Cricket

My great grandmother was a witch (24F, she/her)

[frightenedcricket]

Hey you, this is Lili (she/her). I'm 24 and I have been over here for a while, just under another name. I'm probably gonna start writing a few fics in this blog and see how it goes, hope you like it!

I'm bisexual, autistic and really into nature (literally a naturalist). There is not much more to say about me, just hope you like the blog.

Follows from itsnicetobehere

Warnings: there will probably be some +18 content. Minors leave, please.

THE MASTERLIST.

[bad-o-mens]

credit

[omnz]

[feral0mens]

nick²

[volera1997-blog]

DÜSSELDORF, DE | 03.06.26

[fashfic]

Sleepless in Paris – Part Two

Conor Curley x female reader

Still sleepless. Part three coming soon!

The day seemed to be doomed with gloom, the clouds covering the sky only darker and the rain heavier, the coffee in his mouth bitter and the cigarettes he smoked burning way too quickly. It hadn't been the worst day – the opening riff for "Favourite" was finally solid and ideas were cooking up pretty fast, but the overall vibe of the day was bordering on lethargic. After a week in this place, it seemed to be for the first time that everybody's mind was just someplace else.

Sliding his eyes over the pages in front of him, he wasn't focusing much on what he was reading, Grian sitting on the sofa opposite of him, gazing at a paper of lyrics.

His paper of lyrics.

"What if we blend it?" he proposed, causing Conor to turn his eyes away from the book and then towards him.

"Blend it?"

"Yea," he nodded, "The chorus."

"In my dreams - I just wanna hear you call,

I can't help it - waiting for a while,

in my dreams - you know I'm not cynical,

seen it coming - I give into a smile,

in my dreams - but I just wanna feel it,

I can't help it - waiting for a while,

in my dreams - wish that I could feel it,

turns to nothing."

He read out the words monotonously, almost matter of factly, then continued, "You sing the main and I come in as a sort of a background."

"I sing?"

"Yea, it's your song."

"Maybe you've forgotten, but you're the singer in this band," Conor chuckled.

Him singing lead vocals? Not gonna happen.

"So?" Grian shrugged, his eyes once again aimed at the paper with the lyrics, "The guide vocals you did for this were spot on. I'm not gonna sing your love confession for you."

"My what?"

"Is it not?" he lifted his eyes and stared at Conor, "Is it not a.. love song? The break-up and all.."

He stayed silent, staring at his friend and bandmate. What should he say to this? Of course it was a love song, but it wasn't what Grian thought.

"It's not about Hannah," he muttered after a moment, his book lifted to cover his face.

"I know," Grian only answered, not even looking at him.

It took a moment until the singer's words registered, Conor then closing his book and sitting up on the sofa, staring at his friend in confusion. What did he mean by he knows? Had he been so obvious this entire time? All these months, had he been so easy to read to everyone around him?

He watched as Grian finally set the sheet of paper on the small coffee table between them, then got up and announced that he was going to have a smoke. Nothing else. Not a single question or any other comment about the song, the lyrics, the subject matter. Just a casual I know that made Conor feel as if he had suddenly been exposed to the entire world. He knew that Grian had a knack for reading people, especially people he knew well, but he also had a knack for knowing when to push people and when not.

And right now he wasn't pushing, that subtle I know positioned as an open invite – if he wanted to talk, he was there, and if not, that was fine too. And Conor had thought about it, already for months he had wondered if talking to someone would bring some clarity, but he didn't even know what it was that he should say about any of this or the way he really felt.

Most profoundly though, he felt like shit.

"How did you know?" he questioned, lighting a cigarette for himself, his eyes aimed at the darkened skies.

"I have eyes for one," the singer chuckled, "Doesn't take a scientist."

"Great," Conor only muttered, shaking his head and exhaling the smoke of his cigarette.

From one hand, he felt relieved. He felt relieved that there was someone, who understood the torment he had been going through, the torment he ironically enough, had subjected himself to, but from the other hand.. It made him feel even worse, made him understand that if Grian could read him, probably everybody else could as well, and that meant that they had probably spent months feeling sorry for Hannah while all he did was behave like the biggest coward in the world.

At first, things had been fine.

He woke up the morning after the gig and the night that followed, all of it seeming like a weird fever dream. As if he had been swooped into some strange parallel universe that decided to spit him out with the arrival of the first morning light. It was all so stupid, he decided, immature and stupid, just the last rotten fruit of nostalgia, and he needed to get over it. And for a while he managed to ignore it, the little nagging voice in the back of his head that was telling him that there was no way back from this.

She followed him back on Instagram and he knew that it was out of politeness, just her replying to his friendly gesture, and he left it at that. The two months that followed were fine, he managed to force her and that voice so far into the back of his consciousness that he almost thought he had succeeded. But it all came crashing down as soon as he saw her at Josephine's birthday, having no prior knowledge of her even attending. She was supposed to be in Paris and suddenly, she manifested right in front of him in London, their old stumping ground that held so many memories.

He was alone, Hannah visiting her parents in the countryside, and he tried to keep a healthy distance at first, but with every consumed bottle of wine he got closer to her, her smile and laughter so inviting along with her perfume. Being with her was still so easy, the conversation flowing so effortlessly, the shared memories they discussed making him feel warm and fuzzy while the glimpses of the life she lived now, the life she had without him, made him jealous and disappointed, in himself above all, as if he was missing out on something so crucial and pivotal for his survival in this existence.

They ended up spending that whole evening together, just talking and drinking, right until the sunrise that sobered both of them up enough to understand that perhaps what they were doing wasn't exactly appropriate. Both of them fell more and more silent, the previously loose and fun chatter fading away and the air between them thickening with words that now remained unsaid.

Nothing had happened, and yet, somehow everything had suddenly changed.

And after that, he couldn't shake these feelings anymore, couldn't shake that nagging voice in the back of his head. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reply to Hannah's affection the same way he had before, the guilt consuming him more and more with every touch and every "I love you" that rolled off of his lips, hoping that saying it out loud would make it true while he knew that it would not.

"You know, if you want her so bad, then the least you could do is to respect me enough to at least fucking end it with me."

He didn't know what to respond to those words, didn't know how to react. What was there to say even? Because she was right.

For months he had strung Hannah along due to his own cowardice, due to his own guilt and illusion that eventually things would go back to the way they were and he would be able to look past her. Due to his own fear of revealing his feelings to her, because what if she would reject him and he would end up with nothing at all. He knew how incredibly selfish and immature this whole thing was, but his mind and his heart had been on very separate paths already for a while.

Looking back, he didn't even know why they had broken up in the first place. It wasn't a fight, wasn't some big unresolvable issue. It was fear and immaturity, both of them finding it easier just to give up instead of pushing forward. Fontaines was touring after the pandemic, he barely made it home for over a day every few months and she deserved better than that. The dreams each of them held for their lives didn't add up and they found it easier to hide behind the mentality of the timing just being off.

It was all bullshit.

A phone call that lasted 4 hours, both of them saying things their heart and soul wasn't actually agreeing on. And then it was over and done with, her tears on the other side of the phone ripping him into shreds.

It was the only time in his life he had ever cried over a girl, him spending the next six months that followed trying to keep himself from picking up the phone again and begging her to start over. And then spending the next six months kicking himself in the ass for not doing so.

He couldn't help but to feel as if he didn't deserve her anymore, not after letting her slip away like that.

Staring at the ceiling later in his room, Beach House echoing in his headphones, his heart was racing as he couldn't stop thinking about Grian's words from the conversation they shared earlier.

"If you ask me, having nothing to lose is an incredible position to be in."

He sought out his phone, opened his contacts and stared at her name. Would she even pick up? It was 12 AM after all. And what would he even say?

He didn't know, but he did know that things could not go on the way they were unless he wanted to drive himself completely mad.

Fuck it.

He quickly pressed on the tiny phone icon, right before he could change his mind, his whole body engulfed with anxiety that couldn't measure even with the biggest crowds he had stood in front of.

As ridiculous as this might sound, nothing suddenly seemed more like a matter of life and death.

[silent-stories]

[bad-o-mens]

ʘ

[lilaccloudss05]

“A sadness in the soul

I dreamed it long ago

But I have not belonged

To any setting sun

A destination low

And I'd hate to see you go

Now that I can feel it

It's faster if I call you”

[silent-stories]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 - 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Pairing: noah x reader (pirates au)

Series summary: Stuck in a life you don’t want, your only way out is a deal with a pirate, and that’s how your journey on a ship of outlaws toward a new life begins.

(This story is set in a fictional past and not in our world. All places and historical elements are invented and not accurate)

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8

Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 ...

aes

moodboard

[silent-stories]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

Pairing: noah x reader (pirates au)

Series summary: Stuck in a life you don’t want, your only way out is a deal with a pirate, and that’s how your journey on a ship of outlaws toward a new life begins.

Tw: some fighting and daydreaming about intimacy but honestly none, this is a filler chapter aka the calm before the storm

Series mastelist

The first thing Noah noticed was the quiet, and it took him a moment to realize what felt different. Finally, no one was calling for water every few minutes, no one was coughing nonstop, and no one was panicking.

He stood near the entrance to the lower deck, one hand braced against the wooden frame, listening.

A few days ago, this place had been chaos, full of heat, sweat, shallow breathing, and bodies barely moving under damp sheets. He hadn’t slept properly in what felt like forever and had barely left this level except to bark orders or check supplies.

“…that’s disgusting,” someone muttered weakly.

“Well, it kept you alive.” another voice replied.

A faint, tired laugh followed.

Noah had never felt so much relief in his entire life.

They were getting better.

Some were still too weak to stand, others still burned slightly with fever but the worst of it had definitely passed, and everyone was alive.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair before pushing himself off the doorway and stepping down.

The air still smelled faintly of herbs and sweat, but it wasn’t as suffocating. He moved through the narrow corridor, glancing into bunks as he passed.

Someone was sitting up now, back against the wall, looking like death but at least conscious and someone else had one arm thrown over his face, breathing steadily instead of in shallow bursts.

Good.

He kept walking.

There was one room at the end that still had more movement than the others, and he could hear low voices coming from inside.

It was Folio’s.

Noah slowed slightly as he approached, not really meaning to. The door was partially open, and he stopped just short of it.

Inside, Folio was sitting up, not really fully straight, but supported by a pile of uneven pillows behind him. His face was still pale, his hair damp and pushed back carelessly, but his eyes were open. Alert. Alive.

And you were there. Sitting on the edge of the bunk beside him, one leg tucked slightly under you, the other resting against the floor. You had one of the small cups in your hand, carefully measuring out the amount before handing it to him.

“Slow,” you were saying.

Folio huffed weakly. “The fact that this tastes like shit doesn't really help me go slow.”

Noah leaned slightly against the frame, arms folding loosely across his chest without thinking.

Folio took the cup from you anyway, and, annoyingly, he listened. Took a small sip. Then another.

“See?” you said after a second. “It wasn't that bad.”

“Shut up, you didn't try it. You don't have a say on it.” he muttered, though there was a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

You rolled your eyes, but there was a softness to it.

Noah noticed that. He noticed everything.

The way your shoulders weren’t tense like they had been the first days on the ship. The way you leaned in slightly when Folio spoke. The way your hand hovered for a second near the cup when he drank, just in case.

A few months ago, you had been a stranger dropped into the middle of all this. Never really out of place but still didn't fully belong.

And now you were here. Sitting in one of the crew’s bunks, helping them recover like you’d always been part of it.

Folio leaned his head back slightly against the wall, exhaling after finishing the small dose.

Noah felt something warm in his chest.

You were taking care of them. Of his crew. Of his family.

And they trusted you enough to let you.

That mattered more than he expected it to.

Folio shifted slightly, wincing just a bit before settling again. Your expression changed immediately, your hand moving without hesitation to steady him lightly at the arm.

“Easy,” you said.

“I’m fine,” he replied automatically.

“Sure you are.”

Noah almost smiled.

Folio’s gaze drifted past you for a second, and then landed on him.

“Oh,” he said, voice still rough. “Hey, Captain.”

He called him that with a little smirk, because they were close friends, and most of the time he called him "captain" when he wanted to make fun of him or as a joke.

You turned at that and your eyes met Noah’s.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then you gave a small nod. “He’s doing way better.”

Noah pushed off the doorframe, stepping fully into the room now.

“I can see that,” he said. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

He moved closer, stopping near the foot of the bed, his gaze flicking over Folio quickly, assessing out of habit.

“You scared the hell out of everyone, you know that?”

“…yeah?” he said.

Noah nodded once. “…don’t do that again,” he added.

Folio huffed. “I’ll try to schedule my next near-death experience better.”

“Do that.”

Noah’s gaze drifted back to you.

“You’ve been down here a lot,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

You shrugged lightly. “Someone had to make sure they didn’t ignore the doses.”

“That sounds like them.”

“It is them.”

Folio raised a hand slightly in protest. “Hey—”

“Don’t,” both you and Noah said at the same time.

Folio blinked.

Then let his hand drop again. “…rude.”

You chuckled, and he thought he loved that sound more than the waves crashing against the Specter, more than the wind blowing through the sails, more than any sound made by the ocean that had raised him.

He loved way you sat there like it was the most natural place in the world. The way the crew didn’t question your presence anymore. The way you spoke to them, not like an outsider, but like you cared.

And maybe that was the problem.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

He wasn’t sure anymore.

A few months ago, the thought of you getting too close, of you becoming part of this, would’ve felt like something to guard against. Something temporary that needed boundaries.

Now, the idea of pushing anything away felt almost… stupid. Unnecessary. But just for a fleeting moment.

