✦ she lives in daydreams𓈒 ݁ ₊ @sallyba3 - Tumblr Blog

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Pairing: noah x reader (pirates au)

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

Tw: some men being creeps, fire, fighting but nothing graphic, feeling pressured to get married

Series mastelist

That morning, you woke more tired than usual, as the first rays of sunlight filtered softly through your window. You tried to recall if you had dreamed something that might explain the feeling, but your mind offered nothing in return.

You didn’t move for a while, staying beneath the linen sheets, your white nightdress loose against your skin, the pale fabric creased from restless hours.

Your chamber was as it always was, orderly and composed, its high ceilings framed with carved wood. The walls were dressed in soft ivory and pale blue, the colors chosen not by you, but for you. A vanity table was near the far wall, its surface neat and polished, a silver brush resting precisely where it had been placed the night before.

A wardrobe stood closed, its contents carefully arranged: corsets, gowns, fabrics chosen more for appearance than comfort, because sometimes a corset meant that even the simplest actions, like walking, breathing, or merely existing, became harder than they should be.

Everything was in its place. Everything was still inside.

But your gaze drifted, slowly, inevitably, toward the window.

The curtains had been left slightly parted, just enough for the morning light to slip through in thin, golden lines. Beyond them, the world stretched open and alive, because the port, that even at this hour, was already awake.

Ships stood anchored in the harbor, their tall masts cutting into the pale sky. Smaller boats moved between them, their oars dipping into the water, carrying goods, messages and people.

You could almost hear all its noise from here. The distant shouts of sailors. The dull thud of crates being unloaded. The call of gulls circling overhead, sharp and a bit annoying. Somewhere, faintly, the clang of metal against wood.

Life.

Messy. Loud. Unpredictable.

Free.

A thin line of sunlight caught the surface of the sea, scattering across it in fractured gold.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the sheet.

From here, it looked so close.

Close enough that you could trace the movement of the ships. Close enough that you could imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to stand there instead. To step onto one of the ships to leave.

But distance was a deceptive thing. Because between you and that water stood walls, expectations and promises that had been made long before you had any say in them.

Your eyes lingered on the horizon.

The moment didn't last long because a soft knock sounded at the door, gentle enough, and though it did not startle you, it pulled you back into the room all the same.

You let out a quiet breath before speaking.

“Come in.”

The handle slowly turned, and the door opened just enough to allow Mary to slip inside, closing it behind her with the same quiet precision. She carried a silver tray in both hands, its polished surface catching the morning light as she crossed the room toward you.

Mary had been part of the household for years, long enough that her presence no longer felt like that of a servant but rather part of the family, or at least, a friend. She was composed, always neatly presented, her dark hair pinned back beneath a modest cap, her dress simple yet impeccably kept.

She set the tray carefully on the small table beside your bed before turning to you, her hands folding neatly in front of her.

Breakfast.

It was, as always, more than necessary.

A porcelain teapot was still steaming faintly, accompanied by a matching cup and saucer; slices of fresh bread arranged with care, a small dish of butter set beside them; a pot of jam, and a plate of fruit.

You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows, moving some stands of hair away from your face with your hand, your gaze flickering from the tray to her.

“Mary,” you began with a little smile, “I’ve told you before, I don’t want breakfast in bed.” There was no sharpness in your tone, “I would rather have it at the table, when I’m ready. With you.”

Mary did not look surprised. If anything, she seemed to have expected it.

“I know, miss,” she replied gently, her hands still clasped together, “you’ve said so many times.”

There was the faintest pause before she continued, choosing her words with care.

“But a maid does not take breakfast with you.”

You exhaled softly, and before you could respond, however, Mary seemed to remember something.

“Oh,” she added, her expression shifting ever so slightly, “a letter arrived for you this morning.”

Your attention returned to her immediately. “From whom?”

Mary smiled, because she knew you were always happy to receive letters from your friend. “From Rosaline.”

The moment the name left her lips, something in you shifted and you immediately felt lighter.

“Rosaline!” you repeated.

Mary gave a small nod, as she reached into the pocket of her apron and carefully retrieved the letter, holding it out toward you.

You took it without hesitation.

The paper was slightly worn at the edges, marked by its journey. You had met Rosaline years ago, during one of your travels with your father, back when the world had still felt wide open, and your life had not yet been confined to the walls of Port Everleigh.

