(Peter's POV)
The crow's nest creaked beneath our weight as the wind danced in slow spirals around us, tugging at our skin and drying the sea from her translucent clothes. The moon loomed above, bloated and watchful, its silver light painting her face in a pale glow.
Her breasts, full and tender, caught the moonlight like bowls of silver nectar—luminous, soft, and gently rising with each breath, as if mimicking the moon itself.
She drew me closer, her fingers curling behind my neck
She leaned back, her palms pressed to the wooden rail behind her, chest rising with every breath. The moonlight traced the arc of her breasts, their plumpness catching the glow like twin offerings to the night.
"Lay your head here," she murmured, guiding my gaze to the softness above her heart. "Rest. Just for a while."
I smirked.
"What if I get thirsty?"
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away. Instead, she took my hand and placed it gently on her belly—warm, bare, and trembling slightly beneath my touch.
"Then you'll have to give me your heir, my dark lord," she whispered, voice like honey sliding into sin. "Only then might I quench your thirst."
She arched slightly, pushing herself into my touch, her smile playful but her eyes heavy with meaning.
"But for now," she added, bringing her lips just shy of mine, "I can only be your toy… your squishy little toy."
She giggled, but it wasn't innocent. It was the sound of someone surrendering and daring you to do the same.
My fingers trailed up her side, stopping just below the swell of her breast. Her breath hitched. My mouth hovered near her ear.
"You're not a toy," I murmured. "You're temptation, sculpted into softness."
"Then let me tempt you," she said. "And when I melt, make sure it's only beneath your hands."
I pulled her into me, chest to chest, breath to breath. Her legs wrapped around my waist almost instinctively, and the crow's nest — high above the watching world — became a cradle of whispered sins and slow-burning heat.
But just as my lips found hers, the ship gave a sudden lurch.
A pulse.
She leaned closer, her skin dewy with the salt of the sea, the wind gently sweeping her hair across my cheek. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist, delicate yet intentional, and with a slow, inviting motion, she guided my hand upward—toward the soft curve of her bare, voluptuous breasts.
The heat of her body pulsed beneath my palm, and though the moon bathed her in silver, it was her warmth that lit me from within.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice low, trembling—not with fear, but anticipation.
My thumb brushed against the underside of her softness, and her breath caught in her throat.
"You shouldn't tempt me like this," I whispered, even as my fingers dared to learn the shape of her desire.
"Then don't resist," she breathed. "I want to be remembered by your hands… not your silence."
My thumb moved before the rest of me did.
A gentle, circling touch against the soft curve just beneath her ribs — not rushed, not claiming, just... exploring. She tensed slightly, then melted, her breath catching in her throat as if I'd found a switch hidden beneath her skin.
"You're trembling," I said, voice low.
"You're the one doing that to me," she whispered.
My thumb traced the dip of her waist, where her skin warmed under my touch, then slid higher, brushing the side of her breast — not quite bold enough to claim it, but lingering at the edge, watching her eyes.
They fluttered shut.
Her lips parted.
She leaned into the trail my hand left behind, as if asking me to draw constellations on her flesh.
I didn't move quickly. I wanted her to feel it — not just the touch, but the intention. I wanted her to know I was learning her, not using her. That I could worship without needing to conquer.
She pulled my other hand to her thigh, guiding it, trusting it.
"I'm not afraid of your shadows," she said, her voice a hush against the wind.
"Then don't flinch when they fall over you," I replied.
Her smile was a secret, her body a poem. And I had only just begun to read her.
She leaned her head against my shoulder, soft as a sigh. "Thank you for bringing me up here," she whispered. Her voice was water over silk. "It feels like I'm floating again."
I smiled faintly. I couldn't stop watching her—the way the wind teased her hair into waves, the way her eyes seemed to pull light and bend it.
"You're safe here," I said. "I won't let anything happen to you."
She looked up at me, lashes heavy with mist. "I believe you."
But as I brushed a lock of damp hair from her cheek, a flash hit me—
A temple beneath black waves… A crown of coral… My own face, eyes lifeless, drifting in the deep.
I gasped.
She grabbed my hand gently, her fingers a little too cold. "Shh," she whispered. "Don't fight it. You saw it because I let you."
My pulse stammered. "What… what was that?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips to mine.
And suddenly—I remembered things that never happened.
I saw her wrapped in sea foam, dancing with shadows. I felt her hunger, old and sweet, like wine left to rot. I saw ships wrecked beneath her voice, men smiling as they drowned.
I tore away, gasping, half in her arms, half in another world.
"What are you?" I whispered.
She smiled like someone who had been asked that a thousand times. "A gift, Peter. A gift just for you. Let me stay here. With you. I can make this ship obey your every word. I can drown your enemies before they even see your sail. You'll never feel weak again."
She slid her hand over my chest.
Right above the shard of Noctis.
"All I ask..." Her voice thickened, syrup and smoke. "Is that little sliver of moon you carry inside."
(Hook's POV)
I knew it. I knew it the moment that sea-drenched temptress laid eyes on him.
I slammed open my spyglass, the cursed one from the sea witch in the Trench of Teeth. I swore I'd never touch it again.
But there it was. Her true form—not flesh, but lure. Hair like kelp, skin glowing with stolen magic. Her mouth didn't smile—it sang. Her body pulsed with hypnotic rhythm, every heartbeat rewriting his.
I cursed under my breath. "She's feeding him magic... feeding on him."
And my crew—oh, the bloody fools. One was humming her tune in his sleep. Another was halfway up the rigging, whispering her name like a prayer. A third? Gone. Vanished.
No. This had to end now.
I grabbed my blade.
(Deck POV)
The wind died. The sea stilled.
No voices. No waves. The world went quiet, like someone had plucked the strings of sound itself.
The Jolly Roger was adrift in a dead sea.
(Hook's POV)
I climbed the mast faster than I had in years. My boots scraped wood, my lungs burned. At the top, I burst into the crow's nest, blade raised.
But she was gone.
Only Peter remained, slumped against the railing, eyes unfocused, lips still tasting something that wasn't entirely real.
The moon blinked behind a cloud.
And far, far below us—the sea began to sing.