He couldn't. He knew he couldn't. Because you were going to leave soon anyway, and because Noah was Noah. Noah had his past. His secrets. His life. And you had yours. And yours was taking you to Saint Marlowe, not to a ship full of criminals.

“Thank you.” he said after a moment. The words came out quieter than usual, soft.

You blinked, like you weren’t expecting it. “…I didn’t do anything special,” you replied.

Noah shook his head slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “You absolutely did.”

A small pause followed that.

You didn’t argue this time.

Folio looked between the two of you, something vaguely amused flickering across his face despite the exhaustion.

“…am I interrupting something?” he asked.

“No,” you said immediately.

Folio let out a weak laugh, then, “Noah?”

Noah blinked, just a fraction too late.

Did Folio realize something?

“What?” he said at last, a little too quickly, the word sharper than he intended. “No.”

Folio’s expression shifted almost immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement as if that response alone had confirmed everything he needed to know.

“No,” Noah repeated, already stepping back, as though physical distance could somehow undo the moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You looked between them, confusion flickering across your face, your brows drawing together slightly, but Noah didn’t give you the time to question it.

“I—I’m going to check on the others, okay?” he added, the words coming out faster now, overlapping slightly as he tried to move past it.

Folio let out a soft, knowing hum that lingered just enough to be irritating. “Mhm.”

Noah gestured vaguely toward the door, already turning before either of you could respond properly. “Yeah. Them. The others. Sick people. Captain things.”

You stared at him for a moment, clearly unconvinced.

“…Right.”

“Right,” he echoed, just as quickly, and then he was gone.

He stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind him, the wood meeting the frame with a firmness that bordered on abruptness, and then, almost immediately, he stopped, and for a moment, he simply stood there.

“…Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

He dragged a hand through his hair, pushing it back in a restless motion before letting it fall again, his shoulders rising slightly with a slow exhale that didn’t really ease anything.

He leaned back against the wall, his head tipping slightly as his gaze drifted unfocused across the narrow corridor, and despite himself, his thoughts circled back to you.

It felt different out here, without your presence to deflect or complicate it, without the need to respond or joke or move past it quickly.

Simpler, in a way.

And also far more difficult to ignore.

He liked you.

That was the simplest version of it, stripped of everything else. And somehow, that made it worse.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, something faintly exasperated in the sound.

It wasn’t entirely new, not really, but it had shifted into something he could no longer dismiss as passing curiosity or the result of being thrown together in unusual circumstances, and that change had happened so gradually that he hadn’t noticed it until now.

It was in small things.

The way you looked when you focused on someone, like you had just done with Folio, leaning in slightly, listening without interruption, your attention genuine in a way that wasn’t forced or performative.

The way you spoke to him, never backing down, never softening your words just because he expected it, meeting him exactly where he stood and, more often than not, pushing right back.

You always had a sarcastic answer when he made fun of you in some way. And he liked that more than he wanted to admit.

A quiet huff escaped him as he dropped his gaze briefly to the floor.

He also thought you were genuinely kind, because you didn’t complain when the crew started getting sick, and you helped both with your words and actions.

Folio laughing with you, letting you sit there beside him, allowing himself to be taken care of without resistance, spoke more clearly than anything else could have.

He liked that you were there with them.

That you had found a place among his crew, not as an outsider being tolerated, but as someone who was slowly becoming part of it in a way that felt almost… natural.

He pushed himself off the wall and began pacing slowly down the corridor, then back again, his steps unhurried but restless.

For some reason, seeing you with Folio was completely different than seeing you with Davis. Because when he saw you with Davis he felt...

Jealous?

The word felt absurd even forming in his mind.

You weren’t his. You had never been. And you never would be.

That had always been clear.

You had a destination, a purpose, a life that existed beyond this ship, beyond him, beyond everything he knew, and nothing about that had changed.

So there was no reason for him to feel anything about it at all.

No reason to let his thoughts drift in that direction.

No reason to wonder....

He exhaled sharply, cutting himself off before the thought could settle.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said quietly.

And yet, his mind didn’t seem particularly interested in making sense. It moved anyway, drifting toward moments he hadn’t meant to hold onto.

Like that night in the city, when you had turned back just long enough to raise your hand and flip off a man who had been openly mocking him, the gesture so unapologetic, spontaneous and completely at odds with everything you were supposed to be.

A faint breath of laughter escaped him before he could stop it.

That had been unexpected.

And, if he was being honest...

He ran a hand along the back of his neck, the hint of a smile still lingering.

He fucking loved it.

It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t fitting for someone of your background, your world, your so-called expectations.

And yet you had done it without hesitation, without overthinking it, without caring of the possible consequences. For him.

He shook his head slightly.

That had to be their terrible influence. The crew, the ship, the life... they were ruining you. There was no other explanation.

Or...

His expression shifted, maybe you weren’t changing. Maybe you were just finally being yourself, without anyone there to tell you otherwise.

His gaze drifted back toward the door you were behind.

You fit. That was the part that unsettled him the most.

You fit into this world in a way that didn’t make sense, in a way that made it dangerously easy to imagine things he had no right to imagine.

Like you staying.

The idea surfaced before he could stop it, and just as quickly, he rejected it.

No. He had to stop with that bullshit. You weren’t staying.

No point in wanting it.

And yet... he still liked you.

More than he should.

And for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t something he could dismiss or ignore or pretend wasn’t there.

He stood there for another moment, quiet, letting that realization settle without immediately pushing it away, before finally exhaling slowly.

And then, despite everything he had just told himself, his mind betrayed him again.

It slipped, almost too easily, into something it had no right to imagine.

He imagined what it would be like to have you there with him forever, to see you every day on the deck smiling at him and joking, and what it would be like to find you sitting on his bed at night.

He imagined reaching for you.

His fingers brushing against your arm first, slow, almost testing, like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real even in his own imagination, before letting his hand slide more fully, more deliberately, feeling the warmth of your skin under his touch.

He swallowed.

There was nothing rushed in it, just the sweetness of two people who had stopped pretending they didn’t feel anything.

He imagined you leaning into it instead of pulling away.

The shift of your weight closer to him, the way your breath might catch just slightly, not in fear, but because you liked it too.

Because you wanted it too.

He pictured his hand moving higher, slower, tracing the line of your shoulder, the curve of your neck, the place where your pulse beat just beneath the surface, and the way he would pause there for a second, to feel you.

He imagined his lips on you, leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses all over your skin, from your neck, to your breasts, going down, slower and unhurried as you started panting under him and...

“Yeah… no,” he muttered under his breath.

That was enough.

More than enough. Because that wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

You weren’t his and you weren’t staying.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

“…Get it together, for fuck's sake,” he muttered to himself.

A voice suddenly called his name from above deck, and he straightened immediately, before turning toward the stairs, already moving.

And just like that, he left it behind.

The ship finally felt normal again.

Men were back on deck, standing, talking, arguing over cards or work like nothing had nearly taken them down all at once.

It felt strange. And relieving.

You stood near the center of the deck, your gaze drifting upward without really thinking about it, following the tall mast as it cut into the sky, ropes stretching in every direction, sails catching the wind above. And then your eyes settled on that structure attached higher up, a small platform just beneath the sails, wooden and narrow, half-hidden between lines and beams.

You didn’t know what they called it. But you knew exactly what it reminded you of.

For a moment, you just stared at it, thinking about how used to climb all the time.

You remembered the first time you had managed to pull yourself up onto the highest part of your father’s ship, fingers gripping the edge, heart pounding more from excitement than fear as you hoisted yourself up and sat there, legs dangling over the side.

The wind had felt different up there. Cleaner and highter.

Like you were somewhere in between worlds, sea and sky.

Your father had not shared that sentiment.

You could almost hear his voice even now, sharp and exasperated, calling your name from below, telling you to get down immediately before you broke your neck, before you fell, before you got hurt.

You never listened right away.

You would stay a little longer, letting the sun warm your skin, letting the breeze push through your hair, pretending you couldn’t hear him for just a few minutes more.

A small smile tugged at your mouth.

Before you could overthink it, you moved.

You crossed the deck, ignoring a few curious glances as you reached the base of the mast. Your hands found the ropes easily, your body remembering the movement before your mind could question it.

And then you started climbing.

It wasn’t entirely graceful, but it was familiar. Your boots found steady holds, your hands gripping tightly as you pulled yourself higher, the deck slowly shrinking beneath you.

The wind picked up the higher you went, brushing against your face, tugging lightly at your clothes, and for a moment, it felt exactly like it used to.

You pulled yourself onto the platform, steadying your balance before sitting down, one hand braced beside you, the other resting loosely on your knee.

From up there, the sea stretched endlessly in every direction, the horizon wide and open, the sky brighter, closer somehow.

You let out a quiet breath.

Yeah.

You had missed this.

“What the hell are you doing up there?”

The voice came from below, cutting through the quiet.

You leaned slightly over the edge, looking down.

Noah stood near the base of the mast, one hand resting casually against one of the ropes, head tilted back as he looked up at you.

His shirt was slightly open at the collar, sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms, the fabric worn but clean. A belt sat low on his hips, his hair was a little messier than usual, pushed back loosely, probably from running his hands through it too many times.

You shrugged lightly. “Enjoying the view.”

This had at least two different interpretations.

He frowned slightly, squinting up at you. “You call that safe?”

You tilted your head. “I’m sitting.”

“You’re sitting several meters above the deck.”

“And I’m doing it very well.”

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, but there was something almost amused in it.

“Get down. We are about to have lunch.”

“Nah.”

A brief pause.

“…Nah?”

You shifted slightly, getting more comfortable. “You heard that. I'm comfy here.”

Noah stared at you like he was deciding whether to argue further or not.

Then, without another word, he moved.

You blinked. “Wait—what are you—”

He had already grabbed onto the ropes and started climbing.

You watched him for a second, a little surprised, a little entertained, as he made his way up, movements controlled, but slower than you expected.

“…You’re taking your time,” you pointed out.

“I’m being careful,” he shot back.

You leaned your chin into your hand, watching him with poorly hidden amusement.

It didn’t take long before he reached the platform, pulling himself up with a bit more effort than you had.

The moment he stood fully, though, he stilled.

Just for a second. It was subtle, but you noticed.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“…Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said immediately, way too quickly.

You raised a brow.

His posture was just slightly off, his stance a little more rigid than usual, like he was very aware of where he was standing.

“…You don’t like heights,” you said slowly.

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I’m the captain of a ship.”

“And?”

“And I deal with heights just fine.”

You glanced around pointedly. “Respectfully, you look a bit like a cat stuck on a tree.”

He scoffed, but it lacked conviction. “I don't.”

“You do,” you insisted, leaning back slightly. “Why did you climb all the way up here?”

“I climbed up here because you refused to come down.”

“Mhm.”

A pause.

You let out a small laugh.

“That’s incredible.”

“What is?”

“How does a captain not like heights?”

“I didn’t say I don’t like heights!”

“Noah, you’re gripping that rope very hard.”

“I’m not gripping it—” he stopped, glanced down at his hand.

He was.

You smiled wider.

“Oh, this is even better than I thought.”

“I just prefer the deck,” he muttered.

“Sure you do.”

“At least the deck doesn’t move like this.”

You blinked. “The deck literally moves more than this.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is!”

You laughed again,, shaking your head slightly.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

The wind moved around you, quieter up there despite being stronger, the world below feeling just a little further away.

Noah shifted slightly, adjusting his stance, still not entirely relaxed, but no longer looking like he regretted climbing up.

“…It is a good view,” he admitted after a moment.

You glanced at him, a small smile still lingering, and he was already looking at you.

“I told you.”

He huffed faintly, but didn’t argue this time. And for a little while, you both just stayed there, halfway between the sea and the sky.

The deck was loud, that evening, as the crew had one of their fighting matches.

You sat on a crate near the edge of it all, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back slightly with your arms braced behind you, watching with mild interest as steel clashed and boots scraped against the wooden deck.

The first match ended with a stumble and a loud groan from the loser, followed by a few cheers and scattered claps.

And then it was Noah's turn.

He moved into the center of the circle they had formed, one hand loosely holding his sword, the other resting casually at his side and he started looking around him, scanning all the faces, looking for the perfect opponent.

You rolled your eyes slightly. “This is the part where he takes forever to pick someone, isn’t it?”

Davis smirked. “Oh, absolutely. He likes to put on a show.”

You let out a small breath. “He's so dramatic. Just choose someone and get on with it.”

Davis didn’t answer right away. Because Noah had turned.

And he was looking straight at you.

You frowned faintly.

“What?”

Davis’s grin widened immediately. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Noah lifted his sword slightly, pointing it in your direction without hesitation.

“You.”

You blinked. “…Me?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Are you insane?” you added.

A few of the men around the circle let out amused noises, already sensing where this was going.

“What? Why?”

You stared at him. “Because I’m not fighting you. That’s why.”

“You’ve been training.”

“Not like this.”

“C'mon, you’re good enough.”

“Noah.”

“Yes?”

You shook your head immediately. “Just no.”

“No?” he repeated, stepping a little closer, tone almost curious.

“No,” you insisted, pushing yourself up from the crate. “Absolutely not. I’m not doing this in front of everyone.”

A few voices chimed in around you.

“Come on!”

“Rules are rules!”

“You got called out!”

You shot a look at Davis. “Don’t you dare.”

He raised both hands slightly. “Hey, I’m just enjoying this.”

You turned back to Noah. “Pick someone else.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t lower the sword.

“I have already picked you,” he said simply.

Someone behind you nudged your arm, and when you glanced back, a sword was already being held out toward you.

You hesitated.

