip out before you bob your head slowly.

Seonghwa pants heavily, chest heaving against you as he stills — he's so close to his own orgasm but he doesn't want it to end yet. He watches you suck on Hongjoong cock with what can only be described as heart eyes; and Yeosang is the same.

"What's wrong, little love?" Hongjoong whispers mockingly as your tears finally start slipping from your waterline. "Can't breathe with all that cum and cock in your mouth?"

You nod, slurping around him as some of the cum threatens to drop.

"No?" He moves you to lay your head flat again, straddling your shoulders as Seonghwa sits up and watches over your shoulder; gasping a bit shocked when he pinches your nose closed and starts fucking into your messy mouth. "Now you can't breathe, stupid slut. Keep fucking sucking- make me cum unless you want to pass out and have us use your defenseless little holes like an actual fleshlight."

You grab his thighs tightly, sucking as best you can while Seonghwa starts fucking you again; unable to stop himself as he watches the lewd scene. "Goddamn, Joong," he groans, "you're so mean to her."

"She likes it. Likes being put in her place, right?" He lets go of your nose and lets you breathe heavily through it, still obediently sucking at him. "Besides, aren't you the one beating up her pussy right now?" He chuckles as he hears another groan from behind him over the slapping of skin. Carefully, he wipes the sweat from your brows and cradles your puffy cheeks.

"I'm going to cum, don't you dare spill any and don't you dare swallow, either," he warns shortly before doing just what he says; moaning and letting his shoulders slump as he spills all of his release into your stuffed mouth.

You pant through your nose as he pulls away, jaw dropping open to show them the white pool in your mouth.

"Fucking-" The words die out on Seonghwa's tongue, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling you into his wild thrusts.

Yeosang licks his lips, eyeing you intently as you struggle to breathe with everything going on; lust still clear in his gaze.

Hongjoong moves off of you and swipes his hair back, taking a breath before he reaches down and circles your clit with quick and harsh movements, "cum for us, sweet girl~"

You choke as your pleasure breaks over you, gurgling and almost spitting the cum out before Yeosang leans quickly and slaps a hand over your mouth. "Keep it, baby. Taste us while you cum." Just like Seonghwa; the nickname flew out of his mouth without his consent or his knowledge — but Hongjoong catches it, and this time he doesn't hesitate to grin wide.

Your legs kick a few times before they fall uselessly, trembling as Seonghwa continues to fuck you through and past your mind-numbing orgasm while Hongjoong swirls his fingers on your messy clit.

"Oh, fffuck," Seonghwa moans, hands sliding up to your stomach and groping you, "ah, I want to cum so bad..."

"Not inside of her," Hongjoong warns quickly. No matter how much he's willing to share — he is the only one who gets to fill your pussy like that.

"G-god, I know," he says just as fast, hips stuttering and jolting into you like a wild animal, "but she practically beg-begging for it~ You're so. Fucking. Lucky." He growls between his teeth with a rough thrust to emphasize each word before suddenly pulling out; leaving you a trembling puddle as he climbs up your body hastily.

"Move," he grips Yeosang's wrist and pulls it away, opening up your messy mouth with a grip on your jaw. "Fucking hell," he gasps, jerking himself off quickly as you stare up at him with a dazed and content glaze in your eyes.

A little bit of his cum lands on your cheek before he places his tip in your mouth, biting back his whimpers as you suck on it. Hongjoong leans over and swipes it up; spreading it on your lips, "here we go, baby, none of it goes to waste."

Yeosang has to blink out of his daze to catch Seonghwa as he falls back, laughing as he pulls him to sit with his back against the couch. "Sweet fuck," he pants while tilting his head back.

"Swallow now, pretty girl," Hongjoong whispers, planting a kiss to your cum slick lips as you gulp. There's so much of it — you have to swallow a good three times before you can open your mouth and finally draw in some deep breaths. "Perfect~"

He wraps his arms around your shoulders and gently sits you up, making you whine, "Oppa, you j-jerk."

They all chuckle at your small pout, and Seonghwa looks down with a large smile, blush still bright on his cheeks. "Sorry, you just felt so good..."

"C'mon, little angel," Hongjoong says with a giggle, wrapping your arm over his neck to pull you up.

"I'll carry her, Hyung," Yeosang says quickly, jumping to his feet. Seonghwa is a little slower, still heavy with his bliss.

"Uh," Hongjoong hesitates, looking to you, "are you okay with that, love? He can carry you faster than me."

"Yeah," you groan, desperate for your comfortable bed and some love from your boyfriend. "Thanks, Sang," you sigh with relief as he scoops you up bridal style, leaning your head on his arm.

"No problem," he smiles down at you, feeling something a little too close to affection bubbling in his stomach and looking back up quickly. "Here we go," he sets you down slowly, scanning your body one more time, "thanks for... yeah." He kisses your cheek quickly before shuffling away quickly, giving Hongjoong a small bow as he passes.

Seonghwa comes up next, hand instinctively cupping your jaw as he leans down and kisses you softly. Short, simple, and sweet. "Thank you, baby," he whispers gently, stroking your cheek with his thumb like he's savoring the feeling of your heated skin, "you were so good for us."

"Thanks, Hwa," you lean up and peck his lips once more before he turns; smiling and nodding to Hongjoong as he heads to the door.

Hongjoong snatches up his wrist, devilish grin on his lips, "I think you made her happy." He says simply, but it carries something deeper when Seonghwa remembers his earlier words.

"Yeah?"

He nods, "maybe... this could be a regular thing. If she l-"

"Absolutely," you moan sleepily as you snuggle up ontop of your blankets.

They share a small laugh, peeking over at you. "Well, the princess has spoken," Seonghwa jokes like his heart isn't about to beat right out of his chest.

"We'll talk about it later, yeah?" Hongjoong slides his hand down his arm as he passes, climbing into the bed with you and pulling off his disheveled clothes. "Let me take care of my girl."

Seonghwa watches for a moment before he snaps back into his body, leaving the room and closing the door with a giant smile on his face.

"Are you okay, sweet love?" Hongjoong hums as he tenderly moves you onto your back, leaving a trail of soft kisses down your cheekbone to your lips. "They didn't hurt you?"

"No, I'm okay, Joongie," you smile beneath his lips, eyes blurry and gleaming with your submission. So deep in your subspace that you'd do anything and everything he asks of you. And all he asks is —

"Will you let me show you how much I love you?"

You nod, of course you do; spreading your legs so he can lay between them. Both of you completely nude, he hugs you close and melds your bodies together.

"I'm so proud of you, pretty," he groans into your ear as he slides his cock into you. Your sore walls clenching and twitching to say 'no more' but you only sigh softly and melt under him, holding him tightly as he sets a slow and loving pace.

"You are my perfect little fleshlight, aren't you? Take so much for me, make me feel so good — make my friends feel so good. Shhh, shhh~ No tears, angel," he kisses them up before you even notice them falling, shushing you softly.

You feel vulnerable and exposed after it all, and at the very same time you feel completely safe in his arms. "H-hold me tighter, please?"

"Of course," he quickly complies, squeezing you in his arms. "I got you, my sweet girl," he leaves one more kiss on your teary cheek before pressing his forehead against yours, noticing your eyes flicking around. "Hey, focus on me- there you go~ There's my pretty baby~"

You breathe heavy against his lips, eyes locked on his as he continues his slow thrusts, "f-feels good?"

"Feels so fucking good, love," he assures you immediately, "nothing in the world compares to my girl." He smiles as you do, giggling breathlessly as he plants another round of kisses across your face.

"Can you- fuck," you lose your train of thought as quickly as it comes, hips twitching under his as you whine.

"Slow, baby," he hums, kissing his way down your neck and sucking softly. "Tell me what you want, take your time."

"Can you please cum inside of me?" You plead, almost pathetic in the way you tear up at the thought of him saying no.

"Of course, I can- that gonna make you happy?" He hugs you tighter as your back arches, squeezing your chest to his.

"So happy," you gasp, fingers wrapping up in his hair to ground yourself.

"Don't worry, love, I'll give it to you," he chuckles quietly before latching onto your neck and sucking hard enough to leave a mark; something nobody else will do to you — not on his watch.

"Cumming, cumming!" You wail as it creeps up on you and blankets your entire being, smothering you in pleasure so hot and intense that you're full on sobbing by the time you come back to your body.

He groans deeply from the tight grip you have on his hair; the one you don't even notice, thrusting a few more times to fuck his cum into you before he all but collapses. He rolls to his side, dragging you along with him and immediately tucking your head under his chin to cradle you to his chest.

"Shhhh, you're okay," he hums, holding you tightly and moving slowly to drape a leg over your hip; pulling you even closer. "Pretty girl."

He's more than happy to keep sharing, keep showing you off — but nobody gets to see you like this.

So soft and vulnerable, so fragile as he holds you through your sobs.

"My pretty girl."

─..puff.puff.pass.─────

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, sexual content, use of Y/N, abuse, alcohol use, character death - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @ninjakitty15 @autieofthevalley @idknunsadly @fallendebil

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER NINE >>

CHAPTER EIGHT - THE RETURN

Silence chokes the deck.

The sea around the Halcyon lies still once more—but it’s not the same sea.

Ahead, land rises like a myth born real. Dark cliffs curve into obsidian-laced sand, and beyond them, the shrouded skeleton of a village long abandoned.

No one moves.

Not at first.

The crew are frozen in place—hands gripping ropes, leaning against rails, eyes fixed forward.

“No way…” Wooyoung whispers. “That wasn’t—”

Yeosang doesn’t speak. San lowers his blade, the wind brushing his coat aside as he stares out at the shore.

Mingi breathes out, slow and sharp. “That’s… that’s it, isn’t it?”

Jongho steps closer to the rail, his fingers tightening. “We’ve found it.”

“No.” Seonghwa’s voice is low. Clear. Final. “She found it.”

And all eyes turn to you.

You stand at the bow, hand still bleeding, your hair whipped back by salt air, your gaze locked on the island as if you’ve known it your whole life—even if you couldn’t remember until now.

The blood still trickles down your wrist.

No one dares to speak first.

Then Hongjoong steps forward, slow, steady. He doesn’t touch you. But when he stands beside you, he says only this, “We go ashore at first light.”

And no one argues.

Because whatever lies beyond those trees—it is waiting for you.

~

The galley is dimly lit, oil lanterns swaying gently overhead. The sea is still. The island looms just beyond sight, hidden behind night and mist.

Dinner is laid out—a simple stew, hard bread, slices of dried fruit. But no one eats with appetite.

They sit together now. Not just a crew. Something more.

You’re among them, at the long table, bandaged hand resting beside your untouched plate. No one brings up the blood. No one brings up the waves.

The silence stretches—familiar, but heavy.

Until Wooyoung speaks. He always speaks first.

“Do you think it’ll be… like you remembered?” he asks you, not mockingly. Just soft. Curious. Almost afraid.

You shake your head. “I didn’t remember until I was already bleeding.”

Jongho leans forward, elbows on the table. “You didn’t hesitate.”

You glance at him. “Would you have?”

He doesn’t answer.

Yeosang clears his throat. “If we are sharing truths tonight…” he looks at Hongjoong, and then to you, “…perhaps it is time we all stopped pretending we haven’t changed.”

Mingi snorts softly. “Changed? We watched the sea split open.”

“No.” San’s voice is low. “We watched her split it.”

The attention shifts to you again. You brace for discomfort—but instead, it’s something else.

Respect.

Seonghwa sets down his fork with deliberate quiet. “If there is anything left unsaid, now is the time.”

A moment of silence stretches.

And then—Hongjoong.

He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t speak to the room. He speaks to you.

“When I was young… my parents made a deal with the Fang. A promise of protection. One they broke.”

You look at him, unmoving.

“I watched them die for it,” he says. “I was taken. Sold. Shackled below deck like cargo.” He pauses. “I swore I’d never trust anyone again.” His voice softens. “Until I met all of you.”

He doesn’t need to say more. Because that is the confession.

One by one, others follow.

Wooyoung mentions the older brother he lost to the Fang—never found a body. San admits he trained for blood before he ever knew how to hold peace. Even Yunho confesses, quiet and shy, that this ship is the first place he’s ever felt like he belonged.

And then, all eyes return to you.

You clear your throat, ready to show a vulnerability that the Fang tried to beat out of you. One that they did, until you became a part of the Halcyon.

“Everything I’ve done… everything I’ve become… was born on that island.”

Your gaze finds Hongjoong.

“And I think… I’m ready to face it now. Alongside you all.”

The moment settles, a strange quiet coating the room—not tension, not even peace. Just stillness.

You rise slowly from your seat, the scrape of the chair soft against the wooden floor. All eyes lift to you once more.

Your heart beats harder than it did during battle. This is the kind of truth you can’t take back.

You breathe in.

“I’ve gone by many names,” you say, voice steady but low. “Names given to me by strangers. By enemies. By ghosts.”

Your gaze sweeps the table. You feel it—how they lean in, how they already understand what’s coming, even if they don’t yet know it.

“Pyra is what the Fang called me. Because of what they suspected. Because of what they feared.”

A ripple of confusion crosses a few faces, but no one interrupts.

You step out from behind your chair, the lantern glow soft against your face.

“But it’s not my name.”

You look to Hongjoong first. His eyes never leave yours.

Then you speak.

“My name is Y/N.”

The syllables fall like a stone into still water.

Soft.

Certain.

Unmovable.

Wooyoung exhales slowly. Yeosang sits straighter. San offers the faintest nod, like he’s heard a truth that realigns the world. Mingi murmurs it under his breath, like trying it on for size. And Jongho—he just smiles.

Seonghwa inclines his head, his voice calm and composed.

“Then we will speak it with respect.”

Hongjoong says nothing, but you feel it—how your name anchors something deep in him.

The ship doesn’t lurch.

The sea doesn’t sing.

But something inside you shifts, permanent and unshakable. You are no longer hiding, no longer property.

You are you.

And now—they all know it.

~

The galley empties slowly after your revelation.

One by one, they disappear—some offering small nods, others quiet glances that speak more than words ever could. No one questions it. No one doubts.

But you stay. And so does he.

The lantern’s light flickers above, painting soft gold along the curve of the wood as Hongjoong steps toward you, silent, hands tucked into his coat. You don’t need to face him to feel the heat of his gaze settle on your back.

“You said it out loud,” he says gently.

You nod once, your fingers brushing the edge of the table.

“I think I needed them to know.”

“You didn’t owe them that,” he murmurs. “Not a single one.”

“I know.” You exhale. “But I wanted to stop hiding.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, then, almost a whisper.

“I never stopped saying it in my head.”

You turn, slowly. His eyes meet yours, warm and steady.

“I’ve held onto it like it was mine to protect,” he says. “But hearing you say it like that… like you finally believed it belonged to you again—” His voice falters. “It changes everything.”

Your throat tightens.

You take a step toward him, the space between you shrinking with each heartbeat.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He does.

“Y/N.”

Not a command. Not a secret. A gift.

You close the rest of the distance, your brow coming to rest lightly against his, your fingers curling around the fabric of his coat.

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear it spoken aloud and not feel afraid.”

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

And somehow, you believe him.

Because it’s not just a name now, it’s yours again. And here—with him—it’s safe.

His breath mingles with yours in the quiet, safe little pocket of time carved out between storms. His hand finds your waist—steady, warm, grounding.

You haven’t moved, you don’t want to. Not when his presence feels like something solid in a world that keeps shifting beneath your feet.

“I thought I’d buried this part of myself,” you murmur. “The part that felt… warm. Human.”

He stays quiet, listening, not rushing you.

You keep going.

“You’ve seen me at my worst, Hongjoong. You’ve seen what I’m capable of. And still—” Your voice tightens. “You’ve never looked at me like I was a monster.”

His eyes soften, and you feel the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against your side. A quiet reassurance.

“You made me feel seen,” you breathe. “Not for what I can do. But for who I am.”

The words cling to your throat, but you press them forward anyway. Because you’ve already given him everything else.

It’s time he had this too.

And then, like it’s always lived just beneath your ribs— “I love you.”

It’s not a question, not a whisper, or a plea. It’s a truth you lay at his feet, daring him to look away.

He doesn’t.

His jaw shifts, lips parting just slightly—but his eyes never leave yours.

He leans in, voice so close it vibrates through your bones.

“I love you too, Y/N. More than you could ever imagine.”

The words land like an anchor in your chest.

Not heavy. Grounding.

And then his hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your skin, and he pulls you into a kiss—slow, certain, sure.

Not rushed.

Not consumed.

But earned.

You let yourself melt into it—into him—because this time, the fire doesn’t destroy. It belongs.

The scent of salt still clings to your skin, your hair, your clothes—but none of it matters now. Not when his hands are on your waist. Not when your breath catches every time he leans in.

It starts as something quiet. Fingers brushing your side. His voice murmuring your name—your real name—like a promise, like worship.

But you kiss him again before he can say it twice. There’s no hesitation, no gentle pause.

It’s heat, need, certainty.

You press him back into the galley’s beam, your hands sliding under his coat. He exhales against your mouth, low and sharp, pulling you tighter into him like the tension has finally, finally broken.

“I don’t care who sees,” you murmur against his lips.

His eyes darken.

“Good.”

Then—he lifts you.

Hands beneath your thighs, your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you out of the galley, never breaking the kiss. Your back bumps the doorframe, a gasp swallowed between mouths, and still, he doesn’t stop.

The corridor is quiet, but doors creak open. A few stunned faces peer out—Wooyoung with an open mouth, Mingi staring with wide eyes.

You don’t look at them.

He doesn’t care.

And that’s the point.

No hiding anymore. No walls. Only heat, and hands, and the rhythm of your heart syncing to his.

By the time he kicks his quarters door open, your breath is already gone. His coat falls to the floor. You reach for his shirt, for the skin beneath it, and he whispers your name again like he’s never going to stop saying it.

And in the space between everything you were and everything you’re about to become—you let it all go.

The door closes behind you with a soft click. But the moment it does, he has you pinned to it. Your back slams against the wood, breath catching in your throat as his hands grip your thighs, your waist, your body, like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

The kiss that follows isn’t slow. It’s rough, heated. His lips parting yours with a hunger that doesn’t ask, doesn’t wait.

And you let him.

Because this is his truth too.

His mouth moves along your jaw, down the column of your throat as you gasp softly, arching into him. His hands roam with more pressure now. Urgent, claiming. Like he’s reminding himself you’re still here. Still his. Still alive.

You reach for his shirt, fingers trembling with impatience as you unfasten the top buttons, then pull the fabric up and over his head, revealing skin marked with scars and symbols—stories you already know, stories only you’ve been allowed to see.

He lifts you again, and you wrap around him like you were made for it. He carries you across the room with uneven steps, barely making it to the edge of the bed before his mouth is on yours again—messy, hot, desperate.

You pull him down with you, teeth grazing, breath ragged.

This time, it isn’t soft.

It’s hands gripping hips hard enough to bruise. It’s whispered curses and names muttered against skin. It’s the sound of clothes hitting the floor and the sting of fingernails down backs.

This isn’t about dominance.

It’s about trust.

About giving yourself completely to someone who has earned it.

You let him see all of you—every scar, every tremble, every shudder that passes through you when his lips find the hollow of your throat.

And he gives you all of him in return.

Rough hands. Quiet words. The weight of his body anchoring you to the here and now. You lose yourself in it.

In him.

His pace is agonisingly brutal, in the best way. Raw, feral, unbridled need. You arch into him at every thrust, your eyes rolling up towards the heavens. It’s a flurry of teeth clashing, tongues pressing, hands grasping, as you claw at each other, as if being skin to skin isn’t close enough. He hisses into your mouth as your nails dig into his back, marking, branding.

“I love you”

It tumbles from his mouth breathlessly, again and again, like a hymn, or a sacred chant. You both utter those three words, over and over, until both of you shatter around each other like fragmented glass. Bliss, euphoria, ecstasy, whatever you want to call it; it engulfs you like the smouldering flames you were born from. It crackles through your veins, seeping into your bones and across your skin.

And when you finally drift down from the high, when the heat fades into breathless silence and your bodies still against one another, tangled in the sheets—you stay.

Pressed close.

No masks. No fire.

Just skin and truth.

And love, spoken without needing to be said aloud.

~

The sun rises fast over the sea, light spilling golden across the deck of the Halcyon. The air carries the scent of salt, heat, and something older—something from the island waiting just ahead.

You stand at the rail, hair damp from the basin, boots laced tight, weapons sheathed with care.

The others are already gathering.

Yeosang charts the final stretch to the shore, parchment held steady against the breeze. San is sharpening his blade for the third unnecessary time.

Wooyoung, as ever, is the first to speak.

“So… the ship’s still standing, which is impressive considering the sounds that came from the Captain’s quarters last night.”

Mingi lets out a low whistle, elbowing Jongho, who smirks into his mug.

Yunho coughs into his hand to hide a laugh.

Even Seonghwa’s mouth twitches—almost a smile.

You raise a brow, not even dignifying them with a glare.

Hongjoong appears behind you, calm and composed as ever, coat sliding over his shoulders like armour. He walks past them without a word, stopping beside you. Then, without hesitation, without shame, he presses a kiss to your forehead—slow and certain, one hand resting gently at your waist.

The teasing dies instantly.

Wooyoung blinks.

San makes a quiet “huh” noise.

Mingi mutters, “Okay, then,” and immediately pretends to find something fascinating in his boots.

“Better?” Hongjoong asks softly, just for you.

You nod once, a small smile creeping onto your face.

The crew stills, tension caught between laughter and awe.

And then Hongjoong turns.

“If you’re done,” he says, voice low but commanding, “let’s get the boats lowered. Fall in.”

The shift is immediate.

Chairs scrape. Blades are checked. Maps rolled and tucked into belts. The teasing fades like smoke, replaced by the sharp discipline of men who’ve stood at the edge of war together and still stepped forward.

Seonghwa’s already barking silent orders with a glance. Mingi hauls a satchel of gunpowder toward the lead vessel. San vaults over the rail and drops into the boat with a thud, blade sheathed at his back.

You remain beside Hongjoong.

He doesn’t speak again, doesn’t look your way, but his hand brushes yours as he moves past. Quick, deliberate, unseen by the rest. A quiet tether.

The first boat hits the water. Then the second.

And then it’s your turn.

Hongjoong helps you into the small vessel, then drops in beside you, Yeosang at the helm, Jongho manning the oars. The others follow close behind.

The Halcyon watches silently from the waves as her heart sails forward.

Toward the Isle of Gold.

The rowboats glide silently through the narrow passage, mist curling low over the water like breath held just beneath the surface. The Isle looms ahead—closer with every pull of the oars.

No one speaks. Even Wooyoung is silent.

Because now, they feel it too.

This place hums beneath the waves, ancient and waiting.

Yeosang guides the boat through jagged rocks and shallow reefs as if something unseen pulls him toward the shore.

The sand appears before you, black as obsidian, speckled with golden flecks that shimmer in the morning light.

Jongho’s oar slows.

“We’re here.”

The boat grinds softly onto the shore.

You rise before anyone else, and the moment your boots hit the sand, everything changes.

Your breath catches. Heat surges in your chest.

Not painful; recognition.

You take a step forward and feel it—the land remembering you.

The pulse of fire beneath your skin echoes the earth’s rhythm. The sand, the trees, the wind—they all shift around you like your presence has tilted the axis of the island itself.

Behind you, the others disembark. Weapons sheathed but ready. Eyes scanning ruins that crumble just beyond the treeline. Ivy-wrapped buildings. Shattered statues. Stone paths overgrown but not lost.

Hongjoong steps beside you. “What now?”

You glance toward the remains of a village you once called home, a time before you’d even learnt how to walk.

You’re guided on a path by silent hands. Not through memory, but through instinct.

But the wind shifts. Too sudden.

Too still.

You’ve barely begun to lead them beyond the shore—your steps guiding the crew toward the remnants of your childhood—when you feel it.

Not seen. Sensed.

The prickle at the back of your neck. The silence of birds that should be singing. The unnatural weight in the air.

You turn.

And that’s when the shadows move.

“Hold!” Seonghwa calls.

From behind the tree line, they step out. One by one.

Fang soldiers.

Dozens of them. All in dark leathers, weapons drawn. Faces painted with ash. Some of them—too familiar.

You recognise their eyes.

They were there the night the village burned, the night you were taken from your home. The home you had been left in to keep you safe.

You see it in the way they look at you. Not with shock, or confusion. Confirmation.

They were waiting.

Hongjoong steps in beside you, voice low. “You said they would regroup. You didn’t say they’d find this place before us.”

“I didn’t think they would,” you whisper. “They shouldn’t have been able to.”

But they did, because you led them straight to it. Unknowingly, unintentionally. But still.

Their commander steps forward, a crooked smile on his face. He lifts his cutlass with the casual confidence of someone who believes the game is already won.

“Welcome home, fireborn.”

The crew draws weapons.

Behind you, the black sand begins to stir.

This time, they didn’t come to capture. They came to finish what they started.

“Time to unveil your secrets, Pyra,” the Fang commander spits, stepping forward.

The name sounds like a curse in his mouth.

You smile.

A flicker of flame dances across your irises.

“Gladly.”

You thrust your mind forward and unleash it—a wall of fire, sweeping across the shoreline, golden and furious. Smoke roars to life, rising in great plumes.

But—

They don’t scream. They don’t move. They just stand there, untouched.

Your eyes narrow, and then you see it.

Not the weapons, or the faces. The armour. Dark matte plating, stitched into their leathers. Dull, near invisible beneath the smoke—but not to you.

You’ve seen this before. Fire-resistant armour.

They came prepared for you.

Your voice cuts through the roar of your flame, strained and sharp.

“Their armour!” you shout. “My fire won’t touch it. We need to target that—breach it, give me an opening!”

The crew moves instantly, zero hesitation.

Blades are drawn, gunpowder ignites. And then—chaos.

San rushes into the fray first, ducking under a soldier’s swing, slamming his fist into the chest plate and tearing at the buckles. Mingi follows close, double daggers spinning, going for joints, weak spots, pressure points.

Wooyoung moves like a shadow, dodging strikes and slipping behind an enemy before driving a blade beneath the rim of their armoured collar.

Seonghwa is brutal and precise, cutting latches, disarming one soldier and tossing the gauntlet to Jongho, who crushes it underfoot as he tackles another.

Hongjoong fights beside you, sword flashing in the firelight, his body moving like a rhythm you’ve always known but never heard out loud.

And you? You fight without flame. Without magic.

Just muscle, and steel, and rage.

You pull a knife from your belt and dive forward, tearing a chestplate from its seams, twisting your blade into the vulnerable gap beneath.

They came thinking they’d taken your power. But you’ll show them that you were never just the fire.

Steel clashes. Screams ring. Smoke rises.

The beach is a blur of motion—chaos wrapped in flame—but you begin to see it. The Fang soldiers stumbling. Faltering.

Their armour lies in ruined scraps where your crew has torn it away. And that’s when your fire returns, with frightening precision.

You strike, threading between your allies to engulf the now-exposed soldiers—three of them drop before they can bring their blades down on San.

You spin, flames bursting outward in a tight circle, forcing back another wave closing in on Jongho.

Mingi yells out a laugh—wild and bright. “She’s back!”

But then—

The wind changes.

A ripple of silence splits the sound.

And from the smoke, they step forward.

The Viper.

Their cloak whips in the heated breeze, ash clinging to the black fabric like it’s afraid to leave them. Their face is still hidden, obscured beneath a hood shadowed by the glow of your firelight.

They don’t run. They don’t shout.

They simply walk toward you like they’ve already won.

You see them, and everything inside you shifts.

You leave the crew without a word, stalking across the field of wreckage with purpose. Your fire coils within you, veins lit like gold beneath your skin.

They raise a hand, and the sand between you darkens.

Twists.

And then—rises.

Not flame.

Shadow.

It crashes into your fire like a wave swallowing light. You dig your feet into the ground, arms trembling as you brace against it. You force the fire forward, but they just hurl darkness back.

The air warps between you, heat and void battling, neither giving way.

You scream—rage and fire pouring from you as your body arcs with the full force of your magic.

But the Viper?

Their eyes smile.

Like this isn’t a surprise at all. Like they’ve been waiting for this.

For you.

The clash of flame and shadow still hisses in the air between you.

But the Viper raises a hand—palm out, fingers steady—and the darkness stills, hovering like smoke held between breaths.

“Come now, Pyra,” they say, voice smooth, almost amused. “Let’s discuss this like adults.”

You don’t move. Your eyes stay lit. Ready.

They take a step closer. “I’d just like to see my family again. Same as you.”

Your fire stutters for a moment, confusion rippling through you.

They notice.

“Oh yes,” they continue, smile sharp. “They kept this island very well hidden. Built it from gold and secrecy. But they made a very costly mistake when they became afraid.”

Another step.

“When they left you all alone. To rot alongside those peasants.”

You bare your teeth, but their hand lifts—slow and deliberate—to their hood.

And then they lower it.

A woman.

Couldn’t be more than ten years your senior. Jet-black hair spills across her shoulders like ink. Her face is sharp, beautiful in a way that feels unnatural—inhuman.

But it’s the mark that stops your breath.

Spanning across her forehead and down her left eye, glowing faintly red in the firelight—the mark of fire.

Your mark.

And something else entirely.

“You don’t know yet, do you?” she says, cocking her head. “You haven’t figured it out.”

You don’t speak.

Your silence answers for you.

She chuckles. “You are divine-born, Pyra. Daughter of fire. The gods forged this island with blood, and you were born of that legacy.”

Her smile fades.

“I was too.”

The shadows rise faintly around her, like they can feel her grief.

“I was born with the wrong power. Not flame, but darkness. My father—your uncle—called it a curse. Said it tainted the bloodline. He tried to burn it out of me.”

She gestures to the mark, running a finger along its edge.

“This scar? A gift. From him.”

She steps forward again, eyes burning. “They exiled me. Cast me out. But I survived. I found the Fang. Built an empire of shadow.”

She lifts her gaze, and her voice lowers to a whisper.

“And now I’ll destroy the golden lie they buried you inside. I’ll take the child they loved. The one they kept hidden. The one they deemed worthy.”

You stiffen.

She leans closer.

And with a smile full of knives, she whispers.

“Y/N.”

Your real name. The name you’ve never spoken aloud in front of her. The name you thought no one could possibly know.

And suddenly, the fire inside you doesn’t burn. It shakes.

“I’m going to end you.”

The words tear from your throat, low and venomous, your eyes glowing like molten gold, hands trembling with fury.

The Viper just smiles.

And then—she’s gone.

No warning. No movement. Just shadow exploding outward. It wraps around you, cold and suffocating, and for a moment—you’re blind.

The battlefield disappears. The heat of the sand, the scent of smoke, vanished. You slash at the air, your fire lighting in wild bursts, but it hits nothing.

Then, just as suddenly, the shadows part.

And you see it.

Hongjoong.

Held tight in the Viper’s grasp, her hand at his throat, shadows seeping into his skin like smoke. His lips part, gasping. His knees buckle, the life slowly draining from his eyes.

And around him—

Your crew.

Surrounded. Outnumbered. Blades drawn, backs to each other. San bleeding. Wooyoung yelling. Mingi snarling through gritted teeth.

Trapped.

You can’t breathe.

You take a step forward, but your body won’t obey.

Not fast enough. Not strong enough.

Not enough.

But then, breaking through the chaos, you hear it.

A voice.

Soft. Familiar.

“My sweet baby girl…”

Your breath catches.

“You’ve always had it within you.”

Your knees hit the ground. The sand scorches your skin.

“You’re much stronger than you think.”

The voice isn’t just memory. It’s presence.

“Dig deeper.”

The fire in your chest trembles.

“Use the connections you’ve made.”

You see them—your crew. Your family. Him.

“The love you’ve built.”

You look at Hongjoong, who stares at you, eyes fading, but still there. Still trying to reach you.

“End this.”

The fire within you doesn’t rise.

It erupts.

From deep within, where pain and love and vengeance meet, your body lights—not flame, but gold. Ancient. Wild. Divine.

Your scream splits the sky.

The earth rumbles.

And your power—unleashed at last—obliterates the shadows.

You tear through the battlefield like a golden storm.

The Fang soldiers fall where they stand, consumed in a blaze they can’t escape. Their shadows evaporate; screams lost in the roaring light.

And when the smoke clears—only the Viper remains. Ash streaks her face, and for the first time… her eyes show fear.

She tightens her grip on Hongjoong, but it’s too late.

You light her up.

The fire lashes out and strikes her square in the chest. She screams, stumbling back as the shadows around her writhe and collapse. Her grasp falters.

Hongjoong falls.

You’re already moving.

He hits the ground, gasping, blood staining his collar. Seonghwa is at his side in an instant, calling for Jongho.

But you don’t stop.

You charge.

The Viper barely lifts her head before your fire crashes into her again, sending her sprawling. You cross the ground in a flash, leap—and land on top of her.

She tries to summon shadow. You burn it away.

You press your face close, eyes white-hot, wild with fury.

“This,” you snarl, “is for taking my life from me as a child.”

Your dagger drives into her side, between the ribs.

She howls.

“This,” you scream, “is for threatening my crew. My family. My love.”

The blade pierces through her thigh, severing the muscle.

Her hands claw at the earth.

You lean in, voice low now—final. “And this…” you whisper, twisting the final dagger free from your belt, “is for my island. The people there. The lives you destroyed.”

You raise the blade.

She chokes, bloody lips parting. “Wait—”

Too late.

“I hope you rot in the deepest depths of hell.”

Your dagger plunges straight into her heart, severing her tether to this world permanently.

The fire around you fades slowly, licking at the edge of your boots, as if waiting for your permission to rest. You rise, breathing heavy, hands still shaking. And you run.

To him.

-

You drop to your knees beside Hongjoong.

His skin is pale—too pale. His breaths come shallow, uneven, like each one might be his last. The shadows that had wrapped around him still linger faintly along his collar and jaw, bruising his throat with their memory.

“No,” you whisper, your hands immediately reaching for him. “No, no, no—don’t you dare.”

He tries to speak, but his lips barely part.

You gather him into your arms, cradling his body against yours, rocking slightly as if the motion might pull him back to you.

“Stay with me,” you plead. “Please, stay with me.”

His hand twitches, and then—his eyes open, barely.

Flickering. But alive.

“Y/N…” he rasps, your name caught in the wreckage of his voice.

You brush the hair from his forehead, your hands trembling.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Behind you, you hear footsteps.

The crew rushing in, calling your name. Seonghwa barking orders. Jongho dropping to his knees beside you, already assessing the damage.

But you can’t look away from him.

You press your forehead to his. “You came back to me.”

He exhales, weakly.

And then—

He smiles. Barely there.

But it’s real.

“Told you…” he breathes, voice ragged, “…I’ve weathered worse.”

You let out a broken laugh, tears burning tracks down your cheeks.

And you hold him tighter.

“You don’t get to leave me.”

His fingers find yours, and with what little strength he has left, he squeezes.

The fire fades slowly around you, leaving behind the scent of scorched earth and salt-heavy air. The Viper lies at your feet, her chest unmoving, the dagger still buried deep in her heart. Her expression is frozen in that final moment of disbelief—defeated by the fire she thought she could claim.

But your eyes don’t stay on her face. They fall to the slight glint of gold swaying gently at her neck.

The key.

The one they tore from your small hands the night your island burned. The only piece you had left of your people—of your birthright. You remember its weight. The cold press of it against your skin. The way the Fang ripped it away as you screamed, fire already forming at your fingertips.

It’s here.

Your fingers tremble as you reach down, slipping the leather cord from around her neck. The metal is scorched and dulled with age, but the carved symbol at its centre—the mark of the gods—is unmistakable. The flame.

Your flame.

It never belonged to her. It always belonged to you.

You close your hand around it.

“Y/N!” Mingi calls from behind you, voice sharp. You spin. Hongjoong is unconscious in Jongho’s arms, blood soaking through the wrappings that barely contain it. Seonghwa is already shouting orders as they rush toward the boats.

You take a step forward—but hesitate.

“Go,” Yeosang says beside you, his quiet voice grounding. “We’ll keep moving. You need to be here.”

“I should be with him,” you whisper.

“You should,” Wooyoung agrees, stepping beside Yeosang, blades still slick with battle. “But this island… it’s calling you. He would want you to finish this.”

The key burns warm in your hand, as if answering the pull of the island itself. Beneath your skin, the fire stirs again.

You nod, jaw set.

“Let’s finish it.”

You make your way across the Isle, your steps guided by instinct. The wind shifts as you step into the shadow of a large, stone mausoleum, the air dense with the scent of ash and earth. Moss creeps up the crumbling walls, and rust clings to the iron gate that groans as you push it open. Behind you, Yeosang, Mingi, and Wooyoung follow in silence, eyes wide, weapons drawn. Whatever this place is, it feels sacred. Ancient. Forgotten.

Inside, the temperature drops. The light barely cuts through the dust hanging in the air, but you can still see them—rows of stone crypts, sealed and marked with symbols you’ve never seen before. Yet somehow, you know them. You feel them. The further you walk, the heavier your feet feel, like the island is pulling you down into its bones.

In the centre of the room sits an altar, its surface worn smooth by time, but in the middle sits two ports. One shaped like the stone you once thought was just a remnant of your past. The other, unmistakably carved for the key that was taken from you all those years ago. The key you reclaimed.

No words are exchanged. The others watch, waiting.

You reach into your satchel and pull out the golden stone, warm even now. Gently, you press it into its place, feeling it lock into the altar with a low hum. Then, you draw the key from around your neck. Your hand doesn’t shake—not now. Slowly, deliberately, you insert it into the second port and turn.

A low rumble shakes the ground beneath your boots.

One by one, the crypts lining the walls begin to unseal. Stone lids shift with a deep groan as ancient mechanisms grind to life. Dust billows into the air as each resting place is revealed.

Wooyoung takes a step closer to your side. “What… did you just do?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you’re too focused on the thrum in your chest—the way your blood sings in your veins.

The whispers grow louder as you walk the length of the room, your boots echoing softly against the stone. They do not frighten you—they call to you. One voice among many grows stronger, more distinct. A pull, invisible but impossible to resist, tugs you toward a single crypt.

Your fingers curl beneath the stone lid, and with a strength not entirely your own, you shift it aside. Dust swirls, catching in the glow of the torches behind you. You lean over—and your breath catches in your throat.

She lies there, serene, as though sleep has only just claimed her. Skin smooth, unmarred by time. Her features—sharp cheekbones, full lips, a familiar curve to her brow. It’s like staring into a mirror… one twenty years into your future. The resemblance is unmistakable. You don’t need to ask who she is.

You already know.

Your hand trembles as you reach out, hovering just inches above her chest. The whispers now are deafening, a chorus of voices urging, guiding, welcoming. Something ancient stirs within you—not fire this time, but light. Steady. Certain. A birthright long denied.

You place your palm flat against her chest.

Light bursts from your touch, golden and warm, illuminating the shadows of the crypt. It streams through your fingers, pulsing with a rhythm that feels like a second heartbeat. The light seeps into her skin, her chest rising gently with breath.

Then—her eyes open.

Golden. Familiar. Infinite.

She stares at you, calm and knowing, as though she’s been waiting for this moment all her life.

“Y/N,” she breathes, voice like wind over water. “My sweet baby girl.”

Behind you, the others remain frozen, silent witnesses to the impossible.

“Mother?” you whisper, the word foreign on your tongue. Your voice trembles, barely audible over the roar of your own heartbeat. The warmth in your chest builds, threatening to spill over. Tears sting silently at your eyes—unwelcome, unfamiliar.

She smiles, soft and aching, and sits up fully now, her movements fluid despite the years entombed. Her hands find your face, cradling it like porcelain, like treasure. Her thumbs brush across your cheekbones.