Your father had been an explorer, a man who belonged more to the sea than to any one place, and after your mother’s death, so early that you had no memory of her at all, you had become his only constant companion. Wherever his journeys took him, you followed. You had seen cities that did not sleep, markets overflowing with colors and voices you could barely understand, coastlines untouched and vast, stretching further than the eye could reach. You had learned early how to adapt, how to observe, how to read maps, calculate coordinates, and how to find wonder in the unfamiliar.

And then, there had been Saint Marlowe. It had not been your father’s destination, only a stop along the way, a place to resupply and to rest before continuing further across the sea.

The streets were alive, buildings rose in soft colors sun-faded by years of salt air, their windows open to let in the breeze, their balconies draped with fabrics that moved gently with the wind. Music could be heard at nearly any hour, drifting from open doors and crowded squares, blending with laughter and the murmur of conversation

Small shops lined the streets, like bakeries spilling the scent of fresh bread into the air, stalls crowded with fruit and spices, tailors and craftsmen working with their doors wide open as if inviting the world inside. Beyond the busier roads, nature was never far; narrow paths led to stretches of green, to gardens left to grow a little wild, and to cliffs where the land gave way to the sea, the horizon vast and untouched.

That was where you had met your friend.

Rosaline was your age, she had spoken easily, as though you had known each other for years rather than moments, and before long, she had taken it upon herself to show you the city.

You had stayed only a short time, as you always did, yet it had been enough to appreciate that beautiful land.

When you left, you had not expected to see her again.

But the letters had started not long after.

The letters had begun not long after you left Saint Marlowe, and somehow, despite the distance, despite the years that had passed, the two of you had never truly lost touch.

You unfolded the letter carefully, your eyes moving across the familiar handwriting.

Rosaline told you about a cat she had found wandering into her garden, and then spoke of a man she had met. She had known him for a week, no more, and yet she claimed to be madly in love with him.

You found yourself smiling a little more at that.

It was so like her.

You had not even reached the final lines when Mary’s voice broke gently through your thoughts.

“You are to meet Sir Whitmore today, are you not?”

The words were not sharp, nor unkind, and yet you felt the warmth of the letter slipping through your fingers.

Your smile faded, though slowly, as your gaze lingered on the page for just a moment longer before you finally lowered it.

“Yes,” you answered, your voice quieter now, more distant than before. “I am to go to him this afternoon.”

Mary watched you carefully, her expression unreadable for a brief second before she tilted her head slightly.

“And you are not pleased?”

You let out a breath that felt heavier than it should have, your fingers folding the letter with more care than necessary before setting it down beside you.

“Pleased?” you repeated, you tone sharper now. “For what, exactly?”

There was a pause, and then, more plainly...

“For the prospect of marrying a man I do not love?” you continued, meeting her gaze now. “No, Mary. I am not.”

Mary hesitated, as though weighing her response, before speaking again, her voice still gentle, though more insistent this time.

“But he is the governor,” she said. “Sir Whitmore is a man of standing, of wealth… of power. There are many who would consider such a match—”

“A privilege?” you finished for her, a faint, humorless smile touching your lips.

She did not deny it.

You shook your head slightly, looking away for a moment, your gaze drifting back toward the window, toward the distant line of the sea that still called to you in ways you could not quite explain. You wanted to leave, you wanted to travel, to see the world again, to live.

“It does not matter what he is,” you said after a moment, more quietly now, but no less certain. “If I do not love him, I do not love him. And no amount of power or wealth will change that.”

Now, the silence felt heavier.

When Sir Edward Whitmore, the governor of the city, had first declared himself to you, you had not given him the answer everyone had expected. Instead, to the scandal of almost every person present, you had simply said that you would think about it, as though such a proposal could be weighed like any ordinary decision, as though your entire future were not meant to be decided in a single breath.

You had been told, again and again, how fortunate you were, how amazing it was for a man of such wealth and influence to choose you, how foolish it would be to refuse something so advantageous, as if love had ever been part of the equation they cared about. And so, in the days that followed, every voice around you had pressed the same conclusion into your ears, until even your doubts began to sound unreasonable, until refusal itself started to feel like defiance for its own sake. In the end, you had said yes.

And the moment you had, it had not felt like relief, but rather like something quietly closing around you, like a door shutting with no sound at all, leaving you standing on the wrong side of a life you had not chosen.