“…this is a terrible idea,” you muttered under your breath.

“Maybe,” Davis agreed, far too entertained.

You exhaled, then reached out and took the sword.

The weight settled into your hand, familiar now, but still different in this context, heavier somehow under the eyes of everyone watching.

A few cheers went up as you stepped into the circle.

“Alright!”

“Let’s see this!”

You ignored them.

Your focus shifted forward, settling on Noah as he adjusted his grip slightly, his stance relaxed but ready.

“C'mon, princess,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

You didn’t answer, you just moved.

Your first strike wasn’t perfect, but it was fast, angled the way he had taught you, your body remembering what you had to do.

Steel met steel with a sharp, clean sound.

He blocked easily. Of course he did.

“Good,” he said immediately, almost casually.

You adjusted, stepping to the side, trying again from a different angle.

This time your blade slid along his for a second before he redirected it, not harshly, but enough to throw you slightly off balance.

“Too open,” he added.

“I know.”

“Then fix it.”

You did.

This time your footing was steadier, your movements less hesitant, your grip firmer as you shifted your weight and came at him again, faster than before, your blade angling toward his side.

He didn’t just block this time, but he also moved.

His sword met yours with more force, redirecting it sharply before he stepped in, closing the distance in a way that forced you to react instead of think. The shift caught you slightly off guard, your stance tightening as you adjusted, bringing your blade back up just in time to catch his next strike.

The sound rang louder this time.

Not controlled and not gentle.

A few voices in the circle reacted immediately.

“There we go—!”

You exhaled through your nose, focusing, pushing forward again, your blade sliding against his as you tried to force an opening, your movements quicker now.

He twisted his wrist, moving your blade aside and stepping in again, his sword rising.

“Dead.”

The tip hovered just inches from your throat.

You moved quickly, your arm snapped up, faster than before, knocking his blade off line with a sharp, controlled motion, stepping sideways at the same time to break the position completely.

A few surprised noises broke out around you.

Noah’s brows lifted slightly.

“Uuuh.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, already moving again.

This time you went lower, using your height, shifting your stance to slip under his guard, your blade angling upward toward his side.

He reacted quickly, blocking, but not as easily as before.

Good.

Another strike, then another, your movements not perfect but fluid enough to keep him engaged, to keep him from completely controlling the pace.

For a moment, it almost worked, then he stepped in again.

Your blade met his, but your footing slipped just slightly, and your balance shifting wrong. “Dead again.”

His sword was too close again.

You didn’t think. You reacted.

Your wrist twisted sharply, knocking his blade away again before it could settle, your body turning with the movement, stepping out of reach before he could follow through.

“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

The next exchange was different.

There was less space. Less room to breathe.

He moved first this time, striking toward your shoulder, forcing you to block, then shifting immediately, his blade coming from another angle before you had fully recovered.

You caught it, barely, but it forced you back a step, then another. You adjusted, then changed your footing, and waited.

He came in again. And this time you saw that tiny opening.

The smallest shift in his grip, the briefest moment where his balance wasn’t fully set.

You moved.

Your blade met his with more force than before, not perfectly placed, not clean, but strong enough to knock it off its path... and then you pushed. Harder.

Your sword struck his at just the right angle, and it slipped from his hand.

The metal spun once in the air before hitting the deck with a sharp, unmistakable clatter.

There was a moment of silence.

Then the noise hit all at once.

“NO WAY—”

“Did you see that?!”

You didn’t look at them.

You stepped forward immediately, closing the distance before he could recover, your sword lifting, the tip stopping just beneath his jaw.

Close enough.

Your chest rose and fell slightly faster now, but your grip was steady. And you were smiling.

Satisfied.

Princess my ass.

“Dead.”

For a second, he didn’t move, then, his mouth curved.

But he was not mocking you, it was genuine.

“Alright. Not bad.”

Slowly, you lowered your sword.

The tip dipped away from his throat, your arm relaxing just enough as the tension of the moment slipped into something lighter.

Noah exhaled through a quiet breath, glancing down briefly before stepping back, giving you space again. He bent to retrieve his sword from the deck, fingers closing around the hilt as he straightened, testing the grip out of habit before resting it more casually at his side.

Around you, the circle was already breaking apart, some of them complimenting you as they passed by.

You turned back to Noah, still smiling, something bright and satisfied in your expression that you didn’t even try to hide.

“Did you see that?” you repeated, lifting your chin slightly. “I just beat your ass.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he adjusted his stance. “You got lucky.”

“Oh, that’s not what it looked like from here,” you shot back immediately, gesturing lightly to the deck where his sword had landed. “From my perspective, it looked really like I beat your ass.”

“Yeah?” he said, one brow lifting slightly. “Because from mine, it looked like I went easy on you.”

You let out a short laugh. “Oh, of course. That must be it.”

“It is,” he insisted, though there was no real weight behind it, the corner of his mouth already giving him away.

“Sure,” you said, stepping a little closer, lowering your voice just slightly like you were letting him in on a secret. “Next time, try going hard. Maybe you’ll last longer.”

That earned a real laugh from him, unrestrained, his head tipping back just slightly before he looked at you again.

“You win one fight and suddenly you think you’re the best.”

“Right? Maybe I should even be the captain.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, but he was still smiling.

You shifted your grip on the sword, twirling it once before lowering it properly.

“But hey, you said I wasn’t bad,” you added, a little more serious.

He nodded once. “You’re not,” he said. “You’re actually… really good.”

You blinked once, just slightly caught off guard by the tone shift. He continued, almost absentmindedly, like he was thinking it through as he said it.

“Your timing’s better. You’re faster than before, and you’re starting to read movements instead of just reacting to them.” His eyes flicked briefly to your stance, your grip. “You still rush sometimes, and you leave openings when you get confident…”

“I do not—”

“You do,” he cut in, but there was a hint of amusement there again. “But you recover fast. That’s what saved you. Twice.”

You hesitated, then huffed softly. “Alright. Fine.”

“But yeah... you're good.”

You held his gaze for a second, then shrugged lightly, though the small smile didn’t leave your face.

“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”

He let out another soft laugh, shaking his head again, but there was something softer in his expression.

For a moment longer, he stayed there, like he might say something else. Then he shifted his grip on the sword, rolling his shoulder once as if shaking off the last of the fight.

“I should go check the routes,” he said.

You nodded. “Of course. Captain duties.”

“Exactly,” he replied, already stepping back.

He turned, moving away through the deck, one hand brushing briefly through his hair as he walked.

You watched him go.

The sunlight caught on his skin, still slightly damp from the fight, tracing along his arms, his neck, the line of his jaw. His shirt clung just enough to hint at movement underneath, and his hair fell into his face before he pushed it back without even thinking.

Your gaze lingered a second too long.

Then you looked away.

In your diary, you had written a lot about him.

You wrote that he was annoying. Arrogant. Infuriating. Reckless.

But one word had never made it onto those pages.

Beautiful.

Not because it wasn’t true.

But because you didn't want to admit it even in those pages, and it didn't matter anyway because Saint Marlowe was getting closer every day and soon the time would come to leave this life behind.

That night, the deck had slowly emptied.

The sun had set a while ago, but the sky still held onto that deep, fading blue, the last traces of light dissolving into the horizon. A lantern nearby cast a warm, unsteady glow across the wood, the flame flickering gently with the wind.

You were leaning lightly against the railing, your arms resting on it as you looked out at the water, not really focused on anything in particular.

You didn’t hear him approach and only noticed him when he stopped beside you.

Noah rested his forearms on the railing too, mirroring your position without comment, his gaze fixed outward.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, casually, almost like it hadn’t been sitting in his mind for a while, he spoke.

“Do you miss it?”

You turned your head slightly. “Miss what?”

“The life on land.”

You watched him for a second, then looked back out at the water. “I ran away from that life, didn’t I?”

He huffed quietly, the sound barely audible. “Yeah. But that’s not what I meant.”

You tilted your head slightly, a small, thoughtful pause.

“…So this is your way of asking if I’ll miss this,” you said, gesturing lightly around you, “when I reach my destination?”

A brief silence.

“Yeah,” he said. It was simple. Direct.

You let the question sit for a moment, your fingers absently tracing along the wood of the railing.

“I think…” you started slowly, “…it’ll be a part of my life I’ll remember fondly.”

Noah didn’t look at you.

He just gave a small, thoughtful sound. “Mh.”

You glanced at him briefly, studying his profile in the low light, then turned your gaze forward again.

“And you?”

He shifted slightly. “And you what?”

“Do you ever miss life on land?”

The answer came too quickly, “No.”

You blinked once, more surprised by the almost harsh tone he had used than by the answer itself. “…That was fast.”

He didn’t react immediately, his gaze still fixed somewhere out on the water.

“It doesn’t take me long to think about it,” he said.

You studied him again, something about his tone catching your attention.

“Still,” you added, “most people would hesitate at least a little.”

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

“I don’t miss it,” he repeated, a little more firmly this time. There was a pause, “I hated those people.”

The words were simple, but there was something under them and you turned your head fully now, your brows drawing together slightly.

“…Who?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His jaw tightened just slightly, his fingers shifting against the railing, like the question had landed somewhere he hadn’t meant to go.

“It’s not important.”

You had learned what Noah was like and that, for some reason, he didn't want to talk about certain things, so you didn’t press.

You just nodded once, lightly, turning your gaze back out toward the sea.

“Alright.”

Silence settled again, and it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t entirely easy either.

The wind shifted slightly, brushing against your sleeves.

Beside you, Noah didn’t move.

But something about him had changed. Subtle and barely noticeable and yet, you felt it.

A distance that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

You rested your chin lightly against your arm, your thoughts drifting despite yourself.

You didn’t know much about him, not really.

You knew how he fought. How he led. How he joked, how he argued, how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You knew the version of him that existed here.

On this ship. With these people.

You knew the version of him that let his guard slip when he was afraid for his crew, the one who let you stand beside him and help without pushing you away. You knew the version that got drunk and sharp-tongued, snapping at you for asking too many questions, and the one who, in that same haze, had asked you to stay on his ship… only to forget it completely by morning.

But whatever had come before that…

Whatever “those people” meant… You had no idea.

And for the first time, it stood out. And you wondered what version of him you didn’t know about.

He was still looking out at the sea, his expression unreadable now, like whatever had slipped through for a second had already been pulled back under control.

And you understood, without needing to be told, that this wasn’t the moment to ask more questions about it.

So you let it go.

And just enjoyed the silence of the night a moment longer.

Noah taglist pt 1: @mushrumink @sullyselena @buttercupbabyyy @pathion @pipidoll @missduffsblog @vibecops @myexistencesucks @overmydeadbodysblog @margocos-blog @heyitsjay316 @sallyba3 @bartxnhood @lacy1986 @iamamatus @dream-machine-love @amoursims @suessmausnici @whimsicaldiamonds @imyourliquor-youremypoison @punkprincess1999 @bored-rato @thepeoplesblog @dxthrone @illmakeyousaywow @xmads-omensx @sikowitzbitch @tosoundlessdarkistare @sadbitchenergy @flowery-mess @anything-morethan-human @lekyswixexx @english-fucker @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @ichoosetenderomens @theservantbones @pacificbutbmth @theanarchymuse95 @ykaaretsfood @noahsebastiann @nogoodsailors @hed0nistt

shbto tags: @novainpolaroids @enzocoquette @lifeirreverent @shobolanya @crystallizedtime @mushroommelody1 @leosunshine

[silent-stories]

Can we get a spoiler of the next chapter?? 🫣

of course!

[the-bad-omens-blog]

📸 Bryan Kirks

[silent-stories]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

Pairing: noah x reader (pirates au)

Series summary: Stuck in a life you don’t want, your only way out is a deal with a pirate, and that’s how your journey on a ship of outlaws toward a new life begins.

Tw: illness, weapons, racism

Series mastelist

The morning air was cooler than usual, enough to make you pull your sleeves down over your hands as you sat on the edge of the ship, one leg bent, the other hanging slightly over the side, the surface of the sea shifting in long, slow waves.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your weight on your hands as you looked down. A large fish cut through the water just beneath the surface, its shadow moving steadily alongside the ship before disappearing into the darker blue.

You followed it with your eyes until it vanished completely.

“Hey. Catch.”

You turned your head just in time to see something flying toward you.

Instinct kicked in and you caught it without thinking.

A second later, you looked down at your hands.

An apple.

You blinked, then looked back up at him.

Noah was already a few steps away, walking closer like nothing had happened, one hand still half-raised from the throw.

“…I could’ve fallen off the ship trying to catch that,” you pointed out.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Relax,” he said, sarcastic but also with a touch of something else. “I would’ve jumped in after you to save you.”

You paused.

There was something about the way he said it—easy, offhand, like it wasn’t meant to be anything—but it still landed differently.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, studying him. “Oh well, this changes everything.”

He stopped next to you, and after a second, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

He handed you a knife to you without a word.

You took it and as soon as your fingers wrapped around the handle, you paused, bacause recognized it immediately.

Your gaze flicked back up to him.

“…This is the one you stole at the market that day,” you said.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“Borrowed,” he corrected.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, “Right.”

That had been the first day. The first time you had seen him, properly. The first time everything had started unraveling into… this.

And now you were here. On a pirate ship.

You shook the thought away and focused on the apple instead.

He didn’t say anything else, just leaned back slightly against the railing beside you, bringing his own apple up and taking a bite.

You glanced at him briefly, then looked back down at yours.

Instead of biting into it, you lifted the knife and started cutting it into smaller pieces. The blade slid cleanly through it.

Standing beside you, he crunched into his second bite.

You huffed faintly and he glanced at you.