“You’ve grown into such a beautiful, strong woman,” she says, voice thick with emotion. “Just like I knew you would.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is listen as she weaves together the pieces of a past long buried in silence and fire.

“The Isle… it was close to being taken. We felt the Fang’s presence before their sails ever broke the horizon. Your father—” Her voice catches for the first time, pain flickering across her features. “He died protecting it. Protecting us.”

A deep breath. Then she continues.

“There wasn’t time. I gathered who I could, those with enough strength, enough trust. We created a sanctuary—another island, veiled by the same enchantments, hidden in the folds of the sea. Forged from the same black sands, born of the same gods.”

Your head shakes, slow and disbelieving. She tightens her grip gently, grounding you.

“You were the key. The only one left with the purest blood of the old gods. If they found you, they’d have all they needed. So I gave you to someone I trusted more than anyone—one of our own, a guardian who knew how to disappear when she had to. She became your mother in my stead, raised you as her own.”

Her eyes shimmer with tears that don’t fall. “I watched from afar when I could. I always believed that one day, when the time was right, you would return. That the fire within you would lead you home.”

You blink, the tears finally slipping free, trailing down your cheeks.

“I never stopped hoping,” she whispers. “Even when the Isle burned. Even when your name vanished from every record, every map. I knew… I knew you would find your way back. Because this place, Y/N… it is part of you. And now, at last… we can begin again.”

The room is silent but for the echoes of what’s been said. Your heart pounds, mind reeling.

You’ve never known where you came from.

Until now.

And suddenly… everything makes sense.

She rises from the sarcophagus with a grace that defies time. Her robes—faded gold and ivory laced with ash—whisper against the stone floor as she steps into the open, light still lingering in the air around her. Her gaze sweeps over the chamber, solemn and sure, before she lifts her hands.

One by one, the crypts begin to unlock.

You watch, breath caught in your throat, as the seals release with a low, rumbling hum. The stone lids shift, dust falling in soft plumes. Faces, half-hidden in slumber, rest in wait. People. Kin. Family you never knew you had.

But before she begins the sacred act of waking them, she turns back to you.

There is a softness in her now, a tender ache beneath the strength. She walks to you without hesitation, taking both your hands in hers.

“We have much to catch up on,” she murmurs, voice low and warm. “Stories to share. Names to remember. But as of now…” Her eyes glint, ancient and knowing. “I sense a heart that needs you more, isn’t that right, my darling?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because she’s right. You feel it in your marrow.

Hongjoong.

A rustle behind you breaks the reverent silence, and you turn to find Wooyoung standing just beyond the threshold of the mausoleum, eyes wide as he takes in the scene. His jaw works for a second before he clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, voice entirely too casual for the moment, “it’s nice to meet the family. Little late for introductions, but I’ll take it.”

Yeosang sighs behind him. “Wooyoung—”

“No, no, I’m serious,” he says, lifting his hands. “Always good to put a face to the… ancient lineage of divine, crypt-dwelling flameborn demigods, or whatever. Very grounded.”

Mingi actually chuckles, shaking his head.

But that single, awkward joke breaks the tension like sunlight through cloud, offering something strangely precious—a sliver of normalcy amidst the surreal. A reminder that the world you’ve built, the crew you’ve chosen… they’re still yours.

You give Wooyoung a faint, grateful nod, then turn back to your mother.

“I’ll come back,” you whisper.

She brushes a hand along your cheek. “I know.”

-

The moment your boots hit the polished deck of the Halcyon, you do not wait. You sprint, weaving between stunned crewmates who part without question, your heart thundering louder than the storm-split sea you sailed through to reach him.

You race below deck, the walls of the ship blurring around you as you throw yourself forward, barely keeping your balance on the steps. Each stride closer makes the fear worse, the images in your mind sharper.

The memory of him choking, lifeless in your grasp.

You slam the door to the medical bay open, chest heaving, bracing yourself for what you’re about to see.

And there he is.

Hongjoong.

His shirt has been cut open, crimson soaked into the fabric. Bandages already line parts of his torso and shoulders. Seonghwa is crouched beside him, applying a poultice to one side of his ribs, his mouth tight with concentration. Jongho stands in the corner like a silent guardian, fists clenched and jaw ticking.

But it’s Hongjoong’s eyes that find you. Drowsy, glazed with pain—but awake. Alive.

Your breath shudders out of you like it’s been held underwater for hours.

“Y/N,” Seonghwa says calmly, looking up. “He will live. But he needs rest.”

You nod, moving to the side of the bed. You drop to your knees beside him, reaching for his hand. It’s cold, slightly trembling. But when your fingers close around it, he squeezes back—weak, but real

Seonghwa gives a small bow of his head, then gathers his things. “I will give you a moment.”

Jongho follows, casting one last look at the two of you before shutting the door behind him.

And then it’s just you.

You press your forehead to his hand, letting the tears fall freely now. You don’t sob, don’t speak. You simply breathe, and let him breathe with you.

His fingers twitch faintly in yours, the pressure barely there—like a heartbeat fluttering beneath your grip. When he speaks, his voice is cracked and dry, like something torn from stone.

“What… did you find?”

You lift your head, eyes meeting his. He looks wrecked. Pale. Bruised. But the question in his gaze is clearer than anything—he needs to know.

You shift closer, brushing your thumb gently across the back of his hand. You hesitate only a second before answering. “I found where I come from.”

His eyes search yours, still hazy, but slowly sharpening.

“There’s… a mausoleum. Hidden deep within the island. I don’t know how it stayed untouched, but it did. Inside—” Your voice falters slightly. “Inside was an altar. Ports carved into the surface… one for the key, one for the firestone. When I placed them both, something happened. It woke them.”

“Them?” he rasps.

You nod, swallowing thickly. “My family, Hongjoong. My real family. The ones who vanished after the Fang came. They sealed themselves inside the island’s crypts—protected by magic older than even the Viper. I found them. I found my mother.”

That gets through. His eyes widen, bloodshot and worn, but stunned. You nod slowly.

“She’s alive,” you whisper, breath hitching. “She hid—took others with her when the island fell. She left me behind to keep me safe. Gave me to someone she trusted… to raise me, protect me, hide me. She believed I’d find her again one day, when I was strong enough.” You pause, the weight of it still setting into your bones. “And I did.”

Hongjoong’s lips part, but no sound comes. You can see the questions flooding behind his eyes, too many to name. You place your hand lightly on his chest, over the bandages, over the inked symbols stretched across his skin.

“I didn’t just find my past, Joong. I found the reason I was hidden. The truth about what I am. And I don’t think we’ve even scratched the surface of it yet.”

His brows pull together slightly, as if he wants to speak again—but you hush him softly.

“Not now,” you say, brushing your fingers through his hair. “You just focus on breathing. I’ll tell you everything… in time.”

Your fingers still, hovering where they had been gently combing through his hair.

“You never told me,” you murmur, voice low, “What you yourself sought at the Isle of Gold. Why you were so desperate to find it when we first met… on the Serpent’s Fang.”

The memory hangs between you like smoke—thick, bitter, shaped by fire and ash. He doesn’t respond right away. His eyes, though half-lidded with fatigue, remain locked on yours. A silence stretches, longer than expected, until you think perhaps he won’t answer at all.

But then—

“I knew something there was valuable,” he says finally, his voice hoarse and deliberate, every word pulled from some quiet, hidden place within him. “Not in the way most men measure value. Not coin. Not jewels. Nothing you could weigh in a merchant’s scale.”

You watch him carefully, the edges of his truth unfurling.

“A treasure… but not the kind that glitters,” he continues. “Something older. Something rare. The kind of value that can’t be stolen or bought.” He pauses, struggling briefly to find the words. Then, his gaze softens. “The kind of value only you could have brought me.”

Your breath hitches.

“I didn’t know it then, not consciously. But somewhere in me…” He pauses. “The Isle was never the end. It was the beginning. And somehow, I think I always felt you were at the centre of it.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, not out of weariness this time, but as if confessing it aloud has cost him something. When they reopen, there’s no storm left behind—just stillness.

“You were the treasure, Y/N. I just didn’t know how precious until it was almost too late.”

And for once, you don’t respond with fire, or deflection, or silence.

You just reach for him—no hesitation, no defence—letting the warmth of his truth settle deep in your bones.

-

Time bends aboard the Halcyon in the wake of war. There is no clock, no bell that chimes to mark the turning of days—only light and dark, rest and motion.

Hongjoong does not wake fully the first day. Nor the second. He drifts in and out, brow slick with sweat, murmuring names and sea-bound memories under his breath. You rarely leave his side, save for sleep or when Seonghwa comes to force you above deck for fresh air.

In those hours, the Halcyon moves slowly around the Isle of Gold, anchored just off the coast, the crew working to reinforce damage and restock what little they can from the strange flora of the island. The black sands offer odd fruits, twisted herbs, Yeosang maps what is safe to eat. San and Jongho spar on the deck again, blades flashing, limbs fluid, laughter creeping into the air once more. Yunho trains younger deckhands, his voice low and firm, returning them to routine. Wooyoung vanishes and reappears with intelligence, trailing cryptic half-smiles and bruised knuckles.

Seonghwa, ever-watchful, keeps command steady. He says little, but every night he stands at the bow, coat flaring like a second flag in the breeze. Watching.

You bring bowls of broth to the medical bay, sometimes untouched, sometimes half-drunk by the time you return. You speak to Hongjoong even when he sleeps, reading to him from old maps or whispering about the strange symbols you’ve begun to recognise on the mausoleum walls.

On the fifth morning, he stirs more fully. His eyes—bruised, bloodshot—find hers and hold them.

“You’re still here,” he rasps.

You manage a smile, one that hurts your face. “Of course.”

His recovery is slow, but steady. By the seventh day, he walks the corridor with your help. By the ninth, he’s strong enough to argue with Mingi again. Seonghwa nearly smiles at that.

On the tenth night, a breeze stirs on deck warmer than the nights before. The sky blushes with orange as the sun dips low. Someone—Wooyoung, probably—starts a fire in a long-neglected pit near the stern. Jongho drags out an old fiddle. Yunho somehow finds a supply of rum – hidden between crates of gunpowder.

It is Seonghwa who makes the announcement: “We shall take one night to honour survival. Tomorrow, we plan. Tonight, we live.”

The Halcyon never looked like this.

Lanterns swing from the rigging, casting warm golden light over every polished rail and patched canvas. Music thrums low through the night air — Jongho’s fiddle crooning over the rhythmic tapping of spoons and boots on wood. The black sea glimmers, moonlight breaking across the surface like cracked glass. Smoke rises from the fire pit, where a spit roast turns slowly, basted with whatever spices Wooyoung managed to sneak aboard from god knows where.

It smells like citrus and smoke. It feels like freedom.

Yunho stands near the edge of the deck, lifting his mug and shouting the start of a toast, though laughter cuts him off halfway. San’s arm slings over Jongho’s shoulder, sloshing his drink, while Yeosang lingers just past the flame’s reach, a rare, quiet smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

And you? You’re among them.

Not watching from a distance. Not lurking in the shadows.

Here. Present. A part of it.

You’re leaned against a rail with Wooyoung and Yunho when San stumbles over with a grin too wide for his face. He offers you a tin cup of something strong and sweet. “You know,” he says, bumping your shoulder, “we were starting to wonder if you even laughed.”

“I don’t,” you reply—but the corner of your mouth twitches anyway.

Wooyoung claps dramatically. “I saw it! A twitch! That counts!”

He barely ducks the playful shove you send his way, spinning back into the crowd, cackling. San just grins and raises his cup in quiet salute.

Then you feel it—a hand at your back.

You turn. He’s there.

Hongjoong stands in the firelight, no longer pale from blood loss, though he leans slightly on his left side. He wears a dark linen shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open to the ink at his chest, and there’s something in his eyes that speaks of gratitude and gravity all at once.

Without a word, he reaches for your hand. And you let him.

A hush falls over the closest few as he tugs you forward—gently, slowly—and presses a kiss to your lips in full view of the crew. The act is quiet, but its meaning echoes loud and clear.

Yunho chokes on his drink. San mutters “finally.” Mingi chuckles, nodding to himself.

And Wooyoung?

“Alright, well. Now I feel personally betrayed,” he shouts. “I too, would have liked a kiss, Captain!”

Laughter erupts. Hongjoong smirks. “You’ll live.”

The fire’s burned down to coals now, casting a soft glow across the deck. Shadows flicker like old ghosts between the sails, but they’re gentle ones tonight — quiet, watching. The music picks up again, faster now, a reel so wild it sends Jongho’s bow sparking across the strings and a whoop from San as he spins Yeosang by the elbow. Mingi and Yunho are in the corner, playing some sort of card game, feet tapping along to the rhythm.

You don’t remember how many drinks you’ve had.

Enough that your head is pleasantly light. Enough that your limbs move without hesitation. Enough that when someone hands you another tin cup—you don’t look to see who—you take it, raise it, and knock it back with ease.

You’re laughing. Actually laughing.

The sound is strange to your ears. New. Like discovering your voice for the first time.

“You’re drunk,” Wooyoung observes, squinting at you with mock accusation from across the deck.

You arch a brow. “And?”

His mouth splits into a grin. “And nothing. It’s nice to see. Not you drunk… you having fun, I mean.”

“Come dance with me,” you say—and it isn’t a question.

Before he can respond, your fingers wrap around his wrist and yank him onto the makeshift dance floor of wooden boards and spilled rum. Someone cheers. San catcalls. Yeosang looks both horrified and impressed.

Wooyoung laughs as you pull him in, spinning you once before throwing his arm dramatically over his forehead. “Oh no,” he cries, “I’m weak. She’s too powerful—”

“Shut up and dance,” you mutter, breathless.

And dance he does.

He swings you wide, and you let him, feet clumsy, hair tangled, mouth open in something between a shout and a laugh. Someone claps along. Someone whistles. You can’t tell where the stars end and the deck begins. You’re burning with life. This isn’t the kind of fire that destroys—it’s the kind that frees.

“Who are you?” Yunho calls over the music, laughing. “And what have you done with our resident menace?”

You shoot him a mock glare over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “She’s dead. I killed her.”

Hongjoong watches from the edge of the celebration, arms crossed loosely, drink untouched in hand. There’s a look on his face—not jealousy, not exactly—something softer. Like watching something sacred bloom.

Because this? This is the you he’s never seen. And somehow, he knows you haven’t either.

You stumble as the song ends, Wooyoung catching you with an over-exaggerated twirl that dips you nearly to the floor. He grins. “I’m going to tell the next sailor we meet that I was the first man to ever dance with the Flame.”

“You’re going to get punched,” you reply, still breathless, swaying slightly.

“Worth it.”

The music has slowed to a hum. The last of the bottles clink together as they’re swept up, a few scattered boots left behind on the deck like evidence of revelry. San is helping Mingi half-carry Wooyoung, who’s still humming the last reel as if his bones remember the rhythm better than his lips.

Yeosang is already gone. Seonghwa vanishes silently as he always does.

You sway gently as you walk, the cool night air sobering but not unwelcome. Your cheeks are warm. Your steps light. There’s a looseness in your shoulders now that hasn’t been there in years—maybe ever. You’re still smiling when you turn the corner toward the crew quarters…

But that isn’t where you’re headed.

No. Not tonight.

You pass the corridor without a second thought, legs carrying you toward the back of the ship, where the captain’s quarters loom like a promise.

The door is cracked open, as if he was waiting for you.

You pause just before it, breath hitching slightly, one hand against the frame.

You don’t knock.

Inside, Hongjoong is standing at the window, arms braced on the sill, moonlight threading through his hair like strands of silver. He doesn’t turn when you enter. But you feel him register your presence. His shoulders lift, just a fraction, before he breathes out.

“You’re late,” he says softly.

You cross the room in silence. Step by step. Your fingers ghost the edge of his coat, tugging lightly.

“Got distracted,” you murmur, voice low. “Someone made me dance.”

He finally turns then, and his eyes darken at the sight of you.

The silence stretches between you, taut and electric.

“Are you going to kiss me, Captain?”

That’s all it takes.

In two strides, he has you pressed between him and the door, his mouth hot and hungry as it meets yours. The taste of rum and desire is heady, intoxicating. Your hands find the lapels of his coat and fist there, pulling him impossibly closer. His fingers skim your hips, your ribs, every part of you that burns for him—and gods, there is so much heat.

The door slams shut behind you.

There’s no hesitation. No slow build, no measured glances, or held-back words.

Your lips crash into his again, his hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly. You wrap around him without question, legs tightening at his waist as he carries you across the room. You don’t break apart—not even for air—as your back hits the far wall. He’s speaking between kisses, rough and ragged—

“You looked…”

Kiss.

“…so free tonight.”

Kiss.

“I wanted to pull you away the second you smiled like that.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan, low in his throat. His teeth graze your bottom lip and you gasp, which only fuels him more. He grinds against you, the friction igniting that spark again, the one only he seems to know how to stoke into an inferno.

“Do you have any idea how brightly I burn for you?” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. “How you’ve slowly undone me from the moment I saw you in chains, and you still looked me in the eye like you were free?”

Your heart pounds, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

Because he sees the answer in your eyes—feels it in the way you pull him closer, your body speaking the words you still struggle to say aloud. This isn’t the soft kind of love. This is fire and need. This is the crash of waves against rocks, reckless and wild. This is trust, unguarded and consuming.

Somewhere between the door and the bed, his shirt comes off—yours too. Your boots hit the floor. The world narrows to heat and skin, the way he moves against you, with you. The bedframe groans beneath the weight of you both as you fall into it, tangled and breathless. His mouth finds the line of your throat, the curve of your collarbone, your name whispered like a prayer between each touch.

And when you finally reach that place together, when the world comes undone for just a moment, you hold on tight to him, and he to you.

It’s different now. Unapologetic. Open.

And you both know it.

[thetidesthatturn]

Petals in Ink - Part Two

Pairing: non-idol florist Park Seonghwa x tattooist female reader

Warnings: use of Y/N, alcohol use, smoking, smut, switchy/needy hwa, throat fucking, unprotected sex (wrap it!!!), head f&m receiving, disgustingly fluffy aftercare - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Part One

The next morning, you’re shrugging on your jacket when your phone buzzes.

One new message.

Seonghwa

Coffee is on me again—just come to my store.

You stare at it for a second longer than necessary. Not because you’re surprised.

Because you’re not.

Of course he’d remember your routine. Of course he’d offer. That’s just… him. Thoughtful. Intentional. The kind of man who feeds you kimchi stew and walks you to your cab. The kind who wipes soap suds from your nose and kisses you like he means it.

You smile—small, involuntary, but real.

And maybe, for once, you don’t feel the need to hide it.

When you push open the door to his shop, the bell chimes softly above you.

It’s early, but the space already smells like sunlit citrus and something green—fresh-cut stems, damp earth, morning air. It’s quieter than your studio at this hour. Softer.

Seonghwa looks up from behind the counter, a takeaway tray resting beside him with two iced americanos already waiting.

His eyes light up when he sees you, and that same smile—the one that made you say yes in the first place—spreads across his face.

“Morning,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like yesterday happened, and nothing needs to be explained.

“Morning, and thank you,” you murmur, fingers curling around the cold cup. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Seonghwa tilts his head, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I wanted to.”

You glance around, coffee momentarily forgotten in your hand.

It’s your first time stepping into his store, and it’s even more beautiful than you imagined.

Soft morning light spills through tall front windows, catching the dew still clinging to petals and leaves. Every surface is carefully curated—wooden shelves lined with vases of wildflowers and single-stemmed roses, bundles of dried lavender hanging from ceiling hooks.

There are hand-painted signs in delicate script, labeled trays of pressed flowers, and a small section in the back where potted herbs sit like quiet secrets.

It doesn’t feel like a shop. It feels like a living thing.

“Wow,” you breathe, eyes drifting to a collection of pale yellow tulips arranged in a tall glass vase. “It’s… incredible.”

He smiles, stepping closer, one hand slipping into the pocket of his apron. “You’ve seen it from the outside for a while now.”

“It’s different from the inside.”

His gaze lingers on you then, steady. “Most things are.”

You look away, biting back a smile, heart doing that thing again—tripping over itself.

He watches you quietly for a moment, then nods toward the back. “I was just about to unbox some new deliveries.”

You follow him a few steps toward the back, but pause just short of the counter, glancing at the clock on your phone.

“Ah—shit. I’ve got a client at ten. I should get going.”

He stops, halfway to a crate of fresh stock. “Of course.” His smile softens, unbothered. “I’ll save the tour of the back rooms for another day.”

You hesitate a second longer, fingers brushing the strap of your bag. And then—almost without thinking—you pull out your iPad.

“I… actually meant to show you something.”

He tilts his head slightly as you swipe it open, unlocking the screen, opening Procreate. You scroll past rough outlines and client drafts until you find it—the sketch. The one that happened before you even realised what your hands were doing.

You turn the screen toward him. “I drew this yesterday, had some free time after a client.”

It’s the bouquet he gave you. Not exact—more impression than replica. But it feels like it. The soft tilt of the ranunculi. The gentle sweep of eucalyptus. The unnamed lilac bloom rendered in muted strokes, fading at the edges like a memory.

Seonghwa steps closer, eyes fixed on the screen. He doesn’t speak at first.

Then—softly. “You remembered them this clearly?”

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Couldn’t stop thinking about them.”

You don’t mean just the flowers. But he hears it. You can tell by the shift in his eyes.

“They’re beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You made them feel like more than they were.”

“They already were,” you say quietly.

A moment of silence washes over you both.

Then, before you can chicken out. “I was thinking of turning it into a flash piece. Maybe even tattooing it.”

His eyes flick up to yours, surprised. “On you?”

You nod.

The moment hangs.

“You’d wear my flowers on your skin,” he murmurs, like it’s not just a statement. Like it’s a question of something deeper.

You swallow. “Maybe.”

He smiles, and it’s different this time. Softer. A little stunned. A little moved.

“I’d be honoured,” he says.

And for a second, that tiny shop feels like the centre of the universe. But the spell breaks as you glance at the time again.

“I really have to go.”

He walks you to the door without asking.

And as you step out into the soft noise of morning traffic, you hear him call after you—

“Text me if you do it.”

You turn over your shoulder, already smiling. “You’ll be the first to know.”

You barely get one foot inside the studio before you’re ambushed.

“There she is!” Nari shouts, standing dead centre in the front room like she’s been lying in wait.

“You didn’t open,” Ryu adds, appearing from behind the desk with a wild look in his eyes. “You. Didn’t. Open. You’re never late. Not even when you were literally concussed that one time.”

“It was a mild concussion,” you mutter.

But it’s no use. They’ve seen you. They’ve clocked the direction you came from.

And now?

They’re circling.

“Did you kiss?” Nari demands.

“Did you fuck?” Ryu follows.

“Did you stay at his place? Is that his sweater? Why didn’t you text us?! We thought you’d been murdered or married and neither would’ve surprised me, frankly.”

“I texted last night!” you protest, dropping your bag onto the counter. “I said I got home safe!”

“One vague ‘made it back’ doesn’t count,” Ryu says, hands on hips. “You left us on a cliffhanger, babe. We were two seconds away from tracking your location and breaking in with a taser and a bottle of wine.”

Nari narrows her eyes, stepping in closer. “So?”

You cross your arms. “So what?”

“So what happened?” they both shout in unison.

You take a breath.

Then, slowly, casually, you reply, “We had dinner. He made kimchi stew. It was… good.”

Ryu groans. “Don’t you dare downplay this.”

Nari grabs your arm, deadly serious. “Did. You. Kiss.”

You hesitate for half a second too long.

Her jaw drops.

“Oh my god. You did.”

You shrug, failing miserably to hide the smile threatening your face. “Maybe.”

Ryu screams—screams—and collapses into a dramatic heap onto the client couch.

“I can’t breathe,” he whines. “She kissed him and didn’t text us. Do you understand how betrayed I feel right now?”

“He’s got you acting shy,” Nari marvels, mouth still open. “That’s so hot. Oh my god.”

You run a hand down your face. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“You will,” Ryu says from the couch, peeking up. “We’re all you’ve got.”

And maybe that’s true.

But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You’ve just finished cleaning down your station after your last client when you hear the soft click of your door easing open.

You don’t have to look up.

“Ryu.”

He glides in like a smug spectre, arms crossed dramatically, a wistful look on his face.

“I still can’t believe it,” he sighs. “Y/N. Kisses a boy. Our cold, ruthless, emotionally unavailable ink queen…” He trails his fingers over your supply cart like he’s in mourning. “Taken down by a man with soft sweaters and a stew pot.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird. My whole worldview has shifted. Up is down. Left is gay.”

“You are gay,” you point out.

He places a hand to his chest. “And I was so hoping he was too. I mean, have you seen his cheekbones? That jawline? That apron? It’s homophobic, honestly.”

Just then, Nari pops her head in, brow raised. “Are we still being dramatic about the kiss?”

Ryu gasps. “It wasn’t a kiss, Nari. It was a betrayal.”

Nari steps into the room, expression completely deadpan. “Let her have this. She probably has cobwebs down there.”

You choke on air. “I—excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “You’ve been emotionally constipated for years. This is good for you. A little… dusting out of the haunted house.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with both hands.

“She’s blushing,” Ryu whispers like it’s sacred.

You peek through your fingers. “I hate both of you.”

“Sure,” Nari says with a grin, “but now you’re a woman of passion. Who are we to stand in the way of destiny?”

“She’s gonna marry him,” Ryu adds, flopping dramatically into your guest chair. “I’m going to have to wear beige at your wedding.”

“Don’t you dare wear beige,” you mutter.

“See?” Nari grins, nudging your arm. “She’s already planning it.”

After a moment, Nari jolts so suddenly that you nearly drop your stencil binder. Her entire body straightens like she’s been struck by lightning, eyes going wide with a wild spark that can only mean trouble.

“Oo oo oooo!” she squeals, pointing directly at you. “I know what we’re doing tonight.”

Ryu sits up straighter, sensing a shift in the air. “Oh god. What?”

“Drinks!” Nari beams. “We haven’t gone out in ages, and this? This is celebration-worthy. Y/N kissed a man. A real one. With a functioning kitchen and plants.”

You blink. “Wait, why is that the qualifier?”

Nari ignores you entirely. “We’ll go to that bar downtown—the one with the neon snake in the window and cocktails that cost our dignity.”

Ryu gasps. “Midnight Bloom. Yes. Yes. I have an outfit already picked in my soul.”

“No.” You hold up both hands. “Nope. You two go. I have a date with a bath and my couch.”

“You always have a date with your couch,” Nari groans.

“And I like my couch. It doesn’t drag me to expensive places and make me flirt with strangers.”

“You already flirted with someone. You’re one of us now,” Ryu grins.

“It was barely flirting,” you argue. “It was domestic. It was soft. It was stew.”

“Exactly,” Nari says. “Which means you need balance. Come out. Get tipsy. Wear something tight and terrifying. Let strange men buy us overpriced drinks and tell us we’re intimidating.”

You shake your head, but Ryu’s already grabbing his phone. “I’m booking the booth. It’s happening.”

“I’m not—”

“Y/N.” Nari’s voice softens, the teasing dropping for just a second. “You’ve been working nonstop. No dating. No fun. No breaks. You deserve a night.”

You glance between them. You hate how they’re right. Even worse, you hate how the idea… doesn’t sound terrible.

A long sigh escapes you. “Fine.”

“YESSS!” they both shout in perfect sync.

And that’s how you end up in a bar in downtown Seoul.

The room pulses with low bass and warm light, neon casting a blush of magenta and blue across the walls. The air smells like lime and sugar, cut with the faint burn of spirits. Laughter, music, and the distant clink of glass surround you.

You’re in black—fitted, low-key, and a little dangerous. Nari’s gone full glam, hair up and eyeliner sharp enough to slice egos. Ryu’s in mesh and leather, living his best life.

You’re seated at a small table with your first drink already in hand.

And just like that—you remember.

How it feels to be out. To be alive. To let the night stretch wide in front of you, open-ended and sparkling with possibility.

You’re several shots deep when the buzz hits you full force—warm, heady, electric.

The lights in the bar blur slightly at the edges, the music vibrating through the soles of your boots. You slam another soju glass down on the sticky tabletop, nearly missing the coaster, and throw your head back in laughter as Ryu tells the story of how he once accidentally got mistaken for a backup dancer and ended up on stage at a club in Hongdae.

You’re wheezing, face hot, sides aching.

“Have a little fun, babe!” Ryu grins, leaning across the table with flushed cheeks and mischief in his eyes. He glances around the room, eyes picking out men who look available and to your taste.

“Oh, she’s already got a man,” Nari smirks, slamming her own glass down. “Look at her—won’t even look at another guy. Loyal as hell. Wife-coded.”

“I kissed him once!” you protest, laughing.

“And he fed you!” Nari cries, wiggling her eyebrows. “That’s commitment in my books.”

“Alright, alright,” you say, standing up and swaying slightly. “I’m going to the bathroom before this can continue and I end up agreeing to a spontaneous tattoo or something.”

“We support that,” Ryu calls after you, blowing a kiss.

By the time you return, something is off.

They’re too quiet. Or rather—giggly. Whispering over a phone, hunched like gossiping schoolkids caught in the act.

You narrow your eyes as you approach. “What did you do?”

Ryu straightens up fast, too fast. “Nothing!”

Nari grins like she just lit a match in a gasoline room. “Oh, you’ll see…”

Your stomach drops. “Oh no. What did you do?”

They glance at each other, lips twitching with poorly concealed satisfaction. Nari slides the phone face-down onto the table, the way someone does when they’ve sent a message they know they’ll regret—but also definitely won’t.

You snatch it up.

“Nope!” She lunges across the table, but you’re quicker.

You flip it over. And there it is.

A message to Seonghwa.

From your phone.

Guess who’s a little tipsy in a bar downtown? 💋🌼

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

“You texted him?!”

Ryu giggles into his glass. “We might’ve also added a cheeky ‘wish you were here’—but you’re welcome, honestly. This is the stuff of cinematic romance.”

“You’re drunk,” you say, deadpan.

Nari shrugs. “So are you.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes in your hand.

A message. From Seonghwa.

Seonghwa

I’ll be there in 15.

You freeze.

Ryu gasps. “He’s coming?!”

Nari’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god, it worked?!”

You slam the phone down. “You guys are actual menaces.”

But beneath the panic? There’s something fluttering in your chest.

A little wild.

A little nervous.

And completely, absolutely thrilled.

Your hands are shaking as you type the name of the bar.

Midnight Bloom. The one near the station. I’m in the back booth with friends.

The message sends with a quiet whoosh, and suddenly everything feels very real.

You drop your phone onto the table like it’s burning you and slide your head into your hands, groaning.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

Ryu lets out a delighted gasp. “She’s panicking. She’s actually panicking. I’ve never seen this before.”

“She’s blushing,” Nari adds, poking your shoulder. “You look so cute when you’re scared of your own feelings.”

“I’m not scared, I just—he’s coming here!” you hiss, still half-buried in your hands. “To this bar. Where I’m wearing this ridiculously tight top, and I’ve had—what—six shots of soju?”

“Five and a half,” Ryu corrects, sipping his drink like a scandalous little gremlin. “You spilled the sixth when you got excited about the story of me falling off a stage.”

Nari leans in, grinning. “Babe. You’re fine. You look hot. You’re glowing. This is perfect.”

You peek at them between your fingers.

“You texted the man I just kissed last night to come to a bar where I’m tipsy, loud, and currently questioning the emotional choices that led me here.”

“And he still said yes,” Ryu beams. “Now that’s a green flag.”

“Unless he shows up and sees me like this and runs.”

“He won’t,” Nari says firmly, placing a hand over yours. “You don’t see it, but when you talk about him? It’s different. You like him.”

You stare at her. Then glance down at your drink. Then back at the entrance.

Your phone buzzes again.

Seonghwa

On my way in.

Your stomach drops.

You sit up straight, heart pounding in your throat.

Ryu clutches your hand dramatically. “This is your Cinderella moment. But like, tattooed and slightly drunk.”

Nari downs what’s left of her drink. “Look alive, bitch. Your flower boy’s here.”

And there he is.

You spot him the moment he steps through the door, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

You’re used to him looking soft. Gentle. Warm, like sunlit soil and the delicate things that grow from it. Aprons, linen shirts, hands dusted with pollen. The kind of beauty that settles in quietly.

But tonight?

Tonight he looks like a five-course meal and a sin you’re ready to commit twice.

All black. Form-fitting. A button-up tucked into dark jeans, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the first two buttons undone—just enough to reveal the faint dip of his collarbone and the silver glint of a chain. His hair is styled off his forehead, effortlessly honed. Polished. Dangerous.

He looks like a sharpened blade.

Your mouth might actually be watering.

Oh god—it is.

You subtly dab at your lips with a napkin as he scans the bar, and then—his eyes find yours. His expression softens instantly, and then the smallest smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

Ryu lets out a low whistle beside you. “If you don’t jump him, I will.”

Nari fans herself with a cocktail menu. “I take back what I said earlier. That man is not just soft. That’s ‘silk sheets and ruined reputations’ energy.”

You shoot them both a warning glare, but they’re already beaming as Seonghwa approaches your booth.

“Hi,” he says, eyes flicking to yours first before greeting your friends.

“Hi,” you echo, voice caught somewhere between stunned and oh no he’s hot-hot.

“I hope I’m not crashing anything.”

“Please,” Ryu grins, practically purring, “we were praying for this exact interruption. I’m Ryu.”

“Nari,” she adds, sticking out her hand. “And yes, we’re the meddling besties who texted you.”

Seonghwa shakes both their hands with a laugh. “I figured. I didn’t think the flower emoji was Y/N’s style.”

You groan and hide your face in your drink.

“You’re a vision, by the way,” Nari says, not even pretending to be subtle. “Has anyone ever told you you should be illegal?”

Ryu nods solemnly. “Criminal levels of attractive.”

Seonghwa smiles, a touch of pink colouring his ears, but his eyes are still on you. “Can I sit?”

You slide over without a word.

He slips into the booth beside you—close, but not too close. Warmth radiates from him like a second skin.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, just for you.

And somehow, that quiet word in the middle of a loud, busy bar is the only thing you can hear.

You really should’ve known better.

You’ve seen them in action before—Ryu and Nari in full wingperson mode is a force of nature. But somehow, with Seonghwa seated beside you, their energy feels weaponised.

“And then,” Nari says, leaning over the table with a conspiratorial grin, “Y/N slammed the soju like it owed her rent.”

“She even smiled,” Ryu adds, eyes wide with faux wonder. “Smiled. I thought she was glitching.”

“She blushed,” Nari gasps, clutching her chest. “I almost called emergency services.”

“She was nervous,” Ryu nods. “It was so sexy. Like watching a cat walk into a room and pretend it meant to trip.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I’m right here.”

Seonghwa chuckles softly beside you, sipping from the drink Nari forced on him the moment he sat down. “I kind of like this,” he murmurs, just for you. “It’s cute. You’re… different with them.”

“She’s feral with us,” Ryu stage-whispers, and you genuinely consider crawling under the table.

“I need another drink,” you mumble, starting to slide out of the booth.

But before you can rise, Seonghwa gently touches your arm.

“I’ll get them,” he says, already standing. “What’s everyone having?”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

He smiles, easy and confident. “I want to.”

“A gentleman!” Nari squeals, kicking her heels against the booth like a teenager in a K-drama.

“Make mine a gin and tonic,” Ryu says, pointing a finger in the air like royalty. “With lime. Two limes, if he’s feeling flirty.”

“Whiskey sour for me,” Nari adds with a wink. “Also, tell the bartender I’m single.”

Seonghwa laughs softly, already committing their drinks to memory. Then he turns to you.

“And you?”

You hesitate, then murmur your go-to order, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

He just nods. “Got it.”

And then he’s gone—gliding through the crowd toward the bar like he belongs there. Confident, calm, all black everything.

You exhale like you’ve just come up for air.

Ryu leans in with a grin. “You’re welcome.”

“I hate you,” you say, already smiling.

“I accept that,” he shrugs. “But just look at him.”

Nari sighs dreamily. “He’s like if a love song was tall and wore cologne.”

You watch Seonghwa at the bar, framed in neon light, waiting for drinks with one hand in his pocket. Calm. Unshaken. Completely unfazed by your chaos.

You let out a small, breathless laugh.

Yeah. You’re screwed.

You don’t wait for the drinks to come.

The noise, the teasing, the warmth spreading beneath your skin—it’s too much. You slide out of the booth with a half-mumbled excuse and make your way toward the back of the bar, weaving through the crowd until the music fades behind a thick metal door and you’re pushing out into the cool night air of the smoking area.

It’s quiet out here. The air bites your flushed cheeks, the scent of smoke clinging faintly to the breeze.

You reach into your back pocket, pull out a slightly crushed packet of cigarettes, and tap one free. A flick of your lighter, a low inhale, and the familiar burn settles into your lungs.

You exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air like a thought you’re not ready to say out loud.

The door creaks behind you. You don’t turn right away.

But then you hear his voice—soft, warm, cutting through the night like a familiar song.

“Not your thing?”

You glance over your shoulder.

Seonghwa stands a few feet away, framed by the doorway. The glow of the bar spills out behind him, painting the edges of his silhouette in gold.

He steps closer, hands in his pockets, his brow lifted just slightly—not judging. Just… curious.

You shrug, bringing the cigarette to your lips again. “Needed air.”

He tilts his head. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. “They’re a lot.”

He laughs under his breath. “They’re perfect.”

“They’re menaces,” you mutter, taking another drag.

He watches you for a beat, then leans against the brick wall beside you. “You’re different out here.”

“Different how?”

“Quieter,” he says. “Still.”

You scoff. “That’s just code for ‘more tolerable.’”

“No,” he says gently. “Just… more you.”

You go still at that. The cigarette burns low between your fingers.

He glances down at your hand. “May I?”

You hesitate, then offer it to him. He takes a drag, easy, practiced, then passes it back—his fingers brushing yours.

The contact is brief, but it’s enough.

“Thanks,” he says, exhaling slowly.

“For the cigarette?”

He smiles at you, something quiet and sure. “For letting me find you.”

Then, he moves closer. His hand reaches up slowly, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. Tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch is featherlight, but your heart stutters like it’s been struck.

Your breath falters.

And now, he’s right in front of you.

The cigarette still burns low between your fingers, forgotten as you drink him in—how the light from the bar spills across his features, how his eyes search yours like he’s listening for something you haven’t said yet.

Your chest rises and falls, breath unsteady. Erratic. He smells like wine, and woodsmoke, and that subtle floral note you’ve come to recognise as him.

His gaze drops to your lips.

That’s it. That’s the match to the fuse.

You drop the cigarette to the pavement, crushing it beneath your heel. Your hands are on him before you can think—fisting into the front of his shirt, dragging him to you.

Your voice is low. Rough. Needy.

“Seonghwa,” you breathe, “just fucking kiss me.”

His breath catches.

Then he’s moving.

His hands come up, one sliding to the back of your neck, the other to your waist, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he’s not holding you tight enough.

And then—he kisses you. Harder than last time. Hotter.

Like he’s been waiting for this just as long as you have, but didn’t know if he was allowed to want it.

His lips crush yours, your body colliding with his, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer still, and he groans softly into your mouth like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. It’s messy. Hungry. Less perfect, more real.

And fuck—it feels so good.

You kiss him like you mean it, like you’ve been aching for it. And he kisses you back like he’s not afraid to be devoured.

You stumble back into the bar, hand wrapped tightly around Seonghwa’s.

Your lipstick’s smudged. His hair is a little mussed. You’re both a little flushed, breathing just a little harder than before. But you don’t let go of him—not even as you weave through the crowd, not even when the neon lights catch every trace of what just happened on your face.

You reach the booth, cheeks still hot, and slide in without a word. Seonghwa follows, still composed, but his lips are redder now. His chain glints in the low light. You wonder if anyone else can tell.