That afternoon, you prepared yourself with more care than you felt. A dress had been chosen for you in soft tones, neither too loud nor too plain, the fabric falling gracefully on you. The bodice was fitted but not uncomfortably tight, and the skirt flowed around you in gentle layers that moved with each step you took. Your hair had been carefully gathered and pinned back, the strands smoothed and braided before being secured in a simple, refined arrangement that left your neck exposed and your expression more composed than you felt inside.

You did not linger in front of the mirror longer than necessary.

When you arrived at Sir Whitmore’s residence, you immediately recognized it. It stood larger than most, its stone façade was clean and framed by tall windows that reflected the afternoon light. The door was opened after only a brief pause, as though your arrival had been expected long before you reached it.

Then, Sir Whitmore appeared, dressed with precision, every detail of him carefully maintained, as though even a single misplaced thread would be an imperfection too great to allow. His coat was dark and finely tailored, his cravat tied with practiced elegance, and his gloves immaculate, though he removed one as he stepped forward to greet you. His posture was upright and controlled.

“Sir Whitmore,” you greeted him politely, inclining your head.

A faint pause followed, as if he were unused to such formality from you.

“Edward,” he corrected smoothly, though not unkindly. “You will be my wife soon enough. There is no need for titles between us.”

For a fleeting second, something sharp almost rose to your lips, something dangerously close to Don’t remind me, but you swallowed it before it could take shape, the corners of your mouth tightening just slightly instead.

Instead, you only gave a small, controlled nod.

He stepped aside to let you in.

The interior of his home matched its exterior in every way, refined and expensive, filled with polished wood, soft carpets and clean furniture. You were guided into a sitting room where a low table had already been prepared, a fine porcelain tea set arranged neatly upon it.

A maid entered shortly after, carrying a tray, but as she poured the tea, her fingers trembled ever so slightly, the cup clinking faintly against its saucer.

Edward’s gaze sharpened almost immediately.

“Careful,” he said, his tone low and cold, without raising his voice.

The maid flinched.

You, however, offered her a gentle nod as she finished, “Thank you.”

Edward’s attention returned to you as the tea was served properly, the silence between you settling again as the door closed behind the maid.

For a moment, there was only the quiet sound of porcelain.

“Preparations for the wedding will begin soon,” he said at last.

“I’ve heard,” you replied.

His gaze lingered on you.

“Is there anything in particular you would like?” he asked. “For the ceremony, the arrangements… anything at all.”

You hesitated only briefly, though not because you were considering possibilities, but because none of them truly mattered to you.

“No,” you said at last, without much emotion. “I don’t think so.”

Something flickered in his expression, subtle enough that most would not have noticed, but you did. Still, he said nothing.

Instead, your eyes drifted away from him, slowly taking in the room once more. And then your gaze caught on something that interrupted the symmetry of it all.

A large map of the world hung on one of the walls.

It was old enough to feel lived-in, yet carefully preserved, its surface marked with faint lines, ports, and distant lands.

“May I look at it?” you asked, setting your teacup down with care.

Edward seemed momentarily surprised, as though the request were unexpected.

“Mm… of course,” he replied after a brief pause.

You rose from your seat and moved toward the wall. Up close, the map was even more detailed, the continents marked, the seas filled with names and routes.

Edward followed you a few moments later, stopping just behind and slightly to your side, watching as your gaze traced across it.

Without thinking too much about it, you lifted a hand and pointed.

“I would like to go here,” you said, tracing a distant coastline far beyond the familiar routes of Port Everleigh. Then your hand shifted slightly, moving across the painted ocean. “And here.”

Edward’s eyes followed your gesture, though his expression remained carefully neutral, as though he were observing something mildly unusual rather than genuinely intrigued.

You moved again, more certain now, your finger tapping different regions.

“I have been here,” you said, a faint softness entering your voice despite yourself. “It was… very beautiful.” Your hand shifted once more, sliding across the map with less enthusiasm this time. “Here, though, there was not much worth remembering.”

Edward gave a small, almost absent nod.

“Hm,” he murmured. “I suppose that is often the case with distant places. They rarely live up to expectation.”

It was not unkind, but it was detached. Still, you did not stop.

Your finger hovered over another stretch of sea, a place marked with fewer routes, fewer names, the ink lighter as though even the cartographer had been uncertain.

“I have never sailed through these waters,” you said.

“Well, those seas,” he said, after a brief pause, “are known to be infested with pirates.”