“What?”

“You could at least pretend to have some manners.”

“I have manners,” he replied.

You raised a brow. “You’re eating like an animal.”

“It’s efficient.”

You shook your head slightly, but there was a faint smile tugging at your mouth as you cut another slice.

For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that.

Eating and watching the sea.

“Are the stories true?” you asked after a while.

He glanced at you.

“What stories?”

“The ones about pirates,” you said, shifting slightly. “Treasures. Hidden gold. That kind of thing.”

He tilted his head a little, considering, “Depends which ones you’ve heard.”

You shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. Just… in general.”

A small pause.

“Do treasure maps actually exist?”

He looked at you for a second, “Of course they do.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not,” he insisted, taking another bite of his apple.

You stared at him.

“…So you’re telling me there are actual maps, with little drawings and marked Xs and everything?”

He shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

“Yeah.”

“That sounds completely made up.”

“It’s not.”

You let out a small breath, shaking your head.

“And have you ever found one of these so-called maps?”

He paused mid-bite.

Then slowly lowered the apple, glancing at you with just the slightest hint of something in his expression.

“…Maybe.”

You stared at him for a second.

Then your eyes narrowed further.

“You’re making this up as you go.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“You are absolutely making this up.”

He tried to hold the serious expression for another second.

Failed.

A laugh broke out of him, sudden and unrestrained, and wasn’t what you expected, it was lght and boyish, almost.

It was the kind of laugh that didn’t match the version of him you had seen during fights or arguments, where his voice dropped and hardened into something else entirely.

This was different and it caught you off guard just enough that you ended up laughing too.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said.

“But you believed me for a second,” he shot back immediately.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” he insisted, grinning now.

You shook your head, still smiling despite yourself, looking back down at the apple in your hands as you cut another slice just to have something to do.

He also took another bite, still amused, still watching you like he had just won something.

When you were both done with the apples, you tossed the cores overboard almost at the same time, watching them disappear into the water below.

“Where’d you leave your sword, by the way?” he asked.

“It wasn’t my sword,” you corrected automatically. “And I don’t know… somewhere near those barrels, I think.”

He nodded once, he pushed himself up and disappeared below deck.

You blinked, watching the empty space he left behind, then glanced back out at the sea, not really expecting him to come back that quickly. But he did.

A few minutes later, you heard his steps again before you saw him, and when you turned, he was already walking back toward you, one sword in each hand.

He stopped in front of you and held one out.

“Here.”

You looked at it, then at him. “…Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, like the answer was obvious. “Because I want to see if you remember anything from our lesson.”

You let out a small breath through your nose. “No.”

His brows pulled together faintly. “What?”

“I’m not doing that.”

“What, you already forgot everything?” he asked, a hint of amusement slipping into his voice as he nudged the sword a little closer to you.

You shook your head. “I’m not doing it here. In front of everyone.”

He glanced around briefly, like he hadn’t even considered that, then looked back at you, unimpressed. “Oh, come on, don't be shy. I’m sure Davis would love to see it.”

You frowned immediately. “What does Davis have to do with anything?”

Noah shrugged lightly, but there was something just a little too casual about it. “I don’t know. You two seem… friendly.”

You stared at him for a second. “And?”

“And,” he continued as his mouth curved just enough to be annoying, “I’m just saying, he’d probably enjoy watching you show off.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, something clicking a second too late.

“If I didn’t know you better,” you said slowly, “I’d say you sound jealous.”

The words came out lightly, meant as a joke, but the moment they were out, you were already regretting saying them.

“Who knows,” he said, a little too easily and like it didn’t matter.

He lifted the sword slightly again toward you. “You taking it or not? My arm already hurts.”

You glanced down at it, then back at him.

“See? I'm winning without even lifting a finger.”

That got a small, quiet laugh from him.

“Come on.”

You hesitated for a second longer, then sighed softly, pushing yourself up from where you were sitting, and reaching out and taking it from his hand. You waited for a moment, still thinking that maybe you could still say you didn't want to, but then you adjusted your grip.

“Alright,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Noah’s mouth twitched, something quietly satisfied passing through his expression as he stepped back just enough to give you space.

“Thought you said no,” he said.

“Well, I changed my mind.”

“So you do like this.”

“Be quiet.”

That earned a soft huff of a laugh from him as he lifted his own sword, not into a real defensive stance, just enough to mirror you.

“Relax,” he added, noticing the way your shoulders had tensed. “We’re not actually trying to kill each other.”

“Good to know,” you replied dryly.

A few crew members lingered nearby, not openly staring, but definitely aware enough to glance over every now and then. You ignored them.

“Go on,” Noah said, nodding toward you. “Show me what you remember.”

You exhaled quietly, then moved.

Your arm lifted, the blade angling the way he had shown you, your feet shifting into position more carefully this time. You slowly stepped forward and met your movement easily. Steel touched steel with a soft, almost lazy clink.

“Hey, not bad.”

You tried again, this time adjusting your angle before he could comment on it. Your blade slid against his, not perfectly, but smoother than before.

He noticed.

“There,” he said, nodding once. “That’s even better.”

He stepped in and you reacted, slower than him, but not completely off. Your swords met again, the sound a little sharper now.

He tilted his head, watching you more closely. “Don’t hesitate after the first move.”

“I wouldn't hesitate this much if the person in front of me was actually trying to kill me.”

“Try again.”

You did. This time, when he moved, you adjusted faster.

Your blade caught his and there was a brief pause, both of you holding that position.

“…Okay,” he said, quieter this time. “See? That was actually good.”

A small, satisfied smile slipped through before you could stop it. You moved again, a little more confident now and that was your mistake.

He knocked your blade aside almost immediately, not harshly, but enough to break your balance.

“Too much,” he said. “You got excited.”

“I did not—”

“You did.”

“But I was improving.”

“You were,” he agreed. “Then you got cocky.”

You exhaled through your nose, adjusting your stance again. “You’re so annoying.”

“I'm the best teacher ever. Again,” he said.

You went through it a few more times.

Each movement slower than a real fight. He corrected you when needed, sometimes with words, sometimes just by showing you.

At one point, you stepped wrong and nearly tripped.

His hand shot out instinctively, catching your arm before you could fully stumble.

“Careful,” he said.

“I’m fine,” you replied quickly, even as you steadied yourself.

He didn’t let go immediately, just for a second longer than necessary. Then he stepped back again like nothing had happened.

“Again,” he said.

By the time you finally slowed, your arm was starting to ache slightly, your grip less firm than before.

You lowered the sword a little, exhaling.

“That’s enough,” you said.

He studied you for a second, then nodded and he gestured lightly with his sword.

“Next time,” he said, “we go a little faster.”

You snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He smirked. “We’ll see.”

He was already walking away before you could say anything else, the conversation ending there.

You watched him go for a moment.

He joined a part of the crew as someone called out to him, cards already laid out on a crate, and he dropped into place with them, leaning back, one arm resting casually as if he hadn’t just been standing a few feet away correcting your stance and catching you when you lost your balance.

A faint scoff left you under your breath.

You looked down at the sword still in your hand for a second, then carefully set it aside where it wouldn’t get in anyone’s way, your fingers lingering on the hilt just a moment longer than necessary before you let go.

Your gaze drifted back to him without really meaning to.

He was laughing at something Davis had said, head tilted slightly back, that same easy, boyish grin from earlier flashing across his face again.

You find yourself thinking back to that night at the inn.

To the way he had been slouched on the bed, words slipping over themselves, unfocused and messy and honest in a way he never was when he was sober.

You remember thinking at the time that he probably wouldn’t even remember it.

And he didn’t. That, or he was a very good actor.

The next morning, he had woken up with a headache and a bad mood, rubbing his temples and muttering about cheap alcohol, and not once had he even hinted at what he had said.

Not about Saint Marlowe, about you staying, about anything.

You looked at him again, and you thought that other than the weird drunk conversation you had, there was something there.

Something he wasn’t saying.

Or maybe you were starting to imagine things.

While Noah and the other were playing, you noticed Folio pushing himself to his feet and walking away, heading below deck.

You watched him go for a second, frowning faintly since it wasn’t like him to leave in the middle of a game. But no one else seemed too concerned and the cards kept moving, the conversation didn’t slow, and Noah barely even glanced in that direction.

So you let it go.

It wasn’t until later that Davis mentioned it again. “He said he wasn’t feeling great,” he told you when you asked. “Thought it’d be better if he slept it off.”

You nodded at the time, because that still sounded… normal.

But that night, everything started shifting.

It started with Jesse coming up fast from below deck, fast with a worried expression painted on his face.

“Folio’s burning up.”

Noah was on his feet immediately. “What?”

“Fever,” Jesse repeated. “High. He’s not waking properly.”

Some instructions were thrown around, water and clothes brought down. You followed at first without really deciding to, just pulled by the sudden tension that had gripped the entire ship.

Folio was lying in his bunk when you saw him, he was still, his skin was flushed and damp and his breathing uneven.

Someone pressed a wet cloth to his forehead. Someone else tried to get him to drink. His head rolled slightly to the side, barely responsive.

“Come on,” Davis muttered under his breath. “Come on, man…”

But nothing changed.

Hours passed like that.

Nothing worked.

And then, Jolly got sick.

At first it was just a complaint, a hand pressed to his side and a grimace he tried to brush off, but then he was sitting down. Then lying down. Then not getting back up.

By morning, Michael was sick too.

And it didn’t stop there.

One by one.

A cough here. A fever there. Someone too weak to stand. Someone else shaking, sweating and barely conscious.

It spread through them like something alive and fast, and within two days, nearly a dozen of them were down.

You had never seen anything like it, not even when your dad died.

He had already been in bad shape when he returned from that journey. His breathing was labored, each inhale shallow and strained. There had been swelling too: his hands, his face, even his legs. But there was no fever, so it was not the same case this time, at least.

You didn't know it this was better or worse.

The ship now felt different, definitely quieter, but not calm.

Noah was everywhere and had never seen him like that.

He was constantly asking, checking, arguing, trying to keep control of something that was clearly slipping through his fingers.

He wasn’t calm, he wasn’t in control, he was panicking and not even sleeping. He tried not to show it, but you could see it anyway.

By the second day, it was clear that this wasn’t something that would just pass.

And he knew it. You were near the main deck when he finally stopped pacing long enough to speak.

“We’re not waiting this out.”

A few heads turned.

“We’re heading to the nearest land,” he continued, already decided. “We need to find a doctor. Someone who knows what the fuck this is.”

There was no argument.

That evening, the ship felt unnaturally still.

You were sitting near the railing again, though this time you weren’t really looking at the sea. Your gaze drifted over it without focus, your thoughts stuck somewhere below deck, where too many of them were lying still and burning with fever.

You didn’t hear him approach at first. Only when he sat down beside you did you turn your head slightly.

Noah didn’t look at you immediately. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, hands loosely clasped, staring out at the water like he was trying to find an answer written somewhere in it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he exhaled.

“This is…” he started, then stopped, like even forming the sentence felt too hard. He shook his head slightly. “This is not something I know how to deal with.”

That alone was enough to make you look at him properly. He let out a short breath through his nose, almost humorless.

“In a fight, it’s simple,” he went on, his voice quieter now, “You see what’s in front of you. You know who you’re dealing with. You act.”

His fingers tightened slightly together.

“This?” he gestured vaguely behind him, toward the lower decks, toward the sick. “I don’t know what this is. I don’t know how it spreads, I don’t know how to stop it, I don’t even know if there is something to stop.”

There was a pause.

“I can’t fight it,” he added, more to himself than to you. “I'm the captain, I should know what to do but this is different.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I need a plan,” he continued after a moment, more firmly now, like he was trying to pull himself back into the captain he usually is.

“I don't want this doctor to... trick us. Or something.”

He paused for a second, then he went on.

“Half the crew is already out, Ruffilo stays. He has to. I need him here, keeping things from falling completely apart while I’m gone.”

He hesitated slightly.

“And I—”

“You don't have to go alone.” The words left your mouth before you really thought them through.

He stopped, turned his head fully toward you.

“I can come with you,” you added, a little more calmly now, even if your heartbeat had picked up slightly for reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely. “If you want.”

He frowned faintly, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, before he could finish. “But maybe it can help.”

He held your gaze, waiting.

You hesitated just a second, then shrugged lightly, forcing a bit of logic into your tone.

“If whoever we find sees you alone, armed, asking questions, they might not be very cooperative,” you said. “If there was a woman with you… maybe it would feel less threatening. I don’t know.”

A small pause.

“…A woman might make it easier,” you added.

You weren’t entirely sure if you believed that or if that was just the easiest way to justify it.

Because the truth was simpler and harder to admit.

You didn’t want him to go alone, not after seeing him like this and after realizing how much this was affecting him.

He kept looking at you for a second longer, like he was weighing it, not just the idea but you in it.

Then his expression shifted slightly.

“...Alright,” he said.

It came out low, but he sounded certain.

He nodded once.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Another brief pause, then finally, he let out a small breath, some of the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“Thank you, princess.”

It wasn’t teasing this time.

“It’s going to work,” you said after a second, “we’ll find someone. And they’ll know what to do.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“They’re going to be okay,” you added, softer now.

For a moment, you thought he was just going to nod and brush it off like he usually did, throw some half-sarcastic comment your way and move on. But he didn’t.

“They have to be,” he said instead, low, almost under his breath.

There was a pause.

Then he shifted slightly, leaning back just enough to rest his hands behind him, gaze still unfocused somewhere ahead.

“This crew…” he started, then stopped, like the words didn’t come easily. “They’re all I’ve got.”