Oh, they can.

Ryu narrows his eyes like a hawk. “And what were you two doing out there?”

Your eyes flick to him with a blank expression. “Smoking.”

“Smoking,” he repeats flatly.

“Yes.”

Nari sips her drink dramatically. “And what, exactly, were you smoking? Each other’s mouths?”

You glare at her. “Do you want me to leave again?”

“Not before you tell us everything,” Ryu hisses, leaning in like he’s about to conduct a televised interview. “Because you left here in a flurry of emotional avoidance and came back looking like you ate him for dessert.”

“She dragged him back,” Nari adds gleefully. “Like a hot little crime scene.”

Seonghwa chuckles under his breath beside you, sipping calmly from his drink like he didn’t just maul you in a back alley behind a bar.

You sink lower in your seat. “I hate you both.”

“Sure you do,” Ryu says sweetly. “Now, start from the beginning.”

You meet Seonghwa’s gaze beside you, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

He leans in just a touch, whispering, “You okay?”

You nod. More than okay.

And for now, that’s all they need to know.

~

The night winds down slowly, like the last track on a record.

You’re all pleasantly drunk; laughing a little louder, swaying a little more when you stand. Even Seonghwa is buzzed, cheeks faintly pink, his usually measured voice just the slightest bit looser. And he’s playing along with Ryu and Nari—really playing along. Matching Ryu’s sarcasm, indulging Nari’s wild stories, even teasing you gently when they start ganging up.

And he’s not phased at all.

Not by how loud they are. Not by the inappropriate jokes. Not by the way Nari kept wiggling her eyebrows at you all night or how Ryu kept asking him deeply inappropriate questions with zero shame.

No. He just rolls with it. And that—more than anything—makes heat bloom in your chest.

By the time you’re all huddled into the back of a cab, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, the windows fogged slightly with leftover laughter and tipsy warmth, you feel yourself relaxing more than you have in months.

“Stop here,” Nari calls, tapping the window.

The cab slows, and she and Ryu both start gathering their things.

“Be safe, babe,” Ryu sing-songs, winking so hard it’s practically illegal. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Which is… what, exactly?” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “Honestly? The list’s shorter the other way.”

Nari leans across you, looking Seonghwa dead in the eye. “She’s special. Break her heart and we will tattoo your face in the most compromising position on every inch of Seoul.”

Seonghwa just nods, lips twitching into a smile. “Duly noted.”

And then they’re gone.

The cab pulls back into motion, now quieter. Dimmer. Just the two of you. Your apartment comes into view faster than you expect. The cab slows. Stops.

You look out the window.

Then the words leave you before you’ve thought them through.

“Do you… want to come up?”

You glance at him, heartbeat tapping behind your ribs.

He looks at you, expression unreadable for half a second. Then—

“I’d like that.”

Your fingers wrap around the door handle, and you step out into the night. This time, when he follows, he’s not just following your footsteps—

He’s stepping quietly, willingly, into your world.

As soon as the door of your apartment clicks shut behind him—quiet, final—you don’t even think.

You turn.

He barely has time to blink before you’re on him, pressing him back into the wood with a heat that’s been building all night. Your hands fist into the front of his shirt, dragging him down just enough.

You kiss him. Hard.

No hesitation. No teasing.

You suck his lower lip into your mouth, biting down—just enough to make him groan.

That sound, it positively wrecks something in you. It’s deep and desperate, like he’s been holding back and you just pulled the dam open with your teeth. His hands find your waist immediately, gripping tight, anchoring himself to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” you breathe, your words hot against his mouth.

“I know,” he growls, voice rougher now. “You looked so good, I could barely think straight.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I was trying to behave.”

Your laugh is breathless, dangerous. “Don’t.”

His lips crash back to yours, more demanding this time—his mouth moving against yours like he’s memorising it. Like he needs it.

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging slightly, and he groans again—low and broken.

Seonghwa’s hands roam your sides like he’s been dying to touch you all night, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t learn you by heart. His lips trail down your jaw, slow and deliberate, and your head tips back, breath catching.

You tug his shirt up—impatient, insistent—and he lets you pull it over his head, his chest rising and falling hard beneath the soft light of your apartment. You’ve seen him calm and elegant, but now? He’s undone.

You let your eyes linger.

God, he’s beautiful.

You run your palms down his chest, over the lines of him, feeling the heat under his skin.

He leans in again, pressing his mouth to your throat, voice ragged against your skin. “You sure about this?”

You nod, whispering, “I wouldn’t have asked you up if I wasn’t.”

That’s all it takes.

His hands slide under your top, pushing it up, lifting it over your head—tossing it somewhere without looking. His fingers are warm on your skin, trailing lightly from your ribs to your hips as he kisses you again, slower this time. Deep. Claiming. Like he wants to taste every sound you make.

You moan into his mouth, arching into him, and he groans—one hand gripping your thigh, the other moving to cup your face—steadying you as if he needs to feel your heartbeat in his palm.

“Jump.”

You loop your hands around his neck, obeying, and his arms circle around your thighs.

“Bedroom?”

“Just through there, second door to the right.” You breathe, before attaching your lips to his collarbone.

He hisses, gripping into your flesh tighter as he pushes open your bedroom door with his thigh. Once you’re inside, he sits down on your bed, still supporting your weight. You’re straddling his waist now, wrapped around him like python ready to strike.

Your breath catches in your throat as he nips at the sensitive skin on your neck, so consumed in the feeling that you don’t even register him unclasping your bra until it falls away from you—and then he’s tilting you backwards, planting kisses down your chest. The whimper that erupts from your chest when he swirls his tongue around your nipple is mortifying, but you’re too far gone to care at this point.

“Fuck, Seonghwa.”

You feel him smile against your skin, then he’s back on your lips. It’s hungry, feral, raw with need and desire. Nothing like the Seonghwa you first met, but you welcome it with open arms.

But you also wonder if you can coax that side out of him again. Wonder if he can be needy…

So you flip the script. Your hand anchors onto the centre of his chest, pushing him backwards onto the mattress. He’s confused at first, his eyes widening slightly, but then you’re fumbling at his zipper. You can practically feel his heart stutter.

“Y/N…”

But you don’t respond, at least, not with words. You slip his jeans down just far enough to expose the outline of him inside his boxers.

Shit, he’s thick.

You palm him through the thin material, and delight in the way he bucks up to meet you.

You want more. No. You need more. You need to hear him—see him fall apart under your touch. His jeans hit the floor, along with his boxers, and god damn, even his dick is pretty.

When your fingers wrap around him, he’s already breathless—and when your plush lips grace his tip, he lets out the most earth shatteringly beautiful whine. You want to save it to your Spotify playlist.

You start off slow, flattening your tongue against his length, and he shivers. His hands anchor into your hair, tugging lightly. It makes your eyes roll back into your head.

You pick up the pace, needing his responses like some sort of hard drug. His grip tightens in your hair as he softly pants, so you pull back and roll your tongue once over his head. His hips buck, sending him straight to the back of your throat. You stifle a gag, and he immediately pulls back.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

But you’re more than okay. And it’s given you a wicked idea.

Slowly, you release him from your mouth. His chest is rising and falling furiously as he looks down at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck my throat.”

He blinks. Hard.

“What?”

You don’t respond, instead you reattach, taking him all the way to the back of your throat. You smack the side of his thigh, and he bucks again, but this time you hold him there for a second.

“Fuck, fuck. Shit. Please.” He groans, then begins to move.

Bingo.

He thrusts into your mouth again and again—until tears are rolling down your cheeks. It’s all worth it to see the look on his face. The way his lips are parted, brows knitted together. The soft moans each time he rolls his hips.

Then he stops.

He grasps you by the arms, pulling you up and switching places. He spins you, then pushes you forward onto the bed by the small of your back.

“It’s my turn.”

In a flash, your remaining clothing is discarded into a pile on the floor, and he’s diving between your legs.

“Seonghwa, oh my god.”

Your hands fist into the sheets as he practically assaults you with his tongue, his hands winding from behind you to cup your breasts. Your mind is spinning—it’s never felt like this. None of the men you’ve ever been with before have had you in this much of a chokehold.

You can’t help but feel bad for your neighbours, because this is anything but quiet. You’re positive you’ve never made these noises before—but fuck—you can’t keep them in. The way he’s drinking you up, it’s like he’s been wandering in a desert for days and just found a source of hydration.

The heat in the pit of your stomach blooms, your entire body feels like it’s on fire. You arch back into him, desperate for the release that’s building. He wraps his arms around your thighs and yanks you further into him, and that’s what does it.

“Hwa. I’m—” you can’t even finish your sentence before you tense up, pleasure jolting through every nerve ending. Your body trembles as he carries you through it, still focusing on you. You don’t even notice that he’s rocking into the mattress himself.

When you finally stop shuddering, you don’t waste a moment.

“Fuck me, fuck me now.”

He fumbles around on the floor, trying to find his wallet. Once you clock what he’s doing, you turn your head.

“I said now, no time for that.”

Seonghwa moans, like actually moans. He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand grips your bare ass as he lines himself up, then eases in.

“Oh god.” He hisses through gritted teeth.

When he starts moving, it’s not soft or careful. He snaps his hips into you, each motion grazing the most sensitive part within you. It feels like both heaven and hell at the same time. Holy and sinful. You could ascend up or down at any point, but there’s nowhere else you’d rather be right now. If you could suspend yourself in this moment forever, with Seonghwa buried deep inside you, you would.

“Come for me again, please.”

You turn your head slightly so that you can see his face, and it nearly breaks you in half. His lip is tucked behind his teeth, eyes rolling up towards the heavens, sweat rolling down his brow in steady droplets. You want to frame it and hang it up in your living room.

Your walls begin to contract—squeezing him so tightly that he sputters behind you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Y/N.” He hisses.

Your arms give way beneath you as your second orgasm crashes over you in waves, a string of curses leaving your lips as you still and go limp beneath him. He’s seconds behind, pulling out of you and painting your lower back.

Your breathing is just beginning to slow when you feel it, a soft press of lips between your shoulder blades.

Then his voice, low and warm behind you. “I’ll be two minutes.”

You barely manage a nod, already melting into the mattress, skin still flushed, limbs pleasantly heavy.

He slips from the bed, the soft rustle of discarded sheets and his bare footsteps padding down the hall the only sound left in the room. You close your eyes, sinking into the warmth he left behind, letting yourself breathe him in on the pillow, your heart still beating too fast for something that’s already over.

Moments later, he returns.

You open your eyes as he appears in the doorway, backlit by the soft glow of your kitchen. Still naked. Still beautiful. Still impossibly Seonghwa.

He crosses the room with quiet purpose and hands you a glass of water without a word.

You sit up slowly, taking it from him, and he watches you drink—shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at his lips. Not smug. Just… content. Like bringing you water after wrecking you is the most natural thing in the world.

You hand the empty glass back. He sets it on your nightstand carefully, like everything he touches matters.

And then he climbs over the bed to you.

He settles in beside you, arm sliding around your waist, body warm against yours. He kisses you again—this time not with heat, but with reverence.

Soft.

Lingering.

His lips move slowly against yours, mouth tilted like a promise. His fingers graze your skin like he’s trying to memorise it all again. It’s a high contrast from what just passed between you—less hunger, more worship.

You rest your forehead against his. “You’re dangerous.”

He hums, smiling. “You’re the one who told me to kiss you.”

“You didn’t have to do it so well.”

He kisses you again—just because he can.

Later, after you both get cleaned up, laughter mingling with quiet touches and half-dressed wandering through the apartment, you return to bed. This time under the covers, bare skin tucked beneath cotton and warmth.

He curls around you from behind, arm draped over your waist, hand slipping into yours.

You don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say.

Only the rhythm of your breath, the slowing beat of two hearts finding a pace together. And long after your eyes drift shut, Seonghwa stays awake—just for a while—listening to the soft sound of you breathing.

As if it’s the first song he’s ever loved.

And the only one he ever wants to hear again.

~

The first thing you notice is the light.

Soft and golden, slipping through the gap in your curtains like it’s trying not to wake you.

The second thing? The space beside you is cold.

Empty.

Your eyes flutter open fully now, heart skipping.

He’s gone.

Your brain kicks into overdrive almost instantly. Did he leave in the night? Did he regret it? Was it too much? Were you too much?

You sit up slowly, clutching the edge of the comforter to your chest. The room is still. Too quiet. Your heart pounds as memories of last night flicker through your mind in flashes—his mouth on yours, his voice, the way he’d held you like you were something precious.

It felt real. It felt right.

But now the silence leaves space for doubt.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, toes hitting the cool floor just as the door creaks open.

Your head snaps up—and there he is.

Standing in the doorway.

Tray in hand.

Two plates of breakfast. Two cups of coffee. A sheepish, sleepy smile tugging at his lips.

Your breath catches.

“I wasn’t sure if you were a sweet or savoury person,” he says quietly, “so I made both.”

You blink. “You… made breakfast?”

His smile widens, just a little. “In your kitchen, obviously. Which, by the way, is terrifying. I think it took me longer to figure out where you keep your spatulas than it would’ve taken to drive home and cook there.”

A laugh bubbles out of you—half relief, half disbelief. “You made me breakfast in bed.”

He walks over, setting the tray down carefully across your lap. The scent of coffee hits you first—rich and familiar. Then toasted bread. Eggs. A little fruit. A drizzle of honey.

“I didn’t want you to wake up and think I left,” he says softly, kneeling beside the bed so he can meet your eyes. “I just… wanted to do something nice.”

You stare at him for a moment.

Then reach out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

“I know,” he smiles, eyes crinkling. “But you kissed me first. So really, this is all your fault.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. As you take your first sip of coffee, your heart finally steadies.

He’s still here.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s not going anywhere.

~

It’s been a month.

A month since that first night. Since he kissed you in his kitchen. Since he made you stew, and kissed your shoulder blades, and curled into your bed like he’d always belonged there.

Now, it feels like he always has.

You’re inseparable.

Seonghwa appears in your life like clockwork; in the soft clink of café cups during morning coffee runs, in the sudden burst of fragrance every time he opens the studio door, in the gentle brush of his hand on the small of your back when he thinks no one’s looking.

And every day—without fail—he brings flowers to your studio.

Fresh.

Personal.

Always arranged just for you.

They sit proudly on the windowsill next to your station in a rotating series of handpicked vases, each new bouquet becoming part of your ritual. You draw them obsessively now—on your iPad, in your sketchbooks, on the edge of spare stencil paper. Sometimes he’ll stand behind you quietly, watching with that gentle awe in his eyes.

Each time you show him, he smiles. That kind of smile that radiates right out of his chest.

Pride. Admiration. Something deeper.

He lunches with you. Teases Ryu and Nari like he’s known them for years. He helps clean up when you’re too tired to move, reads while you finish late-night sessions, and brings you hot packs for your shoulders without being asked.

He’s the most attentive person you’ve ever known, and you’re not used to it. But you aren’t afraid of it anymore.

Today starts like any other.

You’re mid-consult, flipping through flash sheets with a regular, when the front door chimes softly. You glance up—expecting a walk-in, or maybe someone for Nari.

But it’s him.

Of course it is.

Seonghwa leans casually on the front desk, an iced americano in one hand, a soft grin on his face.

You finish up the consult, confirm the appointment, and wave your client off with a smile before you call across the room—

“You’re early.”

“I brought the good coffee,” he replies, lifting the cup like a peace offering. “That earns me ten extra minutes.”

You smirk, walking over. “Is that a rule?”

“It is now.”

He passes you the drink, and just as your fingers graze his, he clears his throat softly.

His voice is casual. Too casual.

“I want an appointment.”

You pause. “With me?”

He nods. “I want you to tattoo me.”

Your brows lift, surprised—but your heart immediately kicks up.

“You sure?” you ask, searching his face. “It’s not just because you’re sleeping with the artist, right?”

He laughs. “No. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

You tilt your head. “What do you want?”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. You open it slowly.

And your heart stops.

It’s your drawing. The one you made that first night—his bouquet. The first thing he ever gave you. Pale yellow ranunculi. Eucalyptus. That soft lilac bloom.

Your lines. Your shading.

“You kept this?”

He nods. “It was the moment everything changed.”

Your throat tightens. “Where?”

He touches his chest, just over his heart.

“I want it here,” he says. “So I can carry that moment with me. Always.”

You can’t speak for a moment—your eyes still locked on the design.

Then, softly, you whisper, “Okay.”

And he smiles like you just said yes to everything he’s ever hoped for.

The studio buzzes quietly—just low music, soft voices, and the familiar hum of machines.

But your focus is narrowed.

Laser-sharp.

Your gloves are already on, your machine prepped, stencil placed perfectly on the left side of his chest—just over his heart. The first bouquet he ever gave you now inked in purple outline, waiting to be brought to life.

Seonghwa lounges back on the couch, shirt off, arms behind his head, looking entirely too calm for someone about to be stabbed repeatedly with a needle.

You glance down at him, arching a brow.

“You’re getting tattooed by your girlfriend today,” you say, mock-serious as you lower the arm of your machine. “Any last words?”

He grins up at you—easy, relaxed, completely smitten.

“Be gentle with me,” he says, teasing. “It’s my first time.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face betrays you. You rest your free hand against his chest. His heart beats beneath your fingers, steady and real.

He looks up at you with nothing but trust in his eyes.

“Ready?”

“For you?” he says softly. “Always.”

Your breath catches—just for a second. Then the machine whirs to life.

You begin.

Your strokes are careful, practiced, confident. But your heart stirs with every pass. Because you know this body. This heart. This man. And now, you’re leaving a piece of your art—yourself—on him. Permanent. Irrevocable. Woven into his skin.

He doesn’t flinch. Not once. Just watches you work, eyes soft with something far deeper than pain.

And as the bouquet begins to bloom beneath your hands, petal by petal, line by line—you realise you’ve never loved your craft more than you do in this moment.

The machine winds down with a quiet click. You set it aside, peel off your gloves, exhaling slowly.

“It’s done,” you murmur, voice soft with something you can’t quite name yet. “Go take a look.”

Seonghwa sits up slowly, bare chest rising and falling with each breath. He walks to the mirror at the far end of the studio, the light catching on the fresh sheen of ointment you’ve spread over the new piece. His eyes lock on the reflection.

And he freezes.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then—quietly, “It’s perfect.”

He turns slowly, eyes glassy with emotion, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s everything I wanted. And more.”

You lean back slightly on your stool, heart thudding, cheeks flushed. But before you can speak, he crosses the room.

And takes your hands in his.

Not hurried. Not dramatic. Just… genuine.

His fingers slide between yours, holding you like he’s grounding himself in this moment.

“I’ve thought about how many different ways I wanted to tell you this,” he says, voice a little rougher now. “But this feels like the right one.”

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat.

“I know I’ve only known you for just over a month,” he continues, “but in all honesty? It’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

You blink hard, tears stinging your eyes before you can stop them.

“Things with you are just… easy. You bring something into my life that I’ve never had. Something warm. Real.”

He smiles, brushing his thumbs gently over the backs of your hands.

“I might be a flower boy,” he murmurs, “and you might be a slightly scary, emo, tattoo girl—”

You let out a watery laugh.

“—but we make so much sense.”

He leans in slightly, forehead nearly touching yours now.

“I love you, Y/N.”

The words settle over you like the final line of a poem.

“I really love you. For all that you are.”

You can’t speak right away—not with your throat tight and your hands trembling in his. But when you do, it’s quiet.

Steady.

“I love you too, Hwa.”

And for once, neither of you has to say anything more.

Because he’s yours. And you’re his.

Ink, petals, soft hearts and sharp edges—all tangled into something that feels like forever.

[thetidesthatturn]

Petals in Ink - Part One

Pairing: non-idol florist Park Seonghwa x tattooist female reader

Warnings: use of Y/N, not a warning but we have SOFTBOI SEONGHWA, next part gets spoicyyyy…

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people.

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Part Two

You notice the florist before you notice the man.

Boxes arrive one morning like a migration of bees—buzzing movers weaving through the narrow alley that separates your tattoo studio from the now unshuttered storefront next door. You watch them through the window between clients, arms folded across your chest, a half-empty iced americano sweating on the sill.

You’ve owned Blackline for almost four years now. Nestled in a tucked-away street in the heart of Seoul, your studio grew from a one-chair hustle into a sanctuary for skin-bound art. Now, you’ve got two artists working under your roof—Nari, whose delicate linework could make grown men cry, and Ryu, whose specialty in spectacular realism keeps your waitlist booked out six months in advance. You’re proud of what you’ve built.

Even if it’s slowly eaten away your time, your sleep, and your sense of what a weekend is supposed to feel like.

Relationships? Fleeting. Dates? Rescheduled or forgotten. You live for your work, for the way ink can bloom against skin, telling stories that words can’t quite shape. But sometimes—like now, in this pause between clients—you find yourself staring out the window and wondering what it would be like to need someone more than your next appointment.

The new shop doesn’t have a sign yet. Just a clean black awning and wide glass windows that catch the morning light. Inside, it’s all empty shelving and promise.

You almost miss him—tall, in an oversized beige cardigan, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, carrying a crate of what you assume are pots or vases. His hair falls in dark waves, tucked behind one ear. He moves like someone who isn’t in a rush, but who always gets things done.

He disappears inside.

You blink, shake it off, return to sterilising your workstation for your next piece. But something hums under your skin now—a quiet curiosity. Not the usual kind you reserve for potential clients or portfolio reviews.

No. This one is personal.

And when you walk past that shop later and catch the scent of freesia and something greener—mint, maybe—you know two things with sudden, unshakable clarity.

One: it’s going to be a flower shop.

Two: you’re absolutely screwed.

You return with lunch bags dangling from your fingers and gossip waiting at the door.

The bell above Blackline’s entrance jingles softly as you nudge it open with your shoulder. The scent of roasted sesame oil and gochugaru wafts in with you, but it’s not enough to distract from the hushed voices floating from the back of the studio.

“I’m telling you,” Nari says, her voice low and conspiratorial, “he arranged those boxes like they were a bouquet.”

“Oh my god.” Ryu snorts. “So he cares about symmetry? That’s what’s got you drooling?”

You freeze just inside, eyebrows lifting.

“Please tell me we’re not rating movers now.”

Two heads pop out from the break room. Nari is already smiling like she’s been caught in the middle of something good, her neon hair pulled into a messy twist. Ryu raises a brow, leaning one hip against the doorframe, sleeves pushed up past his elbows to reveal the faded beginnings of his own ink.

“You’re late,” Ryu says, eyes sliding to the takeout bags. “You bring penance?”

You toss him his order without ceremony. “One kimchi bokkeumbap. Extra egg, no green onion. Nari—tteokbokki, medium spicy.”

“God-tier,” Nari murmurs, catching the warm box with reverence.

As they settle at the back table and tear open chopsticks, you drop your own lunch at your station but don’t sit yet. You can feel it, that weightless pause, the way both of them keep glancing toward the shared wall.

You cross your arms. “Alright. Spill it.”

Ryu doesn’t even look up. “New shop next door. Flower place, apparently.”

“We figured it out while you were gone,” Nari adds, mouth half-full. “He brought in these tall glass vases. Minimalist. Heavy. Probably hand-blown. And—”

“And?” you prompt.

Nari chews quickly, swallows, then grins. “He’s stupid pretty. Like… tragic drama second lead who steals your heart even though you know he’s not endgame.”

You scoff, but there’s a flicker of something in your chest.

“Dark hair, pretty mouth, kind of delicate looking,” Ryu adds casually, plucking a piece of kimchi from the rim of his bowl. “But with hands. You know. Those hands.”

You squint. “What does that mean?”

Nari fans herself with a napkin. “It means I would absolutely trust him to unbutton me and arrange my funeral flowers.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, finally sitting down.

But you do glance out the window as you eat. And somewhere in your chest, that hum from earlier sharpens—like the first outline of a new design, just waiting for colour.

You finish wiping down your station just as the sun kisses the horizon, setting the street aglow in rose-gold haze.

The last client had left smiling, skin still red and blooming where your needle had danced hours earlier. A floral shoulder piece—full of curling stems and delicate buds, the kind you’ve become known for. There’s always something bittersweet about finishing a design like that. You put so much into it, then watch it walk away.

You stretch your shoulders; your hoodie smeared with faint dots of ink and stencil residue. The others had clocked out earlier, Ryu calling a quick goodbye over his shoulder, while Nari made a dramatic show of checking her makeup before heading to a date. You had stayed behind, as usual, cleaning and replying to messages, stubborn in your devotion to every last detail.

Now the studio is quiet; just the low hum of the steriliser cooling down and the familiar creak of the front door as you lock it for the night.

You’re sliding the key into the deadbolt when you hear it—

“Hey.”

The voice is low, smooth—but not rehearsed. Gentle. Warm, even in one word.

You turn.

He’s standing a few paces away, hands in the pockets of a soft linen coat, the collar turned slightly from the breeze. His hair is tucked neatly behind his ears, falling just over his cheekbones. And his eyes—dark, quiet, searching—hold yours with a kind of cautious curiosity.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, lifting one hand. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.”

A smile curves his lips, small and sincere. “I’m Seonghwa. I just opened next door.”

Your gaze flicks instinctively to the now-softly lit window beside your shop. The florist. Of course.

“Right,” you say, straightening slightly. “The flower guy.”

His smile deepens, a little amused. “Is that what I am now?”

You shrug. “Depends. Are you any good?”

He laughs—quiet, almost startled, but there’s something rich in it. You feel it settle low in your stomach.

“I hope so,” he says. “You’re the tattoo artist, then?”

You nod. “Y/N. Owner of Blackline.”

“I figured.” He pauses, then reaches into his coat pocket. “I brought you this. Kind of a neighbourly peace offering.”

He offers it without fanfare—a small, simple bouquet. Not showy. Just… intentional. Three pale yellow ranunculi, a sprig of eucalyptus, and something soft and lilac-tinted you can’t quite name.

Your fingers brush his as you take it.

“They’re for creativity,” he says quietly, almost shy. “And steadiness. I thought that might suit you.”

You glance down at the flowers, then up at him. There’s no sales pitch. No performance. Just the quiet sincerity of someone who sees things in layers.

You tuck the bouquet carefully into the crook of your arm.

“Thanks,” you murmur, a little breathless now. “They’re… beautiful.”

He smiles again, softer this time. “So is your work. I saw a piece on someone earlier. Shoulder, full bloom. That was yours?”

You nod. The irony isn’t lost on you.

“Maybe I’m just drawn to florals,” you say.

His gaze lingers—just a moment too long. “Then I guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”

You don’t look away.

“I guess we will.”

~

You don’t even bother with anything fancy tonight.

A packet of instant ramen, jazzed up with a soft-boiled egg and a handful of a slightly wilted spring onion you forgot you still had in the fridge. You eat it standing at the counter, chopsticks clinking lightly against the ceramic bowl, the hum of the streetlights outside filtering in through the half-open window.

It’s a rhythm you know well—work, dinner, sketch, sleep. Maybe a shower if you’re not too drained. You like the simplicity. The structure. It leaves no space for unnecessary noise. And love? Romance?

That’s just another kind of chaos.

You’ve dated before, sure. A few guys who seemed promising at first, all clean smiles and complimented tattoos. But it always ended the same—disinterest, disrespect, or disappointment. Men who couldn’t handle ambition. Who thought they were being deep when they were really just performative. Who played at mystery but held no substance. You’ve seen it all, a sea of red flags.

So you stopped looking. Stopped caring. Love is beautiful on paper, sure, but in real life? It’s just a detour you don’t have time for.

You rinse your bowl and retreat to your desk, iPad open on Procreate, the outline of a piece you’ve been working on for days waiting for its final details. A phoenix wrapped in chrysanthemums. You thumb your stylus and lean forward, eyes narrowing with familiar purpose.

But after five minutes, you realise you’ve drawn the same petal three times.

You erase it. Try again.

And again.

And then he’s there—in your mind. That soft, unassuming smile. The way he stood just close enough to hand you the bouquet, but not close enough to make you uncomfortable. His voice, the warmth of it. The steadiness in his eyes.

Seonghwa.

You grit your teeth and sit back. “No.”

You don’t think about things like this. People like this. You don’t chase after strangers with pretty hands and gentle words. You have deadlines. Clients. Appointments.

And yet…

Your gaze drifts to the edge of your desk. The small bouquet sits there in a glass you repurposed from a soy candle jar. Pale yellow and soft green. Still fresh.

You hate how your chest tightens a little when you look at it.

With a frustrated sigh, you force yourself forward again. Pencil to paper. Focus.

An hour passes. The lines finally take shape.

But when you crawl into bed, limbs heavy and skin slightly cold from being hunched over too long, your eyes don’t stay closed for long. Because tonight, in the half-formed haze of sleep, your dreams are stitched in petals and eucalyptus and the brush of fingers against your own.

And in the centre of it all, there he is—Seonghwa.

Soft. Steady. Blooming.

The morning starts like clockwork.

Your alarm buzzes against the nightstand. You rise, brush your teeth, shower with the same three products you always use. Pull on your faded hoodie and jeans. No fuss. No thinking. Your steps follow the well-worn script, down the block, around the corner, into your usual café. You order an iced americano—no syrup, no nonsense.

You sip it as you make your way toward the studio, the city already humming to life around you. The air is warm for morning, thick with the scent of rain that didn’t fall.

You round the corner and, of course, there he is.

Seonghwa is standing in front of his shop door, fumbling with a keyring. The moment he sees you, his face lights up like it’s instinctive—like you’ve just made his day better without doing a damn thing.

“Morning,” he says, voice cheerful, smile sweeter than syrup.

He holds up the cup in his hand and gives it a little shake. Iced americano. No words necessary. Of course that’s what he’s drinking.

Your heart does something inconvenient. “Hey,” you say quickly, nodding.

And then you’re hurrying to unlock your own door like a getaway driver. What the hell was that?

You push into the studio, let the door fall closed behind you, and lean against it for half a second longer than you should. Your americano sweats in your hand.

Just be normal. You shake yourself out, take a long sip, and pretend you’re not affected. Pretend that smile didn’t feel like a stone dropped in the still water of your morning. You have work to do. Art to finish. An afternoon appointment that’s been waiting three months for a phoenix and chrysanthemum back piece.

You flick on the lights. Everything is as it should be. And then chaos arrives, as it always does.

The front door swings open in a burst of chatter.

“—and he had the nerve to call me high-maintenance because I said no to a fourth drink on a Tuesday—”

Nari barrels in, full volume and freshly caffeinated, dropping her bag onto the counter like she owns the place. She’s halfway through complaining about how her date was only interested in fucking her when Ryu strolls in behind, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky.

“Babe,” Ryu says, setting his drink down, “that’s all you’re interested in too.”

Nari gasps, scandalised. “How dare you.”

He shrugs, smug. “I dare because it’s true.”

You snort into your coffee as you make your way to your station.

“Anyway,” Nari continues dramatically, plopping onto the couch in the waiting area, “he kept talking about crypto. Like passionately. I swear, if one more man asks me if I’ve ever heard of the blockchain—”

“Maybe he thought that was his love language,” Ryu mutters.

You tune them out just enough to keep your focus. Your stylus is already hovering above your iPad, tracing lines that still live in the muscle memory of your hand. But part of your mind drifts—to a pale yellow bouquet. To a smile that should not have hit you the way it did.

You shake your head.

No. Focus.

This is your rhythm. Your world.

You’ve survived worse distractions than a pretty neighbour with flower-stained fingers.

Haven’t you?

The buzz of the machine fades out with the final line.

Your client admires the piece in the mirror, all flushed cheeks and grateful eyes, and you walk them through the aftercare instructions like always. You smile, you nod, you say thank you for trusting me with your skin. You mean it.

And then they’re gone, the door swinging shut behind them with the soft chime of the bell.

You glance at the clock, realising you’d finished an entire hour early. Rare. Unheard of, really. Usually you’d use the time to prep, clean, or dive into messages and waitlists. But today?

You sit at your desk and open your iPad.

Your fingers hover above the screen for a moment, uncertain. Then, without fully thinking it through, you open Procreate and start sketching.

Flowers.

But not just any flowers.

You draw the pale curve of ranunculi petals first, loosely layered like soft paper pressed between pages. Then the spray of eucalyptus, long and trailing, just slightly unruly. You add in the lilac tint of the mystery bloom he gave you—delicate, near translucent—and the way the stems all angled just slightly toward the centre, like they were leaning into each other for warmth.

You sketch them the way you remember receiving them. Not the way they sat in the cup by your desk. The way they felt in your hands. The subtle weight of them. The quiet intention.

You don’t even realise how much time has passed until you glance up and see the light outside has shifted—cooler now, shadows stretching across the studio floor.

Your fingers hesitate.

This wasn’t for a client.

It wasn’t for your portfolio. It wasn’t even for work.

It was just… for you.

And that’s somehow more terrifying than anything.

You close the app, but not before exporting the sketch to your photo roll. You don’t name the file. You don’t have to.

You already know what it is.

~

The café line is longer than usual this morning, but you don’t mind.

You’re tucked into your hoodie, earbuds in, brain already ticking through your schedule—back piece touch-up at ten, flash walk-in at one, consult at three. It’s the kind of mental math that keeps your hands steady and your world turning.

Until someone stops beside you.

“Figured you came here too.”

You glance up, half-surprised to find Seonghwa standing there. His hair is tucked under a soft charcoal beanie, and he’s wearing a long beige coat layered over a black turtleneck. Effortlessly warm. Effortlessly unfair.

You raise an eyebrow. “How’d you know that?”

He smiles, the kind that sneaks up on you. “Saw the logo on your cup yesterday. You had the same drink.”

Of course he did. He notices everything, it seems.

Before you can respond, the line moves forward. You both step up.

“Mind if I go ahead?” he asks, sickeningly polite.

You nod. “Sure.”

But when he gets to the counter, he speaks without hesitation.

“Two iced americanos, please.” Then, without even glancing back, he turns and hands one to you.

You blink, fingers closing around the cup before your brain catches up.

“I—thank you,” you say, voice softer than intended.

His smile deepens, not smug, just sure. “Want to walk with me?”

You should say no. You’ve got a dozen things to do. Could blame your schedule, say you’ve got to get back and prep.

But the way he looks at you—the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his voice doesn’t push, just offers…

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walk side by side down the quiet side street that separates your lives. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t try to fill every silence. Just lets it unfold.

After a few blocks, he asks, “So… how’d you get into tattooing?”

You pause, not because you don’t know the answer—but because you never really tell people. Not in full. Not the real version.

Still… something about him feels steady enough to hold it.

“I had a hard time growing up,” you start, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. “Wasn’t the daughter my parents wanted.”

He listens. Not a word interrupts you.

“They wanted me to be neat. Respectable. Something clean. You know, medical school. Teaching. That kind of thing.”

You sip your americano, trying not to let the taste of old memories sour it.

“But I wasn’t. I was… messy. Loud. Drawn to the wrong things, according to them. I moved out at sixteen. Got an apprenticeship at this tiny studio near the train tracks. Didn’t pay much. But it gave me something I’d never had before—control over my own skin. Over anything, really.”

He doesn’t respond with pity. Just lets the weight of your words settle in the space between you.

“That’s brave,” he says finally, voice low. “Choosing your own path like that.”

You glance at him, not quite ready to say thank you. Not quite ready to admit it meant more than he probably knows.

The studio comes into view, and with it, the end of the walk. You stop at your door. He stops too.

“I didn’t get to ask you how you got into floristry,” you say, a little breathless now. “Sorry. I talk a lot.”

He shakes his head, smile still warm. “You don’t. Not really. But… if you want to hear my story—maybe over dinner?”

It knocks the wind out of you in the smallest, strangest way.

“I—uh…” You clear your throat. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”

You’re just about to reach for the handle of the studio door when Seonghwa shifts beside you.

“Oh,” he says, as if just remembering something. “Before you go.”

You turn slightly, brows raised.

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his coat and unlocks it with a swipe. The screen glows between you, open to a blank contact form. He holds it out.

“Put your number in?”

He says it casually, but not without intent. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like asking for a number isn’t always tangled in expectation.

You glance at the screen, then back at him. “Smooth.”

A small laugh escapes him—just air and teeth and something fond at the edges. “I try.”

You take the phone and type your name and number, thumbs suddenly more self-conscious than usual. You hesitate before hitting save, then hand it back.

He doesn’t look at the screen.

“Thank you,” he says, like you gave him more than just digits. Like it’s already stored somewhere else, too.

You nod, gripping your americano a little tighter than necessary. “Text me the time and place?”

“I will.”

There’s a pause—thick with something neither of you want to name yet. And then he smiles again, the kind that feels like it belongs just to you.

“Have a good day, Y/N.”

You manage a soft, “You too,” before slipping into the studio and pulling the door shut behind you.

But even as you move through your space—flipping lights on, prepping ink, setting up your chair—you can still feel it.

The echo of his voice. The warmth of his smile.

And the weight of a contact saved, waiting to become something more.

It starts the moment Nari walks in.

She barely makes it through the door before she freezes mid-step, her eyes narrowing like she can smell something.

“…Why do you look suspiciously at peace?”

You don’t even look up from your desk. “What?”

“You have this weird glow. Like someone who got laid or got free skincare samples.”

“I got neither.”

She tosses her bag onto the couch and points an accusing finger. “So something happened.”

Ryu strolls in behind her, matcha in hand, catching only the tail end of her accusation. “What’d I miss? Did that cute guy from the dumpling shop finally ask her out?”

“No,” Nari says dramatically, “she’s being cagey. And Y/N never hides anything unless it’s juicy.”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “You two are exhausting.”

“Which is why you love us,” Ryu replies, dropping his bag near his station. “Spill. What happened.”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” Nari narrows her eyes. “Then why did I just see you walking down the street with flower boy?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “Knew it!”

Ryu raises a brow, intrigued. “Wait. You were walking with the sexy florist?”

You shrug, too casual. “We got coffee. Walked. Talked. It was nothing.”

“Oh, honey, that’s never nothing,” Nari sing-songs.

Ryu crosses his arms. “You hate people. You never walk with people. Hell, you barely tolerate us.”

“That’s not true,” you mutter.

“You literally hissed at a delivery guy last week.”

“He tried to pet my dog tattoo without asking.”

“He thought it was real.” Ryu deadpans.

Nari plops beside you, bouncing slightly on the stool. “So? What did you talk about? Did he compliment your hands? Did you touch?”

“Oh my god.”

“He’s so gentle,” she adds, dreamy. “Like a cinnamon roll wrapped in artisanal linen. Did he ask you out?”

You look up at them, finally. “Yes.”

Dead silence.

Then—

“WHAT?!” they shout in unison.

Ryu clutches his chest like you’ve physically wounded him. “You got a date and you didn’t tell us?”

“It just happened,” you protest.

“When is it?” Nari leans in.

“Dunno. He’s texting me.”

“Oh, he got your number?” Ryu hums. “Look at you, playing it chill. Next thing we know you’ll be sketching wedding invites in Procreate.”

“Okay, out. Both of you.”

But you’re smiling.

And they see it.

“She’s smiling,” Nari hisses in a whisper-shout.

“I didn’t think her face could do that,” Ryu replies.

And as they fall into bickering again, you turn back to your station.

Still smiling.

Still thinking of the florist next door, who asked for your number like it was nothing—and handed you a coffee like it meant everything.

You’ve just finished saying goodbye to your touch-up client when your phone buzzes.

You remove your gloves, thinking it’s just a notification. Maybe a reminder, maybe something from your supplier. Instead, it’s a message that stops you cold.

Unknown

Hey, it’s Seonghwa. I know it might be a bit soon, but how is this evening? I was planning on making kimchi stew tonight and usually make enough to feed a family of five, so having another mouth to feed is perfect. Let me know. ☺️

You stare at it. Then reread it.

Then—“Oh my god.”

