#deckhand hook

[mccallhero]

favourite ouat scenes: 18/?

[princess-and-the-swan]

MC Fic Rec: Light of All Lights

By Ripplestitchskein | Rating: E

A fairy tale in five parts. When his ship crashes onto a secluded island after a storm Killian "Deckhand Hook" Jones finds himself the unlikely companion to the dark "goddess" who inhabits it. Complete. Basically a Dark!Emma gives Deckhand!Killian sex education after his ship gets washed ashore her deserted island. I really enjoyed the way their relationship develops and how, despite the power dynamic, there is no coercive undertone.

Read it on AO3

[wpdarlingpan]

Could we get something with Yandere ouat Peter? Preferably gender-neutral or nb reader.

An idea I had is maybe Hook has a kid, so the character would have grown up in Neverland. I think maybe a platonic Yandere Peter would be v interesting, where he maybe tries to interact with reader as a ‘cool older brother’ sort of figure, despite the fact that reader very much knows exactly who he is and that he’s dangerous. Romantic would be fine too though!

Thank you so much for the request! I apologize it took so long and I have not written in a while so I hope it's okay!

I loved this idea so I had to see how it'll play out. I did the platonic version and although I did use Y/N and made them gender-neutral, I wrote they were 17 for the story's sake. I often have Peter refer to them as a child because in his mind he feels the need to take care of and protect them.

I am considering a part two if people like this idea enough, maybe taking place when the Storybrooke residents arrive.

Warning: Yandere Behavior

Word Count: 2886

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The Love Of A Brother

-----------------

The day Killian Jones, otherwise known by his more colorful moniker Hook, came to Neverland was a day he would never forget.

He had many men aboard, each desiring to never grow old until they wished. They all had been warned about the dangers that lurk within the water and upon the soil of Neverland but the idea of dying from old age was a more terrifying feat to them.

However, one person had little choice in the matter, as they were still somewhat forced to come to Neverland.

Captain Hook's kid, Y/N.

After the day Mila died it was up to him to become a single parent. Overall he was rather good at it. Always telling stories so that they would be able to sleep at night or sitting by their bedside when they had gotten a cold. But, no matter how much love they held for each other, Killian could not stop going after the man who killed his wife and the mother of his child.

Y/N was 17 the day they had arrived in Neverland and would remain so until the day they left.

This was not a decision Hook made lightly. Bringing the person he cared for more than anyone into the hellish landscape wasn't something he'd wish on his worst enemy (other than Rumpelstiltskin) but the idea of leaving them with no idea when he would return hurt even more.

So he created the rules.

Do not leave the boat without permission.

Do not ever interact with Peter Pan or his shadow.

Avoid the Lost Boys.

"Who is Peter Pan?" They asked their father as the Jolly Roger settled after coming through the portal to Neverland.

"A bloody demon." He responded looking at the dark island as it neared.

Hook began telling the stories that he knew. Even sharing how he had met Peter Pan in the first place. Albeit leaving out what happened to his brother as he blamed himself as well as Pan for the tragedy.

Pan knew he was arriving on the island. Hook riskily contacted him through his shadow to come to a truce before being allowed to arrive on the island.

But there was a little thing Hook had forgotten to mention.

His child.

He had hoped that if none of the inhabitants of the island knew their relation, with Peter assuming they were deckhands or something, they wouldn't be targeted if Peter got bored or wanted to play a game.

But the resemblance was noticeable from the first meeting.

-----------------

As the boat docked onto shore to make an initial supply run, Hook kept Y/N close. Half of the crew, including the two of them, walked carefully through the jungle, avoiding every thorn they came across.

But the real danger was just up ahead. After all, Peter Pan wouldn't be a polite host if he didn't welcome his guests.

The second the pirates entered a clearing they were surrounded by the sound of rustles as the leaves moved around the edge of the clearing and a figure appeared about 20 feet ahead on the other end.

Hook froze, he knew he should have expected him to show himself this early, but a part of him had hoped he wouldn't, not yet at least.

Y/N held onto their bow and arrows tightly as they observed the boy up ahead who looked just a little older than them. Judging by the way he held the spotlight, they had to assume this was Peter Pan.

"Look what we have here, I didn't expect to see you on the island this quickly. I mean after what had happened last time you were here, the idea of returning so willingly was unexpected, Captain." Peter spoke as he neared the group, the Lost Boys forming a circle around them to prevent anyone from running.

Peter inspected the group as they each held some form of weapon. Be it a dagger, sword, or even one with a bow and arrow.

He neared the one with the bow and arrow, the idea of figuring out what else made them so different lingered in his mind. Peter stood closely in front of them, studying their appearance and the subtle yet noticeable looks towards the direction of Hook.

This is when something had clicked.

His brain was no longer assessing the group as a whole or messing with the Captain. His thoughts were reserved for only them. The way they were trying to hide their shaking hands and the way they held onto the bow tighter the closer he got. The shine of their eyes as they looked at him almost like a frightened deer.

He could recognize a scared child anywhere and this time he didn't want it to be his fault. It was like an instinct of protection filled his black heart. Their fearful yet innocent gaze was embedded into his soul. Someone like this simply couldn't live with harsh pirates.

He reached a hand out towards them but Hook stepped in the way. His gaze was harsh yet Peter could easily detect the fear hidden in them. For himself or the child, he wasn't sure.

Peter smirked at Captain Hook as he realized why they had looked so familiar now seeing the similarities in their features and hair color. He had been to distracted by the odd feeling of protection and familiarity to even acknowledge the finding.

"You have a child? My you got busy after leaving last time." He teased as he glanced around the man to see them standing there, their gaze locked onto the ground.

"Stay away from them or so help me you will have wished-" Hook began to say before Peter cut him off.

"You'll do what? Let me remind you, you're here because I allow it. You eat the island's food only because I allow it. You only live because I have use for you yet." He threatened motioning his hand for the Lost Boys to run away.

Y/N took a sigh of relief as the group dispersed but their worry would still remain until Peter was out of their sight. The ideas of the horrors they were told, all of which could happen to them just by being in his presence, filled their anxious mind.

Peter stared at Hook seriously before sending a look and a playful wink toward Y/N, hoping to make them less afraid.

"I'll see you soon." He commented staring directly into their eyes before disappearing.

—————————

Apparently soon meant a few days.

It first began when Y/N was laying on deck, watching the stars when someone appeared next to them and laid down on the spare part of the blanket.

“The stars are beautiful aren’t they?” He spoke as if lying on the ground next to them wasn’t an unusual occurrence.

Y/N was silent, trying to hide the fact they were afraid. The unknowing was terrible, the idea that their father was fast asleep, probably passed out from exhaustion at that, was nerve-wracking as they could not call for help.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.” Pan said genuinely, staring at the side of their face as he admired their courage to hide their fear.

“Why wouldn’t I be? You have a reputation you know. I’m sure you could get rid of me in a heartbeat.” Y/N was nervous now, it audibly showed through the small stutter that sounded in their sentence.

“That doesn’t mean I want to… Do you know why I’ve brought all these boys to the island?”

“Because they’re lost?”

“Because no one deserves to feel alone.”

Peter Pan believed that because Y/N was an only child who spent their whole life traveling the seas, that they had to be lonely. They are constantly moving and never staying in one place, let alone with people their age.

Then their father, he’s a pirate with a drinking problem who is so obsessed with revenge that even though he is protective and loves his child, Peter couldn’t tell you which the man valued more.

Revenge or love?

If Peter were to take her right now, he could be their older brother. Someone who takes care of their little sibling in the face of everything like heartbreak, anxiety, everything that would make them feel anything other than happiness.

Y/N would be his sibling. He’d be their only brother.

Being an older brother to Y/N sounded perfect to him.

—————————

Their next encounter was when they had been sitting on the edge of the beach as the Jolly Roger was anchored nearby.

Y/N's father had allowed them to hang out along the shore alone.

The captain and crewmates were planning on staying on the edge of the jungle that was Neverland. He had figured they would be okay for a couple hours and that he could hear if they needed anything.

He knew the dangers that posed leaving them there alone but he thought they would be cornered again the second they entered the tree line so there really wasn’t anywhere ‘safe’ at the moment.

That’s how he rationalized it at least.

But when Peter saw them sitting alone on the shore, the mermaids moving closer by the second, he saw Hook as irresponsible and unfit to care for Y/N.

He quickly approached them, the sight of him causing the mermaids to swim away quickly, realizing that was not someone they wanted to lure in.

“Y/N.” Peter said as he approached, sitting in the sand next to them.

“What are you doing?” They spoke questioningly “I thought you would be bothering my father and his crew.”

“Is that what he counted on. Me leaving you alone as they frolicked or whatever they are doing in the jungle? Is that why he left you here defenseless?” He replied getting more confident that Killian wasn’t fit to take care of Y/N.

“I don’t like what you’re accusing him of.” Y/N replied, glaring at Pan in front of them but if anything it was adorable.

He raised his hands jokingly as if he actually felt threatened by them.

“I’m just saying, he knows the dangers of this island. If it’s not me, it’s the lost boys, then the Dreamshade, and as you almost realized, the mermaids.” Peter counted off making Y/N realize what the subtle splashing noise they heard was. “He shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“I’m 17. I can take care of myself for a few hours.” They argued, much like if they were telling their older sibling they didn’t need to be babysat.

“Sure you can. But you don’t need to when I’m here.”

———————-

From then on he would appear randomly whenever he knew Y/N was alone.