That surprised you. Not that the crew was all he had but the fact that he was saying it out lound.

He let out a short breath.

“The ship?” he went on, shrugging one shoulder slightly. “The Specter could sink tomorrow for all I care.”

Your eyes flicked to him.

“But them? They’re my family.”

You thought this was not a version of himself he let people see often.

“They’ll be okay,” you repeated.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

“Look at me,” he muttered, running a hand briefly through his hair. “Getting all… soft and pathetic.”

You frowned faintly. “That’s not—”

“It is,” he cut in lightly, but there was no real bite to it. “Don’t get used to it.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“I don’t think caring about people makes you pathetic,” you said.

He held your gaze for a second.

Then looked away again, but this time not like he was avoiding something, more like he just… didn’t know what to do with that.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Don’t go spreading that around anyway. Ruins my reputation.”

That earned a little smile from you.

By the time you reached land, the sky was already dark, the last traces of daylight long gone, replaced by a deep blue that blurred into black at the horizon.

The ship had stayed anchored at a careful distance, far enough to avoid attention, close enough to return quickly if needed. Your small boat had cut through the water in near silence, the only sound the dip of the oars and the movement of waves against the wood.

Once on land, you didn’t linger near the shore and you immediately started walking to the city. The place felt quieter than Devil’s Hook.

The streets were narrower, more structured, the buildings taller and closer together. There were lanterns hanging along the main paths, casting steady pools of warm light onto cobblestone streets that looked far more maintained than anything you had seen in the past days.

Shops lined parts of the road, most of them closed at this hour, wooden shutters pulled down, though a few still had dim light filtering through the cracks. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear faint music, something played indoors, accompanied by low voices and laughter.

You walked beside Noah, your pace quick enough to match his. He didn’t slow down once. His shoulders were tight, eyes moving constantly, scanning the place.

The tension hadn’t left him since the ship.

You spotted a man walking alone a little ahead, his steps unhurried, hands tucked behind his back. Without thinking too much about it, you stepped slightly ahead.

“Excuse me,” you called.

He turned, brows pulling together slightly at the interruption, or maybe because he was seeing a woman dressed as a man in the middle of the night.

“Yes?”

“Do you know where I can find a doctor?” you asked.

He blinked once, then glanced up briefly at the sky, like that alone answered the question.

“At this hour?”

“It’s urgent,” you said immediately. “And we’re willing to pay a lot.” You lied, “Do you know where we can find one?”

He studied you for a second longer, then nodded slightly.

“Doctor Hale lives not far from here. Further toward the center. Take this road and continue straight, then turn where the street opens into a square. His house is on the left side.”

You exhaled quietly, relieved.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a short nod and continued on his way.

You didn’t waste time.

“Come on,” you murmured, glancing at Noah.

He was already moving.

You fell into step beside him again, the two of you continuing deeper into the city. The further in you went, the more the atmosphere shifted.

The buildings grew more refined, with larger windows and cleaner facades. The lanterns brighter, more evenly spaced. Even the air felt… different. Less salt and smoke.

You felt some eyes occasionally, brief glances from people still out at this hour, passing by or standing near doorways.

You ignored them until something happened.

A group of men stood gathered near the edge of the street ahead, their voices loud in the quiet night.

They looked well dressed. Their clothes were clean, expensive enough to stand out even in the dim light, exactly the kind of men you would have simply chatted up at a meet-up a few months ago. One of them held a glass, another leaned casually against the wall.

You didn’t slow down and neither did Noah.

You were almost past them when a shoulder clipped another and Noah bumped into one of them, probably without wanting to.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” one of them snapped immediately.

Your instinct was to ignore it and keep walking, so you didn’t even turn your head at first, but then the man tuned to look Noah in the face, exactly when the light from the streetlamp above illuminated both of them for a moment.

“And go back to where you came from!”

You turned before you even fully registered it.

“Hey!”

But Noah was faster. His hand closed around your arm, firm, not rough, but enough to stop you from stepping back. “Leave it,” he said under his breath, already pulling you forward.

You frowned, resisting for half a second. “Did you hear what he—”

“I said leave it.”

His grip tightened just slightly, and you hesitated just a moment before you reluctantly let him pull you away.

Your steps matched his again.

But just before turning the corner, you looked back.

They were still there, laughing and chatting.

The one who had spoken met your gaze immediately, like he had been waiting for it, and a slow, sarcastic smile spread across his face.

Then he lifted his hand and gave you a small, obviously moking wave.

You raised your hand right back and gave him the finger. His expression shifted just enough to make it worth it.

Then you turned again and kept walking and this time, you didn’t look back.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Noah glance at you, just briefly, a small smirk tugging at his mouth as if he liked your reaction. He looked away almost immediately.

You had noticed Noah probably had mixed origins the first day you met him; it was subtle enough that most people wouldn’t even think twice passing him in the street, but that man had clearly picked up on it too.

You thought that, in those times, remarks like that weren’t rare, not when men openly distributed pamphlets in the streets preaching white supremacy, but they still weren’t something you were meant to simply accept, nor something you had grown used to in your old circle.

You kept walking until you reached the area the men you had stopped described. It didn’t take long before you saw a modest house, with small sign was fixed to its fence, slightly tilted, with the name "Hale" just visible in the lantern light.

Noah reached the gate first, pushed it open and stepped inside. The gravel crunched under your feet as you followed him through a narrow path lined with bushes. The house looked lived in, warm light faintly seeping through the curtains. Before you could even ask what his plan was, Noah knocked twice.

The door opened after a moment.

A man stood there in loose sleeping clothes, hair slightly disheveled, blinking like he had been pulled out of sleep too suddenly. “What is...what’s going on?” he started.

Noah moved fast. In one step he had crossed the threshold, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and shoved him back into the hallway wall, pointing his knife to the man's throat. The wood thudded softly behind him. The man gasped, eyes wide now fully awake.

“Are you a doctor?” Noah asked.

“Ye...yes,” the man stammered immediately, startled and clearly afraid.

“Good,” Noah said. “You’re coming with us. If you cooperate, nothing will happen to you.”

The man swallowed hard, glancing between the two of you like he was trying to understand if this was some kind of robbery. “Do you want money? I have... I have some in the sitting room, I can...”

“No,” Noah cut in, still holding him in place for a second longer before finally letting go, knife still in his hand. “We don’t want your money. We need a doctor. Take whatever you need to treat people with high fever and who’ve been sick for days, and come with us.”

The doctor hesitated only a moment longer before nodding quickly, breathing still uneven. “Yes... I... I have my—my bag,” he muttered.

He rushed down the hall, still visibly shaken, Niah followed him to keep an eye on him, and you heard drawers opening, light footsteps, the clatter of metal tools being gathered. Within a minute he returned with a worn leather case.

Noah glanced at it. “That’s it?”

The man nodded quickly.

“Good,” Noah said simply. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, you were already moving again, back out into the night, the doctor following close, between you and Noah.

You gave it a few steps.

“…Noah,” you said under your breath, glancing at him, “you have just traumatized him.”

“I didn’t traumatize him,” he replied flatly. “I motivated him to help us.”

You let out a quiet breath. “You had a knife to his throat.”

“And now he’s coming with us,” he said.

Before you could answer, the doctor spoke up, his voice a little too quick, a little too eager.

“I—I am quite motivated, yes,” he said, nodding to himself more than to either of you. “No need for… additional encouragement, I assure you.”

You blinked, glancing back at him.

Noah didn’t.

“See? Good.” he said.

The doctor hesitated, then kept going, words spilling out like he couldn’t quite stop them. “High fever, you said? How many patients? Are they conscious? Any rashes, discoloration, difficulty breathing? Because if it’s...well, it could be a number of things, of course, but the duration you mentioned...days, you said? That’s… concerning, yes, very concerning…”

You slowed your pace just slightly so you could walk closer to him. “There are a lot of them,” you said. “It started with one, then it spread. Fever, weakness… some barely wake up.”

He nodded quickly, absorbing every word. “Mm—yes, yes, spreading… that suggests contagion, possibly. Are they eating? Drinking? Any signs of delirium?”

“Some of them are,” you answered. “Others… not really.”

“Right. Right, we’ll need to assess them individually. I have… some supplies, though not enough for a large outbreak, but we’ll make do, we’ll make do...”

After a moment of silence, you turned to Noah again.

“Noah, come on,” you muttered again, nudging his arm slightly. “You could’ve just asked first.”

He finally glanced at you. “You think he would’ve come if I knocked politely and said ‘please’?”

“Maybe.”

“No.”

The doctor immediately shook his head. “No...no, I… well—” he faltered, glancing between you both. “…I might have, if it was clearly urgent. Though, admittedly, the… persuasive approach was very effective.”

You stared at him.

Noah’s mouth twitched.

“See?” he said.

“That does not prove your point at all.”

“It absolutely does.”

“It does not...he literally just said he might have come anyway!”

“Might,” Noah repeated.

The doctor nodded again, a little too fast. “Yes, might. Though perhaps not as quickly. And time does seem… important, in this case.”

You turned to the doctor, “Dude, you're not helping me at all. Did you want to die or what?”

Noah laughed out loud for a moment before remembering he was in the middle of a quiet road.

“Sorry.” The doctor mumbled.

“I didn’t hurt him anyway.” Noah added.

“That’s a very low bar.”

Behind you, the doctor cleared his throat again, almost apologetically. “For what it’s worth, I am… unharmed,” he offered. “…Just... slightly startled.”

“See?” Noah said again.

You shot him a look. “If you say ‘see’ one more time—”

He almost smiled.

You walked for a few seconds in silence.

Then, a little closer now, almost like he was making a decision, the doctor leaned in just enough toward you and muttered under his breath.

“…I agree with him.”

You blinked, turning your head slightly.

“With who?”

“…With your friend,” he repeated quietly. “I agree with anything he says so maybe he will not kill me.”

You stared at him for a second.

Then a small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

“What?” he asked, glancing at you, confused.

You shook your head, “Nothing.”

A pause.

“…Excellent idea, though,” you added.

He nodded, “Yes. Yes, I think so too.”

Ahead of you, Noah glanced back briefly.

“What are you two whispering about?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you replied easily.

“Mh...” He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go, turning forward again.

For a few minutes, the only sound was your footsteps, then, the doctor talked again.

“Oh!”

You turned your head toward him again. “What?”

“…It could be that virus.”

Noah stopped walking. You nearly walked into him before stopping too.

He turned around fully. “What virus?”

“Last month,” he said, “a group of sailors arrived at the port. Not many, five or six, I believe. They were… in a similar condition.”

“Go on.” Noah said as you all started walking again. You had no time to waste.

“Fever,” he continued, counting lightly on his fingers as he spoke. “Weakness, confusion... It spread among them quickly as well.”

“And?” Noah asked.

The doctor hesitated just a fraction too long.

“…Two of them died.”

Silence.

You found yourself thinking of your father, and how you couldn’t lose friends in a similar way you lost him. You lingered for a moment on the word friends, turning it over in your mind, then pushed it aside. It didn’t matter right now.

“…And the others?” you asked, more quietly.

“Recovered,” he said quickly, almost like he was correcting the weight of what he had just said. “Eventually. It took time, but they did recover.”

Noah took a step closer to him. “What caused it?”

“We weren’t entirely certain,” the doctor admitted. “Some thought it was something they picked up at sea. Others suspected contaminated food or water. There were… discussions of infection, of course, but nothing confirmed.”

“And you treated them?” Noah pressed.

“Yes.”

“With what?”

“Herbal infusions, mostly. Things to reduce the fever, to ease the strain on the body.”

“Can you do the same for our crew?” you asked.

“Yes,” the doctor said immediately, certain. “Yes, I can. I have some of the same preparations with me.”

“Alright. Good.”

The three of you walked the rest of the way in silence, when you reached the shore, the small boat was still there, rocking gently.

Noah stepped in first, steadying it. You followed, then the doctor, who climbed in a little less gracefully, gripping the edge tightly.

“Careful,” you muttered.

As you approached, the doctor looked up, taking the Specter in.

“…Holy shit,” he breathed.

A ladder had been lowered. You climbest first, then the doctor, who took his time, gripping each rung carefully and lastly, Noah.

When you pulled yourself onto the deck, Ruffilo was already there.

“Everything alright?” he asked as soon as he saw you.

“Yes,” you said, catching your breath slightly. “You?”

He shook his head once. “Not worse,” he replied. “Which is… something.”

Noah didn’t waste time. “We need to see Folio.”

And you all were already moving.

Folio lay where he had before. His skin was flushed, damp with sweat, his breathing shallow.

The doctor moved quickly, setting his case down.

“Let me see.”

He opened it, tools neatly arranged inside.

He checked Folio’s pulse, then his forehead. His breathing. He lifted one eyelid slightly, studying the response.

A pause.

“…Yes.”

He straightened slightly.

“I’m fairly certain this is the same illness those sailors had last month.”

He started pulling out of his case small vials, bundles of dried herbs, and a few glass containers.

You watched as he worked.

He poured a small amount of liquid into a cup, added something darker from a vial, then mixed it carefully. The smell was sharp and bitter.

He prepared several doses, pouring them into three small capped glasses and setting them on a nearby surface.

You stepped closer, eyes fixed on them.

“That,” he said, gesturing lightly, “needs to be given in very small amounts. Twice a day.”

You hesitated, glancing at the others lying around the room.

“…Is that enough for everyone?” you asked.

He followed your gaze, then nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s enough. You only need a very small amount.”

He pointed more precisely.

“Two very small sips a day. For each person.”

Noah didn’t wait more time.

“Start giving it to them. Get help if you need it.” He said to Ruffilo.