The yelp escapes your throat before you can stop it, sharp and startled.

Nari pokes her head out from the break room like a meerkat on caffeine. “What was that?! Are you okay? Did someone die? Did he text?”

Ryu is right behind her, saran wrap sticking to his arms, expression instantly nosy. “Please say it was the florist. Please. I need this.”

You hold up your phone wordlessly, face heating.

Nari grabs it like it’s a sacred scroll, reading aloud in a high, romanticised tone. “‘Kimchi stew. Enough for five. Another mouth to feed.’ Oh my god, it’s domestic. It’s happening. He’s inviting you to his home.”

“To eat,” Ryu says dramatically, hand to chest. “Do you understand how intimate that is? That’s a soft boyfriend move. That’s ‘I knit scarves and own too many throw pillows’ energy.”

“He’s going to feed you with love and intention and probably a rice ladle.” Nari fans herself. “I can’t believe you’re going to die in a flower-scented apartment.”

“I—I didn’t even say yes yet,” you stammer, which is a mistake because Nari gasps like you’ve insulted the gods.

“Why wouldn’t you say yes?! Do you want to die alone and untouched while some man who smells like cheap body spray slides into your DMs to ask if you’ve ever considered feet content?!”

You cover your face. “This is too much. I’m not… I don’t do this.”

“Exactly,” Ryu says, smug. “Which is why we’re so invested. This is character development. You’re the mysterious, emotionally distant protagonist who’s just been invited into a soft boy’s kitchen.”

“You’re right on schedule for the act two intimacy arc,” Nari adds. “Next thing you know he’s tucking your hair behind your ear and showing you how he dries baby’s breath.”

“I’m going to vomit,” you mumble.

“No, you’re going to shower, put on something cute-but-effortless, and go.” Ryu pulls out his phone. “I’m calling in backup. You are not going to this date in a hoodie with ink stains.”

“But I always wear—”

“Nope.”

“This is sacred ground,” Nari says, already grabbing her bag. “We’re dressing you for love. Or at least light emotional unraveling.”

You look down at your phone again. The message still glows on the screen.

You start typing.

Sure. That sounds nice.

Then you pause. Backspace.

And type:

I’d love to. What time?

You’ve barely finished locking the studio door when you hear it—Nari’s sharp inhale.

You turn. They’re both waiting for you outside like fashion-forward vultures.

“Oh no,” you mutter.

“Oh yes,” Ryu counters, eyes glittering with unholy excitement. “We’re making sure you don’t leave your apartment looking like you’re on your way to buy toilet paper and cry into a microwavable meal.”

“I wasn’t even going to—”

“Exactly.” Nari loops her arm through yours before you can protest. “Which is why we’re coming with you.”

“To my apartment?”

“To the scene of the crime,” Ryu says with solemn reverence. “Where we’re going to burn your ratty hoodie and summon a decent outfit from the ashes.”

You sigh, already defeated.

Twenty minutes later, your apartment is a war zone.

Your bedroom looks like a department store threw up. There are clothes everywhere—on the bed, over the back of your chair, spilling out of a drawer you didn’t remember opening. Your cat is hiding under the bed in fear. Nari has claimed command of the closet while Ryu rifles through your dresser like he pays rent here.

“Oh my god, what is this?” Ryu demands, holding up a graphic tee with a cracked design. “Are you planning to seduce him or remind him of his emo phase?”

“Put that down,” you hiss. “That shirt has sentimental value.”

“Then sentimentally burn it.”

“Okay, okay,” Nari calls, pulling a hanger triumphantly from the closet. “This. This right here.”

You turn—and your stomach flips. It’s a simple outfit, really; a cropped, form-fitting long sleeve black shirt, paired with a pair of straight leg, high-waisted jeans, and your nicer, less battered pair of lace up boots. You haven’t worn the shirt in… well. Ever. Not in front of anyone that mattered.

“That’s… kind of dressy,” you mumble.

Nari raises a brow, scoffing. “Dressy? He invited you into his home. To feed you. Wearing this says, ‘I care just enough to look good but not enough to make it weird.’”

“And this,” Ryu adds, holding up a sleek leather blazer, “says, ‘I will let you hold me but also I might fight you if you disrespect me.’”

You stare at them both. “Do you guys dress all your friends for battle?”

“Yes,” they say in unison.

You finally change.

They make you do a spin.

Nari squeals. Ryu gasps like he’s watching a bridal reveal.

“You’re hot,” Nari declares, clapping. “Like, aggressively hot.”

“You’re going to ruin that poor florist,” Ryu says dramatically. “He’s going to drop his ladle.”

You groan, grabbing your phone and keys.

“Alright, you gremlins. I’m leaving. Alone.”

“Text us when you get there,” Nari calls after you.

“And when you leave,” Ryu adds.

“And if you die.”

“And if he kisses you!”

You slam the door behind you. But you’re smiling.

And the nerves? The anticipation? They hit you all at once. Because you’re not just going on a date.

You’re going to dinner at his place.

And somewhere in the city, Seonghwa is probably preparing kimchi stew right now.

~

The cab pulls away, leaving you alone in the quiet hush of early evening.

You glance up at the building. It’s modest—clean brick, black iron railings, ivy crawling along one side like nature’s afterthought. There’s a small flower box on a second-floor balcony, and somehow, you know it’s his.

You stop at the main door, hand lingering over the buzzer marked P. Seonghwa.

And that’s when you realise—

You’re holding your breath.

Not just from nerves. Not just because you’re about to walk into someone’s space, their world, their scent and music and lighting and all the pieces of them that don’t get seen on sidewalks or in shop windows.

No.

You’re holding your breath because this feels different.

And you’re not used to that.

Not used to the flutter beneath your ribs. The anticipation. The fear—not of him, but of what it might mean if he’s real. If this isn’t just a fleeting moment. If the soft-spoken florist next door is exactly who he seems to be.

You draw in a quiet breath through your nose.

Steady yourself.

Then press the buzzer.

“Hey.”

His voice crackles slightly through the speaker, warm even when distorted.

“It’s me,” you say, your voice lower than usual, like you’re afraid of waking something.

A soft click. The door unlocks.

“Come up,” he says.

You step inside, climb the stairs one at a time, your heart louder with each step.

And when the door opens, and he’s standing there barefoot in soft grey sweatpants and a black sweater, hair a little mussed, apron dusted with something red—

You forget every excuse you thought you’d need.

“Hey,” he says again, this time in person, that same warm, steady smile on his face.

And suddenly you’re not holding your breath anymore.

His apartment smells exactly like you expected it to.

Warm and earthy, with notes of fresh eucalyptus, something faintly citrusy, and the unmistakable sweetness of something stewing low and slow on the stove. It smells like how you’d imagine his shop to, but maybe deeper somehow. Lived-in. Personal.

And it feels like him too.

The walls are a soft, creamy white, with black-and-white framed prints of botanical sketches and soft landscape photographs spaced with quiet intention. There are plants—everywhere. Hanging from macramé cords in the windows, sprawling along shelves, nestled in corners in oversized ceramic pots. They don’t look like decoration. They look like company.

The lighting is low, golden. A soft record plays something vintage in the background—warm guitar, hushed vocals. His space doesn’t try to impress you. It just is. And somehow, that makes it even more disarming.

He closes the door behind you and immediately turns to you with gentle purpose.

“Here—let me take that.” His fingers graze yours as he slides your leather blazer from your shoulders, careful like you’re fragile and the coat is heirloom silk. He hangs it near the door, smoothing it on the hook as if it matters.

You blink; toes still planted on the threshold of his world.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, gesturing toward the open living space as he moves toward the kitchen.

You step in.

There’s a couch with mismatched pillows; a knit throw casually draped along the back. A low wooden coffee table with a small bowl of dried lavender and a stack of neatly arranged books. You don’t know why, but your throat tightens a little.

“Red okay?” he calls over his shoulder. He’s already at the counter, where a bottle of red wine sits uncorked next to two glasses.

“Y—” you start, then— “Yes.”

Too quick. Your voice cracks a little, betraying you.

He smiles without turning. “Didn’t even finish the question.”

You hover just inside the kitchen now, trying not to stare at the way the sweater clings to his back, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, apron strings tied low around his waist. He’s stirring something in a pot, steam rising in gentle curls.

He pours a glass and sets it on the counter for you without looking back. The moment he turns his attention to the stew again, you seize your chance.

You bring the glass to your lips and take a generous gulp. It’s bold, a little dry, and hits immediately. Not the wine—the nerves.

You lower the glass just as he glances over his shoulder.

His smile curves. “You might be more nervous than I thought.”

You choke on the wine. “I’m uh— not used to… this.”

“This?” he echoes softly.

You wave a vague hand. “Being invited into a florist’s plant kingdom to eat a home-cooked meal.”

That makes him laugh, low and real.

“Good,” he says. “Then we’re both doing something new tonight.”

He pours his own glass, then gestures toward a small table tucked into the corner, already set for two—simple ceramic bowls, wooden chopsticks, a flickering candle in a short glass jar. Nothing flashy. Nothing performative. Just thoughtful. Like him.

“Sit?” he offers.

You nod.

Seonghwa brings the pot over with two hands, setting it gently on a woven mat at the centre of the table. The scent that rises when he lifts the lid nearly knocks the breath out of you—rich, spicy, and comforting in a way you didn’t realise you’d missed.

He ladles the bubbling stew into your bowl with quiet precision, then into his own. “Help yourself to the side dishes,” he says, nodding toward a row of small plates—stir fried radish, spicy cucumber salad, steamed egg, and a dish of sweet black beans.

You barely register them.

Because the moment you lift the first spoonful of stew to your mouth—everything else disappears. Your eyes roll back.

You groan. “Oh. This is good.”

He laughs, that same soft, delighted chuckle you heard outside his shop. “Yeah?”

“Are you kidding me?” you say through another bite. “I would sell my soul for this stew. I would get your name tattooed on my forearm for this stew.”

Seonghwa chuckles again, cheeks colouring faintly. “Please don’t do that.”

“No promises,” you mumble, already going in for another bite.

You eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel strained. Just… warm. You don’t even notice how easily you relax into it.

Until your curiosity wins out.

“So,” you say between mouthfuls, “you know a bit about me. Now it’s your turn.”

He looks up, brow raised slightly.

“Where’d you come from? Why Seoul? Why floristry?”

He finishes chewing, sets his spoon down gently.

“I’m from Jinju,” he says. “Small city. I grew up in my parents’ flower shop. They’ve run it since before I was born.”

You nod, quietly picturing it. “That explains the accent.”

He smiles again, and god, you want to frame it.

“I used to help out a lot—after school, on weekends. Started with sweeping floors, unpacking boxes. Then arranging. Deliveries. It just… became part of me.” His eyes soften at the memory.

“But I always wanted to come here,” he continues. “Start something of my own. Not because I didn’t love what they had, but because I needed to build something that was mine. You know?”

You nod. You know that feeling intimately.

He shrugs, almost sheepish. “So I saved. Waited for the right lease. Took forever to find a space that felt right.”

“And now you’re next door,” you say, a quiet smile tugging at your lips.

He returns it. “Now I’m next door.”

He pauses.

“I don’t know anyone here yet,” he adds after a moment, his voice a little softer now. “No friends in the area. So… meeting you was nice.”

Something flickers in your chest. A tug.

“It was nice meeting you too,” you say, and it’s not a platitude. Not a reflex. It’s real.

He looks at you for a beat longer than necessary. Not intense. Not invasive. Just… like he wants to know you.

Really know you.

And for the first time in a long while, you think you might want to let someone try.

Dinner ends the way it began—softly.

You insist on helping with the dishes, despite Seonghwa’s polite protests. He relents with a small smile, rolling up his sleeves as you both migrate to the sink.

He washes. You rinse and dry. The rhythm is easy. Familiar, even though it shouldn’t be.

You steal glances at him—at the way the muscles in his forearms flex as he scrubs a pan, the slight curl of hair behind his ear, the way he hums under his breath without realising it. It’s disarming.

Unfair.

Domesticity shouldn’t feel this good when it isn’t yours.

You’re drying a bowl when you feel it; the gentle swipe of something wet across the tip of your nose.

You blink, startled. “Did you just—?”

You look up, and he’s smiling—mischievous, but soft. His finger still glistens faintly with bubbles from the dish soap.

Before you can react further, his face falls slightly, and he’s already reaching for a towel.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide with sudden concern. “I didn’t mean to—was that weird?”

You don’t answer—not yet—because he’s stepping closer now, gently dabbing your nose with the towel like it’s made of silk.

And then, without thinking, his free hand rises, cupping your jaw with such careful tenderness it freezes you in place. His thumb brushes the skin just beneath your eye. Light. Reverent.

Your breath hitches.

The towel falls from his other hand, landing soundlessly on the counter as both of you freeze—eyes locked.

Your chest heaves. His lips part slightly. You can feel the warmth of him this close, the weight of everything unsaid thrumming in the quiet between heartbeats.

Then, before you even fully register the movement—

You’re kissing.

It starts soft—uncertain—but steady, like falling into warmth you didn’t know you needed.

His lips are plush against yours, one hand still cradling your cheek, the other sliding to rest at your waist. You respond instinctively, leaning into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater as your body answers a question your mind hasn’t been brave enough to ask.

It deepens, slow and certain, like something unfolding between the cracks in your carefully constructed world. There’s no urgency. No rush. Just the quiet, overwhelming realisation that you want this.

Want him.

When you finally pull apart, the silence is thicker than it was before—warmer, heavier.

His thumb lingers at your cheek for just a second longer. Your lips still tingle. Your heartbeat hasn’t slowed.

But you don’t speak—not yet. Neither of you rushes to fill the space.

Seonghwa’s eyes search yours, not for permission, not even for confirmation—just to see you. To be sure this moment happened. That it mattered.

It did.

You step back slowly, breath still uneven, eyes darting down.

He’s the one who finally breaks the stillness.

“Thank you,” he says, voice soft. “For coming. For… trusting me with your time.”

You nod, still not trusting your voice. “Thank you for dinner.”

You glance around for your blazer, but he’s already reaching for it. Holds it up carefully, like he did everything tonight—no rush, no hesitation. Just gentle, constant intention.

You turn and let him slide it over your shoulders.

You glance up at him again, lips parted like you might say something else. But all that comes is a breath, barely audible.

He opens the door.

The night air is cooler than before. Your cab is waiting at the curb, headlights casting soft beams across the sidewalk.

Seonghwa follows you out, walking with you to the car. Not because he has to. Because of course he would. When you reach the door, he pauses—hands in his pockets now, gaze steady but not demanding.

“I’d like to see you again,” he says, almost like a question.

You smile. “You will.”

His mouth lifts, just slightly. A silent promise.

You slide into the cab, and he closes the door behind you himself. Doesn’t leave until you’ve driven off.

Doesn’t stop looking until you’re out of sight.

And in the quiet of the ride home, wrapped in the scent of his place, of dinner, of him—

You think maybe, just maybe—

This isn’t something you’re going to be able to ignore.

Not anymore.

[thetidesthatturn]

Now that I’ve finished writing Tides of Fire and Gold and all I need to do is upload a chapter each week, I am officially opening my requests up! 😋

Please feel free to request for ATEEZ and Stray Kids 🤍

[thetidesthatturn]

Behind the Spotlight

Pairing: trainee Song Mingi x female trainee reader

Warnings: there’s a dance battle at the beginning lmaoooo sorry 😭 use of Y/N, trainee idol au, alcohol use, harassment (not by Mingi!!!), sexual content (fingering, penetrative sex, hair pulling, biting), angry Mingi - 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

Tag list: @idknunsadly

The studio lights hum above you, too bright for this hour. Sweat beads at your temple, sliding down your jaw as your reflection glares back from the wall-to-wall mirror.

You’re alone—except you’re not.

You hear him before you see him. The familiar, heavy stomp of someone who doesn’t believe in subtlety.

Song Mingi.

You don’t turn around when he enters, but you don’t need to. His energy shifts the air. Loud. Confident. Smug.

“Didn’t know ECLYPSE trained this late,” he says.

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. “Didn’t know KQ FELLAZ were allowed to talk that much without running out of breath.”

He smirks. “Cute.”

You scoff, pressing play on the track again. The beat drops heavy, and you move without thinking—fluid and sharp, your body snapping into every count like it was written for you.

You catch his gaze again just as you spin. He’s not smirking anymore.

When the song ends, you breathe hard and steady. Turn slowly.

“You done watching?” you ask, voice calm.

Mingi steps forward, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt down. “You call that popping?”

“It’s called texture,” you shoot back. “Look it up.”

He laughs once, deep and low. “You always this defensive?”

“Only around inflated egos.”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through his playlist, then connects it to the speaker without asking. “Cool. Let’s settle it then.”

You arch a brow. “Settle what?”

“Who really runs this room.”

A track you both know floods the studio—one used in last month’s evaluation battle. You remember it because he was the top scorer.

You step forward without hesitation. “Fine. You first.”

“No.” He crosses his arms. “You set the bar. I’ll raise it.”

You clench your jaw but take your place. The beat kicks in, and everything else fades. You don’t think about him. Not his cocky grin, not the heat of his stare. You just dance. Until the very last beat.

When you finish, silence falls.

You don’t move. You wait.

Mingi exhales, low under his breath. “Shit.”

Then he moves—exploding into motion. His style is nothing like yours. Broader, bolder. Less refined, rawer. But there’s control in the chaos. Precision behind every roll of his shoulders, every sharp stop.

When it’s over, he stops with a grin that could slice glass. “You blinked first.”

“I didn’t blink.”

“You’re blinking now.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your water bottle and towel. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

“It proves you’re scared.”

You whirl on him, stepping into his space. “I’m not scared of you, Mingi.”

He doesn’t move back. His voice drops. “You should be.”

Your heart kicks, sharp in your chest. But you ignore it, ignore him. Arrogant asshole.

You don’t look back as you grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder and stalking out of the room in silence.

~

The studio is buzzing—KQ staff lining the back wall, clipboards in hand, whispering into earpieces. Everyone’s eyes are on the whiteboard at the front of the room, where the matchups for the upcoming co-ed trainee showcase are being revealed.

You’re seated with ECLYPSE, your legs crossed, arms folded tight. Ayla’s chewing her lip beside you. Rina leans in and whispers, “Please not San again. He lifts like I’m a kettlebell.”

You don’t laugh.

Because your name has just been called.

“Y/N… and Mingi.”

For a second, the room goes quiet.

And then—

“No way,” you mutter, standing before your brain catches up with your mouth. “There must be a mistake.”

The choreographer doesn’t even blink. “It’s not a mistake. You’re two of the strongest dancers and rappers in the trainee lineup. We’re testing dual energy. Fusion.”

You hear a snort from the side. Of course it’s him.

Mingi, standing with his hands shoved in his pockets, that same irritating smirk playing on his lips.

“This’ll be fun,” he says, voice dripping sarcasm.

You glare. “Try not to hold me back.”

“Right back at you.”

“Enough,” the choreographer snaps. “You’ve got three weeks to make this work. You’re performing last, which means we expect the most.”

You don’t flinch. But inside, you’re already boiling.

The door clicks shut behind the last staff member, leaving just you, him, and a stretch of empty studio space thick with tension.

You toss your jacket on the floor and start reviewing the track list on the speaker. “We’ll build the choreography first. Keep it sharp. You stay in your lane; I’ll stay in mine.”

Mingi raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know dance had lanes.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to understand precision.”

He steps closer. “And yet you’re still not better than me.”

You roll your eyes, but the truth is—he is good. Infuriatingly good.

His movements are bigger. Yours are cleaner. He’s loose and wild; you’re crisp and technical. Polar opposites—and it shows. The first run-through ends in disaster.

“You’re a full count behind,” you snap, breathless.

“No, you’re off,” he counters. “You’re anticipating the drop too early.”

“I’m hitting the drop. You’re just late.”

He chuckles, but there’s no amusement in it. “God, you’re exhausting.”

You step back, frustrated. “You know what? Let’s just cut the second verse into solos. Less time near each other, better for both of us.”

“Fine by me.”

You work in silence after that—dripping with sweat, bruised from the footwork, and mentally fried. And yet, somehow, you both keep pushing. Neither of you will be the first to walk out. Not now.

It’s past midnight when you collapse against the mirror, panting.

Mingi’s sprawled across the floor, one arm thrown over his eyes. “This would be easier if we didn’t hate each other.”

You glance at him. “Then don’t hate me.”

“I don’t.” He pauses. “I just hate losing.”

You should leave it there. Should pick up your bag and walk out without another word. But you don’t.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” you murmur.

He shifts, lowering his arm just enough to meet your eyes.

For a moment—just a moment—neither of you say a word.

Then he sits up, scoffing. “Still gonna smoke you in the second chorus.”

You throw your towel at him, the brief moment of civilness shattering like glass.

~

The practice room is scattered with water bottles, lyric sheets, and half-eaten snacks. A whiteboard stands at the front, scribbled with formations, set changes, and hastily added arrows that Wooyoung insists are “totally clear.”

Hongjoong paces like a general, hands behind his back. “We’ve got less than two weeks until showcase night. We’re opening with a full choreo piece, two rap solos, and a group dance. Mingi, you’re anchoring the second half.”

Mingi nods, spinning a pen between his fingers.

Seonghwa looks up from his notes. “We should consider adjusting the timing on the transition into Jongho’s part—make it cleaner. Did anyone watch ECLYPSE’s trial stage last night?”

San whistles low. “Y/N’s solo nearly broke the floor.”

Wooyoung grins. “I know, right? The isolation control, the drop into that backbend—insane.”

“Girl’s dangerous,” Yunho mutters, shaking his head. “She doesn’t even break a sweat.”

“Like I said,” San smirks, nudging Jongho, “she dances like she’s got something to prove.”

“I’m telling you,” Wooyoung adds, voice loud now, “if this was a one-on-one battle, Mingi’s only competition would be—”

“Can we not talk about her?”

The room stills.

All eyes snap to Mingi, who’s gone rigid in his seat. The pen he was spinning clatters to the floor. His jaw is tight. His brows furrowed deep.

Wooyoung blinks. “…Damn. Touchy.”

“She’s just a trainee, bro,” San says slowly, sitting up. “What’s with the tone?”

“You’ve been edgy about her ever since the pairing list dropped,” Jongho adds.

“She’s not that good,” Mingi mutters, voice low. “Everyone needs to calm down.”

“Ohhh,” Wooyoung says, drawing the word out like a drumroll. “You know what this is, right?”

Mingi looks up, eyes narrowing.

“You’ve got a crush,” Wooyoung beams.

Everyone groans, but now the mood’s shifted—teasing, sharp, waiting for blood.

“Absolutely not,” Mingi snaps. “I can’t stand her. She’s arrogant, rude, obsessed with proving she’s better than everyone.”

Yeosang raises an eyebrow. “Which sounds oddly familiar.”

“She’s literally you with eyeliner,” Yunho deadpans.

That’s the last straw.

Mingi stands abruptly, chair scraping hard against the floor. “I’m done with this.”

“Whoa, whoa—relax, Romeo,” San laughs, reaching for his arm.

Mingi shrugs him off. “It’s not funny.”

He storms out of the room, the door slamming behind him so hard the whiteboard wobbles.

Silence falls.

Then Wooyoung grins, kicking his feet up. “Totally a crush.”

~

You arrive five minutes early, as always.

The studio is still. The speakers hum faintly, the lights cast long shadows across the floor, and your reflection in the mirror looks sharper than you feel.

The door slams open behind you.

Mingi.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you. Just drops his bag, pulls off his hoodie, and stalks straight to the speaker system like the floor’s done something to piss him off.

You watch him from the corner of your eye. Something’s off. He’s usually smug—irritating, cocky, playful in that punchable way. Today? He’s a storm in a too-small room.

You brace yourself.

“I fixed the intro,” you say. “If we cut the beat two bars early, we hit the drop on the third eight count. It gives us time to breathe.”

He doesn’t look up. “Why would I need time to breathe?”

You blink. “It’s choreography. You’re not invincible.”

His jaw twitches. “If you’re tired, just say so.”

You step forward, heat rising. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m adapting. Since apparently, I have to choreograph around your pacing.”

“Excuse me?”

He finally meets your eyes—and there’s fire there. Not the usual spark. Something darker. Hotter. Restless.

“Maybe if you didn’t overthink every step, we’d actually look like a unit.”

You step closer. “You want to talk about unity? You haven’t matched a single count all week.”

“Because I’m not adjusting to your tempo,” he spits. “Just because the company’s obsessed with you doesn’t mean I am.”

There it is.

You freeze.

Then something cold, something sharp, settles behind your eyes. “You really think that’s what this is about?”

He doesn’t answer.

You nod slowly. “Fine. You want heat? You’ll get it.”

You turn toward the speaker, hit play. The beat crashes through the room like a war drum.

And you dance.

Not for him. Not for the staff. For you.

Every movement hits harder. Every glide is tighter. You don’t just match the rhythm—you own it. And through the mirror, you see him watching. Jaw tight. Arms folded. Breathing heavier than he wants to admit.

When the music ends, silence crashes in behind it.

You wipe sweat from your brow. “If you’ve got something to prove, Mingi,” you say, “you better stop talking and start dancing.”

He doesn’t move.

But you see it—just for a second. The hesitation. The doubt.

And underneath it, the thing neither of you will name yet.

The pull.

~

Plastic bags rustle and chopsticks snap as the members of ECLYPSE crowd around the dorm table, their takeout boxes steaming. The room smells of soy garlic chicken and tteokbokki, the mood warm and casual—except for you.

You haven’t touched your food.

You’re staring blankly at your bibimbap, one leg bouncing furiously under the table.

Ayla glances up first. “Okay, what happened.”

You blink. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” Rina chimes in through a mouthful of rice. “You’ve been chewing that spoon for the last five minutes.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

Seji tilts her head. “Did Mingi do something?”

You slam your chopsticks down. “He was a complete dick today.”

All four heads snap toward you.

You never swear like that. Not about people. Not even about him.

A beat of silence drapes over the room.

“What did he do now?” Hyeon asks, brows furrowed.

You push your bowl away and lean back against the couch. “He showed up late, snapped at everything I said, rewrote entire sections of choreo without telling me, and acted like I was dead weight the whole time. And then—then—he said the only reason I was paired with him was because the company is obsessed with me.”

Seji’s jaw drops. “He what?”

“Straight to your face?” Ayla asks.

You nod. “Like it was just fact. Like I’m some inflated ego who can’t keep up.”

“Okay, but he knows you outdance him, right?” Rina asks.

“He wouldn’t admit that if his life depended on it,” you snap. “And what’s worse? I know this wasn’t just a bad day. He’s been weird ever since the pairings dropped.”

Hyeon raises a brow. “Weird how?”

“Snappy. Rude. Like—like I’m personally attacking him by existing.”

Ayla leans in, eyes narrowing. “Or… maybe you’re attacking something he doesn’t want to feel.”

You blink. “What?”

“Come on,” she says. “Everyone in KQ’s been whispering about the tension between you two. What if it’s not hate-hate?”

You scoff. “You sound like Wooyoung.”

“He said it too?” Rina laughs.

“Not to me,” you say quickly. “But probably.”

They all look at you like they know something you don’t.

You sigh, curling your legs under you. “It just doesn’t make sense. Yeah, we’re rivals. But this? It’s too personal. I don’t know what changed.”

They go quiet for a moment, the buzz of the city outside drifting through the dorm window.

Then Hyeon speaks, soft but certain. “Maybe you’re not the one who changed.”

That sticks.

Long after the laughter returns, long after the chicken’s gone cold and the group chat lights up with memes and gifs, the sentence hangs in your mind.

Maybe you’re not the one who changed.

You lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched under the blanket. Because as much as you want to hate him—you can’t stop thinking about the look in his eyes when he said it.

“Just because the company’s obsessed with you doesn’t mean I am.”

And for some reason… you’re not sure you believe him.

~

“You’re all insane,” you say flatly.

Ayla pulls her hoodie over her head, stuffing snacks into her tote bag like she’s packing for a stakeout. “It’s not insanity, it’s strategy.”

“They’re opening the showcase,” Rina adds, adjusting her baseball cap. “It’s smart to see what we’re up against.”

Seji throws on lip balm in the mirror. “Besides, a few of them have already watched our run-through. Might as well study the enemy back.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I’m not going just to watch Mingi puff his chest and sweat all over the floor.”

Hyeon raises a brow. “Didn’t know you kept track of his chest that closely.”

Your mouth drops. “I—what—no—”

The room erupts into laughter.

You glare at your reflection in the mirror, cheeks warming. “Fine. But I’m going for intel. Nothing else.”

The rehearsal space is bigger than yours, and cooler. The windows lined with fog from the bodies inside. A few trainees from other units are already seated along the far wall, scribbling notes or whispering critiques.

You spot them instantly.

KQ FELLAZ.

Hongjoong stands near the speaker, coordinating with staff. Seonghwa is deep in conversation with Yunho, while Wooyoung, San, Yeosang, and Jongho stretch and joke in the corner.

And there he is.

Mingi.

Hair damp with sweat, loose joggers hanging low on his hips, a towel slung around his neck.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. Good.

You drop onto the back bench, arms folded tight across your chest.

Rina nudges you. “If we’re judging this like a sport, that entrance was a little ‘main character.’”

You ignore her.

“Positions!” Hongjoong calls.

The music kicks in. And damn it, they’re good.

Not just good—sharp. United. Every move hits with force, but flows like water. And Mingi? He owns the centre. Explosive, grounded, completely in control. When the beat drops and he launches into his solo, the room crackles.

You hate how your breath catches.

His verse is new—rewritten since last time. Rougher, more aggressive. But there’s something under the surface, something… distracted. Emotional.

He stumbles once. Barely noticeable. But you catch it.

And then he glances toward the back of the room. Just once. Barely a flicker.

Right.

At.

You.

Your stomach flips.

You look away fast, pretending to check your phone. But you felt it—that shift. Like his whole body tensed. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than performing in front of you right now.

“Damn,” Seji whispers. “You weren’t lying. That tension is real.”

“I didn’t say there was tension.”

“You didn’t have to.”

After the performance ends, the room buzzes with quiet applause. Staff give notes. A few trainees drift out. But Mingi doesn’t move.

He towels off, expression unreadable, refusing to look toward the back of the room.

“Wanna say hi?” Ayla whispers.

“Nope,” you say instantly, standing. “Seen enough.”

As you leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

Not smug. Not victorious. Just watching.

And it bothers you more than it should.

~

The performance room is quiet again, post-rehearsal. The staff have gone. The door is shut.

Hongjoong paces slowly across the space, water bottle in hand, gaze hard as it lands on Mingi.

“That slip in the bridge?” he says calmly. “That wasn’t just a miscount.”

Mingi tenses, towel still in his hands. “I recovered.”

“That’s not the point,” Seonghwa adds, voice low but firm. “You haven’t missed a beat all week. But today? You lost focus. Right in the middle of your solo.”

Mingi looks away.

“Was it her?” Hongjoong asks, blunt. “Y/N?”

Wooyoung mutters under his breath, “Here we go.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mingi says sharply.

“It does matter,” Hongjoong snaps. “You’re letting her into your head. And the more you obsess over this rivalry, the more you throw off your own performance.”

Mingi’s jaw clenches. “She’s the one who walks around like she owns the company.”

“No,” Hongjoong fires back, stepping closer. “She works like she owns her spot. You’re the one spiralling. This isn’t about her anymore. It’s about you.”

Something breaks.

“You think I don’t know that?” Mingi snaps. “You think I don’t feel it every time I’m in the same room as her? Every time I see people compare us, talk like we’re on some perfect collision course? She drives me insane and you’re all just standing there like it’s funny—like I’m just catching feelings or some shit.”

Silence.

Even Wooyoung doesn’t joke this time.

Mingi shakes his head, furious now—at them, at her, at himself. “Whatever. I’m done talking about her.”

He storms out, heading down the corridor.

The vending machine rattles as Mingi slams his fist into the button. A can clunks down hard. He bends to grab it, muttering under his breath.

He’s still fuming—over the rehearsal, over Hongjoong calling him out, over you.

And just as he straightens—

Your voice cuts through the silence.

“Wow. Storming out and emotional snacking? Big day for you.”

He turns slowly; soda can in hand. And there you are. Leaning against the vending machine next to his, hair damp from your own training, expression unreadable. Too calm. Too casual.

It pisses him off immediately.

His lip curls. “Great. Just the person I wanted to see.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter me.”

“No, seriously,” he snaps, stepping toward you. “Are you fucking following me or something?”

Your jaw tightens. “Please. Like I’d waste my time.”

“Then why are you always around? At my rehearsals, in my space, acting like you’ve got something to prove.”

“You think this is about you?” you bite. “Not everything revolves around your ego, Mingi.”

He laughs—cold and humourless. “Right, of course. Because you showing up to my open run-through, pretending not to stare, that was just what—casual sabotage?”

You step in closer. “You’re the one who kept looking at me. You messed up your solo. Not my problem.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

“No,” you fire back. “You are. One second, you’re acting like this untouchable star, the next you’re spiralling over me doing my job.”

“You think this is spiralling?”

“I think it’s pathetic.”

That does it.

He slams the can down on the vending machine, leaning in, voice low and razor-sharp. “You wanna talk about pathetic? You’ve been clawing for my spot since day one, and it’s killing you that you can’t take it.”

You don’t back down. “I don’t want your spot. I want my own. One that I earned—without acting like a child when someone challenges me.”

The hallway goes still. His breath is loud in the narrow space. Your heart pounds in your throat.

And then, just under his breath, like he’s not even sure he means to say it.

“You’re in my head. That’s the problem.”

You blink.

“What?”

His mouth opens—but no words come out.

Because it’s too much. He’s already said more than he meant to. The mask cracks, and he turns away before you can see the rest.

“Forget it,” he mutters, grabbing the can and storming off down the corridor.

You don’t move.

Not for a long time.

Because for all the venom in his words, for all the fury—it wasn’t hate in his voice when he said that.

It was something else entirely.

~

The lights dim. The beat drops.

And the room erupts.

From the first step, ECLYPSE commands attention. You are centre, the others perfectly framing your sharp angles and raw control. Every breath is timed. Every move hits. The audience —staff, trainees, even a few higher-ups—watches with narrowed eyes and parted lips.

By the time the final chorus crashes in, your body is moving on instinct. The floor hums beneath your sneakers. Your lungs burn. You’re not thinking of Mingi. Not his face. Not his words.

You’re thinking of the fire in your own chest.

The performance ends in perfect formation. You hold your final pose, panting lightly, the beat fading into silence.

Then—

Applause.

Genuine. Loud. Sustained.

You exchange glances with Rina and Ayla, wide eyes, shaky grins. Hyeon practically tackles Seji in a hug as they scurry to the back for water.

The door at the side of the studio opens. A few KQ FELLAZ have filtered in during the second half. You spot Hongjoong and Yunho, standing near the wall, nodding in quiet approval. Even Wooyoung whistles, tossing you a wink as he claps.

“Alright,” one of the creative directors calls, clipboard in hand. “That was easily your tightest run yet. Y/N, your control on the second chorus? Nailed the tempo drop. And Ayla—your verse delivery’s finally hitting. Everyone, amazing work.”

You feel your breath catch. You haven’t heard them this enthusiastic all cycle.

“I don’t say this lightly,” the staff member continues, “but that was debut-ready energy.”

The girls collapse in a heap on the floor, all laughter and tangled limbs and stunned relief.

And you?

You should feel nothing but pride. But instead, you hear his voice, still echoing in your head.

“You’re in my head. That’s the problem.”

You shake it off. Not now. Not tonight.

Just as the buzz starts to settle, another staff member clears their throat.

“Quick announcement—KQ is covering a team dinner tonight. Both trainee groups. Casual place downtown. Let’s celebrate progress.”

A ripple of cheers spreads through the room.

“Wait,” Ayla says, poking your arm. “Both groups?”

You blink. “They said KQ FELLAZ too?”

“Mhm,” Rina grins. “Guess we’ll see how long Mingi can glare across a samgyeopsal grill before combusting.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “I’m not sitting anywhere near him.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Seji says, patting your back. “You really think the universe is gonna give you a choice?”

You close your eyes, exhale deeply, and let the applause and laughter wash over you.

You should be glowing.

Instead, all you can think is—if Mingi says one more thing like that tonight, you might actually throw a chopstick at him.

~

The restaurant is warm, low-lit, and already buzzing by the time you arrive.

Two long tables stretch down the room—ECLYPSE on one side, KQ FELLAZ on the other, with staff filling the ends and in-between. Platters of grilled pork sizzle in the centre, steam rising in fragrant clouds. Laughter echoes. Soju caps pop. The tension of training week has melted into the clatter of shared food and too many stories.

You’re halfway through a lettuce wrap when Yunho lifts his glass.

“Can we just say,” he grins, “ECLYPSE ate that rehearsal today. That second chorus? No notes.”

“Agreed,” Hongjoong adds, nodding across the table. “The execution was tight. Cleanest I’ve seen.”

Seji lifts her glass with a smirk. “We humbly accept your awe and adoration.”

Rina nudges you. “Say thank you.”

You smirk. “Thanks. We aim to terrify.”

Wooyoung laughs, tipping his bottle toward you. “Mission accomplished.”

But the compliments go both ways. Rina turns to the boys. “Your footwork in that group section last week? Unreal.”

“And Mingi’s verse?” Ayla says. “I’m still thinking about it.

That’s when it shifts.

Because across from you, Mingi sits with his shoulders stiff, chopsticks idle. He hasn’t touched his pork belly. Just keeps pushing it around like it might rearrange itself into something edible.

You try to ignore it. Try to keep laughing, nodding along with Seji’s story about falling mid-pirouette and nearly wiping out a camera.

But suddenly the room feels too loud. The lights too hot. And his silence—

His silence is louder than anything.

You stand, muttering something about needing air. No one stops you. They’re too distracted by the next round of drinks.

You weave through the restaurant, ducking past a waiter with a sizzling plate, and make your way to the bar. The polished counter is blessedly cool under your fingertips.

“Shot of anything, just make it strong,” you tell the bartender.

He pours. You toss it back. The burn is immediate, sharp. You exhale.

“Drinking alone, sweetheart?”

The voice behind you is slurred. Too close.

You turn—and freeze.

A man. Late thirties, maybe. Expensive coat. He reeks of liquor and entitlement.

“I’ve seen you before,” he says, stepping in closer. “KQ trainee, right? Y/N.”

Your stomach twists. “Yes, and I’m off the clock.”

He laughs. “I’ve been tracking your progress. Real impressive. You move like you want to be watched.”

You bristle. “I’m just here to have a drink.”

“Then have it with me.” His hand brushes your arm—too familiar. Too intentional.

You jerk back. “Don’t.”

“Aw, come on,” he slurs. “You trainees are all the same. Hungry little things, just waiting to be discovered. I can help—”

“Back off.”

The voice doesn’t come from you. It comes from behind the man.

You glance past him—and your heart stops.

Mingi.

He’s standing at the edge of the bar, chest rising and falling, jaw locked.

The man scoffs. “Who the hell are you?”

Mingi steps in, slow and measured. “The guy who’s going to break your wrist if you touch her again.”

The man sneers, sizing him up—but something in Mingi’s eyes makes him pause. Then, muttering curses under his breath, he stumbles off toward the exit.

Silence returns.

You’re still staring.

Mingi doesn’t move for a moment. Just watches until the man disappears around the corner.

Then he looks at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I… yeah.”

He lets out a breath. “You shouldn’t have been alone.”

You bristle. “I can handle myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

You both fall silent.

For once, it’s not charged with rivalry. It’s heavier. Slower. Like neither of you knows what to say now that the walls are cracked and the air between you has shifted. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes still scanning the bar like he’s ready for something else to go wrong.

You speak first. Quiet. “Why did you follow me?”