When they weren’t, he was silently protecting them from the shadows.

If we’re sketching in their room? He’d sit next to them silently, allowing them to focus. Meanwhile he was busy admiring their skills even if it was a simple picture of the sky.

They volunteered to go look for some more supplies on the island?

They mysteriously got separated from the group for a few hours.

He took them saying ‘I can take care of myself for a few hours’ rather literally. In those few hours, they got an entire tour of the main points of the island.

Even the camp.

Peter had them sit on his designated chair, introducing Y/N as their little sibling. Each of the boys came up to them and introducing themselves enthusiastically as the proposed all the fun games they could play if they were to stay.

Even when Y/N emphasized greatly that they couldn’t.

Each and every time.

When their birthday came around Peter gifted them a necklace, his initials were on the inside, to protect them from anyone who finds their way to the island.

Although he made sure to use his magic to conceal the necklace from the eyes of Hook.

Not that he cared about what the man thought, after all nothing would keep him from his little sibling.

Nothing.

-----------

The day Peter had been preparing for came sooner than expected.

Hook had discovered a way to kill the dark one and his need for the island was gone. Meaning it was time to return back to the enchanted forest.

The crew had begun preparing to return back to the forest. Packing up their supplies and strapping down anything they had on deck to prepare for traveling through the portal.

Y/N was packing up anything loose in their room. They had mostly finished other than having to pack the rest of their art supplies.

“So you were just going to leave and not tell your older brother? I'm offended” Peter spoke appearing in their room and sitting on their bed.

In their deal, he had allowed Hook to leave once he had found a way to accomplish his goal.

That was before he had met Y/N.

“I was never going to say in Neverland. I was always going to leave. I don’t know what you were expecting.” Y/N spoke harshly trying to push him away.

They had to admit, after all this time spent with Peter, that it was hard to view him as some irredeemable demon. He comforted them when they had nightmares of their mother’s death, protected them from the mermaids, did their favorite activities with them (even if he was not really invited), and seemed to love them.

Peter knew they were just trying to protect themself from the pain of leaving so they lashed out. He could tell they were saddened at the thought of leaving him. This made him feel warm inside.

Y/N assumed they’d be fine once leaving Neverland, they would have to forget about Peter Pan and their life would go back to normal, well as normal as it gets.

Suddenly they heard approaching footsteps.

“Y/N? Are you ready to go? We are about to enter the portal now.” Killian called through the closed door, his eagerness to leave the island covering the fact that there was a muffled sound as he spoke. Hook was ecstatic, his time for revenge had come. His head was in the clouds as he ran over his plan over and over again. Causing him to not even think to just poke his head in to check on his child, just of the idea that the portal was closing any minute

The muffled noise was Peter whispering that he would not let Hook leave if they said anything other than that they were ready.

Y/N knew if they weren’t allowed to leave, their father would be devastated.

“Yes father, I’m ready!” They called back and the two listened as the man’s footsteps grew farther and farther away.

“You can’t leave Y/N. You’re my little sibling, I have to take care of you.” He spoke manipulatively the second Hook was out of distance.

“I have to. If it’s up to me, I’ll never leave my father. He raised me, he loves me! He will take care of me better than you ever can.” Y/N retorted, frustrated at the situation. Why wouldn't Peter just go away? They knew they cared for him, even just a little bit. But their father was very important to them. Even if he had been a little distracted while searching for revenge, they didn't feel his love any less.

A loving father or a over protective, self-proclaimed brother.

They knew which had meant more. They had made their choice, one they couldn't vocalize as Peter softly blew poppy dust into their face, causing them to pass out instantly.

“Then it isn’t up to you.” as he spoke “This is for your own good. I love you Y/N and I know you love me. You are better off at my side.”

He picked them up bridal style as he and Y/N disappeared off the boat and reappeared in the camp. All of their stuff appears on the ground off to the side of them.

"Welcome to your new home, Y/N"

-------------

Hook had gone to Y/N’s cabin to check on them, the portal closing behind him as they could see the Enchanted Forest off in the distance.

He was eager to see his child, wanting to celebrate the idea of finally being able to avenge his wife and their mother. Hook knocked and didn’t hear an answer assuming they had been disoriented or hurt by the portal, he opened the door quickly.

But, he was met with an empty room and no Y/N.

He looked around for any signs frantically before he spotted a letter on the bed.

Hook,

You were always too focused on the idea of revenge that you neglected what was in front of you. You never deserved Y/N and you never will. Each time you left them alone, I was there. I comforted them, I protected them, and I loved them. Each thing is something you couldn't do while you searched for something you did not even know existed. Y/N will be better off without you.

I always wondered if you'd choose revenge over love.

I guess I have my answer.

Their brother,

Peter Pan

[callivich]

Thank you to @twinklyylights for this week’s @galladrabbles prompt of ‘dinner party’ 💖

—-

Here’s a little Below Deck AU with Chef!Mickey and Deckhand!Ian. Basically they are crew on a luxury yacht.

—-

Final night of the charter, it all goes wrong. The guests are too picky despite Mickey serving all the best food, creating fuckin’ masterpieces.

Dinner parties can make or break a charter. The tip is dependant. He’s let the crew down.

He doesn’t expect Ian to appear. They’ve been hooking up but he honestly thought that the deckhand had just been looking for a good time.

But Ian helps Mickey clean the galley, forces him to sit down while he makes him a grilled cheese. Looks after him. Mickey had wanted more, maybe they can have it? Fuck everything else.

[author-morgan]

Title: Not Just Silver and Gold Pairing: Edward Kenway x fem!Reader Rating: T Word Count: ~7.9k Summary: Edward Kenway fishes you out of the Atlantic and finds treasure that's not just silver and gold.

an early b-day gift for @mrsragnarlodbrok

THE NORTH ATLANTIC is quiet and still. A midmorning fog clings to the inky water—a nigh impenetrable wall making it difficult for Edward Kenway and his crew to see much farther than the tip of the Jackdaw’s bowsprit. It’s been two weeks since they set off from Great Inagua’s cove on the word of Henry Jennings about a convoy of Spanish merchant ships heading back to Spain from the Yucatán, passing north of Cuba and then onto open water—laden with silver and jewels and ripe for plundering.

Only after a week of searching and patrolling shipping lanes, there is naught but schooners and brigs flying Saint George's Cross, not worth the notoriety that would come from attacking them. And then, as if punishment for their greed and pride from Neptune himself, a squall blew them too close to the Spanish shores of La Florida. Ereyesterday, Captain Kenway could tell his crew was growing discontent with their ill-fortunes, and now he’s determined to make berth with something to show for this blunder, even if it’s not the promised riches they set out to pirate. 

The scent of burning pitch and tar cuts the air, but there’s a whiff of something acrid and sulfurous, too. It sets the crew at unease. And then the sea is no longer empty, and on either side of the Jackdaw is a scattered and burning wreckage. Flames rise from the shell of a broken hull—split in two but yet to sink. “Merchant ship, most likely,” Edward tells his quartermaster. An English ship, by the looks of it, and given the uniforms of the drowned crew mixed with the flotsam. There are crates and barrels still bobbing on the water’s surface—not much, but it’s something. “Salvage what you can!” The captain orders, and slowly, the crew begins shuffling around on the main deck, scouting their pitiful bounty.

“Cap’n!” Thom shouts, straying from his post at the swivel gun to look over the gunwale. Edward gives the helm to Adéwalé and joins the four men gathered at the rails, staring down at the water and wreckage. “There.” The deckhand points at one of the pieces of floating debris, lying half on the carvel panel and half in the water is a woman, slowly drifting away from the ship. 

Instinct kicks in just as if there’d been a man overboard. Edward tosses his pistols to Billy and drops his sword belt, diving into the wreckage below, and swimming out before she slips too far away. He thinks there’s a pulse—faint against the rise and fall of the sea, but enough to keep you from joining the other poor souls in Davy Jones’s Locker. Pulling you into the water, Edward starts back toward the Jackdaw, fighting the weight of the layers of your soaked frock to keep your head above the water. The crew tosses a rope down and Edward grips it, hooking his arm beneath yours, as they haul you both onto the Jackdaw.  

Edward leans over you on the deck—he can feel your slow, uneven breaths on his damp cheek. “Still breathing,” he announces to the crew, easing his hand to cradle the back of your head. Some of the men back away, muttering a woman aboard will bring them bad luck—more than they’ve already had these last weeks—while others just stare.

Slowly, Edward starts to sit you up and air comes rushing back, displacing the water filling your mouth and lungs in a heave of salty bile. You twist in your savior’s arms, heaving up the contents of your belly onto the deck. “Easy there,” Edward soothes. The saltwater stings your eyes, and the chill bites through the soaked fabric clinging to your skin, but the solid oak deck is an anchor to a world threatening to slip away.

“S’alright, lass,” he tells you, his voice rough—barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the rushing blood in your ears. Eyes burning and sight hazy, you look around at the seafarers, and then at the man kneeling at your side. His face is a mask of concentration mixed with relief, framed by straw blond hair dripping with seawater. 

He watches for any sign of awareness in your eyes, his hand still cradling your head, steadying you, but there’s only the empty, fearful look of a soul just stolen from Davy Jones. Edward’s arms—warm and strong—slip beneath the bends of your knees and around your shoulders, heaving you up from the deck with a grunt. “Eyes on the horizon, lads,” he commands, starting toward the great cabin.

And when you look up at the masts and sails above there’s an odd black spot lingering in your blurred vision—or maybe it’d been a black flag.