He nodded immediately, already moving.

Noah jerked his head slightly toward the door. “Come on.”

The doctor didn’t need to be told twice. He picked up his case quickly and followed. You stepped after them without thinking, the air outside feeling sharper after the heat and closeness below deck.

Noah exhaled, long and heavy, dragging a hand down his face.

“…You’re pirates, aren’t you?” The doctor asked.

“They call us that,” Noah said.

The doctor gave a small.

“If this doesn’t work,” Noah added, “I’ll come back. I’ll find you. And this time, I’ll actually use the knife.”

“…Understood,” the doctor said quickly.

“Good. Let’s go.”

He turned without waiting, already heading back toward the side of the ship where the ladder hung. The doctor followed immediately.

You met his eyes just before he started going down.

Then gave him a small nod.

“…Thank you,” you said.

It was simple, but genuine. He blinked, clearly not expecting that.

“…Yes,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Yes, of course.”

You leaned over the railing as the boat pulled away.

The doctor sat stiffly, gripping his case, while Noah took the oars without hesitation. The water caught the small vessel and began carrying it outward, away from the ship.

You stayed there, watching for a moment.

Just before they were far enough to blur into the dark, Noah glanced up.

At you. Just for a moment.

It was quick and he looked quicky away again and kept rowing.

The boat shrank into the distance until it was just a shape on the water, then nothing at all.

You stayed leaning there a moment longer, the wind tugging at your sleeves, before finally straightening and turning back toward the others.

You had a crew to help now, and you didn’t want to lose any of them.

Noah taglist pt 1: @mushrumink @sullyselena @buttercupbabyyy @pathion @pipidoll @missduffsblog @vibecops @myexistencesucks @overmydeadbodysblog @margocos-blog @heyitsjay316 @sallyba3 @bartxnhood @lacy1986 @iamamatus @dream-machine-love @amoursims @suessmausnici @whimsicaldiamonds @imyourliquor-youremypoison @punkprincess1999 @bored-rato @thepeoplesblog @dxthrone @illmakeyousaywow @xmads-omensx @sikowitzbitch @tosoundlessdarkistare @sadbitchenergy @flowery-mess @anything-morethan-human @lekyswixexx @english-fucker @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @ichoosetenderomens @theservantbones @pacificbutbmth @theanarchymuse95 @ykaaretsfood @noahsebastiann @nogoodsailors @hed0nistt

shbto tags: @novainpolaroids @enzocoquette @lifeirreverent @shobolanya @crystallizedtime @mushroommelody1 @leosunshine

[silent-stories]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗

Pairing: noah x reader (pirates au)

Series summary: Stuck in a life you don’t want, your only way out is a deal with a pirate, and that’s how your journey on a ship of outlaws toward a new life begins.

Tw: weapons, alcohol

Series mastelist

One night, after chatting with Davis while you ate some hardtacks, the taste of which you had now begun to tolerate, and playing dice with Folio, you went to bed. But sleep didn’t seem to come.

You turned onto your side. Then onto your back. Then again, pulling the blanket up, then pushing it down a few minutes later when it suddenly felt too warm.

It was all useless. So, with a quiet shift, you sat up and decided to go out for a bit.

You slipped your boots on, the wood of the floor cool under your feet for a moment, and stepped out of your cabin, closing the door softly behind you.

The ship was quiet. The sky was clear, scattered with stars, and the moon hung high enough to cast a pale, silvery light over everything.

You walked a few steps forward, wrapping your arms loosely around yourself. The air was a bit colder but not uncomfortable.

You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting out toward the horizon.

For a moment, you just stood there, then something caught your eye.

Near one of the crates, slightly off to the side, something had been left behind. You moved closer, curiosity pulling you forward before you could think too much about it.

When you arrived in front of the object, you realized it was a sword, probably used for those challenges they kept having. It wasn’t tucked away properly, just resting there like someone had forgotten it.

You hesitated for a second, then reached for it.

You adjusted your grip slightly, lifting it just enough to catch the moonlight along the blade.

It was clean and shiny.

Your fingers tightened just slightly around the hilt as you tilted it, watching the pale light slide along the metal, sharp and almost beautiful.

“Planning a mutiny?”

The voice came from behind you, and it was close.

You spun before you could stop yourself.

Your body reacted faster than your mind, instinct taking over in a sharp, sudden motion. The blade lifted, your arm moving without hesitation... and stopped.

The tip of the sword hovered just inches from Noah’s throat.

He didn’t move and didn’t even flinch, but just looked at you.

Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted.

“Hey,” he said lightly, voice calm despite the steel at his neck, “I was joking, but now I’m starting to think you actually might be.”

You blinked.

Then immediately lowered the sword, your grip loosening as the tension snapped out of your arm.

“I—” you exhaled sharply, shaking your head once. “You scared me.”

“That was the idea,” he replied, completely unbothered.

You shot him a look, your heart still not fully settled.

“Well, congratulations,” you muttered. “It worked.”

He let out a quiet huff, something almost like a laugh, his gaze dropping briefly to the sword before returning to you.

“Careful with that,” he added. “Would’ve been a very embarrassing way for me to go.”

You frowned faintly, still holding it. “I didn’t realize I’d react like that,” you said, quieter.

“Yeah, well,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You did.”

There was a brief pause, his eyes flicked once more to the blade, then back to you.

“…You know how to use it?” he asked.

You glanced down at the sword in your hand, then back at him.

“…No,” you said. “Of course not. Not really.”

One of his brows lifted slightly, like that answer had been expected.

“Not really,” he repeated.

A small pause passed between you, and that could’ve ended the moment entirely if either of you had stepped back. Instead, he nodded once toward the sword.

“I can teach you,” he said.

You blinked, it was the middle of the night and you thought it was a weird offer.

“Now?”

The word slipped out before you could stop it.

He looked at you for a second, then a faint, crooked smirk pulled at his mouth again.

“I like that your concern is the timing,” he said, “and not the fact that you’d be learning how to use a weapon.”

You exhaled lightly through your nose, shifting your grip on the hilt.

“Yeah... that also should be my concern,” you muttered.

“Probably,” he agreed. “And yet.”

You hesitated.

This was a bad idea.

You knew it was.

Everything about this felt like something you shouldn’t be doing, standing here in the middle of the night, holding a sword on a pirate ship, with him of all people offering to teach you how to use it.

And yet…

You didn’t put it down.

“…Fine,” you said after a moment, though it came out more reluctant than convinced.

“Alright,” he said simply.

He stepped a little closer, keeping just enough space between you. “First,” he nodded toward your hands, “you’re holding it wrong.”

You frowned slightly. “I don't think I am.”

“You are.”

“I’m just holding it,” you pointed out.

“Yes. And not in the right way.”

You gave him a look. He ignored it.

“Loosen your grip,” he said, reaching out and lightly tapping your fingers where they were wrapped too tightly around the hilt. “You don’t need to strangle it.”

You adjusted slightly, though not without a small huff.

“Like this?”

“Better,” he said. “Still not great.”

“You are such an encouraging teacher.”

He almost smiled.

“Feet,” he added, glancing down briefly. “You’re standing like you’re about to trip over yourself.”

“I am not—”

“Move.”

There was just enough authority in the word that you did, even if you rolled your eyes while doing it.

He stepped around you slightly, positioning you without touching this time, just guiding.

“One foot back. Balance your weight.”

You shifted.

“Like this?”

“…Close enough.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him. “You’re really a terrible teacher.”

“And you’re a terrible student.”

That pulled a small, unwilling huff of a laugh out of you.

“Alright,” he continued, stepping back again. “Try this.”

He picked up another sword from where it had been leaning nearby, apparently not as forgotten as you thought, and held it loosely, demonstrating.

“Don’t think too much,” he said. “Just follow.”

He moved first.

A simple and controlled motion. Not fast, but precise.

You tried to mirror it, but it wasn’t the same.

Your movement was a little too stiff, a little too unsure, and he watched for a second, then shook his head slightly.

“No. You’re overthinking it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just... trying not to stab myself.”

“That’s a good start,” he said.

You shot him a look, then tried again and this time, a bit smoother.

He nodded once. “Better.”

You repeated the movement, slower, more deliberate now. The blade caught the moonlight again as it moved, a faint glint with each shift.

“Again,” he said.

You did.

And again.

At some point, it stopped feeling completely foreign in your hand. It wasn’t really natural, but less… wrong.

He stepped closer this time, reaching out without really thinking about it, adjusting your wrist slightly.

“Angle it like this,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll lose control of it.”

You felt the brief pressure of his fingers guiding the movement, then he let go again.

“Try.”

You did.

It worked better.

You exhaled softly, almost surprised.

“…Okay,” you admitted.

“Told you. Now,” he said, lifting his own sword slightly, “I’m going to try something. Don’t panic.”

“That doesn’t make me less likely to panic.”

“Too late.”

He moved.

Not fast enough to be dangerous, but fast enough that you had to react. Your body tensed, your blade lifting instinctively... but too slow.

He tapped your sword aside easily.

“You’re hesitating,” he said.

“Because I don’t want to accidentally kill you.”

“You already almost did, we'll be fine.”

“Very reassuring.”

“Again.”

He moved once more and this time, you reacted quicker.

Your blade met his with a light clink, the sound softer than before, controlled.

You both paused for a second.

“…That was actually decent,” he said.

You blinked. “Was it?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, I said decent.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle.

You tried again.

And again.

Each time a little better.

Each time a little less tense and more precise.

A laugh slipped out of you without warning when he exaggerated a movement just enough to throw you off and you completely missed it.

“Hey, that was unfair,” you said immediately.

“That was so easy to stop.”

“It was not.”

“It really was.”

You shook your head, lowering the sword slightly.

You glanced at him. He was closer again. You hadn’t noticed when that happened.

The space between you had shortened without either of you acknowledging it. For a second, neither of you moved.

Then you looked away first, clearing your throat slightly as you adjusted your grip again.

“…One more,” you said.

He tilted his head.

“Alright.”

After a while of what was really starting to feel like a training, you realized that you were actually tired. The kind that meant you might actually sleep.

Your gaze drifted to Noah.

You noticed the way he pushed his hair back from his face absentmindedly, fingers brushing through it before falling back to his side. The way his white shirt hung loosely on him, the fabric shifting slightly with every movement.

You blinked, realizing you had been looking for a second too long, and your gaze shifted away quickly.

“Okay,” he said, lowering his sword completely. “Lesson’s over.”

You looked back at him.

“We can do it again,” he added with a small shrug. “If you want.”

You hesitated just a fraction of a second. “Maybe,” you said.

He nodded once. “I might even choose you during one of our fights one day.”

You raised a brow.

“Try it,” you said, a hint of a smirk tugging at your lips. “And I’ll reconsider that mutiny idea.”

That got a quiet huff out of him. “Good to know,” he said.

In the following days, you started asking about the Devil’s Hook because curiosity got the better of you. Even if part of you wasn’t sure you actually wanted the answers.

You found them anyway.

You had been sitting near the railing one afternoon, the sun warm but not unbearable, when Vincent's name came up.

You had asked without thinking too much about it.

“Who is Vincent?”

“He used to sail with us,” Davis said, “Part of the crew for a couple of years.”

“What happened then?” you asked.

Davis shrugged lightly.

“He got hurt,” he said. “Bad enough that he had to stop for a while.”

“‘For a while’?” you repeated.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Turned into longer than that. Then he just… didn’t come back. He realized this life wasn't really for him.”

“He stayed on Devil’s Hook while he was recovering.” Ruffilo added, “Then opened a place there. He has his own tavern there.”

“And you guys are still… friends?”

“Yeah,” Davis said easily. “Absolutely.”

You gave a little smile at that.

“Every time we pass near Devil’s Hook,” Ruffilo added, “we stop and go say hi.”

After some days, land started to appear gradually, the shape of the coast visible against the horizon.

You were sitting near Noah who was at the helm, a worn map spread open in your hands. Someone had left it around and no one had bothered to take it back. Your eyes followed the inked coastline until you understood why it was called like that when you saw an arched curve of land bending inward like a hooked arm reaching into the sea.

Devil’s Hook. The name definitely made sense.

Noah was guiding the ship without looking away from the water ahead.

By the time you reached the harbor, the sun was already lowering, spilling warm orange light over everything.

The docks were crowded and uneven, filled with ships of all kinds, some well-built, others barely holding together. Men moved between them constantly, shouting, laughing, arguing, carrying crates without much care for order. Nothing looked official or regulated.

The smell hit you as soon as you got closer, you recognized salt, smoke, alcohol, fish, tar and sweat.

Beyond the harbor, you could see the island rising inward with tight clusters of buildings, crooked streets, lanterns already flickering to life since the night was close.

Behind you, the royal ship that had been taken finally came to a stop as well, creaking as its sails were lowered.

One by one, they crew began to disembark onto the dock.

The wood beneath your feet felt even compared to the ship, like the whole place wasn't constantly shifting anymore.

“Wow, she's beautiful!” someone shouted from across the harbor, talking about the royal ship.

Noah appeared beside you a moment later. He glanced around once, taking in the chaos of the port, then let out a faint, satisfied breath.

Then he turned his head toward you, and small, almost amused curve touched his mouth. “Welcome to Devil’s Hook, princess.”

For a while, you stood a little to the side, watching as Noah and a few of the others spoke with some men at the port.

It didn’t take much to understand what was happening as they gestured toward the ship and nodded.

“We’ll leave it here,” Noah said. “You handle the rest.”

A pause. Then a nod.

“We’ll get you what you need for this.”

“We need food and water,” Ruffilo added.