There was a quiet finality in his tone, as if that alone should end any further curiosity.

You turned your head slightly toward him.

“Pirates?” you repeated.

A faint, humorless exhale left him.

“Brutal men,” he continued. “Lawless. Violent. They take what they want and leave nothing but ruin behind them.”

You listened, and then, after a brief pause, you said quietly, “Maybe they simply want to be free.”

After a moment of silence, Edward let out a short laugh.

“You think so?” he said, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you properly for the first time since you had begun speaking. “You believe men who burn ships and rob the King just... want to be free?”

There was a faint edge of ridicule beneath his words now, and you decided it was better not to add anything else.

Then he shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“You have spent too much time in the wrong places,” he said at last.

You didn’t speak, and your eyes returned to the map instead, lingering on the sea.

When you got back home, the night came quietly as the hours passed and the last of the daylight faded completely from the sky.

You stood near the bed as Mary moved about the room, finishing the small, familiar tasks that marked the end of your day. The heavier layers of your dress had already been set aside, replaced by your simple nightdress, far more comfortable than anything you had worn that afternoon. Your hair, once carefully pinned and arranged, now fell freely down your back, loose strands brushing gently against your shoulders.

You preferred it this way, there was a relief in it.

Mary adjusted the covers before stepping back, her hands smoothing the fabric with care.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, glancing toward you, she asked, “Was it… a pleasant meeting with Sir Whitmore?”

There was something cautious in the way she said it, as though she already suspected the answer and yet hoped to be proven wrong.

You moved toward the bed, slipping beneath the covers without much thought, settling into the familiar space as you reached for the book resting on your bedside table.

“I wouldn't call it pleasant,” you replied.

Mary did not move.

“Be serious,” she said after a moment, her tone gentle but insistent.

You paused only briefly before opening the book, your eyes dropping to the page.

“I am,” you answered, just as simply.

The meeting had been exactly what it was meant to be.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Mary seemed to consider pressing further, but in the end, she did not. Instead, she gave a small nod to herself, as though accepting an answer, before stepping back toward the door.

“Good night, miss.”

“Good night, Mary.”

The door closed softly behind her, leaving you alone once more, and the room returned to silence.

You read for a while, though the words did not hold your attention as firmly as they usually might have. Your thoughts drifted too easily, slipping between the memory of the map, the echo of Edward’s voice, and the letter still resting nearby.

After a few pages, you stopped.

The book lowered slightly in your hands as your gaze unfocused, lingering somewhere beyond the lines.

Then, with a quiet breath, you set it aside, and eventually, sleep came.

When you woke up hours later, you didn’t fully understand what was happening at first.

The room was dark, just as it should have been in the middle of the night, but something felt off. It took you a few seconds to notice the faint light filtering through your curtains, a strange red-orange glow that usually wasn't there.

At first, still half asleep, you thought it might be a lamp left burning somewhere outside.

But then you heard the voices.

Loud, shouting, overlapping and panicked. Then a heavy crash, followed by something that sounded like wood breaking. Another shout, closer this time.

You were fully awake now.

You sat up quickly, pushing the covers aside before getting out of bed, the cold floor making you move faster as you crossed the room. The noise kept growing, clearer with every step and impossible to ignore.

Something was wrong.

You reached the window and pulled the curtains apart.

And froze.

A part of the port was on fire.

Flames spread across the docks, climbing up wooden structures and licking at the sides of some ships. Smoke filled the air, rising into the night sky. The light you had seen was coming from the fire itself, reflecting off the water in uneven, shifting patterns.

People were running everywhere.

Some were trying to carry things, others were just trying to get away. You could hear screams now, clearer than before, mixed with orders being shouted and the constant noise of things breaking, falling and burning.

And among the chaos, you saw men who were not trying to escape.

They moved fast, but not like the others. Not afraid.

Their clothes were rough and worn, nothing like the neat uniforms of guards, and different than merchants' clothes. Long coats, loose shirts, belts with weapons, heavy boots. Some had cloth tied around their heads or necks, others carried blades that caught the firelight as they moved.

And they were stealing.

Barrels passed from one to another, crates dragged away, anything of value grabbed without hesitation. A few of them were fighting, pushing people aside, striking when needed, clearing their way through the chaos.

Your gaze shifted further out, toward the center of the port.

There was a ship. Large, dark and still.

It stood out immediately, its hull almost black, its white sails visible even in the dim orange light, barely moving.