“I didn’t,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I just… saw you leave.”

You nod slowly. The truth lingers in the space between you. Neither of you dares to say it.

So you say the only thing that makes sense.

“Thanks.”

His eyes meet yours. “Don’t mention it.”

You step outside, desperately needing some air.

The city hums around you. Neon signs buzz above the street. A cab idles near the curb, headlights casting long shadows along the sidewalk.

You’re still shaken. The heat of that man’s grip still lingers on your arm, like it left a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet. The last shot you took sits uneasily in your stomach.

Mingi shifts beside you, silent for once, shoulders broad and tense.

“They are probably wondering where we’ve gone. You wanna go back inside?” he asks, voice softer now. Not biting. Not sharp. Just… tired.

You hesitate. The laughter from inside the restaurant drifts out, warm and distant. But it feels miles away.

You shake your head. “No. I’m just gonna head back to the dorm.”

He blinks. “Alone?”

You nod, already taking a step toward the street.

But his hand gently wraps around your wrist—not tight. Just enough to stop you. “No. I’ll come with you.”

You freeze. “Mingi, it’s fine. I’m not—”

“I know you can handle yourself,” he says quickly, reading your tone. “But I’m not letting you go alone. Not tonight.” He motions to the nearest cab, flagging it down.

You hate how your chest tightens.

You pull your wrist away gently. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.”

That silences you.

The cab driver honks once, impatient.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “Fine. But don’t make this weird.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Trust me, I won’t even talk.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

You slide into the cab. He follows.

The doors shut.

And for the first time since you started training at KQ, you and Mingi sit side by side—not as rivals, not as threats—but as two people, cut from the same fire, quietly unraveling in the dark.

The cab pulls away from the curb, headlights carving through the city night.

You sit pressed against the door, arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the blur of neon outside. Mingi’s beside you, too close in the confined backseat, but not touching. He’s staring straight ahead like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

Neither of you speaks. The silence is thick. Not awkward. Not yet. Just… full.

You catch his reflection in the window. His jaw is clenched. He hasn’t looked at you once. You should say something. Thank him again. Make a joke. Anything to fill the weight in your chest.

But instead—

“You don’t even know why you care, do you?”

Your voice is quiet. Barely above the hum of the engine.

He turns. Slowly.

His eyes meet yours—and for once, they’re not guarded. Not proud. Just… tired.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he admits.

You look away first, heart thudding.

The silence stretches again.

“Earlier,” he says, softer now, “when I saw him touch you—”

“I handled it,” you cut in, too fast. Too defensive.

“I know. That’s not the point.”

You frown.

He sighs, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s just… I saw red. Didn’t think. I just had to get him away from you.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to tell him to shut up. That you don’t need him. That this changes nothing.

But instead, you whisper, “I didn’t expect you to.”

He glances at you. “I didn’t expect me to either.”

You both go quiet again.

The cab slows, turning onto the street near your dorm.

He leans back in his seat, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not saying we’re friends now or whatever.”

You let out a dry laugh. “God, no.”

“But,” he says, and you catch the smallest curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

You don’t argue this time.

And when the cab pulls to a stop and you step out into the cool air, you realise your pulse isn’t racing from fear anymore.

It’s racing because Mingi—your rival, your thorn, your worst complication—is walking next to you.

And for once, you’re not sure if you want him to stop.

~

You didn’t sleep.

You tried.

You laid in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, Mingi’s voice looping in your head like a broken chorus.

“I didn’t expect me to either.”

“I’ll walk you to the door.”

The softness in his voice. The way he didn’t try to touch you. The way he just stayed.

You hated it. God, you hated it. Because it made everything worse. Confusing. Unstable. A crack in your armour that you couldn’t tape shut fast enough.

So when your alarm blared this morning, you didn’t spring out of bed like usual. You moved slow. Pulled on sweats. Skipped makeup. No time for breakfast. And now, you’re two minutes late for rehearsal—a first.

You burst into the studio, breathless. The girls are already stretching. Music low. Eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” Ayla blurts. “Y/N? Are you okay?”

“You’re never late,” Rina adds. “You look like you got hit by a train.”

You drop your bag by the mirror and start warming up like nothing’s wrong. “I’m fine.”

Seji squints. “You left dinner early last night. What happened?”

You pause. Just for a second. Then sigh. “Some guy at the bar wouldn’t leave me alone. Mingi stepped in. Walked me to the cab. That’s all.”

Rina’s brow furrows. “He what?”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you say quickly. “I didn’t ask him to. He just… did.”

Seji’s about to speak when Hyeon gasps from the corner of the room.

Everyone freezes.

She’s staring at her phone, jaw slack.

“What?” you ask cautiously.

She turns the screen around.

You blink.

Your stomach drops.

There it is—a photo.

Blurry, but clear enough. You and Mingi at the curb. His arm slightly behind you, your face half-turned toward him. Another shot—you both stepping into the cab, close together.

You snatch the phone, scrolling through the caption.

Spotted last night: Mingi of KQ FELLAZ and ECLYPSE’s Y/N leaving together after the team dinner 👀🔥 dating rumours or just friendly backup?

You stare at the screen. Then at the girls.

“Shit,” Ayla breathes. “You’re all over my feed right now.”

“It’s on TheQReport already,” Rina adds, checking her own phone. “KQ’s gonna have a meltdown.”

“You’re trending on fanpages,” Hyeon mutters, scrolling faster. “They’re calling it enemies-to-lovers in real time.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. Because it was already complicated. But now? Now the world knows.

And you have no idea what Mingi’s going to say when he finds out.

In the KQ FELLAZ dorm, the living room is dim, sunlight bleeding lazily through half-closed blinds. The guys are scattered across the space—San doing push-ups on the floor, Wooyoung on his phone, Jongho half-asleep on the couch.

The morning is unusually quiet, that is, until Hongjoong walks in.

He throws his phone down on the table. The screen is lit up with a photo, timestamped last night.

Mingi.

You.

The cab.

The look between you.

“Someone explain this,” Hongjoong says calmly. Too calmly.

The room stills.

Wooyoung leans forward. “Oh… shit. Is that—?”

“Mingi,” Hongjoong says without looking up, “tell me this is nothing.”

Across the room, Mingi sits frozen at the kitchen counter, a protein shake in hand, completely still.

He doesn’t answer.

“Hyung,” Jongho says quietly, “it might not be what it looks like.”

“I don’t care what it looks like,” Hongjoong snaps. “I care about what it could cost.”

He paces once, then turns to face them all.

“You two have been at each other’s throats since day one. Fine. Let the tension fuel you. Let it push you harder. But now this? Speculation? Trainee dating rumours? Photos? This isn’t just messy—it’s dangerous.”

Mingi swallows hard.

“It’s not what people think.”

“Then what is it?”

He looks up slowly. “She was harassed. At the bar. I stepped in. I didn’t plan anything. I just—” His voice cracks slightly. “—couldn’t leave her there.”

The room is quiet for a beat. Even Hongjoong’s expression softens, just slightly.

“That part I understand,” he says, voice calmer now. “But why did you go with her?”

“I don’t know,” Mingi admits. “I didn’t think. I just… went.”

Wooyoung whistles under his breath. “Bro, you’re so in trouble.”

“Shut up,” Mingi mutters.

Hongjoong sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to judge. But this doesn’t just affect you. It affects her. It affects us. You both have showcase evaluations this week, and now the company has to deal with rumours, headlines, fan speculation—all because you didn’t think.”

Mingi clenches his jaw.

“I know.”

Hongjoong steps closer, voice low. “So, think now. What’s your next move?”

Mingi doesn’t answer.

Because for the first time, he’s not sure. And somehow, that scares him more than the photo ever did.

~

The studio is silent, save for the low whir of the fan in the corner and the thump of the bass echoing from the speaker.

No staff today. Just the two of you.

A rare open slot on the studio calendar—and you both knew you’d use it for extra practice. The final showcase is days away. Neither of you can afford to slack off. Not now.

Not after everything.

You haven’t said much since walking in. Just a quiet exchange of nods. A muttered “ready?” before the music started.

Now, you’re halfway through the routine. No contact. Just movement—rhythmic, mirrored, cold.

Until it isn’t.

You both cut into the final transition—and a misstep places you too close. His hand grazes yours. It’s not choreographed. It’s not supposed to happen.

But it does, and it lingers.

For a split second, neither of you pull away. For a split second, that brush of skin feels like something set on fire.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

His eyes are unreadable. But his breath stutters, just slightly.

You tear yourself away, pushing into the next step—but your head is spinning. Your heart is hammering. The ground feels slippery under your feet and—

You trip.

It’s sudden. A mistimed landing, a twist of your foot, and you stumble forward with a sharp gasp as your knee hits the floor. Before you can even register the pain, he’s there.

Mingi’s hands are on you, fast. “Y/N—shit—are you okay?”

You blink up at him, breathless, heart racing from more than the fall.

“It’s fine. I didn’t twist it. I just fell.” You try to sit up, but his hand flies to your ankle, steady, cautious.

“I need to check it—”

“Mingi—”

But his fingers are already on your skin, gentle pressure pressing around the joint. He’s careful. Focused. But the heat of his touch shoots straight through you.

And then he looks up.

Too close.

His face just inches from yours, hair falling slightly over his eyes, lips parted from his breathless rush to get to you. The air between you crackles.

Neither of you move.

Then—

His lips brush yours.

Not a kiss. Not quite. Just the ghost of one, barely there. But enough to make you forget how to breathe.

You pull back fast. Too fast.

And then your voice slices through the charged silence.

“This is a mistake.”

You scramble up—your ankle throbbing slightly, but you ignore it—grabbing your bag, your bottle, anything that will get you out of this room before the air crushes you.

“Y/N—”

His voice is low, caught somewhere between regret and desperation. But you’re already backing away.

“We can’t do this,” you breathe, not meeting his eyes. “Not now. Not with everyone watching.”

Not when the rumours haven’t even cooled yet. Not when your heart’s still racing for all the wrong reasons. Not when you’re this afraid of what you actually felt.

You move fast—out the door, down the corridor, feet echoing off the linoleum like a drumbeat. You don’t look back.

Behind you, the studio is silent.

And Mingi stands alone, hand still half-raised, like he was just about to reach for you.

~

You’ve been pacing your dorm for over an hour.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Heart racing, skin too tight, thoughts louder than the silence.

That shouldn’t have happened. But the worst part is—it did.

And even worse than that? You wanted it to.

You run a hand through your hair, breathing hard. It’s too much. Too messy. Too dangerous. If anyone found out—

Knock, knock.

You freeze.

Two slow, deliberate knocks at your door.

You already know who it is.

You stare at the handle like it might disappear. Then, slowly, you open it. And there he is.

Mingi.

Hood pulled up, eyes shadowed beneath the fluorescent hallway light, chest rising and falling like he ran the whole way here.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss, stepping halfway into the hall, panic rising in your throat. “You’re making the situation worse.”

He glances behind him, voice low. “I made sure no one saw me. Let me in. Now. Before anyone comes by.”

You curse under your breath, grab his shirt, and yank him inside, shutting the door with a soft click.

He doesn’t move far. Just stands in the middle of your room like he’s not sure what to do with himself. The space between you stretches, charged and dangerous.

“Why are you here, Mingi?”

Your voice is sharper than you mean it to be. But you need it to be.

He swallows hard. His eyes meet yours.

“Because you left.”

You blink.

“What?”

He steps closer, just slightly. “You left like none of it mattered.”

“It can’t matter.”

“Too late.”

That stops you cold.

He runs a hand down his face. “You think I don’t know this is stupid? You think I don’t know what this could cost us? The team? The company? Everything we’ve worked for?”

Your silence is answer enough.

“Then why did you come here?”

He looks at you for a long moment.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your breath catches.

He’s close now. Too close again. The room is small, and the tension is enormous. You can feel every heartbeat between you.

And the worst part? You don’t want to push him away. But you should.

“Mingi, we can’t do this,” you say, your voice shaking.

You back away a few steps, but it doesn’t make the air between you any lighter.

“You know trainees are banned from dating,” you press, chest rising and falling. “We’re so close to getting what we’ve always wanted. To debut. I’ve worked so hard for this.”

His eyes flash with something between pain and determination. “I know.”

“Do you?” you demand. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“I—”

“You wouldn’t have followed me home. You wouldn’t have kissed me.”

He looks away at that. Guilty. But not regretful.

“We can keep it a secret,” he says quietly. “If we’re careful—”

“We can’t risk that!”

The words come out louder than you intend. Your hands ball at your sides.

You walk back toward him now, thinning the space that still somehow exists between you.

“Are you really telling me you’d put your career…” your voice wavers, “your group’s career, on the line for me?”

His jaw tenses. His eyes don’t leave yours.

And then—he steps to you. The gap disappears in a breath.

Now you can feel it. The way your body reacts to him before your brain can catch up. The hum in your blood. The way his nearness sets you on fire and calms you all at once.

“Yes,” he breathes.

And then his hands are on your face—warm, steady, reverent.

You don’t move. You can’t.

He tilts your chin, just enough. His thumbs brush your cheek.

And then—

He kisses you.

It’s not tentative. It’s not polite.

It’s desperate. Firm. Like he’s spent weeks holding it back and tonight it finally broke free.

Your hands find his shirt, twisting in the fabric, grounding yourself in something real. Something solid.

But nothing about this feels safe. It feels like falling. Like burning. Like everything you’ve been taught to run from.

His lips crash into yours again, harder this time. Hungrier.

You don’t think. You can’t.

All you know is that this—his mouth on yours, his hands pulling you closer, the way he breathes like you’re the only thing keeping him alive—is the most dangerous thing you’ve ever wanted.

And you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your back hits the wall. His body follows. You gasp against his lips, and he swallows the sound like a secret. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your jaw, your hair—like he’s trying to memorise every part of you at once.

You tug at his hoodie, pulling him flush against you, feeling the way his chest heaves with every breath. His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and for a second you flinch. Not from fear, but from how right it feels.

Too right.

“Y/N,” he breathes against your mouth, voice rough, reverent. “Tell me to stop.”

But you don’t, you press closer. And that’s all the answer he needs.

The two of you stumble backward, limbs tangled, mouths colliding in between gasped breaths and soft, desperate moans. The tension that’s been building for weeks finally ignites like a lit match thrown to dry kindling.

When your knees hit the edge of your mattress, you don’t hesitate. Neither does he. Clothes are discarded in the dim light. Fingers fumble. Lips trace skin. His touch is tender where it should be cautious, and you let yourself drown in the feeling—in him.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You both know it. But in this moment, it doesn’t matter. In this moment there’s no stage, no company, no looming showcase. No rules. No eyes. No consequence. Just breathless whispers, shuddering exhales, bodies moving together like choreography you didn’t have to rehearse.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” He whispers, his lips ghosting under the swell of your breast.

You throw your head back, letting an airy moan fall from your lips. His eyes glaze over, his hand snaking between your legs. His fingers work with precision, coaxing the prettiest sounds he’s ever heard from you. His eyes roll back into his head as they get higher and higher, until he has to clamp his free hand over your mouth. No one can hear, not when the stakes are this high.

Your body spasms, his hand hot against your mouth as he brings you to the peak of your orgasm. You open your mouth wider, biting down on his palm as you try with all your might to quieten yourself.

But this only spurs him on further.

His jeans fall to the floor, and then he’s climbing on top of you. His frame covers yours as he towers over you, his lips smashing back against yours as if it might kill him to keep them apart.

He looks you in the eye, as if questioning if you’re really going to do this. You respond by lifting your thighs, letting your legs lock around his waist. You grip the back of his neck, pulling him forwards as he lines himself up. As he sinks in, you swallow each others’ whines like it’s a gourmet meal. Your teeth clash as he rocks back and forth, the bed beginning to creak softly under the movement.

“Fuck.” He whimpers breathlessly. “Fuck, you feel—”

“Harder. Please, harder. Like you hate me.”

He groans, then pulls out. You begin to protest, but he flips you over. He presses a hand to the small of your back, arching you. He slips back in, wrapping your hair around his fist and harshly pulling you back to meet him. His brows knit together as he picks up the pace, slamming into you at an angle that steals the breath from your lungs.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You chant, tears beginning to form along your lash line.

“Is this—what you—wanted.” He hisses through gritted teeth.

But you can’t respond, you just howl like a rabid dog as he fucks you senseless. He drops forward, releasing your hair to shove his fingers in your mouth like a gag.

“As much as I fucking love hearing you, you need to be quiet.”

“I’m gunna come. Oh fuck—” You whimper around his fingers.

He drives into you deeper, if that’s even possible, and you fall apart. Your whole body shudders as it hits you—violently, all-consuming—it ripples through your veins like white-hot gold. Mingi sputters behind you, collapsing onto your back with a curse as he follows your lead.

And when it’s over, when you lie tangled in the aftermath, skin slick and hearts pounding, the silence says everything.

You don’t speak. Neither of you dares to.

Because the moment you do… this becomes real.

~

Sunlight cuts across your dorm floor like judgment.

You haven’t moved from the bed in over an hour.

Your skin is still warm from him, lips still swollen from his kiss, your body aching in places you didn’t know could feel like this.

It was a mistake. A beautiful, all-consuming, unforgivable mistake.

You bury your face in your hands. How could you let it happen?

The door swings open suddenly, and you jolt upright.

Ayla stands in the doorway, brows raised. “We’re meeting downstairs in five—wait. Are you okay?”

Behind her, Rina, Seji, and Hyeon hover, all of them carrying protein shakes and gossip. But one look at your face, and all four freeze like a pack of wolves who’ve just sensed blood.

“Y/N…?” Hyeon’s voice is careful.

You stare at them, wide-eyed, heart racing. And then it all comes pouring out.

“I did something stupid,” you say, voice cracking. “Last night. After rehearsal.”

Ayla closes the door behind her slowly. “Okay…?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. I wasn’t thinking. I was too caught up and—” You choke on the words. “I slept with him.”

The room stills.

“With Mingi?” Seji asks, stunned.

You nod.

“I—I don’t know what I was thinking,” you rush. “It was a moment of weakness. I lost focus. As leader I’ve put all of you at risk. The group. Our debut. Everything we’ve worked for.”

They’re still staring. And you can’t stop.

“I’m sorry. I swear to you it won’t happen again. I’ll shut it down. I’ll stay away. I promise.”

Silence.

Then Ayla flops onto the bed beside you. “Okay, first of all—breathe.”

You blink at her.

“You didn’t kill someone,” she says. “You caught feelings.”

“I didn’t—” You pause. “Okay, maybe I did.”

Rina sits cross-legged on the floor, arms resting on her knees. “You’re allowed to fall for someone, Y/N. You’re not a robot.”

Hyeon leans against the wall, sipping her drink. “You two have been circling each other like a k-drama plotline for weeks. I’m honestly surprised it took this long.”

Seji smirks. “So… was it good?”

You bury your face in a pillow.

“Okay, okay!” Ayla laughs, nudging her. “Too soon. But seriously. We’ve got your back.”

You look up, eyes stinging. “I put you in danger.”

“No,” Hyeon says gently. “You didn’t. You had a moment. You’re still our leader. You still carry us. But maybe… carry yourself a little too.”

You stare at them—your girls—the people you swore to protect. And somehow, they’re still standing with you. Still laughing. Still here.

“You’re not off the hook,” Rina adds. “If you’re gonna do this, you better keep it airtight. No more photos. No more hallway stares. No more late-night cabs.”

You nod. “It’s done. I’ll shut it down.”

Ayla hums. “Right. That’s totally believable coming from someone who literally just stared out the window for ten straight minutes like she was in a breakup montage.”

You groan, falling back onto the bed.

They laugh. But it doesn’t feel cruel.

It feels safe.

~

The week leading up to the showcase unfolds in sharp, quiet pieces.

You rehearse until your body aches. Every morning bleeds into night, every stretch of silence filled with footwork, and breath counts, and corrections you deliver without emotion. You lead ECLYPSE with the same discipline you always have. No one questions you. No one says it out loud.

But you know they feel it.

Something’s changed.

You still see Mingi almost every day—but only in the studio. Only when you’re both shoved into the same mirrored space with music blasting and KQ’s expectations weighing on your backs like armour.

You rehearse together like professionals. No mistakes. No emotion. No words exchanged beyond a muttered “again” or “reset from chorus.”

The silence is safe. Until it’s not.

The first time it happens, it’s nothing. A mistimed step. His shoulder brushing yours on the pass. You both freeze—just for a second—then step back like it burned.

You don’t speak.

You just turn away, let the beat drop again, and push forward like you didn’t feel that heat coil low in your stomach.

Because nothing happened. Because it can’t happen again.

The rumours that once circled you like wolves have faded now. The internet has moved on, shifting its attention to other drama, other trainees. The photo of you and Mingi stepping into the cab is buried under performance leaks and showcase theories.

People have forgotten. But you haven’t.

Every night, you lie awake replaying it all. The heat of his touch, the sound of his voice, the way he looked at you when he said yes. That kiss. That night.

You almost text him.

Every night, you almost do.

But your screen stays empty.

You type. Delete. Stare at the blinking cursor like it might decide for you.

You don’t know that he does the same.

That across the hall, Mingi sits at the edge of his bed, thumbs hovering over your name, deleting and retyping the same four words over and over again.

Can we talk?

Are you okay?

Do you regret it?

I don’t.

And then nothing. The screen goes dark.

On the fifth night, you pass him in the hallway. It’s late. Your hoodie’s too big, your headphones slung around your neck. You’re not expecting him. Neither of you says anything. But when your arms brush, you swear you feel it again—that electric tug that started everything.

You don’t look back. But if you did, you’d see him turning too.

Always a second too late.

The girls don’t ask anymore, they don’t have to. Ayla watches you too closely during cooldowns. Hyeon always offers you her water bottle without asking. Rina stops teasing. Seji gives you those lingering looks like she knows exactly what you’re thinking and is quietly daring you to just admit it.

But you don’t.

Because there’s nothing to say.

Nothing either of you can afford to say.

Tomorrow is the showcase. You and Mingi will take the stage, side by side, and pretend to be what everyone wants you to be. Flawless. Focused. Disconnected.

And maybe you’ll survive it.

But right now?

Right now, every breath feels like an apology you haven’t said. Every silence is a confession you can’t afford to make.

And every time your phone lights up in the dark, your heart stutters like maybe—just maybe —it’s him.

But it never is.

And you delete your own draft, again.

~

The building hums with nerves.

Lights flicker through the open rigging above the stage, heat radiating off the metal scaffolding and speaker towers. Crew members pace the wings with clipboards and headsets, calling out final checks. Both trainee groups fill the back halls, all eyes wide with adrenaline, all voices hushed with the weight of what this day could mean.

It’s showcase day.

The day that decides everything.

You’re standing just offstage, the sound of your own heartbeat louder than the bass pulsing through the floor.

Across the stage on the opposite wing, KQ FELLAZ are lined up in formation, heads bowed. Mingi stands at the front, face stone-set, jaw sharp under the stage lights. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at him.

But you feel him there.

Just like always.

A staff member steps up beside you; clipboard tucked under her arm. “ECLYPSE, you’re up second. You’ll go straight into your unit sets after the full group stage. Good luck.”

You nod once, already stepping into your own focus.

Behind you, the girls are a quiet storm of nerves and preparation. Rina rolls her shoulders. Hyeon whispers under her breath. Ayla taps her heel to the beat only she can hear. Seji meets your gaze, sharp and steady.

You nod.

The lights go black.

And then the first beat hits.

KQ FELLAZ take the stage like they’ve already won.

Their song is explosive—a storm of bass and precision and swagger so sharp it slices through the dark. Hongjoong commands the centre like a born leader, and Seonghwa’s fluidity dances just behind him like a ghost. The entire unit moves like a single organism.

But your eyes lock on one person.

Mingi.

He hits every move with force. Every line of his verse burns with something deeper, a barely concealed truth you can still feel in your skin.

He doesn’t look at you once. But he doesn’t have to.

Because when he finishes his verse and throws his head back, sweat dripping from his jawline—you know exactly where his mind is.

And it’s not the stage.

Then it’s your turn.

“ECLYPSE,” someone calls. “Stage ready.”

Your feet move on instinct.

The lights flash.

And then—

Silence.

You step into position at the centre, heart pounding against your ribs, and for one perfect second, you’re not thinking of him.

You’re thinking of this.

Of how far you’ve come. Of every bruise. Every fall. Every time you doubted you’d make it here.

The beat drops.

And you move.

You dance like your body remembers before your brain does. The music drives you forward—sharp, elegant, relentless. The crowd erupts at Ayla’s verse, screams rising through the fog machines and flickering lights. You catch Hyeon spinning like liquid, Seji matching her with perfect tension, Rina slamming into the bridge with a growl in her voice that wasn’t there a month ago.

It’s electric. And it’s yours.

You don’t miss a step. Not once. The final formation lands in a flash of light, your arms raised, chest heaving, and the screams hit full force.

But through the noise, your eyes search for one thing.

And for a split second, from the shadows at the side of the stage, you see him.

Mingi.

Watching. Expression unreadable.

The unit stages follow, one after another, each more polished than the last.

You and Mingi perform together without a single mistake. You don’t touch. You don’t look at each other beyond what the choreography requires. But the moment you take the stage together, the air changes.

People feel it. You know they do.

Because every move lands harder. Every step feels like a challenge, a memory, a question neither of you will dare speak aloud.

You finish with a flourish, pulse pounding in your throat, and before the lights fade, you hear the audience erupt.

It’s over.

And somehow, it feels like something’s just begun.

~

Backstage is chaos—the euphoric kind.

Not panic. Not pressure. Just raw, buzzing adrenaline that ripples through the dressing room like aftershocks from a perfect storm.

Hair is tousled. Makeup smudged. Costumes rumpled and clinging to sweat-damp skin.

And no one cares.

Because both groups delivered.

You’re still catching your breath when Ayla barrels into you, arms thrown around your shoulders. “We killed it.”

“Rina, that head whip?” Seji wheezes, clutching a bottle. “Iconic.”

“You killed it too,” Hyeon says, eyes wide. “The way you hit that drop? People screamed.”

Your lips pull into a breathless grin. “Did they?”

“They did,” Rina nods, bouncing on her toes. “They were screaming for you too,” Rina grins at Hyeon. “That whistle note? Bitch.”

Hyeon laughs under her breath. “You were all insane. Especially you,” she adds, nudging you. “That final solo was brutal.”

You open your mouth to respond, but then Wooyoung slides past, still dripping sweat and grinning like he just swallowed the moon.

“ECLYPSE,” he calls, pointing two finger guns at the lot of you. “Too powerful. I’m scared.”

“We should be saying that to you,” Rina shoots back.

San jogs by, shirt untucked and towel slung over one shoulder. “Your second verse choreography? That tempo shift? Crazy.”

Ayla clasps her chest. “I literally felt my soul leave my body during Mingi’s verse.”

The name lands like a dart in your chest.

You smile anyway.

Hongjoong steps forward from the mirror wall, expression calm, gaze steady. “You girls held your own,” he says simply, and it somehow means more than the shouting.

“We had to,” you reply, voice light. “You didn’t exactly make it easy.”

There’s a soft chuckle from somewhere in the room. You don’t look to see where it came from.

You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You can feel him—like gravity. Like heat.

Mingi.

You haven’t looked at him once. Haven’t spoken. Haven’t even breathed in his direction. But he’s close. Leaning against the back wall, towel around his neck, gaze low. Quiet. Still.

The tension is still there.

Undeniable.

But the others don’t notice. They’re too busy swapping praise and teasing each other between sips of water and shakily peeled oranges. For a moment, it almost feels like a team. Not a competition.

But then—

“Final results are being announced on stage. Let’s move!”

The energy in the room shifts instantly.

Laughter fades. Smiles falter. Everyone stands taller, straighter.

It’s time.

“All performers to the stage,” a staff member calls. “ECLYPSE to the left, FELLAZ to the right.”

You wipe your hands on your costume and lead the way down the hallway, your boots echoing with every step.

You feel the girls close behind you.

And just over your shoulder… him. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you. But still, you know he’s watching.

And you wonder if his heart is racing like yours. If he’s wondering what happens next. If he still tastes the night you never talk about.

As the stage door opens ahead, spilling golden light into the hall, you step into it with your head held high.

Whatever they’re about to say—you’re ready.

Even if your heart isn’t.

~

The stage lights are blinding again.

You stand in a row with the girls of ECLYPSE, hands clasped tight at your sides. Your chest aches with the aftershocks of the performance—but more than that, with the waiting. The not-knowing.

Beside you, KQ FELLAZ stand in a silent line. You don’t have to turn to feel their presence.

You don’t have to turn to feel him.

Mingi.

Your shoulder tingles where you swear his gaze rests, but you don’t move. You keep your eyes fixed forward, just like everyone else.

The executive steps up to the mic. A hush falls instantly.

He smiles.

“Tonight, you gave us more than just strong performances.”

You hold your breath.

“You gave us conviction.”

A quiet ripple of emotion runs through your chest. Somewhere to your left, Ayla shifts her weight.

“After reviewing public support, fan feedback, and internal evaluations… the decision was made earlier this afternoon.” He pauses.

“We will not be choosing between you.”

Your heart lurches.

The air changes.

The room freezes.

“Both KQ FELLAZ and ECLYPSE will debut.”

Gasps erupt around you from all around.

Seji clutches your arm. Ayla lets out a stunned laugh. You blink, stunned, words caught behind your teeth.

“You have both earned it,” the executive continues. “Not only with your individual and group talent… but with your professionalism. With the way you’ve supported one another, across group lines. Across rivalry.”

Your throat tightens.

“You stayed focused. Committed. Even when the rumours stirred. Even when the pressure mounted.”

You stare forward, but all you can think of is him.

Of that night.

Of that kiss.

Of how careful you’ve both had to be since.

“You worked like artists. You performed like professionals. And now, you will debut as them.”

The applause comes in waves—first hesitant, then thunderous.

You’re being pulled into hugs, arms thrown around you, laughter echoing from across the stage as KQ FELLAZ shout and cheer. Rina has tears in her eyes. Hyeon claps wildly. Hongjoong bows low, dignified even in celebration. San is already spinning Wooyoung in a circle.

And still—

You haven’t moved.

Not until your eyes flick sideways.

Mingi.

He’s smiling, just barely—but it’s real. Not the showy, confident grin he wears for cameras. This one’s softer.

But when your eyes meet, his expression falters—just for a second—like he can’t believe this is real either.

You look away before you can fall into it again. Because it’s done now.

You both got what you wanted.

And it changes everything.

~

It’s been three days since the announcement.

Three days of interviews, meetings, fittings. Of learning choreography from dawn until the studio lights buzz overhead like stars you’ll never reach. Of hearing your group’s name in the mouths of producers, managers, stylists. Of bowing so many times your neck aches.

It’s happening.

You’re really debuting.

And yet… something feels unfinished.

Until tonight.

The knock comes just after eleven.

You’re curled up in bed, hair damp from a rushed shower, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. You expect one of the girls—probably Ayla forgetting her charger again.

But when you open the door—

It’s him. Mingi.

Hood up, hands in his pockets, his eyes searching yours like he’s not sure if he’s made a mistake.

Your breath catches.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, slowly, you step aside. Wordlessly, cautiously, you let him in.

The door clicks shut behind you.

He stands just inside, eyes trailing over the dorm like it might tell him something. You don’t speak. You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t have to.

“We have a name,” he says finally.

You blink. “What?”

“The group. KQ FELLAZ. We’re ATEEZ now.”

You nod slowly. “That’s… actually perfect.”

A flicker of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Treasure hunters. Chasing our dreams. The concept’s loud, but I like it.”

“It fits you,” you murmur. “All of you.”

“I floated Mingi and Dem Boyz, it didn’t go down well…”

You cover your mouth with your hands, chuckling lightly.

A silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable.

You sit on the edge of your bed, arms folded tight. He moves toward your desk chair, but doesn’t sit—just leans against it, hands gripping the back like he needs to anchor himself.

“So, how’s it going?” you ask. “Debut prep?”

He shrugs; eyes still fixed on a crack in your floorboards. “Busy. Unreal. I don’t think we’ve slept since. You?”

“Same.”

Silence fills the room again.

“I saw the teaser photos,” he adds. “You looked…”

He stops.

Your eyes lift.

“What?”

His gaze finally meets yours.

“Beautiful.”

Your breath hitches—not from the word, but from the way he says it. Quiet. Like it’s a confession he’s carried too long.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

He exhales, stepping forward just slightly, knuckles dragging down the edge of your desk. His voice is low, thick with something closer to regret.

“I kept thinking about texting, or turning up here.” He sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night.”

The words hang heavy in the air.

You swallow.

“Mingi…”

“I know,” he says quickly, cutting himself off. “I know it was a risk. I know we shouldn’t have—hell, maybe I shouldn’t be here right now, but—” His voice falters. “I don’t know how to shut it off.”

You close your eyes. Because neither do you.

Because every night since, you’ve laid awake wondering if he still remembered. If he regretted it. If you were imagining the way he looked at you that day on stage.

But now? Now you know.

And it terrifies you.

Mingi doesn’t ask for permission. He just moves—slowly, deliberately—and sits beside you on the edge of the bed.

You stiffen.

The space between you is nonexistent now. You can feel the heat of his thigh against yours, his breath barely uneven. He’s close enough that if either of you so much as leaned—

“I can’t keep burying it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You don’t respond, you can’t. Not with the way your heart is pounding. Not with the way his words dig into you like they’ve been waiting to surface for days.

“I can’t keep pretending like this isn’t something,” he continues. “Like you and I didn’t happen. Like it doesn’t matter.”

His hand twitches against his leg. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t touch.

But he doesn’t need to.

“It’s eating me alive.”

Your throat tightens. Because it’s eating away at you too.

The silence hangs for a breath, then two.

You turn. So does he. And in that one perfect second, breathless and suspended, there’s no group. No debut. No rules.

Just him. Just you.

And then—

He kisses you.

But this time it’s different. This time, there’s no desperation. No panic. No chaos.

Just truth.

And the sharp, terrifying knowledge that neither of you will ever be able to bury this again.

The kiss fades, slow and reluctant, as if neither of you wants to be the first to let go.

When you finally part, foreheads resting together, breath mingling in the hush of your dim dorm room, neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

Because the decision has already been made. No more denial. No more pretending it didn’t happen.

This is real. And it’s dangerous. But it’s yours.

So it will stay hidden—tucked behind locked doors and carefully timed exits, in glances that last a second too long and words unspoken in crowded rooms. It will stay small and quiet, because it has to. Because the stakes are too high to let it bloom in the light.

But still, you will choose it. No matter the cost.

Because something is here, and no matter how careful you’ll have to be, you have to know where it leads.

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, sexual content/references, use of Y/N, 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

Tag list: @ninjakitty15 @autieofthevalley @idknunsadly

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER EIGHT >>

CHAPTER SEVEN - ALL THINGS END IN FIRE

He’s not drowning. That’s the first thing he realises.

He should be drowning.

The pressure should be crushing his lungs, blacking out his vision.

But he isn’t.

It’s cold. Bone-deep. And something soft holds him.

Hands—too many, too smooth—press to his chest, his arms, the sides of his neck. They move him with impossible grace, like a puppet suspended in still water.

Sirens.

Not women. Not monsters. Something in between.

Their eyes shimmer with unnatural light. Their movements are seamless, synchronised, as if their minds speak in shared breath.

They don’t smile; they study him.

And they sing—quietly now. Not to lure, but to bind.

Hongjoong struggles, thrashing once, then again. It does nothing.

Every muscle feels numb. Every command in his mind hits a wall of pressure and song. They’re taking him somewhere, not deeper into the sea. Across.

He sees it—vaguely—beneath the surface ahead. Dark hulls. Metal. Movement. A shape looming in the water like a leviathan’s shadow.

The Serpent Fang.

It waits.

It knew.

He tries to speak. He can’t. But rage simmers beneath the helplessness. Not because he’s afraid for himself, because he knows what this means—for you.

The sirens glide with him toward the ship, a passage opening like a maw in the vessel’s underbelly. They carry him through like an offering.

And the moment he passes the threshold—the song stops. And the silence is worse.

~

You don’t remember climbing aboard.

You don’t remember the oars, or San’s voice calling for the crew, or Yeosang’s hand steadying you as the launch boat bumped against the hull.

All you remember is silence.

And the void where Hongjoong used to be.

Boots thud around you. Orders are barked. But they might as well be waves breaking against cliffs. You move through them like a ghost.

The rest of the scouting party speaks—reporting, calculating. But no one comes near you.

Not yet.

Until Seonghwa.

“Pyra.”

You stop. Barely.

He sees it immediately—the fraying edges of your composure. The tightness in your jaw. The twitch in your fingers as though you don’t know whether to hold something or destroy it.

“He is alive,” he says. “You know that.”

You turn to him slowly. Your eyes blaze—but there’s no fire. Just grief.

“I don’t know anything,” you whisper. “I only know what they’ve taken.”

Seonghwa’s expression doesn’t shift, but his voice softens.

“Then we get him back.”

You let out a breath—a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sob.

“They’ll use him.” You clutch the rail so hard your knuckles go white. “They’ll tear him apart to get to me.”

He says nothing, because there’s no comfort that will reach you. Not now.

You push away from the railing and storm below deck, boots echoing down the stairs.

When you reach your quarters, the door slams behind you.

And you break.

Not loudly. Not all at once. Piece by piece. Like armour coming undone. Like a flame with no air left.

You sink to the floor, forehead pressed to your knees, hands clenched so tightly they tremble.

You don’t cry. You burn.

And there’s no one left to put out the fire.

You don’t know how long you’ve been in your quarters. Time doesn’t pass normally anymore—not when he’s gone. Not when they have him. The room feels too small, the air too thick.

You pace once. Twice. Your hands shake.

Every thought circles back to the same thing—they took him.

They took him.

They took him.

The knock is light. Too gentle. It only makes it worse.

You whip the door open and find Seonghwa standing there—calm, composed, as always. But when he sees your face, the mask falters.

He doesn’t speak, just steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Say whatever you came to say,” you snap. “Then leave.”

“I came to tell you we are preparing a plan,” he replies evenly. “We will find him, Pyra. But you need to pull yourself together.”

That’s what shatters it. Not the calm, or the logic. The expectation.

“Pull myself together?” you echo, voice rising. “You think I can pull myself together when they’ve taken the only—” You choke, breath catching. “You don’t understand what he—”

“Then help me,” Seonghwa says quietly. “Help me understand.”

You whirl away, fists clenched, teeth bared like an animal in a cage.

And then, before you can stop yourself, before you can think or retreat or rebuild the walls—

“Because I love him!”

It tears out of you like flame through dry timber.

“I love him. And now they have him. And I can’t reach him. And I don’t know if he’s still—” Your voice breaks. “I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.”

The silence afterward is unbearable.

Seonghwa breathes slowly, then walks to your side.

And for the first time, he doesn’t speak as your senior, or strategist, or quartermaster. He speaks as a man who’s seen war.

“Then let us burn the sea apart to bring him home.”

The war cabin fills faster than it ever has. No orders needed, no horn sounded. Just a quiet message passed from deck to quarters—

“They’ve taken the captain.”

When you enter, the room stills. Not with blame, with purpose.

Yeosang stands at the map, compass in hand. Seonghwa beside him. San leans against the far wall, arms crossed, knives glinting.

Mingi’s pacing. Jongho’s fists are clenched. Yunho lurks in the corner.

And Wooyoung… Wooyoung is sitting back in his chair, eyes on you. Something flickers there. Not teasing, not smug. Just history.

“Did he ever tell you how he found us?�� Wooyoung asks, voice quiet.

You blink. The question cuts through the weight like a knife. Wooyoung leans forward, fingers drumming once on the table.