“And money. A lot for this,” someone else said.

“Obviously.”

You stayed quiet, arms loosely crossed as you listened.

“Fresh produce too,” one of the dock men added. “Came in this morning.”

You nearly reacted out loud, because it was the best thing anyone had said in days. You were so tired of hardtack, rice and fish.

You said nothing, but your expression must have shifted just enough, because Davis glanced at you from the side, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Excited?” he murmured.

You gave him a flat look.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He snorted quietly.

Around you, the group began to loosen. Some of the crew peeled away almost immediately, disappearing into the docks to greet people, clap shoulders and chat.

“Come on.”

You turned.

Noah had stepped back toward you, already moving like he expected you to follow.

“I’ll take you to Vincent’s place.” He added.

You frowned slightly. “Do I have to?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“You can either come with me,” he said, “or stay here. Alone. On the ship.”

You glanced back at the docks and at all the unfamiliar faces there.

“…Right,” you muttered.

That answered itself.

“Fine.”

He just turned and started walking, and you followed.

A few others fell in behind you without needing to be asked. The further you moved from the docks, the more the island unfolded around you.

The sun was lower now, the ground beneath your feet shifted from wood to uneven stone and packed dirt, the path winding between buildings that looked like they had been built whenever and however someone felt like it.

You passed a small market first.

There, tables lined with goods, fish laid out on rough boards, their scales catching the last light, baskets of fruit and vegetables that immediately caught your attention, brighter than anything you’d seen in days.

You slowed slightly without meaning to.

The smell shifted as you moved, less of the harbor now, more of food, smoke from cooking fires and something sweet, and more voices filled the space around you.

You passed a group gathered around a man performing in the middle of the street, flames raising in the air as he exhaled, a burst of fire lighting up the dimming space for a second.

You instinctively slowed again.

The streets narrowed a bit as you continued, the buildings closer together now, lanterns glowing softly as night started to settle in properly.

Ahead of you, Noah finally slowed slightly, turning down another street without breaking his stride.

“We’re close,” he said.

You adjusted your pace to match his as the group followed, boots echoing softly against the uneven ground.

The street he led you into was quieter than the others, a little less crowded, though not exactly calmer because you could still hear laughter and voices.

A wooden sign hung slightly crooked above a wide doorway ahead, swaying faintly. The paint was worn, but you could still make out the name.

The Ceremony Inn.

Warm light spilled out from inside, along with the low sound of conversation and the unmistakable sound of glasses clinking together.

Noah stopped just outside, glancing back briefly to make sure you, and the others a bit farer away, were still there.

“This is it,” Noah said simply.

You looked at the place for a moment, taking it in.

Before you could say anything, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The warmth hit you first, then the noise.

The place was busy, filled with people, you thought they must have been pirates mostly, if the weapons, the clothes and the general attitude were anything to go by. Tables were scattered around the room, some occupied by loud groups, others by quieter pairs speaking in low tones. A long counter stretched along one side, bottles lined behind it, and behind that, a man with dark hair looked up.

Then his expression shifted like he didn't fully believe what he was seeing.

“Noah?”

A faint smile pulled at his mouth.

“Vincent!”

The man behind the counter didn’t hesitate. He stepped out from behind it, crossing the room in a few quick strides before stopping right in front of Noah.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

Then Vincent let out a short breath and pulled him into a rough, one-armed embrace, gripping his shoulder tightly.

“You’re still alive, man!” he laughed.

“Definitely,” Noah replied.

Vincent pulled back, “You don’t even look like shit,” he said.

Noah huffed lightly. “Good to see you too.”

That pulled a grin out of Vincent.

Then his eyes shifted to you and he paused.

“…And who’s this?” he asked.

You hesitated only a second before answering, still standing just a step behind Noah.

You gave your name, then added, almost like you felt the need to explain yourself, “They’re taking me to Saint Marlowe. That’s why I’m with them.”

Vincent’s brows lifted slightly, something like interest and mild surprise crossing his face as he took you in a bit more carefully.

“Wow,” he said, tilting his head just a little. “Then you must be tougher than you look.”

You frowned faintly.

“I mean... to live on a ship with them?” he went on, gesturing vaguely toward Noah and the others starting to file in behind you, already chatting with other men they recognized sitting at the tables. “That’s not exactly… easy. I know. I ran away from them myself.”

Noah laughed. “You didn’t run away from us, you love us! Life just got in the way.”

Vincent let out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, and that just made Noah laugh again. You knew Vincent was joking.

By then, the rest of the crew had fully come in, the space filling even more with familiar voices greeting Vincent loudly, some clapping him on the back.

“What about food?” he asked after he greeted them all, “You hungry?”

That got an immediate reaction.

“Yes,” came from more than one voice at once, and you didn’t even try to hide your agreement.

“Alright,” he said, raising his hands slightly. “Sit down before you start eating food from other tables.”

You followed the movement as they all began settling along the counter, stools scraping lightly against the wooden floor.

You hesitated only a moment before taking a seat as well. Behind the counter, Vincent was already moving, grabbing bottles, gesturing to someone in the back for food, that arrived faster than you expected.

Vincent set down plates one after another along the counter. There were thick portions of meat, roasted until the edges were just slightly crisp, mixed with vegetables you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever, real vegetables, fresh, colorful, not dried or salted into something. There was bread too, soft, still warm.

For a second, you just stared at it like you were dreaming, then you started eating.

And it was… good. More than good. It was the kind of food that made you realize just how bad everything else had been.

Around you, the others chatted, laughed and someone was already asking for more to drink before even finishing their plate.

You stayed quieter. You listened more than you spoke, your attention drifting between voices as they talked about the past weeks, routes they had taken, ports they had passed through, things that had gone wrong and things that had gone very right.

Glasses kept being filled.

And emptied.

And filled again.

You noticed it more than you expected.

Everyone drank casually, but your gaze flicked, more than once, toward Noah.

You remembered that night and the way you had found him drunk.

You found yourself wondering, without really wanting to, what it meant for him, what kind of relationship had with alcohol.

At some point, his stories got louder, a little less precise, a little more exaggerated. Noah leaned back slightly on his stool, one arm resting loosely against the counter, a half-finished drink in his hand. There was a looseness to him now that hadn’t been there before, something a little less controlled.

“We got attacked,” he said suddenly, cutting into whatever Davis had been saying. “Middle of the night. Out of nowhere.”

A few of the others groaned immediately.

“Don’t—” Ruffilo started, like they had this conversation before.

“—by a kraken,” Noah finished anyway, completely ignoring him.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Vincent slowly turned his head toward you.

“…Is that true?” he asked, one brow lifting slightly.

You blinked, caught off guard.

You glanced at Noah, then back at Vincent.

“I’ve only been on the ship for two months,” you said, a small shrug following, “but I’m pretty sure the kraken isn’t real.”

Noah scoffed under his breath.

“It was real.”

“It was not,” Ruffilo muttered.

“It had tentacles,” Noah insisted, gesturing vaguely with his drink.

“So do a lot of things in the ocean,” Davis added dryly.

Vincent looked between all of them, clearly entertained now.

“So what was it, then?” he asked.

Nicholas, who had been sitting a bit further down the counter, spoke up, shaking his head

“It was a squid,” he said. “A big one.”

Noah turned his head sharply toward him.

“It was not just a squid.”

“It was,” Nicholas replied calmly. “A very large squid.”

There was a pause.

Then Noah let out a short breath, and suddenly he laughed, shaking his head slightly as he looked down at his glass.

“Alright,” he admitted, still grinning faintly. “It might’ve been a very large squid.”

“Thank you,” Nicholas said, completely unimpressed.

Vincent snorted, leaning back slightly.

“A kraken,” he repeated under his breath, amused.

You couldn’t help it, a small laugh slipped out of you too, but then you saw Noah emptying another glass and it quickly faded away.

At some point, the energy around the counter started to shift.

One of the men yawned, stretching his arms with a groan, and mentioned he was exhausted. That seemed to trigger something in the others. Vincent, overhearing, casually mentioned he had more than enough rooms upstairs for all of them, no need to go back to the ship that night.

It didn’t take much convincing. One by one, a few of them stood, still talking, still laughing, but clearly ready to disappear for the night. Boots scraped against the floor, chairs shifted, and the group slowly started thinning out.

You didn’t move. You weren’t entirely sure why.

You told yourself you just weren’t tired yet, that you were enjoying the warmth, the low noise, the feeling of being somewhere that wasn’t constantly moving under your feet.

But your gaze kept drifting back to Noah.

He was still there, still sitting at the counter, another drink in his hand, talking, though at this point it was less of a conversation and more… fragments.

And something in you didn’t like the idea of just… leaving him there like that.

Time passed. More people left. The inn grew quieter, the loud laughter fading into softer conversations, then into scattered voices, until even those started disappearing as the night dragged on.

Eventually, the others followed.

Ruffilo gave you a brief look before heading upstairs, like he noticed you were still there, but said nothing. Davis clapped Noah lightly on the shoulder on his way out, muttering something you didn’t catch.

And then it was just the two of you. And Vincent somewhere in the background, busy with closing things down.

Noah reached for his glass again.

You watched him for a second. Then, without overthinking it, you reached out and took it from his hand.

He blinked, slow, unfocused for a second, then looked at you like you had just committed something deeply offensive.

“Hey—” he started.

“That’s enough,” you said, setting the glass further away from him.

“I wasn’t done.”

“Yes, you were.”

He frowned faintly, leaning forward slightly like he might try to reach it again, but you didn’t move.

“It’s late,” you added. “You should go to sleep.”

He looked at you for a moment longer, like he was deciding whether to argue or not.

“…Fine,” he muttered eventually, though it came with a small, reluctant exhale. You didn’t give him time to change his mind.

“Come on.”

You stood, and after a second, he did too.

The difference was immediate.

On his feet, he was… less steady than he had seemed sitting down and you noticed it right away.

“Careful,” you said instinctively, reaching out slightly as he shifted.

“I’m fine,” he replied, though the way he adjusted his balance said otherwise.

You gave him a look he didn’t fully register and started toward the stairs. He followed.

The climb wasn’t long, but it felt longer. Halfway up, his steps slowed just enough that you glanced back, and that was when he misstepped slightly, his balance tipping just enough, and then his hand landed on your shoulder. Warm.

You froze for half a second at the contact.

Even through the fabric of your shirt, you could feel the heat of his hand. “…Told you,” you muttered under your breath, not really expecting a response.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move his hand either, so you kept going.

Step by step, slower now, adjusting your pace without fully acknowledging it, until you reached the top of the stairs and into the corridor.

The hallway was dimly lit, quiet compared to downstairs, doors closed on either side.

You didn’t even think about where you were going at first.

You just… kept walking and he kept following still leaning slightly into you. Until you reached a door that was not completely closed, showing you there was no one inside. You pushed it open, and stepped inside.

The room was simple, but comfortable.

A bed against one wall, covered in clean sheets. A small wooden table sat near the window, a candle already burned low beside it. There was a chair tucked into the corner, and a faint smell of wood and linen in the air.

You stopped just inside, suddenly very aware of the fact that you hadn’t actually meant to end up there, but you thought that maybe Noah needed supervision until he reached a bed.

You pushed him lightly, more insistently than gently, until he finally dropped back onto the bed with a soft thud.

He let out a breathy laugh, a little uneven, then tilted his head up at you with a crooked grin. “Heyyy,” he muttered, like he was offended and entertained at the same time.

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Don’t even start.”

He lifted a hand lazily, not really in surrender, more like he was drawing shapes in the air without thinking.

There was a pause where he just looked at you.

Too long.

Then his mouth twitched.

“You’re… really pretty tonight,” he said, words slightly slurred at the edges, like they were taking the long way out of his mouth.

You stared at him for a second, then glanced down at yourself.

“…I’ve been wearing this for days,” you said flatly.

He blinked slowly, like that information didn’t fully make it through.

“Mm… still,” he said, dragging the word out. “Maybe it’s like… the atmo... atmosphere.”

“No,” you said immediately. “It’s the alcohol.”

That made him exhale a quiet laugh, shoulders shaking slightly as he shifted on the bed.

He tried to prop himself up a bit more, but it came out slightly off-balance, so he just stayed leaning back, staring at you like he found you extremely interesting and couldn’t remember why.

“Princess?”

You sighed. “Are you still calling me that?”

“Yeah,” he said, way too easily. “Fits you. Kinda.”

“It really doesn’t.”

He ignored that completely, eyes drifting for a second before snapping back to you.

“Would you... would you like to be a pirate princess?”

There was a beat of silence. You blinked at him.

“…Noah.”

“What?” he said quickly, a little too defensively for no reason. “I’m just sayin’. It’s a question. Simple.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

He frowned slightly, like he was trying to keep track of his own thoughts and had already lost them once.

Then, abruptly, he changed direction, or at least, that what it seemed.

“What’s so important about Saint Marlowe anyway?”

That made you pause.

“…What?”

He waved a hand vaguely, like the words were floating somewhere in front of him.

“Saint Marlowe. You keep sayin' it like it’s… like it’s the only place that matters in the world.”

“That’s because it is where I’m supposed to go. You're not making any sense right now, Noah.”

He hummed again, slow and unconvinced. “Mhm.”

“Mhm?”

“It's my response,” he said, then blinked again. “A bad one maybe. But still one.”

You crossed your arms. “What are you even trying to say?”

He stared at you for a moment like the question itself was too complicated.

“I’m not tryna say anything,” he muttered, though it came out more like he was definitely trying to say something and just failing to package it properly.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not true.”

He gave a lazy, uneven shrug.