They were pirates. And they were attacking your port.

You remained by the window, unable to sleep after that, while everything outside fell into chaos, your hands resting against the frame.

Soon, you saw the guards arrive.

At first in small numbers, then more, their presence growing as the alarm spread through the city. Their uniforms stood out even in the firelight, their voices cutting through the noise as they tried to regain control.

You saw them fighting. Steel against steel, shouts turning sharper, more ordered, though never fully enough to match the chaos the pirates had brought with them.

And still, the pirates did not scatter immediately.

You watched them move back and forth between the docks and their ship, carrying barrels, crates, anything they could take, passing goods from one to another. They did not push deeper into the city, did not attempt to break past the port itself, and you were so glad of this.

Your home, standing where it did, would have been one of the first they reached.

Eventually, the balance began to shift.

There were too many guards.

You could see it in the way the movement changed, in the way the pirates no longer advanced but began to pull back instead. The last of the stolen goods were loaded onto the ship, ropes thrown, and by one, they began to retreat.

You watched as they made their way back aboard, climbing swiftly, disappearing into the dark shape of the vessel as it prepared to leave.

And then, something caught your attention.

A figure.

At first, you thought it was just another fight, another clash among many, but this one did not end the same way.

He was alone, the last one still on the dock.

Guards surrounded him from all sides, closing in, focused entirely on him. Even from this distance, you could tell he was fighting, holding them off as long as he could, moving with force and making it clear he had no intention of surrendering.

But there were too many.

One strike. Then another.

You saw him stagger.

Still, he did not go down immediately.

It took more, several guards pressing in at once, overwhelming him, forcing him back until finally, he collapsed under the weight of it all.

He stopped moving, and your breath caught slightly.

The ship did not wait.

As the last of the pirates climbed aboard, the ropes were cut loose, sails shifting as the vessel began to move, pulling away from the port.

Leaving him behind.

You watched as the guards approached his unmoving form, one of them crouching briefly before signaling to the others. They grabbed him, not gently, lifting him just enough to drag him across the dock.

Even from this distance, you could tell he was not dead.

Unconscious, perhaps, but alive.

His head fell forward as they moved him, dark hair slipping loose, not long enough to fully hide his face, yet enough, combined with the distance, the darkness, that you could not make out his features clearly.

You remained by the window as the chaos slowly faded, watching people work through the night to put out the fire and restore what they could. Buckets of water were passed, and the port gradually returned to something closer to what it used to look like. You did not move for hours, your gaze fixed outside as darkness gave way to the pale light of dawn, the flames replaced by morning sun. Only then did you realize you had spent the entire night there, standing in silence, watching everything fall apart and come back together again.

You fell asleep that early morning the moment you finally returned to bed, completely drained from the night spent awake at the window, your body giving in.

It did not last long.

A soft knock pulled you back to consciousness, followed almost immediately by Mary’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Miss, I am sorry to wake you, but Sir Whitmore is here and he wishes to see you.”

You sat up slowly, still exhausted. There was no space to refuse, no time to even properly gather your thoughts.

“Come in,” you answered.

Mary entered, closing the door gently behind her. The moment she saw you properly awake, she moved into action without delay, helping you wash and dress. Your hair was brushed and pinned back with care. As she worked, the two of you spoke about the events of the night.

“It was terrifying,” Mary said quietly as she adjusted the fabric at your shoulders. “The fire, the shouting… I thought the whole port would burn down.”

When you were finally ready, there was no time left to rest. Sir Whitmore was already waiting.

You found him in the sitting room, standing by one of the windows as though he had been there for some time. He turned as you entered, composed as always, dressed immaculately despite the early hour, as if nothing in the world could disturb his presentation.

“Good morning,” he said, stepping toward you. “I was passing through and wondered if you would accompany me for a walk.”

You stopped for a fraction of a second.

You were tired. You had not had your breakfast yet, had barely slept, and the last thing you wanted was a walk with him.

For a brief moment, you almost said it.

I would rather rest.

I would rather not see your face today or ever again.

I would rather not leave my bedroom.

But none of it left your lips.

“Of course,” you said instead. “Let’s go.”

Everything in the streets outside looked normal and walked beside him in silence for a while before he spoke again.

“Have you heard about the terrible events of last night?” he asked.

“I saw them,” you replied simply. “From my bedroom window.”

He gave a small, grave nod. “It was fortunate there were no deaths. Considering the damage, we were lucky.”