He sets you on a lumpy mattress in the captain’s quarters, then offers a tepid cup of water. You drink to wash away the taste of salt and bile, but feel your stomach begin to churn again.  

“Were there any others?” You ask, your voice faint and unfamiliar, the words half-slurring as you stare at your reflection in the water. You can still hear the shouting, the screaming from the officers to douse the lanterns and sparks, but it’d been too late. The magazine caught, and the roar from the belly of the ship and cracking timbers were deafening, but then, once adrift amid the burning wreck, there was only silence—no wailing, no shouting, just a haunting stillness. 

Edward can see the horrors reflected in your tired eyes—for one not accustomed to maritime battles and mishaps, such sights can cause a lifetime of haunts. “Afraid not,” he answers, wringing out the rag and turning your cheek toward the lantern light. He presses the rag against your hairline and temple where there’s a bloody cut and sees you flinch away at the brush of his calloused fingertips. “Sorry,” he breathes—he’s usually the one getting patched up, not playing caretaker.  

You’re quiet for a long while as he tends your hurts, still shaken, but even so, you remember your manners. “May I have your name, good sir?” You ask, barely a whisper. 

Edward hesitates—he’s infamous in these waters. Everyone in the West Indies knows of his piracy against empires and exploits with the likes of Thatch and Vane in Nassau. But you’re only a woman, crossing the Atlantic for the first time by the looks of it and still likely blissfully ignorant of the order of things in these parts. He’ll take the risk and be truthful. “Edward,” he tells you after a long pause, lifting the rag to see if there’s any more blood welling up along the cut. “Captain Edward Kenway.” You thank him for saving you from certain death and for his attentive care. 

“What was your heading, lass?” He questions, knowing by the quality and style of your dress that someone of import would be waiting for your arrival—a husband maybe, or a father or brother—and where there’s status, there���s riches to be bartered. 

“Kingston,” you answer. The captain said you were only ten days from the city and old Port Royal before the ship went up in flames. 

“I see,” he says, his eyes studying your face for a moment as if searching for something more—a hint of recognition or deception—but there’s nothing else save for gratitude and exhaustion. “Get some rest, lass,” Edward continues, offering a roughspun woolen blanket, his voice softening as he lets you be.

Edward runs his hand over his face when he steps out of his cabin and back into the midmorning sun. It seems they will have to sail to Kingston. Adéwalé comes down the steps. “One of the men pulled these from the wreckage” —he passes the leather-wrapped letters to the captain— “Letters of Marque.” Edward unfurls the soaked parchment, the ink smudged but still legible. He thumbs through the first pages. 

Whereas, by His Majesty’s Commission under the Great Seal of Great Britain bearing Date the 13th Day of March in the year of Our Lord 1716, and in the 2nd Year of His Majesty’s Reign, the Lords Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral are required and authorized to issue forth and grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal...the letters are signed by the king, his seal pressed in green wax, but the vessel and officers' names are left blank. A potential bargaining chip. 

Edward skims the next letter in the batch—written on thinner parchment—the gall ink bleeds badly, and words run together, but he can make out enough to know they’ve either struck gold or will find themselves wearing hempen halters soon. He laughs, looking at Adéwalé and feeling as though the tides have shifted in their favor. “She’s the daughter of Kingston’s Chief Judiciary,” Edward tells his quartermaster. A rich bastard with coin and power to spare. A fine ransom. Adéwalé’s eyes widen with the revelation, and Edward claps his mate’s shoulder with a smile as he heads for the Jackdaw’s helm. “Just got interesting,” he notes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Adé?”

STEPPING FROM THE cabin, you squint in the bright sunlight—unsure if hours or days have passed—hand raised to shield your eyes from the midday sun. There are words of gratitude on your lips for Edward Kenway and his men, but the black smear still lingers on the edge of your gaze, and now you can see it’s a flag—the colours of the ship. A white skull on a tattered black field. The sight churns your stomach. Pirates. Any words of thanks fade, a newfound fear and odium taking gratitude’s place—dread, too. “You’re bloody pirates,” you breathe, voice trembling. 

Edward Kenway glances over the ship’s wheel and offers a roguish smile. “Privateer, really,” he quips. A partial truth. “But the lines do blur.” He passes the helm to Adéwale and makes his way to where you stand, aghast at the revelation of who your rescuers truly are. “I’ll strike you a deal, lass,” the captain starts, knowing you’re in no position to refuse. You may as well be a prisoner—or a hostage to ransom. “I’ll get you safely to Kingston and back to the good ole judge in exchange for some coin and safe passage for me and mine,” he tells you. 

It doesn’t seem like much to ask for. A fair trade—or at least your father might think so. But even if he makes good on his deal, it won’t matter. Those colours won’t get him anywhere but an iron pen and the gallows. And unless Edward Kenway is a particularly bad pirate, the King’s Men and your father’s cabinet will know who he is. “You’ll hang.” It’s not a threat so much as an observation—a hard truth.

The captain’s cavalier attitude shifts in a blink, his expression souring. “That how you intend to repay the man who saved your life?” Edward asks, almost amused as he looks down his nose—slightly crooked from being broken one too many times—at you. “By granting him a noose?”

One good deed is not enough to absolve a man of a lifetime of sins. It’s a phrase you’ve heard since childhood about those who turned to piracy and sought to become a scourge of the seas. You lift your chin, unwavering, as a lady of your standing should be. “I can request a quick drop and sudden stop for you, sir.”

Edward’s eyes narrow at your sharp turn of the tongue. “In that case” —he grips your arm, pulling you over to the side of the ship, bright eyes scanning the horizon— “we can find you another piece of flotsam to cling to, Your Highness.” You stare down into the dark water, heart racing, fearful he might really throw you overboard. But Adé gives Edward a look from the helm, and it’s not long after that the captain concedes with a heavy sigh. “Pirates we may be,” he starts, stepping away from the ship’s taffrail and you, “but you’ve my word. We’ll get you to Kingston, and no harm will come to you.”

You keep your distance for the rest of the day, wary of your rescuers now that you know their true nature—pirates. They pay you little mind, even the ones who’d cursed your presence after Edward dragged you onto the ship from the water. With nowhere else to go—and unwilling to make yourself familiar with pirates—you return to the captain’s cabin.

When Edward retires in the night hours, he finds you awake, sitting on his bed with an open book—Robinson Crusoe—near the hanging oil lantern. It seems you’ve made yourself at home in his quarters. “I…” you start, the words stuck in your throat as he closes the door behind him, “I apologize for my curtness early.” The apology sounds forced to Edward’s ear. 

Edward takes to a chair and props his feet up on the table at the center of his quarters, uncorking a fresh bottle of rum. He takes a long drag of the sweet liquor and relishes the burn in his salt-scratched throat before the warmth settles in his belly. “You’ll get no apologies from me, lass,” he tells you, not ungently. Another swig of rum and he sighs inward, seeing your fear-laced expression staring back at him in the dim lantern lights. “Like to think I’m a man of my word, though.” But his words offer no comfort—it’s hard to trust the word of a sea scoundrel. 

“Rum?” He offers up the bottle, but you do not move to take it. You’ve never been one to take to the drinks of men. “We’ve not got tea, Your Highness,” Edward mocks. He knows your type—the ones who always looked down on him and his lot, even back in Swansea. Nothing was ever good enough for the landed gentry. 

“How many days are we from Kingston?” You dare ask, ignoring his jape. You don’t expect an answer, or an honest one, in truth. 

“Jackdaw’s been at sea for over a fortnight,” he tells you. They’ve already been at sea longer than they planned, and the supplies are dwindling. “We’ll have to stop over to refresh our stores. Our cove is seven, maybe nine, days away if the weather holds.” Summer months in these parts were always finicky for sailing—never quite could know if a maelstrom would try to take you when the skies opened up. “I reckon then, four days. Long as the wind is on our side, and we don’t come across any of Philip or George's good men.”

When the bottle of rum is half gone, Edward rises from his chair and flops down on his bed, stretching out despite your appalled expression—a mix of outrage and disgust at his impudence. “What are you doing?” You demand. 

He folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. “Having a kip,” Edward answers, settling into the lumpy rag-and-straw mattress, “if it pleases you.”

IT TAKES NINE days to reach the old cove after sundown—a haven for pirates, especially now with the seat of the Pirate Republic under the watchful eye of the King’s Men and their Templar associates. Great Inagua is where the Jackdaw makes berth. Under better circumstances, you might even dare describe the small settlement as quaint, with the little houses and shops dotting a main stretch of earthen paths before disappearing into a thick jungle. Instead, you find yourself shrinking away from the gazes of vagabonds and scarlet women.

The first place Edward Kenway and his crew head is the dockside tavern to wet their whiskers and fill their bellies with something other than watery ale, rum, and cold salt pork. Feeling out of place and unsure of the workings of a society based on piracy, you keep close to Edward—taking a spot on the bench opposite of him at one of the tables. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

You only catch the last bit of what the group of bully boys sitting at the next table over say—I’d brave the Devil’s squalls to chart her shores—but Edward Kenway’s keen ears hear it all. His smile fades instantly, and he slams his tankard of ale on the table, head twisting around. “Watch your tongue,” he says, voice a low, dangerous growl. 

The merriment on the dock dies down—the bard’s tune does, too. It’s as though everyone except you knows how this scenario plays out. One of them sneers at Edward. “What’s it to you, Kenway?” You don’t recognize any of them as men who sail on the Jackdaw, only that their foul mouths match their tempers.