“He washed ashore. Clothes torn, ribs bruised, barely alive. We thought he was just another runaway—until he saw Jongho getting cornered by some kids in the market.”

He glances at Jongho, who doesn’t speak—just lowers his gaze.

“He jumped in. No hesitation. Fists flying. Kid couldn’t have been more than twelve, but he fought like someone who didn’t care if he made it out.”

Wooyoung leans back.

“That’s how he found us. Not by chasing us, or by seeking power.” A beat. “He protected one of us before he even knew who we were.”

The silence is heavy, reverent.

Seonghwa lifts his gaze. “And now we return the favour.”

Maps unroll. Plans begin. They speak of sirens. Of the sea. Of what kind of trap the Viper may have laid. They talk of flares, of decoys, of splitting the crew into search parties.

But it all centres on one goal.

Bring. Him. Back.

You take your place beside the table. Not a stranger. Not a weapon. One of them.

And you know—this time, you’ll burn the sea herself if you have to.

The war cabin hums with focus.

Not fear. Resolve.

You stand at the edge of the strategy table, the Serpent Fang’s location marked in dark ink. The Isle of Gold curves nearby like a secret waiting to resurface.

Seonghwa traces a path along the map with two fingers. “They will not expect us to act this quickly. That gives us one advantage. But brute force will not serve us.”

You speak before anyone else can. “Then we go quiet.”

Across the table, Wooyoung tosses down a scroll and a frayed manifest. “I’ve got something for that.”

All eyes turn to him.

He smirks, but there’s no humour in it—just calculation. He reaches into his satchel and tosses down a battered scroll and a crude manifest.

“Intercepted this off a Fang-aligned merchant skiff. They’re due to make a supply run to the Serpent’s ship in two nights. Small crew. Minimal inspection. I’ve got men ready to detain them—quietly.”

Yeosang leans closer to the map. “You want to send someone in with the cargo.”

Wooyoung doesn’t even blink. His gaze lands on you.

“Not someone. Her.”

The silence that follows is full of weight. You don’t look away. You don’t hesitate.

“I’ll do it.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t object. “You will not go in blind. We will mark the crate. Track the landing point. If anything goes wrong—”

“Then I burn it from the inside,” you say, voice like stone. “And you make sure I’m not alone when the fire reaches the mast.”

Mingi nods once, fists clenched at his sides. “We’ll be there. Back gate. Ready to storm the deck the moment you light it up.”

San stands against the wall, arms crossed, blades gleaming at his hips. “You’re not dying in a box. Not for anyone.”

Your lips curl—not quite a smile. “I don’t plan to.”

No one does. But plans rarely survive war. And this? This isn’t just a rescue, it’s the start of the reckoning.

~

The hull creaks overhead, slow and groaning like something ancient.

Hongjoong hangs from his chains, arms bound high above his head, back pressed to the cold, damp wall of the Serpent Fang’s brig. Blood trails from a split in his lip, dried and cracked, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away.

He hasn’t moved at all.

Not since they threw him in here.

The door opens for the third time that day—or night. It was hard to tell. The light hadn’t changed in hours. A lieutenant steps inside, tall, calm, and entirely too sure of himself. He drags a chair into the centre of the room and sits, crossing his arms like this was just another conversation.

“Where is she?” he asks.

Hongjoong remains silent.

The man doesn’t frown. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just leans forward.

“We know she’s with you. We know your crew has changed course. The only thing we don’t know is whether you’re the fool hiding her or the bait she’ll die trying to save.”

Still, nothing. Not even a twitch.

“She’s not yours to protect,” the lieutenant continues. “Tell us where she is, and I’ll let you live long enough to watch her burn.”

Finally, Hongjoong lifts his head. His voice comes raw. Quiet. Unshaken.

“You won’t even see her coming.”

The lieutenant pauses, and something flickers in his expression. He stands slowly, no longer amused. As he turns and locks the door behind him, the soft click of the bolt echoes louder than any blade.

Because they were starting to understand. No matter how hard they try, he wasn’t going to break.

~

The sun hasn’t risen yet.

The world is still wrapped in grey and salt, the air thick with tension as the crew gathers silently around the skiff moored alongside the Halcyon.

The intercepted supply vessel sits ready. Cargo re-stacked, Fang insignias forged onto the crates, false documentation tucked neatly into the hands of one of Wooyoung’s most trusted men.

And then there’s the crate.

Your crate.

The one lined with canvas, just wide enough for you to crouch in. The lid lies open beside it like a mouth waiting to be sealed shut.

San adjusts the fastenings in silence. Yeosang checks the markings once more, nodding to himself with quiet finality.

Wooyoung is the one who steps up to you first.

“I don’t like this,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “Feels too easy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Easy?”

“You know what I mean.” He exhales sharply. “Just—make them bleed for it, yeah?”

You nod once.

He backs away with a tight salute, more genuine than his usual smirks.

Yeosang approaches next, resting a hand briefly on your shoulder. “We’ll be tracking from the water. You’ll never be out of our sight.”

But you both know that’s not entirely true. Not where you’re going. Back to that damned ship you haven’t stepped foot on for months. Not since that day.

San grips your forearm, hard. “If anything goes wrong, you burn that ship down from the inside. Don’t wait for us.”

You say nothing.

Because if anything goes wrong, you won’t stop until the Serpent Fang is ashes.

And then Seonghwa stands before you. Calm, composed. But his eyes betray the weight.

“You will be alone for a time,” he says softly. “But not forgotten. And not abandoned.”

You nod. And finally, you look to the last one who hasn’t spoken.

Jongho.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. He just nods—once—like a vow.

And then, without ceremony, you climb into the crate.

The air is close. Smells like cedar and salt and the last breath of freedom. As the lid begins to close, you hear it.

Wooyoung, muttering, “Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.”

The final sliver of light disappears.

And you are gone. Not lost.

Hidden.

Ready.

The bay is dim. Quiet. Just another routine offload.

The Fang’s crew moves with slow precision, unaware that death sits quietly inside one of the crates they’re unloading.

Your crate.

You don’t breathe. You listen.

Boots scrape. Voices mumble. One crate is pried open. Then another.

Yours is next.

Wood creaks. The crowbar bites.

Now.

The lid cracks—just enough.

You explode upward, blade in hand, eyes already locked on your first target. The man barely gets a sound out before your knife slides clean across his throat.

One.

Another lunges—too slow. Your boot crashes into his knee as you drive your blade through his chest.

Two.

The third turns to run, but you catch him by the collar and drag him back, slicing across his ribs, then his throat in one seamless motion.

Three.

No screams. No alarms. Just blood hitting the deck. You move like you were born for this, because you were. Because they made you this.

And now you are unmaking them.

The last man stumbles backward, reaching for a bell. You throw the knife, and it lands in his neck with a crack.

Four.

Silence returns.

But it’s different now.

Not still. Stained.

You stand in the middle of the bay, breath even, covered in crimson. The crate lies open behind you like a mouth mid-laugh.

You reach down, wipe the blade against your thigh, and step over the nearest corpse.

Time to find him. Time to set this ship alight from the inside.

The corridors of the Serpent Fang feel smaller than you remember. Your boots are slick with blood, your breath steady—but your chest tightens with every turn. You know this ship. You know its bones, and now, deep within it, you know he’s close.

You find him in the lower brig—chained, bleeding, defiant.

He looks up the moment the door opens, his breath catching when he sees you.

“Y/N…”

You cross the room in three strides and fall to your knees beside him, fingers already at the cuffs.

He flinches when you touch him—not from pain. From the fear that this is a dream.

“Don’t speak,” you whisper. “We don’t have long.”

You undo the chains, your blade sliding beneath them with practiced ease.

Then the footsteps come. You both hear them. And you both rise.

The door bursts open.

Too many. Ten men. Maybe more.

You reach for the fire.

That flicker deep in your chest. The one that’s always been there. That answers when you call.

But this time—

Nothing.

Your hands stay cold, your chest remains still. The fire does not rise. Panic claws at the edges of your throat.

Hongjoong notices.

“Pyra—”

You try again. You close your eyes. You reach. You beg.

Nothing.

The soldiers close in. You fight—hard. Fast. Desperate. But you’re outnumbered, and Hongjoong is injured.

You’re not enough. Not without your flame.

They don’t kill you, they don’t need to. Instead, they capture you both. And now you’re exactly where the Viper wants you.

They drag you into the chamber by your arms.

The room is circular. Dim. Lined in blackened metal and rotting wood. There’s no throne—but the Viper doesn’t need one. They stand in the shadows, still and silent, as their soldiers throw you to your knees.

Hongjoong is already there—bound, barely upright, blood trailing down his temple. He lifts his head just enough to look at you. Even now, he finds you.

Even now, he smiles, albeit weakly.

The Viper steps forward—face obscured, voice low. Measured.

“You were foolish to come for him.”

You glare up at them. “You’ve made a mistake.”

They gesture, and two soldiers seize Hongjoong by the arms. You lurch forward—but they hold you fast.

The first strike lands.

His breath catches.

The second draws blood.

You thrash like a wild thing, screams tearing from your throat, desperate, broken.

“Stop! STOP!”

But they don’t. Because this is the point. Not to kill him.

To break you.

You scream until your voice cracks, heart pounding, chest heaving, your body trembling—still no fire. It doesn’t come. It doesn’t answer.

Why?

And then, it hits you.

The stone.

The golden shard buried beneath the ash on the Isle. The one that called to you. The one that awakened something deep inside.

You left it back on the Halcyon.

Your eyes widen. The Viper tilts their head, watching you unravel. But they’re wrong.

Because that stone was never the flame. It was the key. A key you’ve already used. The lock is open, you just haven’t dared step through. Until now.

You close your eyes, and instead of reaching outward, you reach in. Deeper. Past fear, past pain. Into that molten place that no chain can hold.

And when your eyes open again—

They burn.

The soldiers don’t have time to scream.

The fire returns with vengeance.

It erupts from your hands, your spine, your very breath.

The room ignites.

The Viper stumbles back, shrouded in smoke and flame. You rise to your feet. Hair wild. Wrists burning. Alive. And this time, they see you not as a girl, not as a weapon. But as the God-born storm that you are.

The flames roar around you.

The Serpent Fang’s inner chamber burns hotter than any forge, your power ripping through rotted timber and bloodstained stone like it’s been waiting all your life to be set loose.

You tear the chains from Hongjoong’s wrists, melting the manacles like wax. He crumples, coughing, but you catch him—hold him upright, one arm around his back.

“Can you move?” you ask.

His breath is ragged, but his smile is sharp.

“Not fast. But I can burn with you.”

Together, you move through the licks of molten fury, as one.

Sirens scream from the depths of the ship, alarms finally blaring, boots hammering overhead, but you are already running.

And above you—far above, across the stretch of sea—The Halcyon sees it.

From the deck, San grips the railing, eyes fixed on the distant ship now lit from within.

“There,” he growls. “She’s burning it.”

Seonghwa’s voice cuts through the rising wind.

“Launch the boats. Now.”

Mingi is already moving, dragging crates of black powder into position, barking orders.

“We follow the flame—straight into the hull.”

Yeosang at the helm. Yunho readying the rigging. Wooyoung grinning like a man reborn.

“Told you she’d light the damn signal,” he mutters.

They move like one body—seven hearts pounding in time.

Your flame may have returned, but it’s the Halcyon’s steel that answers it. And as their boats cut toward the Serpent Fang, fire at their bow and vengeance in their sails—the war deepens.

You don’t stop running until you hit the open deck.

The Halcyon’s longboat waits—oars ready, sails primed. San grips the side, offering his hand without words as Mingi and Jongho haul Hongjoong aboard.

Your boots slam onto the wood. The wind catches your hair.

And behind you—

The Serpent Fang is on the move.

Not to fight. To flee.

You freeze.

Their sails are full. Ropes slicing free. Figures scrambling across the deck—not toward you, but away. They’re retreating.

The Halcyon crew whoop from behind you. Cheers rise. You hear Wooyoung crow, “That’s right! Run!”

San claps a hand to your shoulder. “You burned them good. They’re scared of you now.”

But you don’t move. Your fingers curl into your palms.

Because they’re not running.

They’re regrouping. Reforming. Planning something worse.

You know this tactic. The Fang never quit, never flee. Unless they already knew their next move. Unless this was never the end—but a prelude.

Your eyes lift to the horizon.

The Isle waits beyond it. The island that bore you. The secrets buried in ash.

And still—you must go.

Because now that they’ve seen your fire, they will stop at nothing to control it.

~

The deck of the Halcyon erupts as the boat touches hull. Hands reach down, grasping yours, lifting you up.

You stumble as your boots hit the wood, eyes adjusting to the light, the air, the freedom. And then Hongjoong is beside you, slumped against the mast but breathing—alive.

Wooyoung throws his arms up like you’ve just won the whole war. “That’s how it’s done!”

Mingi claps you on the back—hard. “You burned their sails off, Pyra. I think I’m finally starting to like you.”

San grins like he’s high on adrenaline. “Took out four of their guards in one breath—remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Even Jongho, usually silent, gives you a nod of respect as he tosses a water flask to Hongjoong.

And for a moment—you almost feel it. Like maybe you’ve done it. Like maybe you’re safe.

But then your eyes drift to the shrinking silhouette of the Serpent Fang, already vanishing into the horizon, its sails full and fast.

Your jaw tightens.

Seonghwa notices immediately.

He steps beside you. “You are not celebrating.”

You shake your head once. “They’re not running.”

He nods. “No. They are repositioning.”

You glance at him. No judgment. No fear. Just fact. And beneath it, trust.

You lean against the rail.

Hongjoong’s gaze finds yours across the deck. Bruised. Bloodied. Still burning. And suddenly the cheers around you fade, because what’s ahead isn’t victory.

It’s reckoning. And you’re leading them straight into it.

The celebration fades as the sun begins to slip beneath the sea.

You slip away with it.

The cheers, the laughter—they ring hollow now. You move through the lower deck corridors without a word, each step echoing against wood still humming with the tension of battle.

The door to the medical bay is ajar. You push it open quietly.

Hongjoong sits on the edge of the bed, shirt half-open, soaked with sweat and blood. He’s already waved off the crew’s medic, stubborn as ever, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other holding a bloodied cloth he clearly hasn’t been using properly.

You don’t say anything, you just step inside and close the door behind you.

He looks up. Eyes weary. Watchful.

“You should be resting,” he murmurs.

“So should you.”

You cross the room. He tries to sit straighter, but winces.

You move faster then; gentler than he’s ever seen you.

You stand before him, taking the cloth from his hand without asking. You set it aside and reach for the clean water basin, soaking a fresh bandage.

Then—softly, slowly—you begin to clean the blood from his chest.

He flinches again, but not from pain this time, from the way you touch him. Like he’s something worth saving.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

You don’t meet his eyes.

“I’m thinking.” A pause. Then, quieter— “You could’ve died in there.”

He watches you.

“So could you.”

Your hands tremble, just slightly. But you keep working.

When you finish, you wrap the bandages carefully, anchoring them across his ribs. His breathing slows as you do.

Then you pause—fingers resting against his skin, and for once, you don’t pull away. And he doesn’t speak. Not until your voice breaks the silence. Small, fragile.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

He lifts his hand, resting it over yours.

“I have.”

You look up.

“I almost…” you pause, breath hitching, the bandage half-wrapped in your hands, “…lost you.”

It slips out before you can swallow it back.

And then it happens—a tear, hot and uninvited, tracking down your cheek like a betrayal.

You blink hard. Your jaw tightens.

You can’t remember the last time you cried, certainly not in front of someone. Not like this.

Not him.

Hongjoong stays perfectly still, his eyes never leaving your face. His hand still rests over yours—warm, steady, grounding.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” you whisper. “I thought I’d never get the chance to tell you I—”

You stop.

The words coil at the edge of your throat, teeth gritted against them.

Because if you say it, you can’t take it back. And you’re not sure what’s more terrifying. That he might not say it back—or that he could utter the same words in response.

The silence stretches.

Then, softly, he reaches up, thumb brushing the trail your tear left behind.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask. He just lets you be held. Seen.

And maybe that’s what love is. Not always spoken; but never hidden.

~

A few days later, amongst the plethora of strategy meetings and careful, precise, planning; something unfolds below deck. Quietly, at first.

A slip of parchment, found in the mess. A second, buried under a floorboard in the lower cargo hold. Both marked with a cipher only a few aboard the Halcyon can read—and Wooyoung is one of them. It confirms what he had been suspecting all along.

He doesn’t shout when he finds it. He just tucks the paper into his coat, walks calmly to Seonghwa, and murmurs three words.

“We’ve been breached.”

Within the hour, the suspect is cornered and confirmed. A young deckhand. Not one of the senior crew. Someone who kept to the shadows, quiet, seemingly loyal.

He swore he was just passing notes, didn’t even know what they meant. Didn’t know they were for the Fang.

He begs.

He weeps.

But Mingi doesn’t speak.

He drags the boy by the back of his collar through the lower passageways, down into the rusted belly of the ship, San walking silently behind them. When they reach the bottom, San closes the hatch.

Mingi turns to the traitor. His voice is low, even.

“You put the captain’s life at risk.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Crack.

The first punch lands, splitting his lip.

San doesn’t move to stop it, because he’s only just begun.

Mingi doesn’t rage. Doesn’t scream. He works in silence—his fists methodical, unrelenting. You don’t betray your crew and walk away with breath still in your lungs.

San steps forward once the boy drops to his knees.

He crouches, knife drawn—but not raised. His voice is calm. Deadly.

“You should’ve known what we do to rats.”

The traitor doesn’t answer, just spits blood onto the floor. He looks up at them, eyes dark now, and smiles. A cold, menacing grin, nothing like the boy they first dragged down into the depths.

“Long live the Fang.”

By the time they leave the hold, blood stains the floorboards. The boy breathes—but only just.

They don’t throw him overboard. They want him to live long enough to remember. And the crew? The crew doesn’t ask. They just tighten the circle again.

Because the Halcyon is a family, and family protects its own.

~

The Halcyon creaks softly under the weight of silence and salt.

The morning sun rises clean over the water, its light catching the sails like golden fire. The sirens are gone, the Fang’s sails nothing but a memory on the horizon. The sea is still—not lifeless, but listening.

The crew moves with quiet purpose.

Not relaxed. Ready.

Seonghwa stands at the helm, arms crossed as Yeosang adjusts their heading. A light wind curls around the sails as Yunho secures the last line. They move as one—tighter now, leaner, like the storm pulled all the slack out of their seams.

Below deck, you hear someone murmur—

“We’ve tied off the breach.”

They don’t name the traitor; there’s no need to. The loose end is gone.

The ship is whole again, and now, it sails forward.

You stand near the bow, arms resting on the rail. The breeze brushes your skin, cool and strange. Like it’s touching something beneath the surface of you. Like it knows.

The Isle is out there.

Somewhere beyond the shimmer on the horizon.

You don’t know how you’ll find it, or how to reveal it. But you can feel it stirring. Like a call. Like something ancient and buried beginning to breathe again.

And you think, maybe it isn’t about finding the island at all. Maybe it’s waiting for you.

The war cabin is dim, but steady.

Map stretched across the table. Compass balanced beside it, spinning furiously, not settling. The outline of the known world ends where your story begins.

You stand at the edge of the room, arms crossed, flame buried just beneath your skin. Hongjoong sits opposite, bruises fading but not forgotten. His eyes meet yours once, brief—but there’s a world in that look.

Seonghwa clears his throat.

“We are approaching the outer edge of the coordinates you gave us,” he says. “There is nothing on any chart. No island. No markers.”

“It’s hidden,” Yeosang adds, voice measured. “Intentionally. This place… it’s warded. Not by magic I understand.”

“It’s not magic,” you say quietly. “It’s memory.”

The room stills.

Mingi tilts his head. “Memory?”

You nod. “The island doesn’t want to be found by those who weren’t meant to return to it.”

“Are you meant to return?” Jongho asks.

You pause.

“I don’t know.”

Hongjoong speaks, low and certain. “We’ll find it.”

San leans forward. “And if the Fang are waiting?”

“Then we burn them to ash,” Wooyoung mutters.

You let the silence settle again, letting your voice cut through it softly. “I don’t know how to reveal it. Not yet. But it’s waking. I can feel it. Being near it—it’s like something inside me is beginning to remember.”

Seonghwa nods once.

“Then we prepare to anchor.”

~

The sea is still. Too still.

Waves lap gently against the hull of the Halcyon, but the water offers no secrets. No shimmer of land. No shape in the mist.

Nothing.

You stand at the bow, eyes fixed on the horizon. The air is thick with salt and silence. Behind you, the crew waits. Watches.

Hongjoong stays quiet. Seonghwa’s hand rests at the rail, eyes narrowed.

Yeosang scans the compass again. “We’re at the exact coordinates.”

“But there’s nothing here,” Mingi mutters.

They all turn to you, but you don’t move. Because you feel it.

The pull.

A hum deep beneath your skin. A whisper curling at the edge of your hearing.

Then—a voice.

Not here. Not now. Then.

You are small. A baby. Swaddled in soft cloth, the world around you nothing but warmth and shadow. You can’t see her face, but you know her hands. Her touch. The scent of cedar and ash.

And her voice—shaking.

“I’m sorry, my precious girl.” Fingers brush your cheek. They linger. “It is not safe. You must stay hidden. You must forget the Isle.”

You whimper softly, the sound of innocence and parting.

“But when the time comes… when you return…”

A tear lands on your blanket.

“You must give a piece of yourself.”

You blink, and the world sharpens.

You reach down—slowly, deliberately—and draw the dagger from the strap at your thigh.

You hear footsteps behind you. Someone says your name. But you don’t turn.

You press the blade to your palm.

And slice.

The pain flashes sharp—but fleeting. Blood spills freely, warm and scarlet. You stretch your hand out over the rail and let it fall, drip by drip, into the sea.

Nothing.

Then—

Everything.

The ocean rumbles, deep and thunderous. The deck quakes. The crew shouts, grabbing for the rigging, the railings.

Seonghwa yells, “Brace!”

Waves split beneath the Halcyon, parting like jaws, dragging the ship down—down—down through a trench that was never there before. Mist explodes upward. Wind howls around you.

And then—

Stillness.

You rise slowly from where you’ve braced yourself, eyes locked ahead.

The sea calms.

And beyond the foam, rising out of the golden light, is land. Verdant cliffs, ruins swallowed by ivy, black sand glittering like starlight.

The Isle of Gold.

And you? You just brought them home.

[thetidesthatturn]

TIDES OF FIRE AND GOLD TAGLIST

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[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, sexual content/references (foreplay freceiving, penetrative sex, biting), use of Y/N, abuse, alcohol use - list is extensive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

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

A/N: this chapter is almost 10k words lmaoooo sorry…

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SEVEN >>

CHAPTER SIX - THE BLURRED LINE

You sit on the edge of your cot.

Still.

Not because you’re calm, but because your body hasn’t figured out how to move yet. Not after what just happened. Not after him.

You exhale, slow, controlled. It doesn’t steady you.

You let it happen. You wanted it to happen.

The feel of his hands, rough and reverent. The way he looked at you like he was already undone. The fire between you—not the kind you can conjure, but the kind you can’t control. And when it ended, he didn’t ask for anything, he just looked at you.

Like you weren’t a weapon.

Like you weren’t even a mystery.

Like you were real.

And gods help you—you told him your name. Not Pyra. Not what the Fang branded you. The real one. The one no one was supposed to know.

You told him. And now he carries it.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, head bowed into your hands. You don’t regret it. Not the fire, not the kiss. Not the way he touched you like he was afraid and fearless all at once. But it terrifies you what it means, because if he can see you… If he can reach you… He can hurt you.

You’ve spent fifteen years surviving by being unreadable. Untouchable. And now, in the span of a night, you’ve given him more than anyone has ever been allowed to hold.

A truth.

A name.

A part of you.

You lift your head, slowly, eyes fixed on the dark porthole where the ocean waits in silence. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But tonight… You let him in, and you don’t know if that makes you stronger, or doomed.

The next morning, you’re not sure why, but you make your way towards the galley. Warm light filters through the portholes, casting golden streaks across long wooden tables. The scent of fresh bread, salt, and something spiced hangs in the air.

Voices hum around the room—quiet laughter, the clatter of cutlery, boots tapping against wood.

The Halcyon is alive.

You linger at the edge of it all for a moment, tray in hand.

You could leave. You could take your meal to your quarters, as you always have. No one would question it. But something stops you. It’s not obligation, nor pity. Something else.

You walk to the long table near the centre. Their table. The one where everyone but Hongjoong and Seonghwa are present.

Jongho notices you first. His expression flickers—surprise, then something like respect. He shifts to make room beside him, and you sit. The conversation quiets—just for a beat. Then Wooyoung grins wide. “Look who finally decided to join the living.”

San elbows him lightly. “Shut up, she’s eating.”

You raise a brow, but don’t snap. You just lift your mug and take a sip.

Yunho passes you a plate of sliced fruit. You take it without a word.

Small things, but they feel massive.

“Bet she’s already memorised the layout of the whole ship,” Mingi mutters around a bite of bread. “Probably knows how to kill all of us with a spoon.”

You glance at him. “Spoons are inefficient.”

The entire table stills, just for a moment, then Wooyoung cackles. “Oh, she’s in. That’s it. She’s one of us.”

Even Mingi allows the smallest flicker of amusement to cross his face.

You don’t smile, not really. But your shoulders ease. You let your hand rest on the table, fingers relaxed, not curled into fists. You stay, and you eat, surrounded by your new crew. And for the first time, it feels like you aren’t just surviving aboard this ship. You’re part of it.

Elsewhere, on the upper deck of the Halcyon, the morning mist clings to the rigging as the sun begins to rise, gilding the waves with a light that feels far too peaceful for the truth of what lingers in the air.

Seonghwa stands with hands clasped neatly behind his back, eyes on the horizon—but his attention is fixed elsewhere. Beside him, Hongjoong leans over the rail, silent. Thoughtful. His fingers tap idly against the railing. Restless, but only slightly.

“I want her moved.”

The words are low, but certain.

Seonghwa turns his head only slightly. “Permanently?”

Hongjoong nods once. “She belongs with the senior crew now, out of that confined space.”

Seonghwa offers a measured pause, as if giving the weight of the moment a place to land.

“Very well. I will see to it today.”

Silence stretches between them, but then something shifts in Seonghwa’s posture. His tone, still formal, gentles slightly. “If I may speak freely, Captain…?”

Hongjoong glances at him. A nod.

Seonghwa doesn’t meet his eyes when he speaks—he rarely needs to.

“I do not mean to intrude, nor to assume…” He pauses. Chooses his words like steps over glass, “…but something has changed. Between the two of you.”

A beat.

“A lot has transpired, but even I can see you are not yourself.”

Hongjoong exhales slowly, then straightens. “No,” he says simply. “I am not.”

He pauses briefly, gathering himself. He doesn’t offer a lie. Doesn’t give away the truth. Instead— “Let the crew think the decision is collective. She doesn’t need more eyes on her than she already has.”

Seonghwa studies him for a quiet moment.

Then nods. “As you wish, Captain. She certainly has earned a level of discretion.”

And the conversation ends. Not coldly. Just with the weight of what neither of them can say aloud.

After breakfast, you make your way to the stern, as you usually do when you need a moment alone with your own thoughts. The sky is bright now, the breeze cool, but the sound of waves against the hull offers a kind of rhythm that stills your racing thoughts.

You stand with your hands braced on the railing, eyes on the horizon, the hum of the crew drifting faintly from elsewhere on the ship. Just you and the quiet whispers of the sea.

You didn’t expect company, but company, you get.

“Not hiding, are you?”

You don’t turn, but you know the voice. Wooyoung.

He approaches like someone who’s done it a hundred times before. Like he belongs next to you. He doesn’t push. He just leans beside you, arms crossed on the railing, gaze following yours. For a few moments, neither of you speak. Then he breaks the silence.

“You surprised me back there,” he says quietly.

You raise a brow.

“At breakfast.” A half-smile tugs at his lips. “I didn’t think we’d ever hear you say anything that wasn’t a threat or a tactical observation.”

You scoff, just barely. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

He grins. “Just don’t start telling jokes. That might actually break Seonghwa.”

You glance sideways. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s a small thing. A flicker of warmth. But it lingers longer than it should.

The quiet between you settles again—but this time, it feels easier. Less like walls. More like space you’ve allowed him into.

Then—footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Wooyoung smirks. “Speak of the devil.”

Seonghwa stops a few paces behind you, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“Pyra,” he says. “Come with me, if you will.”

You turn. Frown slightly. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to. He just steps back and waits.

You glance once at Wooyoung, who shrugs, then grins. “Better follow him. He only uses that tone when something important is happening.”

You hesitate. But then—quietly—you go.

The ship hums around you, steady and strong beneath your boots. You follow Seonghwa through the narrow corridors of the Halcyon, your steps echoing softly in the quiet. He doesn’t explain where you’re going. You don’t ask. You know better than to expect explanations from a man like him.

He walks beside you with that familiar air—measured, silent, unshakable. For a while, that’s all there is. Wood, wind, footsteps. Then, as you pass the lower stairwell, he speaks.

“You do understand that your place on this ship has changed.”

You glance at him. “So I’m told.”

He offers the smallest tilt of his head in acknowledgment.

“With that change comes a responsibility. The crew sees you now as something more than a guest… and more than a weapon.”

You stop. Just for a breath. “And what exactly do they see me as?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“That is still unfolding,” he says finally. “But regardless of perception, you will need a designation. A rank.” He looks over at you. “Something that anchors your place aboard this vessel. It is not simply tradition—it is structure. Order. The kind of certainty a crew depends on when everything else is chaos.”

You don’t respond, but you don’t object either.

A few more steps.

You’re near the upper deck now, where only senior crew reside. That realisation doesn’t strike until Seonghwa stops at a door you’ve never noticed before. He gestures toward it.

A brass plate glints beside it—unmarked but unmistakably new.

You blink. “What is this?”

Seonghwa doesn’t smile. But his voice is gentler when he speaks.

“Your quarters.”

You turn to him sharply, and he holds your gaze.

“You are no longer a passenger. No longer in waiting.”

A beat.

“Welcome to the crew, Pyra.”

He bows his head, as always—graceful, formal, sincere. Then he turns and walks away, leaving you at the threshold. One hand on the doorknob, and more weight behind it than you know how to carry.

What feels like hours pass as you stare at the door, not because it’s imposing, but because it isn’t. It’s simple. Clean. Polished. Unremarkable to anyone else.

But to you—it’s everything.

You turn the handle slowly, the door swinging open with a quiet click.

Inside, the quarters are modest compared to the captain’s, but still—they’re far more than what you’ve ever known. A real bed with clean linens. Shelving carved into the walls. A sturdy writing desk tucked beneath the porthole, where golden light filters in through sheer curtains. A wardrobe stands against the far wall. A small basin rests on a cabinet. And atop the nightstand, folded with care, a fresh shirt and a dark coat.

A uniform.

Your uniform.

Your boots don’t make a sound as you step inside.

The door closes behind you, and suddenly the noise of the ship—the wind, the creak of rigging, the voices—fades. You’re alone, and this time, you chose it.

Your fingers drift across the edge of the desk, trailing over its surface like you’re trying to prove it’s real. You glance toward the wardrobe, the window, the folded coat. Your eyes sting, but nothing falls. You move to the bed and sit carefully, as if the whole thing might vanish beneath you. But it doesn’t.

It holds, just like the crew did.

Just like Hongjoong did.

Your hands clench briefly in your lap. Not in fear. Not even in anger. In disbelief. Because you’ve burned everything you’ve ever touched. But this? This is still standing.

And that might be the most terrifying part of all.

~

You don’t hear the knock at first.

You’re too lost in the silence. In the way this room breathes like it was waiting for you.

Then—three soft taps.

You rise without thinking, crossing the space in slow steps. You open the door.

Hongjoong.

He stands there, one hand still raised from knocking. His coat is gone, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He doesn’t look like the captain right now. He looks like the man you let past your defences. The man you gave your name to.

You step aside, and he enters without a word.

For a moment, he simply looks around. At the space. At you in it. Then he turns to face you, hands in his pockets, a rare flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“How does it feel?”

You glance around. “Unsettling.”

That earns the barest curve of a smile.

“But not unwelcome,” you add, quieter.

He nods. Walks a slow circle around the room, like he’s making sure you’re safe—not from danger, but from the weight of permanence. Finally, he stops near the window.

“Seonghwa said you didn’t ask where the room came from.”

You meet his eyes.

“I already knew.”

He swallows once, and the silence stretches. Then he speaks again—soft, careful.

“I thought about saying it last night. When you gave it to me.”

Your heart stutters.

“Your name.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He watches you. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t push. Then, so quietly that you almost miss it, “May I?”

You hesitate. Not because you doubt him—but because it feels like a lifetime since someone has spoke it aloud.

He breathes in, eyes on you. And you nod.

“Y/N.”

You stand frozen for a heartbeat. His voice still hangs in the air—soft, reverent, like the name he spoke could break if said too loud. The name you held secret for fifteen years, the name that was erased along with your past. It should send shivers down your spine. But from his lips… It sounds like a vow. Like home.

You don’t realise you’re shaking until he takes a careful step closer. Still waiting. Still letting you decide.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Say it again.”

“Y/N.”

And it breaks something open.

You crash into him.

Your lips find his, sudden and fierce, and he catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. It’s not gentle—it’s everything you’ve both held back, everything you’re terrified to want.

He kisses you like you’re the only thing left in the world that makes sense. And you let him, because maybe you are.

His hands slide over your back, slow but sure, anchoring you to him. You thread your fingers into his hair, pull him closer, deeper, more. His breath stutters against your mouth when you whisper his name back.

“Hongjoong.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Foreheads pressed together. Breathing hard. Hearts wild.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“Hongjoong.”

And with that—he kisses you again. Not to take. Not to mark. But to remember.

Because now he knows who you are, and you let him in anyway.

~

The lantern burns low on the nightstand, casting golden light across tangled sheets and skin still warm from touch.

Your breath has evened out, but your pulse hasn’t. Not quite.

Hongjoong lies beside you, half on his side, one arm resting beneath the curve of your waist, the other hand brushing slowly over your back—fingers tracing lazy lines, like he’s memorising the shape of peace.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s full. Soft.

Safe.

You’re curled toward him, chin near his collarbone, your hand resting against his chest—rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.

He hasn’t said your name again.

Not out of hesitation. Out of respect.

Like he knows it doesn’t need to be spoken to still be present between you.

You let your fingers shift slightly, brushing over the the base of his throat. He exhales, eyes half-lidded, watching you quietly.

“Was this always going to happen?” you murmur.

His thumb moves slowly across your spine.

“No.” A pause. “But I think it always wanted to.”

You press your cheek against his chest, listening to the beat beneath your ear. The sound of someone alive. Real. The man behind the captain.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. Neither does he. The silence holds, warm and deep. But your eyes have found something now—the ink.

Etched across his chest, sprawling in fragments, curling over his ribs and toward his collarbone. The ones you noticed that first day—when the Fang’s ship was infiltrated—but never thought of again.

Symbols. Not decorative. Not random.

You lift your hand, trace the nearest one lightly with your fingertip.

“What are they?” you ask, voice soft.

Hongjoong glances down, then exhales through his nose—something almost like a laugh, but not amused.

“Reminders.”

Your finger stills.

He shifts slightly beneath you, resting back against the pillows, his gaze fixed on the ceiling now.

“Each one is a year I survived.” A pause. “After they took me.”

Your breath catches. “The Fang?”

He nods once, slowly. “I was ten. My parents were merchants. Our ship was supposed to be protected—under oath by the Fang, part of a deal I still don’t fully understand. But the deal was broken. Or maybe it never meant anything to them to begin with.”

His voice is steady. Detached, like it’s a story he’s told himself so many times it no longer belongs to him.

“They killed my parents. Took me. Sold me off. I ended up on a ship, a work vessel. Crew of boys. Broken ones.”

Your heart stirs.

“That ship,” you whisper. “The one the Fang ran out of the western port. Gray sails. Low hold. Captain with a serpent carved into his jaw.”

His head turns slowly, and your breath stills.

You remember that ship.

The smell of it, the sound of chains. The cold.

His eyes lock with yours, and you both know. You were on it. At the same time.

You, a child half-lost, trained in silence and fire. Him, a boy carving years into his skin with ink and memory.

Your hand returns to his chest. Resting, steady.

“You were always there,” you murmur.

“So were you.”

And neither of you say it aloud—but you both feel it. You survived together. Even if you didn’t know it.

~

The light wakes you before the sound does.

Soft, golden, slipping through the narrow slats of the porthole. It touches your bare shoulder first, then the edge of the sheets, warming skin still marked by the night before.

You don’t move, you listen.

The ship creaks softly around you. The hum of the crew has started again—distant footsteps, muffled voices, the low whistle of someone on deck already giving orders.

You breathe in slowly.

Hongjoong is still beside you. His arm is draped over your waist, his face turned slightly toward you, relaxed in a way you’ve never seen him. Like for once, the storm inside him isn’t trying to tear something apart.

You don’t wake him. Not yet. Because for this one, fleeting morning, the war is far away. So, you let yourself stay, just for a moment longer.

Not until—a knock.

Three sharp, controlled raps on the door.

“Pyra?”

Yunho’s voice. Clear. Curious. “You’re wanted on deck when you’re ready.”

You freeze.

So does Hongjoong, who is now awake and alert.

Silence expands between you like held breath. You glance back at him. His face is calm, but his eyes burn with calculation.

“Shit.” He breathes, springing up to gather his clothes from the floor. He pulls them on hastily, smoothing his shirt.

He opens the door just enough to step out, keen to protect your privacy.

“She’s on her way,” he says evenly. “Let her breathe.”

Yunho tilts his head, surprised. “Didn’t know you were—”

“Moving through,” Hongjoong finishes. “Dismissed.”

Yunho nods slowly. “Right, Captain.”

The moment passes, and the captain disappears down the hall, unmarked, unseen.

You exhale from the confines of your sheets, adrenaline buzzing in your bones. You rise slowly, dressing for the day. You pull on your boots and smooth down your hair, then walk across to the basin and splash your face with water.

Because now the day has truly begun, and no one can know just how it started.

You step onto the main deck, shoulders squared, the sea breeze brushing over skin still humming from the night before.

The light is clean this morning—clear and bright. Sails snap softly overhead. Ropes creak. Boots thud. The Halcyon is in motion.

And now, you are, too.

For a moment, no one says anything.

Then—

“Morning,” Yunho calls from the upper rigging, as if nothing at all is strange about you appearing from the senior quarters. His voice is light, but his eyes flick down, sharp and searching. He notes everything. Says nothing.

You nod once in reply.

San strolls past you, pulling on a leather glove. “Still alive, then. Good to know.”

Wooyoung leans against a barrel near the helm, already halfway through a pear, watching you over the edge of it like he’s trying to decode something.

You keep walking.

Because if you stop—if you second-guess—they’ll know.

But what surprises you is what comes next.

Jongho, steady at the wheel, gives you a small nod. Not mocking. Not testing. Just… recognition.

You make your way to the railing at midship, hands braced lightly on the edge, eyes on the sea. Behind you, the crew moves. Not around you. With you. No one says your name. No one dares ask what you are to the captain.

But for the first time, you can feel it; you’re one of them.

Not because of what you told them. Not because of the fire. But because you stayed, and they saw you choose them.

But the calm doesn’t last, it never does.

You sense it before anyone speaks it aloud—a shift in the air, a murmuring beneath the waves, as if the sea itself is holding its breath.

“Incoming signal!”

Yeosang’s voice from the crow’s nest, clear, sharp, and urgent.

You turn just as Seonghwa appears at your side, eyes lifted, calculating every angle before the words leave his mouth.

“It’s not a ship,” he says, already moving. “It’s a bird.”