You did not answer immediately, and he continued.

“Even more fortunate,” he added, “that we managed to capture the captain of Bad Omens.”

You stopped walking for a fraction of a second.

The name struck something faintly familiar, though distant, like something you had heard years ago during one of your travels and never thought about again.

“Bad Omens?” you repeated.

“A pretty.... famous pirate crew,” he said. “They have been responsible for countless attacks along the coast in the last ten years. Ports raided, ships taken, entire cargos stolen. For years, we have tried to stop them.”

He exhaled lightly, almost satisfied.

“They say their captain has escaped capture more times than we can count,” Edward went on. “But not this time. The guards were prepared, and for once, everything went as it should.”

A faint, almost pleased smile touched his expression.

“Noah Sebastian is finally in our custody,” he said. “And he will rot in the prison of Port Everleigh.”

And that was exactly the moment the most reckless, unreasonable idea you had ever had took shape in your mind.

So absurd that, under any other circumstance, you would have dismissed it instantly. No proper young woman of your standing, raised well, promised in marriage to the governor of a city, would even allow herself to think such a thing, not even in jest, not even as a distant possibility.

And yet, the thought remained. And it was impossible to ignore.

Noah Sebastian.

A pirate. A criminal. A man you had never seen, never spoken to, who now sat somewhere in the city's prison, locked behind bars.

And somehow... he felt like your way out.

The idea made no sense. It was dangerous, illogical, and very likely impossible. You had no reason to believe it would work, no proof that he would even listen to you, let alone agree to anything you might offer.

And still, as you walked beside the man you were meant to marry, in a city that no longer resembled anything but a cage, it did not feel impossible.

It felt like an opportunity.

You could free him.

The thought alone should have terrified you.

Instead, you felt quiet sure about it, in that moment.

You could free him… and in return, he could take you away from all of this.

To Saint Marlowe.

To Rosaline.

To a life that had once felt out of reach, but now seemed suddenly and dangerously, possible again.

It was madness, and yet, as you continued walking beside Edward, listening to him speak about the wedding dress he had already chosen, and bought, without once asking for your opinion, it began to feel like the only thing that made sense.

Your responses came automatically, distant and polite, while your mind remained elsewhere, fixed on that single, crazy idea. At that moment, it felt like the closest thing to freedom you had. And if it failed… then it failed. You would die at the hands of a pirate, which did not seem much worse than living a life that was never truly yours. So, perhaps, it was worth trying.

So, that same afternoon, you returned to Edward’s house under the pretense of a sudden idea, one that, under normal circumstances, might have even sounded convincing.

You told him you had seen dahlias at the market that morning, flowers you liked so much you thought they would be perfect for the centerpieces at your wedding, something elegant yet different, something that would make the tables stand out.

Edward had listened, then nodded.

“Yes, that could be arranged,” he had said. “I will make a note of it.”

He mentioned his agenda, something he had been using to organize every detail of the ceremony, and excused himself to retrieve it, leaving you alone in the sitting room.

You smiled. You nodded.

And the moment he was out of sight, you were on your feet instantly, your steps silent against the carpet as you moved toward the cabinet in the corner. You barely hesitated before kneeling, pulling open the lowest drawer.

He had mentioned it once, and you remembered.

You searched quickly, your fingers brushing against papers, and some small objects, then metal.

You froze for half a second before pulling them free.

A heavy ring, holding a number of large, dark keys, cold against your skin.

You had found them.

Your heart was beating faster now, louder than it should have been, but there was no time to think about it. You slipped them beneath your corset, pressing them against your side, adjusting the fabric just enough to keep them hidden.

The pressure was immediate and uncomfortable.

The rigid shape of the keys dug into your skin beneath the already tight corset, making it harder to breathe than it had been before. You could already tell it would leave a bruise.

But it did not matter.

You pushed the drawer closed just as you heard his steps returning.

By the time Edward reentered the room, you were standing where you had been before, your expression composed, as though nothing had changed.

He glanced at you briefly before speaking again, already focused on the matter at hand.

You did not let him continue.

“Edward,” you said, just quickly enough to interrupt, your tone apologetic, “I have just remembered that I promised Mary I would help her with something important this afternoon. I truly must go.”

There was a brief pause, as though he had not expected that, but then he nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “Se you again soon.”