“You’ll not insult my guest,” Edward answers, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken threat as he rises from the bench and turns to face the group of ruffians. 

“Gone turn on one of your own for a stuck-up trollop?” The fattest of the bunch asks, spitting on the plank floor. Edward’s answer is violence. His fist connects square with the man’s jaw, the sharp crack of knuckles against bone ringing out like a gunshot. The brute stumbles back, crashing into the table behind him—knocking over half-filled tankards. 

Edward ducks under a wild swing, ramming his elbow into the ribs of the second man before twisting to avoid the grasp of the third. The first brute, stumbling back to his feet, charges. Kenway sidesteps at the last second, letting the man barrel straight over the dock railing and into the water, cursing as he falls. You flinch more than he does when a punch connects with his jaw, but Edward reaches for the nearest tankard—still half-full—and smashes it over the second man’s head, putting him on the ground with a pitiful moan. 

The third manages to grab Edward by the collar, hauling him back before landing a strike to the face. He twists sharply, driving his knee into the bastard’s groin. It’s enough for the man to release him, and a sharp uppercut sends him sprawling backward to join his compatriot.  

The three offending corsairs head off the dock tavern to sulk and lick their wounds and pride. Edward glances at the rest of the ruffians still sitting and standing around and gives them all a hard look of warning.

He returns to sit across from you—the singers striking up a jolly tune again—wiping his bloody mouth and nose on the back of his hand. When he glimpses you, he sees your horrified expression and wide-eyed gaze—a lady of nobility wasn’t used to watching tavern brawls. 

One of the barmaids brings a stained napkin and a cup of water. You take both items and move around the table beside Edward, tending to his hurts. “You did not have to do that,” you tell him softly, wiping away the blood at the corner of his mouth with the damp serviette. Words were just that—words. And you’re certain you’ve heard sailors under the King’s flag and your father’s men speak—do—far worse.    

“Gave you my word,” he tells you, a reminder—as though you could have so easily forgotten the promise made by the man who saved your life. Those kind blue eyes of his flit to yours, shining in the torchlight and hazy from the rum. If you stare too long, you’ll drown. And if you stare too long, you’ll see Edward Kenway for what he truly is. Snapping from your trance, you reach for Edward’s hand and start to clean his bloody and split knuckles. “Know you don’t think much of a pirate’s word,” he slurs—there’s a strange sadness in how he says it, “but we have our own type of honor.” He flexes his hand, and the bones creak and crack. “Our own creed.”

He rubs his bruising jaw and looks at the white house high on the hill. “I’ll take you to the manor,” Edward mutters. It’d be safer there anyway—fewer drunk reprobates at this hour. If he were a decent man, he’d have taken you already instead of letting degenerates entertain a woman of English nobility. Edward rises from the bench again and even offers the crook of his arm like a true gentleman to lead you down the short street and up the hill.

It’s a proper estate with a grand dining room, a great parlor, and even a library—though the shelves are noticeably empty save for a few odds and ends. 

Edward opens the bedchamber door and steps aside, motioning for you to enter and make yourself comfortable. The room is simply furnished. There’s a bed, a wardrobe, and a parlor set. The dust and full decanters of wine and rum tell you it’s seldom occupied, too. It’s certainly better than your accommodations on the Dauntless and the Jackdaw these past weeks. He starts to let the door shut, letting you be for the night. “Where will you go?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you. 

“Tavern or brothel floor, most likely,” he answers. 

“Edward,” you call to him, and he stops, looking over his shoulder. “Don’t be absurd,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can think them over. Edward’s hand stills on the door, and he turns to face you, one eyebrow raised in amused surprise. “I would not keep you from sleeping under your own roof,” you tell him.

“Is that so?” he replies, a playful edge in his voice. You had no qualms about taking his bed and quarters aboard the Jackdaw. A faint smile twists his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes—shadowed with fatigue. Edward hesitates still, and his expression shifts, the amusement fading. He studies you, weighing your offer against an invisible scale of propriety and caution. But after the events of the evening and the conversations you’ve shared, there’s an unspoken trust neither of you could have foreseen. 

“Yes,” you answer, meeting his gaze, not shying away. “Stay.”

He doesn’t have to be told again and closes the door behind him. You awkwardly stand at the room’s center, fiddling with the sleeve hem of the borrowed wool jacket, eager to rid yourself of the salt-soaked clothes on your back but unsure how far you’re willing to go for comfort and risk propriety. Behind you, it sounds like Edward Kenway laughs as he goes to one of the trunks and shuffles around in the contents. “Here,” he notes, offering a linen shift. You take the chemise with a nod of gratitude. “I’ll have a bath drawn for you in the morning,” he adds. 

“I...” It’s a kindness you had not expected, even if he had shed blood for you. “Thank you.” Edward nods, and you disappear behind the dressing screen, shedding the worn sailor’s clothing for something more comfortable and familiar. 

He’s already removed his effects—weapons piled on the top of the trunk nearest the foot of the bed, his coat and tunic laying across the back of a parlor chair, and his boots kicked to the side. You flush at the sight of him half-clothed and make for the bed in haste to keep your gaze and mind from wandering. 

The bed dips when Edward eases himself onto the opposite side, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet creak of the wooden frame and the faint rustle of fabric as he makes himself comfortable. You close your eyes, willing sleep to take you, and quickly, but the awareness of him—his presence, his warmth, the slow, even sound of his breathing—makes it difficult.

A long silence stretches between you both, and just when you think he’s already drifted off, his voice, low and gruff with exhaustion, breaks the stillness. “Get some sleep, lass,” he tells you. 

It feels odd, lying on a bed, not rocking to and fro with the swells of the sea. It’s too still, and you find yourself unable to sleep much longer than an hour or two at a time. You roll over, looking at the pirate lying next to you. 

Edward’s broad shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath. The furrow oft between his brows is softened in sleep—an odd look of peace for such a complicated and troubled man. The streams of moonlight passing through drawn curtains cast a soft, silver glow over him, shining on the dark outlines of his tattoos and highlighting the silvery scars on his arms and back. He’s handsome in a rugged and rogue way and far from what you believed a pirate would be like. You curse the thoughts creeping into your mind and the growing fondness you feel toward him.  

“Stop moving, damn you,” Edward mumbles, half-asleep, feeling the mattress shift again. There’s a quiet apology on your lips, but it turns into a surprised little gasp when Edward’s arm curls around your middle, drawing you into his side.

FOUR DAYS LATER, the Jackdaw is fit to sail again—her crew and stores replenished and ready for an easy journey to Kingston and wherever they may need to roam afterward. You set off before midday with calm waters and a gentle breeze to fill the sails, and this time your temperament isn’t as sour.

By evenfall, there’s hardly anyone on the deck. Most of the crew are in the belly of the ship, taking their supper and playing dice and knucklebones. Edward stays at the helm, though, holding the wheel steady as the Jackdaw passes the eastern shores of Cuba. “C’mere, lass,” he calls down to you—sitting on the stairs up to the quarterdeck.

He holds out his hand when you step to his side, and you place your hand in his—rough fingers curling around yours—as he guides you to the Jackdaw’s wheel. “There,” Edward says, softly, bringing your other hand to rest on another wheel handle, letting you take control of his ship. “Steady,” he breathes, hands finding purchase on your waist. You don’t have to fight the wind or currents, only keep the bow of the ship true to the southerly course.

A long moment passes, and you glance back at Edward, only to find his clear blue eyes are already focused on you with the beginnings of a smile. “Eyes on the horizon, love,” he chides—a whisper of warmth against the curve of your neck.

“Edward.” You know what he's going to do as he leans closer, and you make no effort to stop him—taken with this new sense of freedom and control that you have of your own fate while aboard this ship. He moves first. You swallow hard, a small pulse in your neck beating frantically, and your eyes slip shut as his lips brush yours—a satisfied sigh escaping on your breath. The kiss is chaste; a gentle flutter of his lips against yours. Only testing the waters.

PORT ROYAL AND Kingston rise from the pale blue waters of the Caribbean in the afternoon sun. The Jackdaw drops anchor in the bay harbor, and the crew helps you and the captain down into a dinghy to row ashore. “Here we are, Your Highness,” Edward announces when he pulls to one of the low wharves and ties off the small boat—there’s an odd sense of mirth in his tone and shining in his blue eyes. He steps onto the short wharf and offers his hand, pulling you up. 

Edward Kenway fashions himself to look like a simple West Indies merchant seaman, foregoing most of his usual armaments besides a pistol and saber. And you’ve donned the ruined dress from when he first found you adrift in the Atlantic.

The streets of Kingston aren’t what you expect, but you’d heard what happened to the city of Port Royal, the sea and sand reclaiming most of the city—divine punishment, no doubt. Though, you suppose it does take time to build a new city in place of the one destroyed. You keep close to Edward, as the denizens offer odd glances, clearly taken aback by your disheveled appearance and unscrupulous company.

The judge’s estate is near the governor’s mansion—smaller but no less grand by the looks of it, but still quite different compared to your countryside manor in Devonshire. Guards posted at the wrought iron gate usher the two of you into the yard and up the steps of the Georgian manse when Edward announces he found the judge’s daughter adrift at sea amidst the wreckage of the Dauntless. They’ve already heard of the misfortunes from the captain of another English ship—the Monmouth.  

The doors of the solar open and cool air, tinged with pipe smoke, greets you. Edward enters after you, glimpsing the richly adorned interior. He sees you shift, awkwardly, none of this feels familiar, not in the way Devonshire did. No countryside breeze slips through the open windows, only the scent of West Indies sugar and Spanish silver.