Your stomach knots.

A trained messenger hawk. One you recognise.

Hongjoong appears from below deck in the same breath—coat buttoned, expression unreadable as the bird descends in a tight spiral toward the mast.

Yeosang catches it cleanly on his arm. Seonghwa cuts the binding from its leg and unfurls the small scroll tucked inside.

Silence drops over the deck like a blade.

He reads it once. Twice. Then he hands it to Hongjoong.

Hongjoong’s jaw tightens.

You step closer. “What is it?”

He doesn’t look at you as he answers. “A village south of the island. Burned. The Fang’s mark was left in ash.”

A hush falls over the crew.

And then, softly—Jongho speaks from the helm.

“They’re hunting.”

No one argues, because they know he’s right. This wasn’t a message. It was a warning.

The call goes out within minutes of the message being read.

Boots echo. Doors open. Voices fall to quiet urgency as the senior crew assembles in the war cabin—all of them.

Seonghwa enters first, hands behind his back, composed but unmistakably sharp. San, arms crossed, leans against the wall. Mingi slams the door behind him with more force than necessary, fire already in his eyes. Yeosang, quiet, but simmering under the surface. Yunho takes a seat at the far end, calm but alert. Wooyoung enters last, eyes scanning everyone, especially you.

Hongjoong stands at the head of the table, the scroll now flattened beneath his palm.

“They’re baiting us.” His voice is low. Measured. “Scouting routes. Destroying any port we might attempt to use for supplies. They’re trying to funnel us—toward something.”

“Or someone,” Mingi mutters, pointed.

You don’t flinch, but you meet his gaze.

Hongjoong continues. “We have two options. Cut through the reef at Silvermaw and risk the open current—or take the long route and double our chances of being seen.”

“And if we take either route,” Wooyoung says slowly, “they’ll know exactly where we’re going.”

The silence stretches.

Then Yunho speaks.

“So what’s her role in all of this?”

He doesn’t look at you, he looks at Hongjoong.

The shift is subtle. Deliberate.

Then San leans forward. “She’s one of us now. Fine. But what is she? What’s her rank?”

They all look at you, not with suspicion, with expectation. Because if you’re going to stand at this table—you need a title. Not to define you, but to place you in the storm they’re about to sail into.

And for the first time, they’re not demanding it. They’re offering it.

A seat.

At the head of the table, Hongjoong leans forward slightly, fingers drumming once against the surface before folding neatly.

“We don’t hand out rank lightly,” he says, gaze flicking from one face to the next. “It’s not just about title—it’s about function. Loyalty. Skill.”

Seonghwa, standing at his side, inclines his head. “We have no open slots among the core command.” he glances toward you. “She does not fit neatly into the ranks we’ve defined.”

Yunho shifts slightly in his seat. Wooyoung raises a brow, but says nothing.

San exhales. “So what then? We just make something up?”

“She doesn’t need a placeholder,” Mingi mutters. “She needs a purpose.”

Silence settles again.

Then—

“She has one.”

The voice cuts through the tension. Not loud, but clear.

Everyone turns.

Yeosang.

Usually quiet. Always observing. Now, speaking.

“She reads the tides like no one else. Navigates more than water.” He looks directly at you now. “She sees patterns. Movement. Tension. She’s instinct and calculation. That’s not coincidence.”

He turns back to the table.

“Make her the Watcher.”

A beat.

Hongjoong’s brows lift slightly.

San blinks. “That’s not a title.”

“No,” Yeosang says softly. “It’s a role. Let her be our eyes. Our pulse reader. The one who sees what the rest of us miss. She’ll fit in tightly alongside Wooyoung and I.”

Seonghwa doesn’t object, which is as close to agreement as he gives.

Hongjoong studies you again—longer this time, then nods once.

“If you accept it.”

The room waits, but this time, you don’t hesitate. You rise from your seat, voice steady.

“Then let me watch, Captain.”

And with that—you are no longer drifting. You are anchored.

The Halcyon has a Watcher.

~

The war cabin empties slower than usual. There’s no loud chatter, no celebratory remarks.

But something has changed.

As the rest of the crew filters out, you catch it in their eyes—recognition. A shift in the way they look at you. Not warily. Not suspiciously.

Curiously. Respectfully.

You step out into the corridor, and the hum of the ship feels… different.

Yunho is the first to nod your way as he passes, his large frame brushing gently against your shoulder like a silent acknowledgment. San gives you a once-over as he lingers near the weapon racks, then smirks slightly, just enough to say, ‘not bad’. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

Wooyoung catches up beside you near the steps, offering an elbow bump as if nothing’s changed.

“Guess I have to start taking you seriously now,” he teases, but his eyes shine with something else—pride.

You don’t smile. Not quite. But your shoulders ease.

Yeosang appears ahead, waiting calmly near the helm. His posture, as always, is quiet precision—but when your eyes meet his, he inclines his head. Barely.

A commander’s nod.

You’re one of them now.

And though not every crewmember shows it openly, you feel it in the air—the adjustment. The subtle recalibration that comes when someone steps from shadow into title.

No longer a ghost.

No longer a threat.

A leader.

Moments later, you’re standing at the rail again. The same place you always return to. The ship moves steadily beneath you—sails full, crew settling into rhythm—but your thoughts wander far ahead of the bow. To what’s coming. To what’s been.

You hear the footsteps before you feel the shift in air beside you.

Jongho.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just leans beside you, forearms on the railing, eyes fixed on the horizon like you.

You wait. He waits longer.

Then, quietly—

“You didn’t have to save us.”

Your fingers curl slightly around the wood. Still, you say nothing.

“Back on the island,” he continues. “You could’ve let them take us. Or killed all four of them. No one would’ve blamed you for that either.”

Your voice is low. Steady.

“I didn’t do it for praise.”

He nods.

“I know.”

Another pause, then, softer, “That’s why it meant something.”

You turn your head to look at him. He’s not smiling, but there’s something warm in his eyes. Solid. Grounded. The kind of thing you never learned to trust—until now.

“You belong here,” he says. “You’ve earned that. And if anyone gives you grief over it…” His gaze flick briefly to the deck below, where Mingi’s bark echoes through the hold. “…just point. I’ll break something for you.”

You huff a quiet breath. Not a laugh, but not far from it. You glance forward again, letting the wind sweep past your face.

“Thanks,” you say, and the word feels strange in your mouth.

You don’t say thank you. Not to anyone.

Jongho blinks, surprised, but he doesn’t press it. He just leans beside you again.

Strong. Silent. Loyal.

And slowly, you start to believe—maybe you don’t have to carry it all alone.

~

Below deck, in a narrow chamber tucked behind the charting room—once used for private navigation meetings but now claimed by the Halcyon’s newly formed intelligence unit, the meeting begins.

You’re the last to enter.

The door clicks shut behind you, and Wooyoung immediately tosses a handful of scrolls and letters onto the table.

“These came through three different channels,” he says, already moving as he speaks. “North port of Aris, the spice docks in Tahlmer, and one from someone who signs their name with a broken feather—still don’t know who they are, but they’ve never been wrong.”

Yeosang doesn’t flinch at the disarray. He’s already unrolling a map, pinning corners with lead weights. “The patterns hold,” he murmurs. “They’re pushing us eastward. Deliberately.”

“Which puts us within reach of the Obsidian Straits,” Wooyoung finishes. “Where the Fang’s influence thins. Or so they want us to believe.”

You approach the table, eyes scanning the reports. Messages written in shifting hands. Half-burned symbols. Coordinates. Blood-stained warnings.

You see it.

Not the words—but the spaces between them. You tap a line of coordinates and speak, voice firm.

“They’re not driving us to the straits. They’re herding us toward something buried. Look—each route they’ve cut off leads us closer to here.”

You circle an unmarked stretch of sea on the map.

Yeosang’s brow furrows. “That island chain hasn’t been mapped in over a decade.”

“Exactly,” you murmur.

Wooyoung whistles low. “We might have just found their staging ground.”

The room holds its breath.

Maps lie still beneath your fingertips. Scrolls curl at the corners. Wooyoung is mid-sentence when you freeze.

Your eyes unfocus—just for a second. Like something just clicked behind them.

And everything shifts.

“No…”

It leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

“No, this isn’t a staging ground.”

Yeosang looks up immediately.

Wooyoung straightens. “What are you talking about?”

Your throat tightens. You stare at the stretch of map. At the sea painted in grey between old islands and broken coasts.

“They’re leading us there.”

“To where?” Yeosang asks, quiet but urgent.

You don’t answer right away. Because saying it aloud feels like cutting into your own history.

Your hands tremble slightly as they press against the table. You close your eyes—and suddenly it floods back.

Ash.

Fire.

Screaming.

A sky black with smoke.

A girl alone on the sand.

You open your eyes. “The Isle,” you whisper. “The Isle of Gold.”

The room goes still.

Wooyoung frowns. “We’ve spent years trying to find the Isle, there’s no way it could be there. This has to be wrong.”

“No,” you say. “It’s not.”

Yeosang’s eyes are on you now—wide, calculating. “You’ve been there.”

You nod once.

“I was born there.”

You can feel their eyes on you, but you’ve said too much already.

You steady your voice.

“They’ve been guiding us there. Every port they’ve cut off, every message they’ve let slip… it’s all meant to push us toward it.”

Yeosang’s hands flatten over the chart. “But the Isle doesn’t appear on any of these maps.”

You nod. “It wouldn’t.”

Wooyoung squints at you. “Why not?”

You hesitate. Not long. Just enough.

“Because it doesn’t want to be found.”

They fall silent again.

You keep your gaze fixed on the sea of ink and parchment in front of you.

“It’s hidden. Protected.”

“By what?” Wooyoung presses.

You don’t answer, not directly. Instead, you point to the stretch of map again.

“This sea—this entire region—changes. Shifts. Currents that shouldn’t move the way they do. Weather that turns too fast. Compasses that spin for no reason. That’s not accident. That’s protection.”

Yeosang is already taking mental notes. His brow furrows deeper by the second.

“And the Fang?”

“They want something buried there.” A beat. “Something no one else is meant to find. And I’m the key.”

You don’t say what. You don’t say why. Because you can feel it burning in your chest—the knowledge, the fear, the truth. But for now, this is enough, and it’s more than you’ve given anyone before.

The war cabin fills once more.

The crew enters quickly this time—something in the air has changed. A sense of urgency hangs over the room, low and taut like the first roll of thunder before a storm.

Hongjoong sits at the head of the table.

You stand near the back wall—present, but saying nothing.

Wooyoung unfurls the same chart you traced only minutes ago, laying it flat across the centre of the table.

Yeosang steps forward.

“We’ve reviewed all incoming signals, pattern disruptions, and movements from the Fang,” he begins. His voice is calm, steady. No embellishment.

“It’s not random. They’re herding us.”

Mingi leans forward. “To where?”

Wooyoung taps the unmarked region on the map. “Here. It’s not listed. Most maps cut it off completely. But Yeosang and I both tracked the patterns—they all end there.”

Seonghwa narrows his eyes. “That sector is unmapped for a reason.”

Yeosang nods. “And that reason is intentional.”

Wooyoung takes over. “Something’s there. Something they want. Maybe something they think we’re trying to protect.”

Hongjoong studies the map. His jaw is tight. “Do we know what it is?”

“No.” Yeosang glances once—just once—toward where you stand.

Then adds, “But someone doesn’t want it found.”

The silence that follows is deep.

Then Jongho speaks.

“So we’re going?”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer right away, but his eyes find yours.

He nods once. “We are.”

And just like that, the course is set. Toward the Isle. Toward the past. Toward whatever waits beneath the gold and ash.

The war cabin empties.

Chairs scrape. Boots echo. The map is rolled away.

But you’re still there—silent, unmoving, eyes fixed not on the table, but on him. Hongjoong.

He lingers behind, exchanging a few quiet words with Seonghwa. Then, just as you begin to turn toward the corridor—

“Stay.”

It’s not a command, it’s something else.

You pause.

He nods to the door. “My quarters. Now.”

A heartbeat. Then you follow.

His quarters feel different now.

Maybe it’s the way the lamplight softens the room. Or the way his coat is already hung neatly on the hook. Or maybe it’s just him—no longer behind the mask of captain, but something sharper. Quieter.

He closes the door behind you, and turns, but doesn’t speak for a long time.

Finally, his eyes find yours.

“The Isle of Gold.”

The words hang there—not a question. A reckoning.

You say nothing.

He takes a step closer. “You knew before Yeosang finished the map. You didn’t hesitate.”

Still, you’re silent.

His eyes lock with yours. “You’ve been there.”

A beat. Then two.

You nod.

It’s all he needs. But what he wants—that’s different.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His voice is low, barely more than a whisper. “We’ve been chasing fragments. Fighting ghosts. You had the one thread we needed—why didn’t you pull it?”

You meet his gaze, but your voice is harder now. “Because pulling it means I burn everything I’ve tried to keep buried.”

The air between you flickers.

“Then tell me,” he says, voice rough. “Are we walking into your past? Or your grave?”

You hesitate.

“I don’t know.”

And for once, he doesn’t press. Because he sees it in your eyes—the fear. Not of death. But of being seen.

He steps closer. Slower this time. A quiet intensity behind every motion.

“Whatever we’re walking into, I want to walk into it with my eyes open.” A pause. Then, softer. “But only if you want me there.”

Your guard falters, just a little. And you realise—he’s not just asking about the Isle. He’s asking about you.

You don’t answer him—not with words. You don’t need to, because he sees it now.

The fear.

The fury.

The fragility.

And somehow, he doesn’t pull back from it. He steps toward it. Toward you.

His footsteps are slow. Deliberate, but not uncertain. He stops just in front of you, and gently—so gently it nearly undoes you—he lifts a hand and brushes his fingers along your cheek. His thumb grazes the curve of your jaw, and he looks at you like you’re something he might ruin if he breathes too hard.

You don’t move. You let him touch you like you’re learning how to be held for the first time.

“Every time I look at you,” he says softly, “I see something different. Something dangerous. Something I can’t walk away from.”

You swallow, because part of you wants to believe him. Wants to let him.

But your voice is barely a whisper.

“You don’t know what I am.”

His lips twitch—not with a smile. Something sadder. Something deeper.

“No,” he says. “But you let me say your name. And that’s enough.”

Your breath catches.

Because he remembers.

Still.

Every syllable. Every silence.

And then he closes the gap.

One hand at your waist, the other still at your cheek, his forehead resting gently against yours.

His next words are quieter still.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t, so he doesn’t.

His lips find yours, soft at first. Testing, waiting.

And when you kiss him back, it’s not fire this time. It’s something heavier, something that aches. His mouth moves against yours like a secret. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your sorrow, your strength, your surrender.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers brushing the fabric over those marked symbols, the years carved into him.

He shivers, not from cold. From recognition.

Your lips don’t leave his, not when his hand finds your waist, not when he draws you close, not even when he breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you like he’s never seen anything so real.

Then, gently—he takes your hand.

And without a word, he leads you past the maps and charts, through the parted curtain of his quarters, into the space beyond.

His bed chamber.

Not the desk.

Not somewhere made for urgency.

This—this is different.

He pauses only once, as though giving you a chance to turn away. You don’t.

When you reach the bed, his hands are reverent. Your shirt comes away slowly, his fingers brushing over the skin beneath like each inch of you is a language he’s desperate to learn. His own shirt falls next. You trace the tattoos across his chest with the edge of your fingers, each line, each symbol—the weight of his past pressed into his skin.

He trembles under your touch.

He kisses you again, slower now, laying you down into the sheets with care, like this moment is something he doesn’t want to ruin. Your legs pull him in. His breath catches against your collarbone.

You undress each other not like strangers meeting in the dark, but like people who know exactly what this means. When his hands roam your bare skin, his touch is feather-light.

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me, you know.”

He smirks into the crook of your neck, then latches his teeth into the sensitive flesh there, drawing a gasp from your lips. Your fingers grasp into his flesh as he plants kisses from your neck to your navel, travelling lower and lower, then worshipping you from between your legs. His name on your lips sounds like a prayer, one you chant over and over. Your hands twist into his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp. It only spurs him on, drinking you in like crystal-clear waters.

When you come undone beneath him, he crawls back over you, capturing your lips once more. Not just hungry, starved.

“Tell me what you want.” He whispers between kisses.

“You, all of you.”

He stands now, his arms wrapping around your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the bed. He looks down at you like you’re the rarest of treasures, the most valuable jewel that the ocean could forge. He towers over you, arms braced at your sides, and when he eases in, the world melts around you.

His hand cradles the back of your head. His body presses into yours like you belong there—like you’ve always belonged there.

He moves slowly, deeply, rhythm guided not by hunger, but something far more devastating.

Devotion.

Every breath you take shudders through his own. Every gasp he gives is pressed into your throat, your shoulder, your lips.

You don’t speak. Because there are no words for this.

Only the quiet sound of skin against skin. The soft thud of the headboard. The way he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

And when it ends—when you both reach the edge and fall—he stays inside you, forehead resting against yours, breathless, wrecked, and more alive than you’ve ever seen him.

His hand finds yours in the sheets, fingers laced, and he doesn’t let go.

Morning comes slow after hours of being moulded together as one.

The lantern’s long gone out, and golden sunlight slips through the slats in the shutters—soft, warm, unforgiving in its honesty.

You stir first. Not because of noise. Not from a dream. Just from the feeling of him—still there.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, fingers spread low over your stomach. His breath is warm at the back of your neck. One of your legs is tangled with his beneath the sheets. Neither of you have moved.

You shift slowly, not to leave. Just to face him.

Hongjoong’s eyes are already open, watching you in the quiet.

His hand lifts to brush a strand of hair from your face, fingertips trailing along your temple, your cheek. His gaze isn’t hungry; it’s something softer.

Tentative. Bare.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You arch a brow, voice dry. “Didn’t think you were the type to cuddle.”

His lips curve lazily. “I’m not.”

Then he kisses you.

Slow. Unhurried. Familiar in a way that makes your heart throb.

You kiss him back.

His thumb brushes over your lower lip as he pulls away—just slightly. Your noses still touch. The space between you is thick with everything left unsaid.

Then—

The door crashes open.

“Captain, I’ve got someth—”

Wooyoung freezes.

Time stops.

He stands framed in the doorway, holding a stack of papers in one hand and betrayal in the other.

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

Your limbs untangle from Hongjoong’s too late—his arm still half-over you, the sheet pulled awkwardly to your chest. Hongjoong sits up slightly, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung just stares. Then blinks. Twice.

“…Well. That explains a few things.”

You say nothing. Hongjoong doesn’t either.

Wooyoung lifts the papers weakly. “I’ll, uh… just leave these here.”

He places them on the desk without meeting either of your eyes and backs out the door, like he’s seen a god do something human and can’t quite recover.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence.

Then—Hongjoong sighs.

“Guess it was going to happen eventually.”

You bury your face in the pillow.

“Perfect.”

~

You were late to breakfast.

On purpose.

But it doesn’t matter. By the time you step into the galley, every head turns.

Conversations falter. Spoons pause mid-air. Eyes shift—some curious, some amused, none subtle.

You walk with your usual measured pace, tray in hand, every bone in your body braced. You’ve faced blade and flame. This? This is somehow worse.

Wooyoung’s the first to speak—of course.

He leans dramatically across the table, voice loud enough to echo off the beams.

“You wound me, Pyra.”

You pause, just barely.

“All this time, and it’s the captain who gets tangled up with you? I thought we had a connection.”

San smacks the back of his head. Hard.

Wooyoung yelps, nearly dropping his fork.

“That’s for barging in like an idiot,” San mutters. “And for talking like one.”

You pass them with a sharp glance that says ‘try again and you’ll regret it’, but the corner of your mouth twitches—barely.

Yeosang doesn’t say anything, but his eyes track you closely as you sit down across from him. Calm. Unfazed. Not surprised. Jongho nods once. No teasing, just quiet understanding, like he’s already decided it doesn’t change a damn thing. Yunho glances toward the door, as if waiting for Hongjoong to show—he doesn’t.

And when Seonghwa enters, tray in hand, he takes a long look around the room… and says nothing.

Because Seonghwa doesn’t need to say anything to make his point.

You sit. You eat. You ignore the stares.

Because whether they like it or not—you’re not hiding anymore.

After breakfast, the crew has gathered topside—pulled from their morning duties by a sudden call to deck. The air is taut. Not with fear, but with expectation.

You step out into the light, boots clicking across sun-warmed wood, the sea stretching wide behind the stern. The gulls are quiet this morning. The wind is not.

Wooyoung stands at the centre of it.

Papers in hand. Brow furrowed. Every trace of humour gone from his face now.

Hongjoong leans against the railing nearby, arms crossed, silent but watchful. The rest of the crew forms a semi-circle—San, Yunho, Jongho, Yeosang, Mingi, Seonghwa. All of them alert.

“Alright,” Wooyoung begins, holding up a weather-worn scroll. “What I’m about to say is going to piss everyone off. So, I’ll skip the usual pleasantries and get straight to it.”

He unfurls the parchment and pins it against the mast with one palm. The other lifts a smaller note, barely more than a scrap.

“Intercepted from one of the Fang’s forward runners. Broken cipher. Confirmed through two sources—one of which I’d rather not name unless you want another corpse on your deck.”

That earns a flicker of a smirk from San. A nod from Seonghwa.

“They know where we’re headed.”

A pause.

“And worse—they know why.”

Mingi steps forward. “How?”

“Someone’s talking. Or something’s watching.” Wooyoung’s voice drops. “They’ve sent a secondary fleet. Quiet. Fast. Shadowed. We’re not being hunted anymore—we’re being trapped.”

Yeosang frowns, eyes darting to the horizon. “Position?”

Wooyoung taps the mast behind him. “If our pace holds, we’ll beat them to the Isle by a day, maybe two. But that’s only if nothing else goes wrong.”

Hongjoong finally speaks. His voice is quiet. Measured. “It always goes wrong.”

The crew murmurs, tension rising with the wind.

You step forward, past the ring of bodies, and meet Wooyoung’s eyes.

“Then we make sure when they arrive, they find more than they bargained for.”

The moment your voice fades into the sea breeze, the deck shifts into motion.

Orders ripple out like a wave breaking across the hull.

Seonghwa moves immediately, quiet and direct, assigning shifts with the precision of a man who already knows who he’ll lose if this goes badly. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

Yunho descends into the lower deck, barking for the carpenters and powder runners.

“Avoid the starboard hold,” he tells them. “That’s the first place they’ll target.”

Mingi stands at the base of the munitions bay, sleeves rolled, sweat already clinging to his brow as he and his crew begin rolling out barrels of black powder and lining up reserves of flintlocks and cutlasses.

Jongho checks the rigging and the sails, knots tightening beneath his calloused fingers. His voice is calm, but his stance is stone—unshakable.

San sharpens his blades above deck, three daggers across his belt, two more hidden beneath his coat. He doesn’t say much. He just watches everyone, eyes like a hunting wolf waiting for the moment to sink his teeth into something that deserves it.

And Yeosang stands by the helm, charting every turn of the wind, scanning the skies for shifts in pressure, cross-referencing the Fang’s reported angles of approach.

He catches your eye once—and nods.

He trusts you. They all do.

And then you move.

You gather with Wooyoung, Yeosang, and Seonghwa at the map table laid open just beneath the bridge. You trace the coast, examine the wind, and mark the points where an ambush might occur.

“If they arrive before us?” Wooyoung asks.

“They won’t,” you reply.

But the flicker in your eyes says ‘and if they do, we’ll burn them anyway’.

Hongjoong returns near dusk, after speaking with the crow’s nest and checking the weapons manifests himself.

When he finds you—among maps, blades, and quietly cracking tension—he doesn’t speak. But he watches you like he’s finally seeing what he suspected all along.

You were never the weapon.

You were the one holding the match.

~

The room is dim.

Only the lantern sways—casting golden slivers across maps that haven’t seen daylight in years. The flicker of its flame dances across the polished wood table. Across sharpened steel.

And across the face of the one called Viper.

They sit poised in silence.

No movement.

No urgency.

But their crew watches them like prey watches the still moment before a strike.

A shadow steps forward—a scout, sweat clinging to his collar. He places a sealed scroll on the table.

“The Halcyon draws closer to the island,” he murmurs. “The girl is with them. But there’s something else.”

The Viper lifts the scroll, breaks the wax. Reads.

Stillness.

Then—the quiet edge of a smile. Not amused, satisfied.

The whisper inside the scroll was clear. A shift in the girl’s pulse. A tether she never had before.

A weakness.

Their gloved fingers tap once on the wood.

“He is her anchor.”

A murmur across the room. One of the lieutenants shifts uneasily. “The captain? Hongjoong?”

The Viper’s voice is low. Even.

“Yes.”

They rise slowly, letting the silence stretch long enough for discomfort to settle.

“You do not target the fire.” A step. “You smother the air around it.”

They fold the scroll carefully, then pierce it through the map with a thin dagger.

“We’ve been aiming at the wrong heart.”

They turn toward the window, where the black sea waits.

“Bring me the captain.” A beat. “If we break him…”

Their smile curves again.

“She will burn herself to ash.”

~

The sea shifts again. Subtle at first.

The wind quiets—not dies, but hushes, like it’s holding its breath.

The water beneath the Halcyon darkens—not storm-dark, but deep. Thick with weight. With silence. A kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like peace.

Yeosang is the first to notice.

At the helm, he narrows his eyes at the horizon. “Something’s… off.”

San, from the port side, leans over the rail and spits into the water. Watches it drift.

“Still as glass,” he mutters. “Too still.”

Below deck, Mingi pauses mid-order. Looks up. Feels it.

You stand near the main deck now, gaze fixed on the water.

Even the birds have vanished.

The hum of the ship feels wrong. Or maybe it’s the way you feel, like sound has retreated beneath your skin.

Hongjoong appears beside Seonghwa, eyes scanning the stretch of sea ahead.

“Are we in the dead zone?”

“No,” Seonghwa says flatly. “This is something else.”

Yunho steps up from the quarterdeck. “Currents have slowed. No sign of reefs. But we’re being pulled.”

Wooyoung joins them, frowning. “Like we’re drifting… but not by choice.”

But unbeknownst to the crew, this is a place where songs carry on the wind. Where the songs aren’t always sung to save.

Some of the sirens still guard the old ways.

But some—

Have begun to sing for the Viper.

The sea had been strange before. But this—this was different. No wind. No birds. No shift in the current.

Just stillness.

The kind that whispers warnings without making a sound.

Yeosang stands at the helm, eyes narrowed, fingers gripping the railing as if he could read the truth from the wood itself.

“We can’t take the Halcyon through this,” he says at last, voice calm, but sharp.

Hongjoong joins him, his gaze sweeping across the endless black mirror of the water.

“Too shallow?”

“Too unknown.”

Yeosang points to a curve in the mist, where jagged rocks barely breached the surface.

“If there’s a passage, it’s hidden.”

Seonghwa steps forward. “We risk beaching her. A lighter vessel could move through unseen paths. Scout ahead.”

A pause.

Then Hongjoong speaks, resolute. “Prepare a launch boat.”

You look up from the shadowed edge of the mast.

“You’re going?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I trust myself to read the signs. And I trust those I’ll bring with me.”

You see where his eyes land, and you know.

They ready the boat with speed. No sails—only oars and quiet breath. You are the last to board, stepping down beside Hongjoong, Yeosang at the helm, San securing weapons beneath the boards. The rest of the crew remain aboard the Halcyon, watching in silence as the smaller craft pushed off into the still water.

No one speaks. Not even Wooyoung.

As you drift further from the ship, the silence deepens. Thicker. Hungrier.

It wasn’t just the water now. Something was watching.

Hongjoong sits beside you, quiet but alert, hand resting near the hilt of his blade.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” he murmurs.

But there were no sails in the distance. No storm clouds. Only… a faint ripple in the water.

And beneath it—a note. Barely audible.

Not a voice.

A melody.

Sorrowful, sweet, sharp as a blade.

Your stomach turns.

Yeosang looks up sharply. “Did you—?”

Then, suddenly—

The boat jolts.

A splash. A pull. And then—Hongjoong is gone. Just like that.

Ripped from the boat with such force it sent a wave crashing against the hull. You lunged, too late, hands clawing at the edge—nothing. Just bubbles, a ripple, and silence.

“No—!”

Your scream tears across the open sea as the surface breaks.

He’s gone.

Not struggling, not surfacing, just… gone.

You fall to your knees, hands scraping against the wooden edge of the launch boat as you search the water for any sign of him. The ripples fade too fast. Too clean. San is already moving, blade in hand, scanning the water like it’s about to climb up and fight him back.

“What was that?”

Yeosang’s face has gone pale. He grips the rudder like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“It wasn’t a current. It was targeted. It was… a siren.”

You barely hear them.

The heat under your skin is already rising—too hot, too fast. Your fingers tremble on the edge of the boat.

“We have to go in after him,” you whisper.

San grabs your shoulder. “No. We don’t know what’s down there—”

“Exactly,” you snap. “That’s why I need to—”

“Pyra.”

Yeosang’s voice cuts through. It’s not loud, but it stops you cold.

You turn to him, breathing ragged.

“If they dragged him under,” he says slowly, “they didn’t do it to drown him.” A beat. “They want him alive.”

That’s worse.

Because you know what it means to be taken alive. You know exactly what the Fang and their allies do when they think they’ve found leverage. Your fists clench. The heat in your chest flickers wildly—useless here, on open sea, where your fire can’t burn through water.

Your power means nothing beneath the surface, and they know it. They took him because they knew it would paralyse you. They took him because he is your weakness.

San grips the oar. “We go back. We regroup. We figure out what we’re dealing with before it takes any more of us.”

Yeosang nods tightly. “We move now, before they strike again.”

You hesitate—just for a breath—staring down at the place where Hongjoong vanished.

“Hold on,” you whisper.

“Just hold on.”

Then you take the oar.

And you row.

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: violence, graphic descriptions, sexual content/references (penetrative sex), 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

A/N: apologies that this a tad late, but I hope the spice makes up for it 🔥

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER SIX >>

CHAPTER FIVE - BREAK THE WALL

You sit at the edge of your cot, elbows on your knees, fingers curled tightly in your lap.

The sea feels louder today. Heavier. As if the waves remember what you did.

You have not spoken of the dreams, nor the key. You have not spoken of the fire that you unleashed on that island. You told them just enough.

You always tell them just enough.

But now the ship is turning toward the truth, and you are not ready. Your heart pounds, not just with dread, but with conflict. Because a part of you—a dangerous, foolish part of you, has begun to wonder; what if they could protect it? The secrets the Fang hunted for. The ones buried in the black sand and ash. The ones you were made to keep hidden, locked behind bone, and fire, and silence. Maybe, just maybe… the crew of the Halcyon could help you keep them safe.

From the Fang. From the Viper.

But then another voice whispers back. What if they become the same?

You know what people do with power. You’ve seen it. Lived under it. Killed for it. And yet… Yunho, with his quiet steadiness. San, with his fire-for-fire loyalty. Jongho, who watches you like he sees past the armour.

Hongjoong… who nearly let you burn him alive.

He would let you, if you asked. And that’s the worst part. Because slowly, too slowly to stop it, your walls are crumbling. And not from violence, but from kindness. And kindness is what kills.

You rise steadily, walking to the small porthole. Beyond the clouds, the sea is darker. And in the distance, low on the horizon, you see it now: A shape.

Black. Jagged. Waiting.

The island.

Your beginning. And maybe your end.

~

The sky outside is darker now, cloud-draped, and watchful. A quiet before something breaks.

Inside the war cabin, the senior crew stands assembled around the map. No tension, only readiness. Hongjoong surveys them with eyes sharp as the wind outside.

“We anchor by nightfall. This is not a raid, not a recovery. We are here for what the Fang buried, and what they feared.”

He moves one marker across the map. The island. Unnamed. Untouched. Until now.

“You will go armed. But not loud. We are not here to conquer; we are here to understand.”

Wooyoung glances up. “And if the Fang find us first?”

Hongjoong doesn’t blink. “Then we hold the line. And we make sure she never enters their hands again.”

A pause. Not threatening. Protective.

Seonghwa speaks next, voice calm, clear. “Each pair will cover a quadrant of the shore. If the island’s geography matches what little we know, there may be structures inland–collapsed, or worse. Proceed with caution.”

San cracks his knuckles. “Nothing like cursed ruins and ancient death to kick off a good stroll.”

Yeosang eyes the map. “Let’s hope it stays quiet.”

No one speaks after that.

Hongjoong folds the map. “Prepare. We drop anchor before the sun sets.”

Elsewhere, across the sea, the Viper sits at the end of a long, obsidian-polished table. The parchment in their hand is short, folded once. They already knew what it said. But reading it again? That’s pleasure.

Their gloved fingers tap the table once. Then again.

Footsteps approach. Their second stands at attention near the door, waiting.

“They will anchor soon.”

The Viper does not respond. They lean back in the chair, one leg folded over the other, spine fluid and composed. Their voice, when it comes, is smooth. Confident.

“Let them think they are the first to set foot on sacred ground.” A smile—sharp, near-inaudible, edges into their voice. “It will make the fall all the more beautiful.”

As the Halcyon falls into twilight, the air stills. The sky is the colour of steel and cinders. No one has called for you. No summons. But still—you rise. You don’t know when your fingers uncurled from the blanket. You don’t remember crossing the room. But your feet are moving before your mind catches up. You don’t dress like someone preparing for war, more like someone going home.

The corridor is quiet, empty, lanterns flickering against the walls. Every step echoes louder than it should. And still, you walk. The air changes as you climb the stairs. Cooler. Sharper. Charged.

Then, you reach the deck. And you see it.

The island.

Distant but rising. Black sand kissing the edge of the sea. Twisted trees half-dead in silhouette. Jagged cliffs like broken teeth. Something inside you—something old, something buried—shifts. You breathe in, and it is like breathing fire. The magic does not flare. It simmers.

Low. Ancient. Waiting.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You curl them into fists. There is no wind, but your hair lifts like there is. There is no voice, but you hear something whispering. Not from the island. From within. You do not understand the words, but you know what they mean.

Welcome home.

And your knees nearly buckle beneath the weight of it. Not because you are afraid, but because something in you, something real, just woke up.

The anchor drops. The chains rattle like bones through the hull. You do not flinch, but your breath stills in your throat.

Something stirs behind you. You feel him before he speaks, his presence quiet but sharp, as always. Seonghwa.

“I understand,” he says calmly, “that this must feel like betrayal.”

You say nothing. You can’t yet.

“I will not lie to you, Pyra. It was betrayal.”

You turn slightly, eyes narrowing. He meets your gaze without flinching.

“I did not want to do this without your knowledge. But I chose to. And for that—I offer my sincerest apologies.”

You don’t reply, but your expression shifts. It isn’t forgiveness. But it isn’t fury, either.

Seonghwa steps beside you, looking out toward the island, his voice low. “We do not know what lies beneath that sand. But I have spent enough time around men like the Fang to know that what they seek—they do not seek to protect.” He folds his hands neatly behind his back. “If something is hidden there, if it is bound to you, then I would rather it be kept within reach of this ship than theirs.”

You glance back at the dark horizon. “I don’t know if anything still lives there,” you whisper.

“I suspect that something does. Whether we are ready for it or not.”

A beat of silence. Then, from below deck—shouts. Orders. The sound of crates being hauled, weapons checked, gear loaded. The crew is preparing. The boats are being lowered.

Seonghwa turns to you one last time. “You may not trust us fully. But I hope, one day, you will understand.”

And with that, he moves down the stairs—graceful, unreadable, leaving you alone again as the crew prepares to descend onto the shores of the place that made you.

~

On the shoreline of the black-sand island, the boats drift in slowly, scraping against the shore. The air is unnaturally still.

You step from the boat first, and when your boots hit the sand, the world fractures.

Pain.

It slams into you like a tidal wave—no time to brace, no time to breathe. Your knees buckle. Your hands fly to your head as darkness claws its way through your skull. Screams. Flames. Red sails. A key in your palm. Blood on the threshold of your childhood.

You fight to remain standing, but you can’t. You fall, your knees hitting the charred remains beneath you. The scream that tears from your throat is not human—it is animalistic. Piercing. Shaking the birds from the cliffs, the breath from every sailor’s lungs.

The crew freezes.

“Pyra!”

Hongjoong’s voice—sharp, breaking—rips through the air as he rushes toward you, but just as he gets close, the the fire begins. Not flames. Embers.

Soft, glowing, licking across your skin like memory made visible. Your body doesn’t burn. It glows. Lines of gold and crimson shimmer across your arms, your shoulders, your throat—like something written beneath the skin is trying to surface.

Hongjoong skids to his knees beside you, reaching out, but the fire won’t let him. It flares, not violently, but defensively. A wall of soft heat that stops his fingers just short of your skin.

He doesn’t pull back. He watches.

They all do.

San. Wooyoung. Jongho. Mingi. Yeosang. Yunho.

All frozen. All silent. This wasn’t magic, not as they know it. This was origin. This was what the Fang feared. And across the water, aboard a ship hidden in fog and shadow—The Viper watches. Through the brass curve of a spyglass, their lips curl upward. The wind catches their cloak as their second waits, silent at their side.

“She has revealed herself, after all these years” the Viper murmurs. “Foolish girl.”

They lower the spyglass.

“Ascend.”

Behind them, the crew of the Serpent Fang begins to move.

Suddenly, you rise without speaking. Your legs carry you onwards, towards the deep expanse of the ruins.

The others do not try to stop you.

Their footsteps follow—Hongjoong’s steady and close, Yeosang’s calculated and soft, Mingi’s heavier, half-tension, half-instinct, and Wooyoung’s ever-watchful, always ready to cut silence with sound but choosing not to this time.

They think they’re following you, but you are following something else. The path isn’t marked, and yet you know it. The turn at the gnarled tree that still stands despite its blackened bark. The narrow pass between two scorched boulders. The way the wind whistles just so through the cracked ridge, like it’s remembering the name of a child long gone.

And then—you see it.

The remnants of what once was a house. The foundation half-sunken. Walls blackened and collapsed. The bones of a home that once held the sound of your voice. Your mother’s hands. A key in your palm.

You stop. The four behind you do too.

You step across the threshold—if it can even be called that anymore—and your breath catches. You kneel slowly near what was once the hearth. Your fingers brush away soot, ash, stone. And there, beneath the rubble, untouched by time or flame, is something glinting.

Small. Smooth. Gold.

Not metal.

Stone.

You lift it slowly. It fits perfectly in your palm, warm even in the cool air. There’s an engraving across its surface—faint, but familiar. A language only you can read. You don’t speak the words aloud, but they echo in your mind. You were never meant to forget.

Behind you, one of the men shifts. Wooyoung, probably. You don’t turn, but they see the object. They see your face. But they don’t know, not yet.

You close your fingers around it, and for the first time in years, the island doesn’t feel like death. It feels like a beginning.

But you don’t even have time to breathe.

“Pyra…”

Hongjoong’s voice reaches you—low, careful, laced with something more than warning. But before you can turn, before you can speak, you hear it.

Steel.

In the distance, the unmistakable clash of metal meeting metal. The sharp breath of someone caught off guard. The sound of blood hitting the ground.

You whirl around and freeze. They’re on their knees. Hongjoong. Mingi. Yeosang. Wooyoung. Each of them held in place, a blade at their throat.

Not strangers. Fang.

The uniforms may be faded, different. But you know them. You trained with some of them. You survived because of some of them. And now they’re here, and they’ve found you.

One of them speaks then. Tall. Scarred. His voice is unmistakable.

“Hello, Pyra.”

It’s not kind. It’s not cruel. It’s worse.

It’s familiar.

“The Viper extends a summons,” he continues, blade gleaming, pressed lightly against Yeosang’s skin. “If you come quietly…” A smirk. “Perhaps we’ll spare these four.”