You gave him a small, polite smile, forcing yourself not to move too quickly as you reached for your coat, slipping it on like you usually did, despite the uncomfortable weight hidden beneath your corset.

Then, without giving yourself the chance to hesitate, you left.

You had stopped by home quickly, grabbed a jacket, slipped some gold jewelry into your pockets (things you could trade for money if you ever made it to your destination) and put on a pair of more comfortable boots. You had kept your dress and corset on, the keys still hidden inside, afraid that if anyone saw them, they would start asking questions.

The city’s prison was smaller than you might have expected for a place of such importance, tucked between two older stone buildings. Its walls were thick and dark. There was a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bars, and narrow windows set too high to see through properly.

You reached it quickly, your breath slightly uneven from the pace you had kept, your heart still racing, not just from the run, but from everything you were about to do.

Two guards stood outside, just as expected.

One of them turned at the sound of your approach, confusion already forming on his face as he recognized you.

He was one of Edward’s closest acquaintances, a man you had seen many times, though never for any reason that made him seem particularly competent. If anything, he was known more for his lack of awareness than anything else and he usually struggled with the simplest instructions.

And yet, somehow, he had ended up guarding the prison. Well, good for you.

“Miss?” he said, clearly caught off guard. “What—”

“Have you not heard?” you cut in immediately, as you stepped closer, not giving him time to think.

Both guards straightened.

“Heard what?” the other one asked.

“The port,” you said quickly, breathless just enough to make it convincing. “It has caught fire again.”

“What?” the first guard blinked. “Again?”

You stared at them, as if the answer should have been obvious.

“What is it, is there a law that forbids the port from burning two days in a row?” you snapped, “One of the ships is on fire! They need help!”

That was enough.

They exchanged a quick look, and then, almost at the same time, they moved.

“Come on,” one of them muttered, already turning.

Within seconds, they were gone.

You stood there for only a moment, listening to their footsteps fade, making sure they were far enough.

Then you turned.

Your hand moved quickly to the door, fingers tightening around the handle as you pushed it open and stepped inside before you could stop yourself.

The air felt different inside.

It was colder, heavier and it smelled of damp stone, rust and dirty men. The space was narrow, lit only by a few dim lanterns fixed along the walls.

Cells lined both sides, each one closed off by thick iron bars. Some were empty, others not. Chains hung in places, bolted into the stone, and the floor beneath your feet was uneven, marked by dirt and old stains.

One man was singing, loudly, and terribly off-key, his voice echoing in the place. Somewhere further down, another muttered to himself in a constant stream of words you couldn’t quite make out. A third was asleep, or at least unconscious enough to be snoring heavily, the sound rising and falling in uneven rhythm. And somewhere to your right, two voices argued back and forth, mad and irritated, though neither seemed particularly interested in ending the dispute.

And then they noticed you.

The singing faltered first.

“Well now—” someone drawled from behind the bars, his tone shifting immediately. “What’s a beauty like you doing down here?”

A low chuckle followed from another cell. “Lost your way, sweetheart?”

“Or looking for company?” a third voice added, followed by a few scattered laughs.

“If you’re staying, I’ve got space—”

“Come a little closer, love, don’t be shy—”

“That’s enough,” you said, trying to cut through them.

It didn’t work.

If anything, it encouraged them.

“Listen to that—she’s got a voice too—”

“Fiery one, aren’t you?”

“Careful, I like that—”

“Enough!” you snapped, louder this time, your voice echoing down the corridor.

That did it.

There was a quiet pause and you could finally speak without being immediately talked over.

“I’m looking for Noah Sebastian.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

Then, from somewhere further down talked. “The last cell,” one of the men that was arguing said. “All the way at the end.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved forward again, your dress brushing dangerously close to the dirty floor as you passed each cell. You could feel their eyes on you as you walked, following your movement.

A whistle sounded behind you.

“Good luck with that one,” someone muttered.

You ignored them, and you reached the last cell at the end of the corridor.

He was there.

Sitting on the ground, his back resting against the cold stone wall, his head lowered just enough that his face remained hidden in shadow. Strands of dark hair fell forward, obscuring his features, though you could make out the outline of him in the dim, flickering light.

He look too calm for someone who had fought the way you had seen the night before.

A loose black shirt hung from his frame, the fabric worn and slightly open at the collar, revealing the faint lines of ink beneath. His trousers were darker, more fitted, tucked into boots that had clearly seen better days.

For a moment, you simply stood there.