Your father is older than you remember—it's been almost a decade since he first sailed from England—and his powdered wig is unable to hide the grey beneath. The lines around his eyes are deeper, sterner, too. He pauses mid-step, as if unsure whether to believe who's standing before him. “My God…” He steps closer, arms slightly lifted—but not embracing you. Not yet. His eyes flick from your face to your ruined gown, your tangled hair. It's really you. And then you're enfolded in his arms.

Your father looks to Edward Kenway as he releases you from an embrace. “I am indebted to you, mister...” he trails off, not knowing how to address the man who’d returned his daughter. 

“Walpole,” Edward says, wisely giving a false name. “Duncan Walpole, sir.” 

He nods and waves off one of the footmen to fetch a reward. The butler places three heavy purses, two of silver coin and one of gold, onto the desk—more than Edward Kenway would have demanded in ransom had it still been his priority. “Thank you,” the pirate starts, looking at the bounty, and then something twists in his stomach and chest—is this the price for a father’s daughter?—“but I cannot accept this.” The answer surprises all those in the solar, but none more than you. Edward looks at you. There’s guilt shining in his eyes and another look you cannot quite place, but you know it frightens you. “Knowing your daughter is safe is reward enough,” he says earnestly.

The judge’s brows lift in surprise. As a man of wealth and station, he cannot fathom such a reward being refused, least of all by a man who bore the rough edges of a privateer—perhaps worse. “Now there’s a fine lad,” your father muses, considering the dealings already done.  

And with nothing else to say and no bargain to strike, Edward Kenway turns to make his way back to the Jackdaw. “I’ll see you out, Mister Walpole,” you announce, almost too hastily, given the terse look on your father’s face. “To give my final thanks,” you amend. 

Edward hesitates, his clear and sharp gaze flicking to the guards and servants lingering in the periphery—they watch from a respectable distance, skeptical of his presence. Then, with a curt nod, he follows you, and once out of earshot, you let the formality slip. “A moon ago, I was just a coin purse to you,” you remind him. He exhales, a faint chuckle escaping him, though it holds no real humor. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing ahead at the wrought iron gates instead. “What changed?” You ask. 

“Everything.” Edward finally looks at you then—really looks at you. His expression teeters between indifference and contentment. Then he shakes his head, a fleeting, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing.”

You slow as the estate’s gated entrance draws near, heart beating in your throat. When he goes, so will your first taste of true freedom.  “Will I see you again, Edward?” You question, hopeful. Foolish, you curse yourself, he’s a pirate, you foolish girl.

“If the winds and seas are kind, Your Highness,” he tells you.

Reaching up, you unclasp the silver chain and pendant molded into your family’s crest and adorned with a dark red stone from around your neck. “Take this” —you pass the necklace to him— “to remember me by.” His lips twist upward when he takes the necklace, thumb running over the imprinted crest and garnet before he tucks it into one of the pockets of his blue woolen coat.

You both hesitate, then Edward glances over his shoulder, checks no one is watching, and moves toward one of the trees and stone columns marking the estate’s entrance, pulling you with him—out of sight from any would-be wandering eyes. His rough, calloused hand cups your cheek, and then you’re drowning again in his eyes—like a stormy maelstrom. Edward, you aren’t sure if his name is a whisper on your lips or not when his lips find yours, tentative—as if asking permission, just the same as when he first kissed you on the Jackdaw. You lean into him, and he deepens the kiss, hand slipping from your cheek to the back of your neck. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven. “To remember me by,” he echoes with a roguish smile, slipping away back to his life on the sea.

THE LETTER TO a dear friend across the Atlantic is almost fully penned when one of the commanders from Fort Charles arrives in the manse’s solar. He greets you proper, then turns to where your father sits at his desk, reviewing letters and documents from the governor and those delivered on the last ship from England. “Brought in a haul of pirates, sir,” the soldier announces. 

“Names?” Your father requests, appearing uninterested though you know he’s listening intently to see if there’s a sea rat with enough prestige amongst the lot to help raise his status here in the Caribbean colonies. 

The soldier begins rambling off a list of names from a rolled-up piece of parchment. No one of prominence by the sounds of it “…and a hothead, Kenway,” he finishes. 

You lay down your goose quill and shift in your chair, looking back at the soldier. Your father doesn’t seem to place the name, but you do. “Edward Kenway?” You inquire, not that there’s likely to be another Kenway sailing under a black flag in these parts. 

“Aye,” the commander confirms.

It’s been months, maybe a year or more since you last received word from Edward Kenway—even longer since he’d last come to steal you away in the night. The memory of your shared times together and the thought of having to watch him hang makes your heart start to race and your mouth go dry. I must do something, you tell yourself, even though the new gold and sapphire weight on your left ring finger feels heavier now than it ever has before. 

IT’S A FOOLISH thing to do, especially if you get caught, but it only feels right to return a favor. Your father said all those convicted of piracy would have fair trials by the week’s end. But fair trials for pirates always end with a long walk to the gallows and a hempen halter. A fate you’re determined to save Edward Kenway from—at least for a little while. 

You dash from the bushes to one of the side entrances of the prison whilst the guards on duty are changing shifts. The halls are damp and dimly lit, and smell of mold and foul excrement. Some prisoners leer at you from within their iron pens—clearly a woman trying to pass as a man given how ill-fitting your breeks and woolen coat are, and clearly looking for someone who isn’t them.

“Edward,” you whisper into the darkness, having yet to pass where they’ve thrown him to await the noose. There’s no response. Frowning, you glance around the line of cells and then around the corner to check the hall is clear before starting forward again—quietly calling out his name every dozen paces. You spot his blond head leaning against the iron bars of the cell’s door and wall. 

He shifts as you draw nearer. “Risking your neck for a pirate?” Edward asks softly, his voice low, laced with disbelief as he rises from the damp floor. You offer him a fleeting smile before trying the first key. “You’ve gone mad, lass,” he says, smile widening. You shake your head—half-refuting his claim—trying a second key on the heavy iron ring, but the lock doesn’t budge. The third key opens the rusty cell door with a creak and a squeak. He hesitates just beyond the threshold of freedom, his gaze flickering to the darkened corridor beyond, then back to you. “Why?” He finally asks.

You don’t answer, not directly, anyway. Stepping back, you motion for him to go before it’s too late. “Get out of here,” you nigh hiss. “Before someone notices.” New patrols will be starting soon, and both of you need to leave undetected. You don’t fancy having to explain to your father why you’d been caught freeing a notorious pirate from prison or why he bears such a similarity to Duncan Walpole from those years ago.

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Edward closes the distance between you, his hand gently grasping your wrist. “Come with me,” he says. “For tonight.” Like old times. 

You shake your head—trying to resist the devil’s temptation. “I should protest,” you tell him. Things are different now, but his smile grows wider still, and his grip on your wrist tightens just a little.

“Aye,” he agrees, teasing, “you probably should.” And against better judgment, you find yourself nodding, a small smile tugging at your lips as you let Edward guide you farther into the prison in search of his things.

He recovers his effects from one of the chests in the officer’s quarters, tucks them under his arm, and then takes your hand again, retracing the same path you’d taken through the halls. You both slip unseen from the prison’s entrance, and Edward pulls you away from old Fort Charles to one of the dinghies on the sandy beach. He tosses his things into the boat, then pushes it to the water, helping you in before rowing toward the far end of the bay.

Once the rowboat is ashore and you step from it onto the beach, Edward surges forward. His hands frame your face, roughened by his time at sea, and his lips find yours as though the years that've passed are only days. Even so, it’s reckless and desperate—a kiss stolen in the dead of night, a treasure neither of you is meant to have. He can tell there’s something different in how you respond—maybe time has been cruel, after all. Edward rests his forehead against yours, hands sliding down to your waist. “If you don’t want this,” he breathes, “tell me.” Because by God, he wants you. 

You press your hand against his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer, but morality and duty win over. “I’m to be married, Edward,” you whisper, turning your cheek to deny him another kiss. His brows furrow. You’d risked life and limb to defy the law in freeing him from his cell, and yet, he shakes his head disbelieving. “We made no promises to one another,” you remind him. Rare stolen nights and sparse letters to fill the time, but no promise of something more.  “And you’ve not returned to Kingston in years until now when you’re bound for the noose.”

He won’t deny it; you speak the truth. It’s not that he hadn’t wished to return, only that so much had happened with Nassau, the Templars, searching for a grand treasure called the Observatory. Edward hadn’t expected you to wait for him—not really, but he hadn’t expected this news either. He had hoped. A fool’s hope as it happened to be. He steps back and paces. Of course, you had to marry. It was expected for a woman of your caliber. He won’t ask who the engagement is to or what your new fiancé’s status and profession are. No, all Edward asks instead is: “Is he a good man?”

But the tears shining in your eyes and your silence is answer enough. Duty is the death of love.

Taking your hands, Edward looks you in the eye—his are as clear and blue as you’ve ever seen. “Sail with me.” It takes a moment for his request to sink in, and your brows furrow—gone for years and now this. “You’ll have freedom from those who would seek to cage you,” he tells you, “and should anyone try to come for you, hurt you, I’ll-” he doesn’t have to finish—you already know the lengths to which Edward Kenway is willing to go to keep you from harm. 