The air shifts, the fire inside you flickers, the stone in your palm hums. But you do not move. Not yet. Because the island did not call you here to surrender. It called you to decide. The man speaks like he still owns you, like the time between then and now never happened. Like you’re still the girl they dragged from ash, forged in chains.

But you are not that girl. Not anymore.

You laugh. Short. Sharp. Unholy. It startles all of them—the Fang soldiers behind the blades, and the four men on their knees. Even Hongjoong.

Especially him.

And then you speak, your voice a firestorm held barely in check. “You have no idea, do you,” Your fingers twitch. The air grows hot. “No idea who I am. What I’m capable of.”

The soldier’s grip tightens slightly, blade twitching.

You step forward.

“I’m going to show you no mercy…” Your voice drops, dangerous and cold. “…just like you didn’t when you ruined my home fifteen years ago.”

Then—flame. It doesn’t erupt. It awakens. Your eyes glow like molten gold, your veins alight. And before any of them can react—they burn. The three soldiers behind the crew go up in flames, screaming as they’re wrenched from this world, their bodies engulfed in a heat no blade can stop.

The crew falls free, coughing, stumbling back in disbelief. But you. You are steady. Unmoving.

The fourth soldier—the one who spoke—falls to his knees, skin scorched but not broken. You lower your hand, the fire flickering just enough to let him live. You step closer, each word forged in fury.

“Go back to the Viper,” Your voice is steel. Flame. Vow. “Tell them this—if they come after the crew of the Halcyon…” You glance at Hongjoong, at the others rising behind you, eyes wide with awe and something near fear, then back to the trembling soldier.

“…my crew…”

A pause.

“They will be met with hell itself.”

And with that, you turn your back on him. You walk toward the four men—fire still trailing in your wake like embers on the wind.

The island watches. The sky does not breathe.

“Go. Now.” Your voice is a growl. Low, furious.

“Before I change my mind.”

The last Fang soldier doesn’t wait for mercy to vanish. He scrambles to his feet and bolts. Half-burned, wild with fear, into the jungle and past the blackened trees. Gone without another word.

Silence falls. But not for long.

“Pyra—” Hongjoong’s voice reaches you, but you’re already turning. Already moving.

Because something is wrong. The wind smells of blood. And fire calls to fire. You race through the trees, the others at your heels, back toward the shoreline. You break through the treeline just as the first scream cuts through the air.

The beach is under attack.

The Fang has struck again—this time bold, visible, furious. Their men swarm the sand, blades gleaming in the dying light, torches flaring, ships crowding the edge of the tide.

Your crew is holding the line, but barely.

San, Yunho, Jongho—pushing forward, bloodied but standing. The rest? Still fighting. Still outnumbered.

Not for long.

You raise your hand, letting the fury rise into flames, roaring out across the shore like it’s been waiting. The black sand ignites, a wall of fire cutting through the chaos. Fang soldiers cry out, stumbling back, retreating in a wave of confusion and terror. The flames do not touch your crew. You don’t let them.

You are fire, and you know exactly where to burn.

Then, your gaze lifts. Out at sea, shrouded in fog but just visible in the flicker of flame, the Viper’s ship floats in stillness.

And there—they stand. Watching. Cloaked in shadow, unmoved. But not unnoticed. Because even across the distance, your eyes catch it. A glint. A sway.

Around their neck—a key.

Gold. Identical to the one once pressed into your palm. The one they ripped from your hands as a four-year-old girl.

Your breath catches. Your pulse spikes. And the flames around you rise higher.

~

Back onboard the Halcyon, night has fallen. The lanterns glow low; the floorboards still damp with seawater and ash. Outside, the wind howls—but inside, the air is thick with something heavier than silence.

Everyone is seated inside the war cabin.

Seonghwa. San. Wooyoung. Yeosang. Yunho. Jongho. Mingi.

Hongjoong.

And you.

You sit across from them—not bound, not guarded. But watched. Still.

The fire has faded from your skin, but not from their eyes. They saw what you did. Felt the heat. Watched the sand burn. No one has spoken since you stepped through the door.

Until now.

You meet Hongjoong’s gaze. He doesn’t push, but he doesn’t look away. And neither do you.

You breathe once, then begin.

“I was four when the Fang came.”

The room stills further—if such a thing is possible.

“They didn’t come to conquer. They came to take. To erase.”

Your voice is level. Not cold. But not soft.

“They killed everyone. Burned everything. At least… that’s what the world thinks.” Your fingers curl slightly against your thigh. “But the fire wasn’t theirs.”

You don’t look up yet. Not as they shift, lean in, understand.

“I know now that it was mine.”

A beat of silence.

And then, softer now, “They took me. Kept me. Trained me. Used me. But they never understood what I was. Not fully. And honestly, neither did I. But they feared it. How did something so small and fragile survive such a brutal onslaught?”

You finally meet their eyes again—each of them.

“That fear is the only reason I’m alive.”

Mingi exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you opened your mouth. Wooyoung leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes sharper than ever. Jongho’s gaze doesn’t waver. Yeosang watches you like you’re a puzzle with one last piece. And Hongjoong—he looks at you like he’s seeing something he’s spent his whole life chasing.

“The key,” Seonghwa says finally, voice composed. “They took it from you.”

You nod once. “And now they want the rest.” You pause, studying the room. “They can’t have it. And if I have to burn the world to keep it safe… I will.”

The crew says nothing for a moment.

Then Hongjoong speaks—quiet, but resolute. “They’ll come again.”

You nod.

“Let them.”

Silence lingers like smoke in the war cabin. Your words still hang in the air—truth, heavy and final. Then, across the table, a voice speaks.

Mingi.

Rough. Tense. But not unkind.

“And what now?” he asks. “Now that you’ve told us… what happens when the Viper returns? When they come for you?” His eyes are steady. Honest. “Where does your loyalty lie, Pyra?”

Not angry. Just… asking.

You could meet the question with fire. You’ve done that before. But you don’t. Instead, you sit straighter. Calmer.

“With the Halcyon.”

You say it without hesitation, looking at each of them, one by one. “With all of you.”

A pause.

“I may not know how to belong. I may never be like the rest of you. But I’ve bled for this ship. I’ve killed for it. And if that’s not loyalty…” you shake your head faintly, “…then show me what is.”

No one speaks, but something shifts in the space between you and the crew. In the way Seonghwa inclines his head just barely. In the way Jongho leans back, satisfied. In the way Wooyoung exhales—just once—like a weight has left his chest.

And in the way Hongjoong looks at you. Not like a storm. Not like a weapon. But like a woman who just chose her anchor.

“Then we fight,” he says softly. “Together.”

Mingi stands, outstretching his hand. “Welcome to the Halcyon, Pyra.”

And no one questions it again.

~

The war cabin empties slowly.

Boots thud against the deck, tired voices fade, the low murmur of strategy dissolving into silence. The door swings gently with the breeze, the lantern-light flickering in its final hour.

You don’t move. Neither does Hongjoong.

The others don’t notice. Or maybe they do, and they choose not to speak.

He waits until the last crew member disappears down the corridor. Then, with only a glance—a tilt of his head—he turns. A silent invitation.

Follow me.

You do.

The air between you holds no tension now—only something deeper. Unsaid, but undeniable. He opens the door to his quarters and steps inside. You follow. The door closes behind you. The light is softer here. The air warmer. But it’s not the room that’s changed. It’s you.

And tonight, the line that’s held between you since the day you first locked eyes, that line will not survive the night.

He walks a few paces in. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look back. And you don’t ask him to. Your steps follow slowly, measured. Careful. Not out of fear.

Out of knowing.

He pours two fingers of dark amber into a glass. Doesn’t offer it to you. Doesn’t need to. He knows you won’t take it. You’re not here to be soothed, and neither is he.

You lean against the edge of his desk, arms crossed loosely, pretending the wood beneath your palms isn’t familiar from the last time things nearly went too far.

He sets the glass down, and finally—he looks at you.

You see it then.

Not the captain. Not the strategist. Not the man who barked orders and challenged your every word.

Him. Just him.

The mask is slipping. And for once, he lets it.

For a moment, no one speaks. The tension isn’t loud—it’s thick. Threaded through with everything you haven’t said, and every time you chose silence instead.

Then his voice comes. Low. Careful.

“You could have left.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “But I didn’t.”

His breath leaves him in something close to a laugh. Not amused. Resigned. He takes a step toward you, then another. You don’t move. You don’t need to. Because this time, he will.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t speak. You don’t need him to. The space between you hums, heavy with everything you’ve endured, everything you’ve denied. When he leans in, you meet him there—mouth to mouth, fire to flame.

The kiss is unrelenting.

It is hands clutching at fabric, breaths stolen between gasps, your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifts you onto the desk. His mouth drags along your throat, down to your collarbone, marking a path only he has earned. Your coat hits the floor. His shirt follows. Your hands are everywhere—hungry, reverent, claiming.

His voice breaks in a whisper against your ear, “Tell me this is real.”

Your answer is a kiss so deep he forgets how to breathe.

His mouth is warm, consuming, and when he lays you back onto the desk, it’s not dominance—it’s devotion. You gasp as your back meets the cool wood, the contrast only fuelling the heat rising between you. He stands between your legs, pressing into you, his fingers splayed across your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together by holding you. When his hands slide lower, pulling you flush against him, you let your head fall back, exhaling a curse you haven’t used since before the Fang tried to beat it out of you.

You are heat.

You are ruin.

You are his.

At least, tonight.

Still, he trembles beneath your touch, like you’re something divine. Like he doesn’t know whether to worship or fall. He kisses down your neck, slow and hungry, lips and tongue and teeth dragging against skin as you arch into him, your breath stuttering, your fingers curling in his hair. He mutters your name against your collarbone, over and over.

But that’s not the name that matters.

Not yet.

You reach for him again, pulling him down, pressing him closer. He groans against your skin, hands slipping beneath your shirt, thumbs brushing just above the swell of your breast. You feel every beat of him—hot, solid, aching—and it’s not enough. Clothes fall away piece by piece. You don’t rush; you need this moment. You need him.

Your bodies come together with the quiet urgency of people who’ve waited too long and almost didn’t make it. There’s no fumbling. No hesitation.

Only need.

When he enters you, it’s not rough or rushed. It’s right.

A groan rumbles in his chest, deep and low against your skin. You hold him there, your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist, moving in rhythm—a rhythm only you two know. Every movement, every breath, every shift of his body against yours sends a rush of heat through your veins. You move together like you’ve done this before in another life. Like this is the only language your bodies were ever meant to speak.

It is not soft, nor careful. It is real. A storm you don’t want to escape.

And when it breaks—when the fire crests and crashes and leaves only heat, and heartbeats, and shivering breath in its wake, you don’t move right away. Neither does he. He stays above you, both of you tangled and slick with sweat and something more.

And when he collapses over you afterward, your bodies still twined together, breath ragged, you let your fingers trace the line of his spine.

You lie in silence for a long moment, and when his voice finally comes, it’s nothing like the captain you first met. It’s something else.

“Pyra…”

Your heart stops. Then races.

You swallow once, hard, and meet his eyes.

They’re open. Raw. Asking.

And softly, so softly, you shake your head.

“That’s not my name.”

He goes still, like something ancient just woke inside him.

You sit up, still close, still wrapped in the heat of what passed between you.

And then you say it.

Your name.

The real one. The forgotten one. The one carved into you long before the Fang ever came. You give it to him like a gift he didn’t ask for, but will never forget. And when you do, he doesn’t speak.

He just closes his eyes.

And breathes you in like firelight.

[thetidesthatturn]

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.

[thetidesthatturn]

anyone else sobbing profusely over now this house ain’t a home or is it just me???

[thetidesthatturn]

Shelter from the Storm

Okkkk so ponytail Yeosang has taken permanent residence in my brain since the footage dropped, so I kinda had to.

Pairing: Yeosang x freader

Warnings: non-idol au, fluff, Yeosang in this is just UGHHH, colleagues-to-?, a teeensy bit of smut but mostly suggestive - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

WC: 6.2k

Though you’d never officially worked together, you’d seen Yeosang in passing. Once carrying a stack of equipment with ease, another time pausing to take in the glow of the stage lights with an almost wistful expression. But this is the first time you’re both assigned the same shift—an evening run during a major artist’s rehearsal.

You work in artist relations, handling everything from last-minute requests to ensuring performers have everything they need. You’ve always been a night owl, so the midnight shift feels like a perfect fit—even if it’s lonely at times. Yeosang is part of the logistics and stage management team. Calm, observant, and a bit enigmatic, he’s known for his attention to detail, quietly watching over and making sure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes.

The rehearsal had ended an hour ago, but the hum of the amps still lingered in the air, vibrating in your bones. The crew had trickled out one by one, leaving only you and Yeosang behind to lock up and double-check the equipment. You’re bent over your clipboard, ticking off the final notes; artist requests, tomorrow’s schedule, and catering needs, when you glance up and spot him.

Yeosang is standing near the edge of the stage, one foot balanced on a step, gazing out at the empty seats. The soft glow of the overhead lighting casts shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the contemplative furrow between his brows. He looks both at home and lost at the same time.

You hesitate, then walk over, the echo of your footsteps bouncing in the cavernous space. “Hey,” you say, voice low so it doesn’t shatter the hush. “You okay?”

He startles just a little, then relaxes when he sees you. “Yeah,” he says, his voice a warm, steady note in the quiet. “I just… like this moment. When it’s all over and everything’s still. Like the venue is exhaling.”

You move to stand beside him, taking in the rows of empty seats. “Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s like a secret moment, isn’t it? Just for us.”

He glances at you then, and the corners of his lips tug upward, just the barest hint of a smile. “You’ve noticed that too.”

You nod, the closeness between you sparking a warmth you hadn’t expected. “I’ve seen you around before,” you admit. “Always so focused. I always wondered what you were thinking when you looked at the stage like that.”

Yeosang’s smile deepens, soft and a little shy. “Mostly… how lucky I am to be here. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Silence stretches, but it’s comfortable. You let it settle between you like a blanket.

You clear your throat, tapping your clipboard against your palm. “We should probably wrap up,” you say, glancing around at the cables that still need coiling and the last few boxes of equipment waiting to be stored away.

Yeosang nods, a small crease forming between his brows as he scans the cluttered stage. Then, almost absentmindedly, he gathers his shoulder-length hair behind him, pulls a hairband from his wrist with his teeth, and ties it into a small, neat ponytail. The movement is quick, practiced—like he’s done it a thousand times, but it captures your full attention. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the way the light catches the strands of his hair. He looks ethereal, like an elven creature plucked from a fairytale. Something delicate and otherworldly in the hush of the venue.

You realise you’re staring, but you can’t rip your eyes away. Something about the moment—so simple, so unguarded—makes the breath catch in your throat.

He glances at you, oblivious to your stare, and gives a small smile. “I’ll finish checking the stage doors,” he says, his voice pulling you from your reverie. “You mind grabbing the rest of the gear from the back?”

“Sure,” you manage, voice a little higher than usual.

He heads off into the shadows, leaving you with your racing heart and the feeling that something important just shifted in the air between you.

You split off, each heading to your respective tasks, the quiet hum of the venue filling in the spaces where conversation might have been. You find yourself sneaking glances at him now and then, admiring how focused he looks as he locks down equipment, double-checking latches and switches with practiced precision.

A sudden gust of wind rattles the metal siding of the venue. You pause, frowning, and glance at the nearest exit door. Rain splatters against the small window, the droplets rapid and steady.

Yeosang meets you near the back entrance, his brow furrowed. “Did you see that?” he asks.

You nod, shifting your clipboard under your arm. “Yeah. I knew it was supposed to rain tonight, but I didn’t think it’d hit this hard.”

Another gust rattles the door, louder this time. A flash of lightning brightens the space for an instant before plunging it back into shadows.

Yeosang’s expression darkens with worry. “We should check the main exit,” he says, already moving. You follow him to the front lobby, where the glass doors tremble under the force of the wind. Rain whips sideways in the parking lot, forming rivers along the cracked asphalt.

“It’s a mess out there,” you mutter, pressing a hand to the cool glass. “I don’t think it’s safe to drive right now.”

He nods, his eyes scanning the downpour. “The news said thunderstorms all night. Looks like it’s here.”

You exhale a shaky breath, glancing at him. “Guess we’re stuck here for a while.”

Yeosang meets your gaze with a small, resigned smile. “Guess so,” he says. “Good thing there’s plenty of coffee, and I’m pretty sure there’s some leftover catering backstage.”

You let out a small laugh, nerves settling into a hum of anticipation. “It’s going to be a long night.”

He shrugs, his smile growing a fraction warmer. “Could be worse.”

You nod, your heart picking up its pace in a way you can’t quite explain. The venue’s hush feels different now, charged with something unspoken.

⚡️

You head towards the green room, grateful for the brief escape to collect yourself. The faint aroma of stale coffee and pastries lingers in the air, and a small drinks station stands in the corner—a battered metal catering urn, a row of paper cups, and an assortment of sugar packets and creamers.

You reach for a cup and lean forward to pour the coffee, but Yeosang appears at your side, his presence calm and collected. “Hey,” he says, his voice smooth but quiet. “How do you take it?”

You blink. “Um… two sugars and a splash of cream,” you say, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

He smiles faintly, the expression softening the angles of his face. “Got it,” he says, gently nudging you aside with a polite but confident motion.

He delicately takes the cup from your hands and flips the switch on the urn, dispensing the coffee. His fingers move deftly, stirring in sugar with just the right number of swirls, then adding the cream until it’s the perfect warm caramel colour. Every movement is careful and intentional, as though making coffee is an art form and you’re the canvas he’s painting on.

Your eyes are drawn to his hands, long, elegant fingers that seem to dance over every detail, steady and sure. They’re so meticulous, so… mesmerising. Each gesture feels deliberate, each small motion considered.

You realise you’re staring, but you can’t tear your gaze away. The way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he wipes the rim with a napkin before handing it to you; it’s impossible not to notice the quiet grace he brings to the simplest task.

He offers you the cup with a small, shy smile. “Here,” he says, his voice barely above the hum of the overhead lights. “Two sugars, splash of cream.”

You take it, your fingers brushing his for the briefest moment—a spark of warmth that lingers in the air between you. “Thanks,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended.

He nods, his eyes meeting yours for a second longer than necessary before he turns away, heading back toward the stage.

You stand there for a moment, coffee warming your hands, your heart somehow warmer still.

A thought strikes you as you glance back at the battered drinks station. Maybe he’d like a cup too. After all, he’d taken the time to make yours just right.

You fill another cup, adding two sugars and a splash of cream, the way you like it. You pause, a small frown on your lips. You don’t even know how he likes his coffee, you realise. The thought makes you hesitate.

Should you ask?

But he’s already gone, probably busy getting through his tasks. You pick up the cup anyway, balancing it carefully, and head back toward the stage.

Yeosang is there, bent over a clipboard, hair still tied neatly. He looks up as you approach, eyes curious.

“Hey,” you say, holding out the cup. “I… um, made you a coffee too. I hope it’s okay. I didn’t get a chance to ask how you like it, so I just made it like mine. Sorry if it’s not right.”

A soft smile blooms across his face, something warm and unguarded. He takes the cup from your hands, his fingers brushing yours lightly. “That’s actually perfect,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “I take it the same way.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, feeling the tension ease. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thanks.”

A rumble of thunder shakes the rafters above, and the wind whips against the doors, rattling the metal like bones. The rain outside has turned into a deluge—steady, relentless, the kind that makes even the most determined drivers think twice.

You both settle on a flight case near the back of the stage, the warm glow of the overhead work lights casting long shadows.

Yeosang takes a slow sip of his coffee, eyes thoughtful. “So… artist relations, huh?” he asks, a curious tilt to his head. “That must be a handful.”

You laugh softly, grateful for the normalcy of conversation. “You have no idea,” you reply, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s like being everyone’s big sister and therapist all rolled into one.”

He grins, a real, easy grin that makes his eyes sparkle. “I can imagine. Logistics isn’t always a picnic either.”

And so the conversation unfurls, gentle and unhurried, nothing like the rain outside. The storm barrels on, wind howling and rattling the metal siding like a beast trying to get in. The rain is relentless now, cascading in sheets down the glass doors of the lobby, leaving streaks that catch the faint glow of the emergency lights.

You pull your knees up to your chest, the warmth of your coffee dwindling as the hours drag on. The heating had cut off a while ago, and now the chill is seeping into your bones. You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself, trying to fight off the cold. Yeosang notices immediately. He’s sitting close enough that you can hear the quiet rustle of his clothes as he shifts, his eyes catching the way you rub your hands together for warmth. Without a word, he stands and disappears behind a stack of equipment cases. When he reappears, he’s holding a black zip-up hoodie, the white letters ‘STAFF’ printed in bold across the back.

“Here,” he says softly, draping it around your shoulders.

You blink, surprised. “I—are you sure? Won’t you need it?”

He shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I run warm,” he says. “Besides, you look like you’re freezing.”

You hesitate, but the cold is relentless and the storm outside shows no sign of stopping. You slip your arms into the sleeves. It smells faintly of coffee and something softer—like soap or cedar.

“Thank you,” you murmur. The sleeves are too long, pooling at your wrists, but the warmth is immediate, wrapping around you like a hug.

Yeosang sits back down, closer this time. His own arms fold loosely across his chest, but his eyes stay on you, studying your face as though committing every detail to memory.

“You’re always looking out for people, aren’t you?” you say, voice soft.

His brows lift in quiet surprise. “Maybe,” he admits. “I guess I like making sure everyone’s okay.”

You pull the hoodie tighter around you, heart warm in a way that has nothing to do with the fabric. “Well… thank you. It means a lot.”

A hush settles between you, heavy but comforting, the tension thick enough to feel like a thread drawn taut. Every shift he makes—every brush of his hair as it slips loose from his ponytail—draws your gaze like a moth to a flame.

Outside, the storm roars, but here, in this sliver of quiet, you feel a sense of closeness you hadn’t expected. And in that hush, as the rain drums its endless rhythm, the distance between you begins to shrink bit by bit, like two magnets drawn together by an invisible force.

Hours drift by like the steady beat of the rain, a slow and soothing rhythm. Between gentle laughter and stories shared, you lose track of time. You learn that Yeosang once dreamed of traveling the world but found comfort in the reliability of the backstage life. He learns that you once thought about performing, but found more joy in helping others shine.

You share smiles, glances that hold just a little too long, and moments of quiet that say more than words ever could.

Eventually, your eyelids grow heavy, each blink a struggle to stay awake. You yawn once, twice, trying to stifle the third, but it escapes, small and unguarded.

Yeosang chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. “Looks like someone’s finally hitting their limit,” he teases gently.

You rub your eyes, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Yeah,” you admit. “Didn’t realise how tired I was.”

He glances out the nearest window. The storm is still raging, wind howling like a wild thing, rain battering the glass in relentless waves. “No sign of it letting up,” he murmurs. “I think we’re stuck here for the night.”

You nod, your body sinking with exhaustion. “The green room,” you say, trying to stifle another yawn. “There’s a couple of couches in there. Not exactly five-star, but they’ll do.”

He stands, stretching his arms overhead, his sleeves slipping up to reveal strong, graceful wrists. “I’ll come too,” he says. “No point in wandering around in the dark alone.”

Together, you walk back to the green room. It’s small and cluttered, with mismatched furniture and posters curling off the walls. But the sight of two worn leather couches, one along each wall, brings a sigh of relief.

You set your bag down by one of them. “Well,” you say, turning to him with a tired but genuine smile, “goodnight, I guess.”

Yeosang hovers for a moment, eyes searching yours. Then he gives you a soft, almost shy smile in return. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice a low murmur that seems to settle into the hush of the room.

You each lay down on your own couch, the distance between you filled with the quiet crackle of the storm outside. The worn leather creaks as you shift, finding a comfortable position. As your eyes begin to flutter closed, you catch a glimpse of Yeosang—one arm tucked under his head, eyes half-lidded but still watching you, a small, gentle smile on his lips.

Sleep claims you in the warm hush between thunderclaps, leaving you with the last impression of his quiet gaze.

⚡️

You aren’t sure what time it is when you wake, but you’re aware of two things almost instantly; the cold air in the room and the warm, solid weight draped across your waist.

Your eyes flutter open, bleary with sleep, and you find Yeosang next to you—no, practically on top of you. His arms are wrapped around you, his head nestled close, his breath soft and steady against your cheek. There’s essentially no distance between you, your bodies pressed together as though they’d always belonged that way.

You stir, shifting just enough to jostle him gently. His eyes blink open, unfocused at first, then growing wide with surprise as he realises where he is—and where you are.

“Oh,” he breathes, his voice a hush of embarrassment. “You were shivering… I—I couldn’t just leave you like that. Once I got in next to you, you… you snuggled into me.”

A faint blush creeps across his cheeks, delicate and pink, and something about the sight makes your heart stutter. You search his eyes, your own breath catching in your throat. And before you can register what you’re doing, your lips press softly against his—just a small, trembling peck that holds every ounce of your lingering, sleep-hazy longing.

He pulls back slightly, eyes wide and stunned, and you immediately feel the rush of panic. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I don’t know why I just—”

But you don’t get the chance to finish.

Yeosang’s hands come up, threading through your hair, and he cuts you off by crashing his lips back onto yours with a hunger that sends your heart racing. Every nerve in your body comes alive as his fingers weave deeper into your hair, pulling you closer, his chest flush against yours. His thumb brushes your cheek, his other hand cupping the back of your head as though anchoring you to him. His body moulds against yours, every inch of him pressed close, the heat of his skin chasing away the last shiver of cold. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he kisses you like he’s been holding back forever. The gentle hush that had settled over you shatters, replaced by the soft sounds of breaths and the rustle of clothing as you press even closer, your bodies aligning like puzzle pieces.

His hand slides down to your waist, fingers splaying across your side as he pulls you even tighter against him. The warmth of his touch ignites something inside you—a fire that crackles and roars to life. Your lips part, allowing the kiss to deepen. His tongue brushes yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence, as though he’s tasting every second of this moment he never thought he’d have. You let out a soft sound—a whimper that betrays how desperately you want this, want him.

He breaks the kiss for just a breathless second, his forehead resting against yours, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with want. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “But I don’t want to stop.”

“Then don’t,” you breathe, your hands clutching his shirt as though you could hold this moment in place forever.

He leans in again, capturing your lips with a fervour that sends sparks through your veins. The kiss grows heated, all-consuming, hands wandering in hesitant, feverish strokes. His thumb grazes the bare skin at your waist, and your breath catches, a gasp mingling with his.

But then—

The unmistakable sound of boots on the hallway floor. Voices—faint at first, then louder as the venue staff trickle in, ready to start the new day.

Yeosang freezes, his lips still against yours but his body tensing. You hear the creak of a door, the distant hum of fluorescent lights flickering on, the chatter of people returning to their posts. You pull back abruptly, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. He looks just as breathless, his hair a little skewed, eyes wide with a mix of frustration and something tender.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your voice a hushed laugh tinged with panic. “We—”

His eyes dart to the door, and he quickly smooths down his hair, adjusting his shirt. “We need to… um, we should—”

You both scramble off the couch, brushing your clothes down, trying to look as casual as possible.

Heavy boots echo closer, then pause just outside the green room. A staff member’s voice filters through: “Hey, anyone in here? We’re starting morning prep!”

You meet Yeosang’s gaze, eyes wide, heart still hammering. He gives you a small, conspiratorial smile that sends a thrill through your chest.

“Morning,” he calls back, his voice remarkably steady.

You clear your throat, feeling the heat still lingering in your cheeks. “Yeah, we’re here,” you add, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you.

The staff member pushes the door open, giving you both a quick glance before moving on.

Yeosang leans close, just for a second, his voice low. “We’re not done,” he whispers, the promise in his tone sending a shiver down your spine.

And as he pulls away, your heart is already racing at the thought of the next time the world outside forgets to interrupt you.

You take a steadying breath, pulling Yeosang’s hoodie tighter around you. The green room feels suddenly small, the air crackling with the events of the morning. You’re aware of every brush of your hair, every fold of your clothes, each breath that still feels too quick.

“Morning,” you greet a passing technician, your voice steadier than you’d expected.

“Morning,” they reply, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.

Yeosang is by your side, clipboard in hand, already scanning the day’s schedule. His usual calm has returned, focused and professional, but there’s a new tension in his posture. A slight stiffness in the way his hand grips the clipboard, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. You move toward the backline area, checking cables and equipment tags, trying to drown out the memory of his lips on yours. But every time you catch his gaze across the room—dark eyes locking with yours for a heartbeat, you feel that spark again.

He busies himself with equipment checks, ticking items off a list and directing a crew member to adjust a stack of cases. You can see the concentration in the furrow of his brow, but every so often, his eyes flick to you, warm and lingering.

Between tasks, you catch each other’s eyes—an unspoken promise in the hush of the morning bustle. The storm outside has faded to a soft drizzle, leaving the venue bathed in a washed-out grey light.

A coworker, young and bright-eyed, carrying a clipboard of her own pauses beside you. “Rough night?” she asks with a knowing smirk.

You manage a tired laugh. “You could say that,” you reply, hoping the heat in your cheeks doesn’t give you away.

She laughs and moves on, and you chance a glance at Yeosang, who’s busy instructing someone on how to stack cables properly. His eyes meet yours, and his lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, like a secret only the two of you share. You swallow hard, a shiver of anticipation coursing through you. Whatever had sparked between you both last night—it’s not over. And as the day unfolds, you both know that eventually, the world will step back just long enough to let that fire ignite once again.

You’re still trying to focus on wrapping cables when the tour manager’s voice cuts through the morning buzz.

“Hey! There you two are.”

You glance up, heart skipping a beat. Yeosang’s eyes dart toward you, as though bracing himself.

The tour manager strides over, clipboard in hand, her expression somewhere between exasperation and concern. “You both didn’t clock out last night,” she says, arching an eyebrow. “Care to explain?”

Yeosang opens his mouth, but you beat him to it. “We couldn’t make it back to the hotel,” you say, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “The storm was too rough—it wasn’t safe to drive.”

She glances between the two of you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, at least you were smart enough to wait it out,” she sighs, flipping a page on her clipboard. “Look, I know how brutal these overnights can be. You both look exhausted.”

Yeosang nods, lips pressing into a small, grateful line.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the tour manager says, her tone brisk but kind. “Go back to the hotel. Shower. Eat. Sleep. Whatever. Just be back a few hours before doors tonight.”

Yeosang’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it. You both earned it.”

You smile at her, the weight of the night’s tension easing just a little. “Thank you,” you echo.

She gives you both a final nod and heads off, leaving you standing in the middle of the stage, the venue bustling with preparations for tonight’s show.

Yeosang glances at you, an amused gleam in his eyes. “Guess we’re off the hook for now,” he says, his voice soft but warm.

You can’t help the smile that blooms across your face. “Yeah,” you say, your voice gentle with relief and something else you don’t dare name just yet. “Guess we are.”

His smile widens, a rare thing that makes your heart skip a beat. “Want to grab a ride together?” he asks, voice hesitant but hopeful.

You meet his gaze and nod. “Yeah,” you say, a warmth curling in your chest. “I’d like that.”

⚡️

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, the soft hum of the radio filling the space between you. Outside, the drizzle of rain clings to the windshield, each drop sliding down like a lazy memory of the storm.

You steal glances at Yeosang as he drives, one hand gripping the steering wheel with quiet confidence. His knuckles are pale against the leather, and you notice the small, nervous flex of his fingers—like he’s trying to steady himself.

Every so often, his gaze flicks to you, just a flash of dark eyes before he quickly looks back at the road, a shy smile threatening the corners of his lips. You catch yourself doing the same, biting your lip, fingers tracing the seam of the seat, your heart a constant thrum in your chest.

The radio crackles a soft, melodic ballad, the lyrics barely audible over the hush of rain and the low thrum of the engine. It’s a song about wanting someone, needing someone, and it makes the air feel even thicker between you.

When you finally reach the hotel, Yeosang parks and cuts the engine, leaving the silence to settle like a blanket between you.

He walks you to your room, lingering by the door, his presence filling the narrow hallway with a warmth you didn’t realise you’d been missing. You dig for your key card, fingers trembling slightly. “Well… this is me,” you say, forcing a small smile. “I’m desperate to shower and brush my teeth.”

He shifts, his weight leaning just a little toward you. His eyes flick to yours, hesitant but wanting.

You fumble with the key card, heat rising to your cheeks. “Unless…” you begin, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Unless you want to come in? But I’m sure you want to get showered too—”

“—Yes.”

His answer is immediate, his voice low but firm, cutting through your ramble like a blade through silk. You freeze, breath catching in your throat as you look up at him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there’s a hunger there that sets your nerves alight.

You swallow hard and push the door open, stepping inside with him close on your heels.

The room is small, barely enough for the two of you to move without brushing against each other. You step toward the bathroom, mind buzzing with anticipation and panic.

“Okay, I’ll just—” you begin, but he’s already there, his hand catching your wrist.

He pulls you in and kisses you, slow and deliberate, every movement filled with a tenderness that leaves your knees weak. Your free hand finds his shoulder, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepens, all the heat from before rushing back like a wave.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. “I couldn’t… just leave you,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper of need.

You nod, breathless, as the anticipation pools in your chest. “Stay,” you breathe.

He kisses you again, softer, slower, and this time his hands slip from your wrist to your waist, guiding you toward the bathroom.

You reach for the shower knob, twisting it to send a rush of warm water steaming into the air. The room fills with mist, the glass fogging, the sounds of the outside world falling away. Yeosang’s hands find yours again, fingers threading through yours as the water patters against the tiles. The steam thickens the air, wrapping around you like a warm, wet blanket. He pulls you closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours, your clothes clinging damply to your skin. His lips find yours again, slower this time, exploring rather than devouring. The kiss is tender but laced with something deeper—longing, hunger, and the weight of every moment that’s led you here.

You fumble for the hem of your shirt, your fingers trembling. Before you can manage it, Yeosang’s hands are there, gently, carefully lifting the fabric over your head. He moves with a reverence that sends a shiver through you, even in the warmth of the steam. His eyes meet yours, asking permission without words. You nod, your breath catching, and he lets out a shaky sigh before leaning in to press his forehead to yours. His hands skim your waist, thumbs tracing small, soothing circles that make you feel like you’re both floating. He presses another soft kiss to your lips, then to the corner of your mouth, down the line of your jaw. You reach for the hem of his shirt, your hands slipping beneath the damp fabric. His breath hitches as you lift it, baring the smooth, warm skin of his chest. The mist clings to his hair, beads of water catching the light as they trickle down his neck.

“Yeosang,” you whisper, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He meets your gaze, his own eyes dark and hooded. “Yeah?”

“Don’t stop.”

His smile is soft, but his eyes burn with a quiet intensity. “I won’t,” he breathes.

The water patters around you, warm and steady, as he leans in again, kissing you with a deep, slow hunger that makes your knees weak. His hands slide up your arms, leaving trails of heat in their wake. You lean back against the cool tiles, your fingers tangling in his damp hair as he kisses a path down your throat, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. You let out a soft gasp, your back arching toward him, every nerve alight with anticipation. His hands roam your sides, lingering at your hips before sliding down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The contact sends a shiver through you, your own hands wandering across his shoulders, his chest, the smooth planes of his skin.

In that steamy haze, time seems to slow. Every touch feels electric, every breath shared, every heartbeat in sync.

Articles of saturated clothing are shed until you’re stood bare before each other. Yeosang reaches for the soap, lathering it between his hands and massaging it across your skin. His hands find your shoulders, gently pivoting you so that your back is flush against his chest. He continues working the suds into you, his arms circling around your waist, hands trailing up your stomach, before stopping at your breasts. The moment he makes contact, swiping his thumbs across your nipples, you arch back into him, head falling back into the crook of his neck. He uses the angle you’re in now to lightly nip at your neck, peppering it with kisses. You bite back a moan, melting into his touch.

He takes his time running his hands across your body, ensuring every part of you has been given attention, then turns you around and drops to his knees.

“Let me worship you?” He peers up at you, gaze somewhere between pleading and lust-drunk.

“Please.” You breathe.

His arms wrap around your thighs, pulling you closer, before pressing a feather light kiss to your core. You tremble under his touch, puffs of air escaping your lips. Slowly, his tongue trails through you. Tasting, savouring, not teasing. Your hands thread into his hair, nails lightly working into his scalp. As he applies more pressure, flattening his tongue and swirling it at your apex, your quiet gasps turn into whines. You grasp onto him tighter, as if he’s the only thing anchoring you to this realm. He’s taking his time, enjoying making you feel good, and you’re tumbling steadily headfirst into pure bliss. His fingers knead into the backs of your thighs, then trail upwards. You feel the first finger enter you, then the second, curling up to catch against your sweet spot as he focuses his mouth on your clit.

“Yeosang,” you whimper, your legs shaking beneath you.

He quickens the pace just enough, working in tandem with the silent signals your body is giving. Your head falls back against the cool tile as you chant his name again and again, knees buckling as the pleasure washes over you in waves. He works you through it, his arms now supporting your weight. When you’ve finally floated back down into your body, he continues to hold you, making sure all the suds are washed off. The shower’s warmth lingers on your skin as he carefully lifts you in his arms, wrapping a plush towel around you, his strength both surprising and comforting. You feel the shift of his muscles as he carries you from the bathroom to the bed, the scent of soap and rain clinging to both of you.

He sets you down gently, as if you’re made of glass, and his eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation. You can only smile, a tired but contented sigh escaping your lips as you sink into the mattress.

“I’ll be right back.” Yeosang gives your hand a soft squeeze before he heads back to the bathroom, the faint hiss of the shower resuming as he finishes cleaning up.

You lay there, heart still racing, listening to the sounds of water and the quiet hush of the rain outside. Every nerve in your body is alive, still humming with the memory of his touch, his lips, his breath.

Moments later, he emerges from the bathroom, steam swirling behind him. His hair is damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead, a drop of water sliding down his neck to his bare chest. He looks like something out of a dream—ethereal, like a moonlit painting brought to life.

He crosses the room to you, his eyes soft, reverent.

You reach for him without thinking, your hands finding his shoulders, and he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. The contact is warm, unhurried, a promise more than a question.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, his breath brushing your cheek as his forehead rests against yours.

You nod, eyes closing as you lean into his touch. “Yes,” you breathe.

His hands slide down to your waist, fingers brushing lightly, reverently, as though memorising every inch of you. He kisses you again, slower this time, each press of his lips sending shivers down your spine.

He worships you with every touch, every sigh, every quiet word of appreciation that falls from his lips. “You’re… incredible,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice hushed and full of wonder. “So beautiful.”

His hands roam your body with a tenderness that steals your breath, each movement deliberate and cherishing. He treats you like you’re the rarest of treasures, his eyes never leaving yours even as he explores every inch of your skin with feather-light touches. You gasp softly, the heat building but never rushed, a slow burn that feels like it might consume you both in the best possible way.

He presses another kiss to your lips, then your collarbone, then lower still, every brush of his lips leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“I just want to take care of you,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. “You already have,” you whisper, your voice trembling with gratitude and something deeper—something you’ve never felt before.

And as he continues to worship you, body and soul, you realise that what’s happening between you isn’t just passion or desire. It’s something deeper, something that feels like it might last long after the rain outside has stopped. The room is hushed, save for the soft patter against the window, a steady rhythm that mirrors the quiet thrum of your heart.

Yeosang’s voice is a low murmur in your ear, breathless but sure. “You’re everything,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Everything.”

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, holding him close, and your heart soars with a warmth that feels as if it could last forever.

The world around you fades into soft shadows, the lines between one heartbeat and the next blurring. And as the darkness envelops you both, the last thing you feel is the press of his lips on your skin and the promise that this, whatever this is, has only just begun.

⚡️