“Okay, maybe I am,” he admitted, then frowned slightly at his own honesty like it had betrayed him. “But it’s not like… clear, y’know?”

“Explain?”

“Saint Marlowe,” he said, “It’s like… your thing. It’s where you’re goin’. End of line.”

“Well, yes.”

“But you come on a ship like this,” he muttered, “you think you know what it is. You think it’s just… one thing. Then it turns into somethin’ else without asking you. You make friends. And laugh and stuff.”

“Noah—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off, not harshly, just… like he couldn’t hold the thought and your interruption at the same time.

“I’m not saying you should stay,” he said quickly, words stumbling slightly over each other. “I’m not— I’m not saying that.”

A pause.

Then, softer, “I know you won’t.”

That landed differently. He didn’t look at you when he said it but he just stared at the edge of the bed like it was safer than your face.

“People like you don’t stay,” he added, quieter. “You’ve got places you’re supposed to go. Dreams that don't involve people like me right?”

A small laugh slipped out of him, but it didn’t have much energy behind it.

“So yeah,” he muttered, “you go to Saint Marlowe. That’s what you do.”

You were starting to understand what he meant, but everything was still so confusing in that moment.

“Anyway,” he added, “it’s fine.”

A beat.

“…It’s fine,” he repeated, and closed his eyes.

You stayed there for a moment, just standing and watching him.

The room had gone completely quiet now.

His breathing had evened out, his chest was rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His head had turned slightly to the side, hair falling loosely across his forehead, more disheveled than usual.

You frowned slightly, your arms still crossed as you stood there.

What the hell had he meant?

His words echoed back in your head. You exhaled slowly, your gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to him.

It didn’t make sense. Why would he want you to stay?

You weren’t part of this. You had never been.

You were there because of a deal. Because of circumstances. Because there had been nowhere else to go at the time.

That was it.

That was all it was supposed to be.

And yeah… maybe sometimes, lately, you had found yourself noticing things you shouldn’t. The way he looked at you sometimes. The way he spoke when he wasn’t trying to be difficult, sarcastic and sharp. The way he—

You stopped the thought before it could finish.

That didn’t mean anything.

Attraction didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t mean he felt it too.

And even if he did, it definitely didn’t mean you were about to throw away everything and stay on a ship full of pirates, of criminals, just because of something so temporary. Something so stupid.

You shook your head slightly.

It didn’t make any sense. You told yourself that again as your eyes drifted back to him despite it. To the way his hair had fallen across the pillow, uneven and soft in the low light. To the slow rhythm of his breathing.

To the way his lips had parted slightly as he slept, unaware and unguarded.

You stared for a second longer than you meant to.

Then you let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh, and looked away.

This was pointless.

You turned, moving toward the door, your steps quiet.

You didn’t look back again. The door opened with a soft creak, then closed just as gently behind you.

And just like that, you were alone again. Left with your thoughts.

And the faint, persistent feeling that something about that conversation hadn’t been as meaningless as you were trying to convince yourself it was.

Noah taglist pt 1: @mushrumink @sullyselena @buttercupbabyyy @pathion @pipidoll @missduffsblog @vibecops @myexistencesucks @overmydeadbodysblog @margocos-blog @heyitsjay316 @sallyba3 @bartxnhood @lacy1986 @iamamatus @dream-machine-love @amoursims @suessmausnici @whimsicaldiamonds @imyourliquor-youremypoison @punkprincess1999 @bored-rato @thepeoplesblog @dxthrone @illmakeyousaywow @xmads-omensx @sikowitzbitch @tosoundlessdarkistare @sadbitchenergy @flowery-mess @anything-morethan-human @lekyswixexx @english-fucker @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @ichoosetenderomens @theservantbones @pacificbutbmth @theanarchymuse95 @ykaaretsfood @noahsebastiann @nogoodsailors @hed0nistt

shbto tags: @novainpolaroids @enzocoquette @lifeirreverent @shobolanya @crystallizedtime @mushroommelody1 @leosunshine

[omnz]

[fashfic]

Kiss You Again

Conor Curley x female reader

Sometimes good things take time.

The pulse of the pub was slowly beginning to die out, people's chatter more silent and the figures previously filling up the space disappearing one after the other along with the passing hours. Some of them more familiar than others, some of them unable to hide their surprise over his presence while others making no fuss at all, greeting him with a pat on the back as if no time had passed.

He felt incredibly at home, the pub he regarded as his home ground ever since he was a teenager bringing back fond memories and offering a strange sense of comfort.

A cigarette between his lips, he stared out into the flickering street light in front of him, paying little attention to the group a few feet away. He couldn't make out a lot from the indistinguishable chatter, but there was something that alerted his mind, suddenly forcing him to sharpen his ears.

There was a voice he knew, warm and soft, making him turn his eyes towards the figure that was now left standing alone, the people she had been with disappearing into the distance. He couldn't help but to smile at the realization, identifying the owner of the voice as a beloved character of the past.

Following her inside, he positioned himself behind her at the queue, watching as she absentmindedly waited for her turn to order.

"Hello, stranger," he whispered into her ear, the smile on his face audible in his tone.

She turned towards him, her sparkly eyes scanning his face until a smile of recognition appeared on her lips.

"Conor!" she breathed, not waisting a second to wrap her arms around his neck, a loud laugh escaping the guitarist's chest.

"What are you doing here?" she questioned as soon as they had released each other, "Aren't you supposed to be in.. I don't know, anywhere but here?"

He laughed again, shaking his head, "Not on granny Francine's jubilee week."

"Ahh, of course," she nodded, "I heard. The grand celebration."

"I'm sure you did," he chuckled, "I believe granny Eloise is in the guest list."

"Oh, she is," she confirmed, laughing, "She's ready to go."

"But what about you? I could ask the same – aren't you supposed to be in London?"

"I took a few weeks off from work, just came here to charge my batteries. You know, countryside and all."

"Mm," he accepted while taking a sip of his drink, unable to turn his eyes away from the smile still stretched over her beautiful lips.

He didn't even know how much time it had been – 6 years, 7? Maybe 8? It could have been 8 years since he last saw her, back when they were playing a small gig with Fontaines in the area, a little bit before Dogrel was released. And after that, pretty much nothing, his only information on her accumulating from social media or from his local mates or ironically enough, from his granny Francine who was in close contact with her granny Eloise.

They had grown up a few houses down from each other, aware of each other's existence since they were tiny, later gone to school together and had blended friend groups, but were never too close as far as friendship goes. Once they became teenagers, their attention began shifting towards each other more, but sometimes things end even before they can begin.

It was during a bonfire back when they were 15 when they kissed, just once, both of them drunk on awfully cheap apple cider that ended up giving her borderline alcohol poisoning and a curfew for a week while he got away with a serious case of scolding by his mum. Nothing came of it, neither of them having the courage to address the smooch until its significance began to fade.

He started having girlfriends and she started having boyfriends, and neither of them minded, figuring that things were better off that way after all. No reason to pay any attention to what had happened, and it wasn't like much had happened anyway. If anything, it somehow made them more comfortable with each other as friends, just simple mates living a few houses apart from each other.

It was like that until their final year of high school, right until their graduation party to be exact, both of them newly single and smoking a joint at one of their friends' terrace at 4 AM. A conversation about pretty much nothing until she announced that she had been accepted into university both in London and in Dublin.

And that she was going to choose London.

He congratulated her, but his previously cheery manner had vanished, the look in his eyes suddenly expressing something she recognized as disappointment. And before she could say anything else, he got up and left her there alone, saying nothing else.

He was going to Dublin.

Although confused, she never addressed it, never asked him about it during the summer that followed, convincing herself that it was just weed, making him mellow as it always did. Even if there was a strange discomfort that stayed in her heart, just like that kiss years before, the moment's significance began to fade with time until it was simply forgotten.

"I think you should come to my nan's party with me," Conor blurted about a week after their initial run-in at the pub, making her almost choke on her Guinness.

"What?" she laughed, "What on Earth am I going to do there?"

"What do you mean what are you going to do there? Keep me company? I'm gonna drink myself to death if you leave me there alone. The median age is going to be like 95."

"Besides, granny would love it. She's always liked you."

She laughed again, but couldn't help but to admit that the idea actually sounded fun. That whole week she had been home had been fun, her and Conor spending every day together without exception, whether it was a night at the pub or an evening walk along the lakes or a cup of coffee in the morning. It felt familiar and comforting to be around him again, while the stories he told about the life he lived now were fun and sometimes absolutely bonkers.

And still he wanted to know about her, about every detail of her life in London, about the books she currently read and about the music she listened to, as if they were still teenagers. And as if they were still teenagers, they managed to get themselves completely hammered on disgustingly sweet wine at his granny's party, sharing a cigarette outside the restaurant once the air inside had become too unbearable.

The cigarette finished, he dug his fingers into the pocket of his jacket, revealing a tiny bag with green contents.

"You brought weed to your nan's 80th birthday?" she stressed, although amused, "You devil, granny will send you to mass tomorrow."

"Definitely fuckin' not," he laughed, already rolling the joint they soon shared.

Almost half of it consumed, they then sat in silence, Conor staring at the burning tip of the joint.

"You know who I saw at the supermarket yesterday?" he then turned, the look on his face a mix of playful and smug.

"Who?"

"Robbie McKey," he laughed, causing her eyes to roll to the back of her head.

"Oh my god, shut up," she laughed, "I was like 15, not one of my best moments."

"Oh, why not?" he continued teasing, her then countering, still laughing, "I also kissed you when I was 15."

"Ooooof!" he turned, shaking his head while he laughed, "Ouch!"

"Oh, come on! I'm joking! I didn't mean it like that and you know it."

"Is that so?" he mused, "Would you do it again then?"

"What? Kiss you?" she laughed, that smug look still plastered all over his face while he hummed to confirm her question.

She had no idea how many bottles of wine there was between them, her whole body feeling hot while her mind slowly began losing the ability to differentiate between what she should say and what she should not. She had no idea whether he was serious or not, but too much alcohol always had a way of making her too reckless for her own good.

Because she would. It was Conor after all, the gorgeous and fun and smart Conor she grew up with, the incredibly talented and considerate and still so fucking fun Conor she was sitting right next to, sharing a joint that was probably beginning to do some serious disservice to the both of them. But still, she would definitely kiss him again.

"I would," she replied before she could think it over again, a mischievous smirk appearing on his lips right before he mockingly clicked his tongue and turned away, finishing the joint.

"Oh, you fucking assh.." she scoffed and laughed, realizing that he indeed had been messing with her, or at least that's what she had thought.

Before she could finish her sentence, turning away from him, she suddenly felt a hand gently land on her cheek, turning her towards him again. And before she could even react, a set of lips on hers, hungry, almost forceful.

One kiss, then another and another, then the chatter of some senior ladies invading their moment, making them flee to the alleyway next to the restaurant.

"Is there somewhere we can be alone?" she asked, almost breathless, sending all of his senses into overdrive.

It's not like he had ever been in love with her or anything, but there was something about her that made her more special than others, something about her that never made him tire of her. Sure, there were times when he had a crush on her, but he always got over it, just so that it could come back when he least expected it. Like that time at the graduation party when she told him that she was choosing London over Dublin.

He never wanted to admit it, but perhaps there was a subconscious part of him that hoped for something, anything? An opportunity, a hint, something that would give him a chance to explore what it exactly was that he felt about her, the curiosity towards her that never died. To find out what actually could have been.

Perhaps he had been in love with her after all?

He felt like a teenaged boy again, realizing that the moment he was sharing with her was something he had thought about dozens of times. Not about that sorry kiss at 15 years old but what it would be like to really kiss her.

To be alone with her..

Neither of them could stop giggling through the kisses as the door fell shut behind them, Conor then fiddling with the lock.

"Are you fucking serious?" she laughed, him only breathing as she placed his hands on her cheeks again, kissing her, "What do you want me to do? The options here aren't exactly limitless."

"When was the last time you had a girl here?"

"I don't know. When I was 18?"

"You're not even sleeping here now," she then noted, noticing the untouched bed.

"I usually stay in the guest room."

"Then why'd you bring me here?"

"It's the only door that fucking locks."

She couldn't help but to laugh again, the whole situation beginning to expand into comedic territory, partly due to the weed and partly due to the irony of it all.

His boyhood bedroom, neither of them able to hold a straight face, him struggling with the zipper of her dress, her struggling with the buttons of his shirt, then the obstacle of her bra and his belt buckle.

"This is about to be the unsexiest sex I've ever had," she snorted with amusement, him only groaning.

"You're starting to sound really hard to please."

"You don't know that yet."

"Jesus.." he mumbled, suddenly sounding frustrated.

He stepped away from her, staring at her, his confidence beginning to fade away together with the weed and the alcohol. He knew that the circumstances weren't exactly ideal, but what else could he do? She stared him back, recognizing his disappointment, finding the sight incredibly sweet.

She couldn't help but to smile at him, taking a step closer, placing her hands on his chest, "I'm sorry, Conor. I'm just drunk and high and.. I'm just joking. I'm sorry."

Slowly, she began to trail kisses down his chest, sliding off the shirt from his shoulders, his hands wrapping themselves around her and into her hair after a moment. No more laughing, no more giggling as he lay her onto his old bed, the moments that followed delicate and gentle, but still perfectly and wonderfully messy.

The feeling of having her head rest on his chest made him almost giddy, gently brushing his fingers through her hair while her hand drew small circles along his torso, causing goosebumps on his skin.

"I don't want this to end here," he whispered into her ear, "I don't want to go back to London and know that you are there and not see you."

She turned her eyes towards him, a small smile appearing on her lips, "I think you've got yourself a date."