“Become a pirate?” You ask, incredulously, glancing toward the dark horizon where the sea meets the sky. Saying it aloud makes it seem even more ridiculous. And then you hesitate to say anything else as you ponder the thought for only a moment. The life you’ve always known—duty, expectation, a future never truly your own—is a heavy weight upon your shoulders in the wake of his offer. But Edward knows he’ll get no answer from you tonight, though maybe, just maybe, the newly planted seed will take root.

“If your answer’s yes” —he reaches for you, his careworn hands cupping your cheeks— “come to this spot in a fortnight at sunset.” Then he points toward the opening of the bay. “You’ll see the Jackdaw’s sails on the horizon.”

“And if I don’t come?” You ask, voice hardly a whisper.

Edward’s jaw tightens, hands falling away from your face, and, for a moment, his confidence wavers. He looks out toward the sea, the horizon painted in a curtain of indigo and blue, shining silver in the moonlight. When he turns back to you, his expression is resolute. “Then I’ll know you’ve made your choice,” he says, his tone firm but not without sadness. “And I’ll not darken your doorstep again.”

But before he goes, Edward takes your hand, pressing something into your palm—a small token, rough and weathered by the sea—the pendant of the necklace you’d given him as something to remember you by in his travels and adventures. His fingers linger before he steps back, and his eyes never leave yours. “Remember,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with hope. “A fortnight. At sunset.”

Edward holds your gaze a moment longer, then releases your hand and turns, climbing back into the waiting rowboat. You watch him go, his silhouette growing smaller with each pull of the oars. The Jackdaw waits beyond the bay, her dark sails ghostlike in the fading moonlight. You curl your fingers around the pendant, heart beating in your throat, torn between the life you’ve always known and the allure of the unknown…of freedom.

FOR DAYS, YOU try to forget—try to return to the silk gowns, to polite tea parties with the other ladies of society in the city, to garden walks, to wax-sealed letters and obligations spoken in hushed, clipped tones behind parlor doors. But Edward's words linger in your mind like the stubborn fog that clings to the city when it rains, like it is now—his touch, his kiss, the way he said your name. And every night, you dream of sails and starlight, wind-tossed hair, and the taste of rum on his lips. And every morning, you rise, telling yourself you won't go. That you can’t go.

A fortnight. One final day. The hours are slow to creep by and yet the mantle-clock moves faster than you’ve ever seen. You run your thumb over the pendant as you’ve done for the last thirteen days, having taken to wearing it again on a silver chain since Edward returned it. Perhaps deep down in your heart, you already know the choice you will make. But the creeping doubt and more sensible piece of your being argues against the allure of the seas and the feelings you have for Edward Kenway.

But as the sun begins to dip low in the sky—turning the horizon a fiery red and gold that makes the world look half on fire, half in a dream—your resolve wavers. The window in the drawing room is open, and the evening breeze carries the scent of salt air and water. There is no escaping, not even when you squeeze your eyes shut and bid yourself to think of anything besides him.

Heart pounding in your throat, you take a sharp breath and move quickly. There’s no time to think about what you’re doing—the consequences of such an action—otherwise, you might stay. You slip out the servant’s entrance before anyone can see or stop you, and head for the manor’s entrance and down toward the beach.

The sky is bleeding into twilight as you reach the place where Edward told you to come, and there she is, anchored just beyond the breakers. The Jackdaw. Though, her colours are replaced with a flag of white and red—Saint George’s Cross. Your breath catches, watching as a lone boat rows toward the shore.

Edward doesn’t say anything as he climbs from the rowboat into knee-deep water, wading closer. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at you—searching your face for hesitation, but there is none. The fleeting moment passes when you step toward him in the surf, surging forward to close the remaining distance between you. And this time, you are the one who kisses him. He tastes of salt and rum, a tinge of tobacco and gunpowder, too. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the tremble in his chest as he exhales upon parting.

“You came,” Edward breathes against your lips, his voice rough like he doesn’t quite believe it but tinged with relief, too. You nod, unable to speak past the knot in your throat. He steps back after a moment and looks between you and the Jackdaw with a smile, rogue and handsome, his eyes shining in the golden hour.  “I don’t know where the wind’ll take us, love, but if you’re willing…” he offers his hand—a new life—and you take it.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @jadynchronicle / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak / @thatrandomfeministgamer ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[mccallhero]

favourite ouat scenes: 22/?

[dreadpiratestrove]

Interesting outfit choices; Rumple going from medieval-ish peasant to roughly the same era as Hook. Also, almost all of Rumple's outfits featuring Napoleon collars after Hook wore one during their first encounter. None of Hook's later outfits feature them except the ones Rumple puts him in, first his formal coat for Midas' ball, then his deckhand outfit in the alternate universe (identical to the outfit from their first meeting).

[bayaaranja]

Harpoon Hybrid - CSM oc (Old post / Outdated)

(Edit: Name change, 16/04/24.)

Second oc!! (One of my favs<3)

His name is Botan Kawase!! (Affectionately shortened to Bo!!!) I forgot to put in on the ref but he's 5'4 ft (around 163 cm)

Outfits: Public Safety uniform, Fourth East gakuran and deckhand port cloth.

Tap for more info and a few doodles of him!!

🎣— Character details!!

(He/Him pronouns for Botan!!)

⚠️Warning:—Manipulation mentions (Makima), badly drawn blood on the last pic.

Botan is calm, polite and keeps an stoic facade (which Yoshida breaks easily.) most of the time, school and work equally. He's socially awkward and tends to avoid conversations by giving small talk, answering with just a "yes", a nod, a "no" or a head shake. After what happened in his hometown, Yazui, in addition to the fact that he is now in a profession where people could die for just be around him, he is not very interested in making friends, still the harpoon can't help but get attached to certain people around him. Botan is still a teenager (17 or 18 y/o.)

He is the Harpoon Hybrid, he prefers not to talk about how he merged with the devil. But the encounter happened a few months before the Yazui port staff found him,

Botan is currently working for Public Safety, deciding to stay after being freed from Makima's control in the Control Devil Arc; now member of Special Division 7

He used to be a deckhand in Yaizu's city port, Shizuoka prefecture, being hired as a private devil hunter by the port staff and crew when they found him, he had killed the Sea Urchin Devil near the installations in his hybrid form. He was offered a home, water, food and other basic needs in exchange for being, so to speak, security against devils who attacked the port, staff, prevented any process or exit of the boats¿ He formed a bond with most of the tribulation members and saw some of them as father/mother figures and family.

Public Safety learned of his existence through a staff error and immediately took him away, laying off some staff members. Makima being Makima, pulled some strings to have the harpoon hybrid transferred to Tokyo to be a member of Special Division 5 along the rest of the weapons. Botan was easy prey for Makima, he felt extremely guilty for getting some of the crew fired and she offered him comfort through a false façade of a mother figure. (Just as a small clarification, Botan never had romantic feelings towards Makima, he saw her more as a mother and wanted to protect her during his brainwash.)

The Harpoon now with free will really saw no point in trying to return to Yazui, he felt sorry and guilty and it just didn't feel right for him to return. With no better alternative, he stayed at Public Safety and began renting an apartment in Tokyo with his salary; still wears one of the port's hooks as a bracelet along with keeping some photos and shells from his time still in Shizuoka, a few decorate his apartment along other sea themed objects.

Botan was assigned as Yoshida's partner, Denji's bodyguard, and was ordered by his superior to harpoon out the chainsaw hybrid's heart if he at any time disobeyed orders or lost control.

🎣— First meeting!! (oc x canon)

With a new job and a new mission to protect a certain blonde boy, of course this was not going to be a job just for the Harpoon. Botan was quiet and quite upright with Yoshida at first, he limited himself to only talking about the mission even though Yoshida wanted to know more and was curious about the hybrid. Hirofumi of course insisted in getting to know each other better and ended up dragging reluctantly the harpoon to a Cafe so they could talk more comfortably unlike the PS building which air conditioner probably never goes off in 24/7, they had a few drinks and desserts together and suddenly Botan was starting to think this guy is maybe not that bad as he initially looked.

Botan thought Yoshida was kind of weird at first (and still kind of does) but he has developed admiration towards his professionalism and totally grown a camaraderie like for him.

No, he's not going to elaborate about what he thinks about Yoshida, nothing further than a "He does a good job."

He knows he's pretty you don't need to tell him, man literally sees him daily, no, he's not going to admit he thinks he's pretty.

Botan makes sure to assist Yoshida whenever he gets hurt in missions, even if it's just a small scratch that not even himself had noticed until the hybrid pointed out.

At some point Botan called him Hirofumi instead of Yoshida and apologized quickly but a smile and a "It's fine, you can call me Hirofumi" with a rather warmer tone than usual from the eerie boy was enough for the harpoon to start using his name on him always. No, he didn't get home happy that day, "The pollen in the air tickles my nose." and he was smiling more than usual that day... "Hm? We're not in spring yet? Uh, how strange then." and he shrugged.

🎣— Hybrid form!!

Botan possesses a small gun trigger on his upper back which he usually covers with his hair which, forgive the redundancy, triggers his hybrid transformation by being pulled. (May change this in the future)

In this appearance his head is replaced by an harpoon gun or canyon that he can shoot along the harpoons attached to his arms by pointing with his index finger, he also can also simply detach the harpoons to throw them in more traditional way or use them in melee combat just like the Spear Hybrid.

The ropes tied to the harpoons are useful for him to make the weapons return to him, the ropes are infinite and don't really have a limit to stop stretching but they can be rip by a blunt weapon or sharp object.