Then...

“Have you come to see a pirate up close?”

His voice broke the silence before you could speak.

It wasn’t what you had expected.

Rough, yes, and also tired, but not as low, not as heavy as you had imagined.

You straightened slightly.

“No,” you said. “I’m here to make you an offer.”

There was a pause.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

And for the first time, you saw him.

The light from the corridor caught his face just enough to reveal it in pieces at first, his dark eyes, the shape of his lips softer than you had expected, and features that you had imagined to be much sharper than they actually were.

His expression was unreadable, though not uninterested.

He pushed himself to his feet in one smooth movement, brushing dust from his hands before stepping closer to the bars, his gaze never leaving you.

“Interesting,” he said.

Up close, you could see more.

You noticed the ink along his neck, dark lines disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. More across his hands, stretching over his fingers in patterns you couldn’t fully make out in the dim light.

And something told you that the tattoos didn’t stop there.

You noticed the faint trace of stubble along his jaw, with the slightest hint of a mustache that was almost softening his features.

His eyes moved over you, taking in the fabric of your dress and the small details that set you apart from everything around you.

“Go ahed, princess.”

“I can get you out of here,” you said quickly, “But only if you agree to something for me in return.”

One of his brows lifted slightly.

“Oh?” he said. “And what could you possibly want from me?”

“I want you to take me with you,” you replied. “Out of this city. To Saint Marlowe.”

There was a pause. Then, a quiet, short laugh.

“Saint Marlowe?” he repeated, almost like he couldn’t quite believe what he had heard. “That’s not exactly around the corner.”

“I know.”

“It’s on the other side of the world,” he went on, tilting his head slightly as he studied you, as if trying to understand whether you truly meant it. “That’s not a quick trip. That’s months at sea. Maybe longer.”

You held his gaze.

“Do you want to be free or not?”

That seemed to amuse him more than anything else.

A faint smile touched his lips.

“You’re fortunate,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting slightly. “I was already planning to head in that direction. There are islands not far from there I intend to pass by.”

“Good,” you said, almost immediately. “Then we have a deal. I get you out, and you take me to Saint Marlowe.”

You were expecting a confirmation, but instead he asked for your name. You hesitated for a second, almost thinking of lying, but then decided there was no point and told him. He replied, “Noah, but maybe they’ve already told you.”

After a moment, he spoke again.

“Well, now I’m curious,” he said, leaning slightly closer to the bars. “How exactly were you planning to get me out of here?”

You slipped a hand beneath your corset and pulled, the metal keys finally coming free as you drew them out, allowing yourself a deeper breath now that the pressure against your ribs had eased.

Another quiet laugh.

“Keys,” he murmured. “You came prepared... How does a lady like you get her hands on the keys to a prison?”

“I’m the governor’s fiancée,” you replied.

That earned you a different reaction.

His head tilted slightly, studying you again, more carefully this time, as if reassessing everything he had thought about you.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “We’ve got a rebellious princess, then.”

You frowned slightly at the word, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned whether you liked it or not.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.

“A governor’s fiancée,” he repeated. His gaze flicked briefly to the keys in your hand, then back to you. “And here you are, sneaking into a prison to bargain with a pirate, wanting to commit a crime and sail across the world.”

A pause.

“You don’t look like someone who’s ever done anything like this before,” he added. “No offense.”

“None taken. But i have traveled. I know the sea.”

“You’re either very brave,” he said, “or very stupid.”

“Which one do you think?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“A bit of both,” he replied easily.

Despite yourself, something in that almost made you smile.

Almost.

And he noticed.

Of course he did.

“Are you agreeing or not?”

He watched you for a second longer, then exhaled softly, like he had come to a decision.

“Well,” he said, straightening just a little, “I was going to rot in here otherwise, so...”

He gave a small, careless shrug.

“I suppose I can make room on my ship for one very determined princess.”

Then he slipped one hand through the bars, and extended it toward you. A couple of rings caught the dim light on his fingers, metal glinting softly against inked skin.

“Well?” he said quietly.

You didn’t hesitate. You stepped closer and took his hand, shaking it for a brief moment.

His grip was firm, fingers rough against yours, his rings pressing lightly into your skin.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, shaking his head slightly as his hand left yours. “You’re definitely going to regret this.”

“Open the door,” he added then, nodding toward the lock. “Let’s find out how long it takes before you change your mind, princess.”

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

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