If Botan losses any of his harpoons under any circumstance he can simply generate/create them again to replace the ones he lost, the harpoons are sharp enough to pierce through a Sperm whale and a Blue whale easily.

The harpoon hybrid accuracy allows him to hit targets easily and freely even if they're hundreds of meters away from him.

He possesses as well the other same abilities than the rest of The Weapons have as: Augmented body, healing by blood consumption and nigh-immortality.

Botan tries to perfect his handling of weapons such as: the poleaxe, the fauchard, the glaive and firearms in general to avoid depending from his hybrid form, in a way aspiring to be like Quanxi.

That's all for now!! I'll try to bring more of him and my others ocs soon!! :3

Thanks for reading! —★

🎣—"The seas raised me, a ship cradled me and the seagulls lulled me to sleep."

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: In the Garden of the Wyrm

The castle at Lillyford has sat foreboding and overgrown for generations, the lair of a serpentine dragon who's laid claim to it's sprawling gardens and the river it overlooks. None so far have been brave or strong enough to oust the beast, but perhaps you and your foolish friends are lucky enough to make up the difference.

Hooks:

Most people know well enough to avoid the land surrounding the verdant castle, not only because of the dragon but because of the strange and hostile plant life that's said to thrive in its corrupting presence. A low level party in the region may be contracted to help uproot an invasive patch of poisonous blooms or predatory vines, a teaser for what's to come once they set their sights on the dragon's own garden.

The river traders have had enough. For decades they paid tribute to the dragon to avoid it plundering their barges and still had to deal with it plucking cargo and deckhands into the water whenever it got bored. They're willing to pay, and pay well, for a group of hunters to go in and gut the beast, and will even use their influence to support whoever does it taking ownership of the keep.

Alternatively, have the party enter the scene a few weeks after the hunters failed to kill the dragon, having given up their employers before they were eaten sending the dragon marauding through the waterways looking for revenge. All water traffic throughout the region has stopped as the traders and ferryfolk have gone into hiding, throwing the local economy into chaos.

Someone very important is sick and the hard to find cure just so happens to be a plant known to have been growing in the Lillyford gardens before the dragon arrived. While a frontal assault is out of the question, they could sneak in to pluck it from among the dragon's hoarded horticulture. Surely it won't notice a single missing specimen, right? ..... Right?

The Fortress was once known far and wide for its gardens, cultivated by generations of lords and ladies who traced their lineage back to a questing knight, who earned their station by presenting their liege with a flower obtained from the realm beyond the sunrise.  The seeds of that flower became the first planted in the castle’s garden, and began a collection of exotic blooms that the family expanded on throughout the decades. 

All wonders attract admirers, and among the lovers, herbalists, poets, and perfumers, the one who most admired the gardens of Lillyford was a dragon by the name of Pyrithi, who one day emerged from the river and presented himself at the castle gate, demanding that the owner of Lillyford surrender the keep and all its contents to him. When the owner and their men fought back, Pyrithi unleashed a foul breath which sickened their lungs and corroded their armour. Pyrithi did the same to the door of the keep, and threatened worse to those still inside, using the fallen and debilitated protectors as hostages.  

Since that day none but the dragon have set foot in Lillyford, who has supplemented the original gardens with several species of poisonous and/or maneating plants. Should some brave heroes manage to slay the wyrm, they will not only have the thanks of the now-exiled nobles of Lillyford, but also the fame granted to those who protected the keep’s heroic legacy. 

Art

[vodika-vibes]

For your consideration: selkie Kix or Echo

Oooh

Ooooooh

You, the child of a fisherman who has never, really, had the desire to date or hang out with people, and then one day dad comes home with a new deckhand, Kix.

Kix is polite, but noticeably frosty towards you, and your parents, and you're not sure why until late one night (when you snuck put of the house to go swimming under the moon) Kix demands to know where his coat is.

And you're like, "??? Uh...on the hook by the door?"

And Kix realizes that you genuinely didn't know he was a selkie, so he tells you and thus starts the beautiful friendship/relationship between you and Kix while you have scooby-doo like antics to find Kix's coat.

And maybe Kix kisses you eventually.

[brucethegirl]

Rewatching hook’s first appearance again.

He’s pretending to be this cowardly blacksmith.

But I find it fascinating that this coward is different from “actual coward” deckhand|hook.

Because one was an act, and one still has the heart that belongs to the savior.

[spartanguard]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love

ahhhh thanks dev! (and @idoltina!)

this is always so hard—it's like picking favorite children. but I guess my top 5 would have to be:

A Tall Tail—my first MC (10 years ago what the hell). I didn't think I could handle one before then, but then my imagination ran away with the idea and here we are. There's still a number of half-finished ficlets within this universe that may or may not get published someday, because I just can't resist merman!Killian.

Savage Garden—combining sweet deckhand Killian from Operation Mongoose with Dark Hook was a lot of fun to play with (thanks to thesschesthair for the inspo) as I didn't think we got enough of either of them in canon. plus: angst!!!

Sons of Love and Death—it was so nice to finally get this one DONE, as I think I'd been picking at it on and off for about 8 years. literally the only reason I read The Picture of Dorian Gray was to help me write this. and I am a sucker for Killian having magic (see previous fic) so any excuse to put that in his hand is something I will jump on.

Still Got It—because Killian will still be sexy AF when he's old and gray and Emma will always be there to remind him of it.

When Emma Falls In Love—the newest fic on this list, but I'd wanted to try my hand at cursed!Killian for a long time and TayTay gave the perfect inspiration for it.

honorable mentions to Something In The Water, Most Wanted, and Until the End of the Line!

[killian-whump]

OP’s out here doing God’s work, dropping truth bombs on the populace...

Alt universes deckhand Killian that drinks goats milk is so pathetic it's hot

[ouatsnark]

This might be stupid of me to think but... Is the heroes and villains verse Regina even really Regina?

Like obviously they're the same person but can main Regina really be given credit for the heroes and villains verse Regina's actions?

I've seen people praise Regina for her actions/behavior there but it doesn't really make sense to me given that everyone else was really out of character in that written by people who don't really know them sort of way (i.e written by Isaac / others who didn't know/care about them).

Again this probably makes no sense but I wanted to hear others options on it.

Are we talking about Regina recast as Snow White in the S4 AU?

I never found Regina's actions praise worthy no matter what Henry writes at the end. And why is that?

Regina went to that church because she wanted her happy ending. Regina then ends up sacrificing herself for Henry. Not anyone else. Just Henry. And to that I say, whoopdee doo. It's not a sacrifice for the greater good and of course she is going to protect a child since she's been re-programmed to be Snow White.

Lets say this was in essence Regina. Again it was only for Henry and to be fair this action is consistent with Regina putting Henry first ONLY when it comes to Henry about to die. Regina is going to do something to prevent that just like she did in the S2 finale because she can't live without Henry's love. Let's not forget that she ignored Henry and only listened when it was her happiness on the line. So does that sound like the real Regina? Yeah it kinda does.

For consistency sake, do we consider Deckhand Hook to really be Hook? I mean, yes, it is our Hook but he's been reprogrammed by the author into being someone completely different. Yet, he was the one that immediately believed Henry, felt an immediate connection with Emma and straight away sacrificed himself for Henry and Emma.

Personally? I like to think Emma and Henry's love reached him and he just felt an immediate connection to them both because no matter what the author wrote his connection to them was stronger.

What about Snowing? They didn't spend enough time with Emma but maybe if they had they'd have also made a connection with her? But if we're to believe that Regina is to be praised for what her AU self did then shouldn't we be condemning Snowing? But we don't and neither did Emma. She even tells them "I think we both know what happened in that world was not real."

So I guess my final answer is.... the characters have been reprogrammed. IMHO they are not responsible for their actions because they are under the author's control.

HOWEVER.

Killian Jones was reprogrammed to be a coward yet bravely sacrifices his life. In my opinion, this is worth far more than Regina's sacrifice for Henry when she's re-programmed to be Snow White.

Most importantly we can enjoying the fact that nothing can stop true love from emerging! And CaptainSwan embodied that in this episode.

I would LOVE to hear others thoughts on this too because I haven't seen much discussion about it other than Regina being praised and Killian's sacrifice overlooked or rejected by Regina Apoligists.

[f0retold]

a  𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗀𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗋𝖺  lookalike  has  arrived  in  myrkvjord,  stepping  onto  the  deck  of  𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑖𝑑𝑒,  their  reputation  either  preceding  them  or  waiting  to  be  made.  ivar the drowner  has  survived  𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝖾𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍  years,  &  their  name  is  already  whispered  in  ports,  feared  by  traders,  or  cursed  by  the  clans.  some  call  them  𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒,  others  say  they  are  aspirant,  but  one  thing  is  certain — their  fate  is  bound  to  the  sea.  with  their  influence  growing,  they  are  set  to  either  rule  the  waves  or  sink  beneath  them.  you  might  know  them  as  a  rogue captain,  but  soon  enough,  they  will  be  remembered  as  more ...

full name: ivar helbrok.  known by: ivar the drowner.  age: thirty eight.   birthplace:  eldermark.  current residence: sailing the shadow tide.   gender:  cisman.  pronouns:  he + him. orientation:  bisexual. occupation: rogue captain of the shadow tide. allegiance: himself & the lawless sea.

the fates spared you no respite as you came into this world. your mother, too sickly to endure the childbed, left you to the absence of your father: when he was still a thrall, he was taught by the world to not become attached to the bonds of blood as swiftly could the gods take them away.

an ode for what was to come, the sea had its salt in you from your youngest years. you learnt to weave fishnets, how to line, hook, dry, smoke & gut. by the time your father grew too old to build & mend his fishing boat, you learned this too. & though the gods may forsake idle hands, you dared to imagine how far these ocean dwellers could reach. for surely past the horizon, the tides could hold something better than what the fates had dealt you.

food & sleep were often evasive, & the price of your father's freedom from the bindings of a thrall was not a small expense. his former master granted him supposed liberty in exchange for providing his household with a portion of his earnings as a fishmonger. but his cut grew larger with each annum & eventually his incurring debt began to spill.

the demands of his labour was a heavy burden on your father & by your sixteenth year, he had passed. no glory to be found in valhalla, but destined to be forgotten in cold dirt.

through your labours & trials you had learnt that money makes freedom. so when the fates cast down a fair hand one spring's dawning, you dared to reach for it. a longboat had returned with its warriors & traders from three long seasons at sea & with it, riches to fill your jarl's coffers.

by the twenty third hour, a sack of gold had been stolen from the longhouse under the guise of all the drunken fervour & with it, an enigmatic item that would alter your destiny in the coming years. cloaked under nightfall, you slipped away on your late father's fishing boat & left behind the carcass of your former life of insignificance.

on board the black veil, the demands of a deckhand were grinding, but your hands were long since calloused & you had the grit of a serf that knew nothing of luxuries. you had buried your stolen wealth for a time in which it would become most of use & nursed the ambitions in your heart that were too big for a fishmonger's son.

years pass & the deep seas now carry the name ivar the drowner. those who wander its tides know of a man who slaughtered the fearsome erik the bone axe, a mutiny against his pirate captain who was once said to have been unmatched in battle. but no soul claims to have witnessed his death, nor do they know the fates of the missing crewmen who grew suspicious of ivar's feat. ivar became known as the drowner, for the deckhands & raiders of his ship, those who questioned his rank & revolted & whose bodies were later fished out of the sea.

you have forged your legacy in salt & blood — now a captain in your own right, your ambitions are as vast as the open waters. but with your insatiable hunger for gold growing with every pillage & raid, so is the wrath of the skies. divine justice is sure to come to those who defy the will of the gods. is this a price you are willing to pay for your ambitions & greed ?

𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌:

we are merely flesh & violence: former crew mates of the black veil. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

blood of my blood: estranged ties to the silvershore clan. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

bane of my existence: ivar's achilles heel & sometimes his equal, other times his rival. though their connection is strong, their own ambitions & greed are often stronger. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

moth to his flame: someone who is drawn to ivar but is dangerously close to becoming corrupted & burned by his godless ways. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

hell hath no fury: an old lover scorned by ivar's schemes & ploys, using them as a stepping stone to get something he wants. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

the dance of the moon & tide: the seas can often be lonely. this is a longstanding casual affair — either one sided or a mutual understanding. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

our language is gold: a transactional relationship turned friendship. both crave fortune & are happy to help each other along the way — no matter how unlawful or violent. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

god of death: ivar has many enemies & has pillaged, thieved & killed dishonourably to get what he wants. this one wishes to be compensated in blood. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

two kindred shadows: a game of cat & mouse, these two are after the same prize of stolen goods, a bounty, a buried treasure etc & won't hesitate to kill or wound the other to get ahead. the problem is that they are both quite skilled & are beginning to enjoy the challenge & chase. [ 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇 ]

[hannahhook7744]

The Storm Bringer (Information and History)

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:

——————————————————————————

LOCATION:

Dock of Arendelle (sometimes after d3),

Dock of Auardon (sometimes after d3),

Dock of Corona (sometimes after d3),

Dock of Neverland (sometimes after d3),

Dock of the Isle of the Lost (d1-d3).

OWNER(S):

Blackbeard (Captain)(Previously),

Hannah Hook (Captain)(Current),

René Montaudoin (Captain)(Previously).

WORKERS:

Aaron Bog (The Treasuer),

Abi Hun (Crewmate)(Former),

Alex Aoratos-Sinclair (Helmsman),

Amira Bint Aladdin Bin Cassim Al Hamed of Agrabah (Translator)(Future),

Anna Bog (The Lawyer),

Artemis Foundling (Junior),

Atlas Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Atticus Hook (Babysitter Crewmate)(Former),

Beau Foundling (Junior),

Clarice Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Craven Bog (Junior)(Future),

Credence Foundling (Junior),

D.E Anonymous (Anonymous Helper),

Darcy Aoratos (The Medic),

Darius Foundling (Junior),

Darren Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Derrick Red (Crewmate)(Former),

Eduardo Frollo (The Cooper),

Elara Foundling (Junior),

Evelyn de la Cruz (The Prison Guard),

Fiona Foundling (The Look Out),

Francesca Delgado (The Boatswain),

Genesis Flores (The Navigator),

Greyson Hook (Crewmate)(Former),

Gunner Harp (Back up Medic),

Harley Foundling (Junior),

Haul Bjorgman (The Deckhand and Translator)(Future),

Herlando Dancer (Back up Medic),

Hope Sid (The Entertainment and h.r. Representative),

Howiee Wolf (Guard),

Ian Hook (Crewmate)(Former),

Ike Bog (Junior)(Future),

Issac Cipher (Front Desk Attendant),

Isaac Olympian (Crewmate)(Former),

Isaac of Maldonia (Crewmate)(Former),

James Rourke (The Rigger),

Joey Starlights (Crewmate)(Former),

John Facilier (The Gunner),

Jolene Bog (Junior)(Future),

Josh de la Cruz (The Sailmaker),

Joy Foxworth (The Back Up, Back up Kid Wrangler)(Future),

Kailani ‘Clever’ Athanasiou (Storm Manager),

Lance Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Levi Giant (Junior),

Liberty Titan (The Backup Carpenter),

Luke Tremaine-Westergaard (1st Mate),

Luís Barbosa (The Carpenter),

Lysander Foundling (Junior),

Marcys Foundling (Junior),

Marinette Foundling (Junior),

Misty Del Rey-Silver (The Diver),

Morgan Hook (Crewmate)(Former),

Moxie Frankenstein-Van Helsing (Guard),

Nadia Foundling (Junior),

Nevin Hook (Crewmate)(Former),

Noah Aoratos (The Cabin Boy),

Noor Foundling (Junior),

Parker McLeach (The Powder Monkey),

Peachy Gothel (3rd Mate),

Prometheus Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Remi de Vil (4th Mate),

Rian Frankenstein-Van Helsing (The Trainer), 

River Le Beak (Crewmate),

Shan Bri (The Back up Kid Wrangler),

Shania Silver (The Kid Wrangler)(Former),

Shaun Fagin (Crewmate)(Former),

Skelebar Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Skia Aoratos (2nd Mate),

T.K Sykes (Crewmate)(Former),

Terrance Foundling (Junior),

Tiger Khan (Translator),

Tim Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Toby Foundling (Junior)(Future),

Tommy Wonderful (Junior),

Treycor Fae-Aoratos (The Quartermaster),

Tyson Foundling (Junior),

Willow Hawthorne (Junior).

VISITORS:

Captain Hook,

Ginny Gothel,

Hadie,

Harry Hook,

Mal,

Maleficent’s Goons,

Mama Hook,

The Gothel Twins,

The Smee Twins,

Zarina,

Etc. 

FINAL STATE:

Intact.

——————————————————————————

"Creatures of the Night, Prepare to fight!"

THE CREW'S BATTLE CRY.

The Storm Bringer is the name of a pirate ship that Hannah Hook and her crew own.

It served as headquarters for the pirate crew and can be seen throughout the series 'The Marvelous Misadventures of Hannah Hook and Co.'

——————————————————————————

Description:

——————————————————————————

The Storm Bringer is an old pirate ship that Hannah Hook won and fixed up for her crew. Repurposing it as a safe house/boat/home for her crew and replacing the sails with three homemade sails that have a matching flag up on the crowsnest, a single red flag, and two additional crimson red flags.

Its walls are covered in artwork that she and her crew made as well as random treasures they have picked up over the years. 

The wood is mainly brown with hints of red in some places and it has many rooms that the crew share (some of these ‘rooms’ are just areas with curtains hanging up to separate them. 

It is one of the few ships on the isle that is almost fully intact and the shape its in has been described as ‘remarkable’ by the few older pirates that have stepped abroad since the ship came into Hannah Hook’s possession. 

——————————————————————————

History:

——————————————————————————

Hannah Hook acquired the Storm Bringer from it's pervious owner, Blackbeard, in a poker game that she bested him at when she was 6.

In that game, she not only gained a ship but two new enemies (Blackbeard and his son, Barnaby) and the respect of the elder pirates on the isle.

Her first three crew members were Luke Tremaine-Westergaard and Skia Aoratos (her 1st and 2nd mate respectively) and River Le Beak (who decided to just be a crewmate) who helped her build her crew and repair the ship.

They ended up renaming the ship 'The Storm Bringer' and replacing it's old sails with ones they made themselves before tossing the ones in the storage closet.

And over the years, Hannah and her crew ended up redecorating the ship to make it feel more like home. Using art pieces they each made, rewards they'd received, and random treasures they had found to do so.

They even added on to the ship, making more rooms and making it look more intimidating and wild in the process.

——————————————————————————

Gallery:

——————————————————————————

(Old Design):

(New Design):

(Edit):

(Storm Bringer Contract):

(Storm Bringer Crew Tattoo):

(Crew Tryouts Poster):