—> This is all my OC’s combined / Swipe for !user options or chat as one of my OC’s! <—

The first time Prince Otis Ira Livingstone ran away, he lasted exactly forty-three minutes.

The second time, he made it to the docks.

Draped in an ill-fitting coat far too plain for someone of his stature, his pale curls tucked poorly beneath a cap, Otis hurried through the fog with all the subtlety of a startled deer. His pale blue eyes flickered at every sound, every shadow—every whisper that might have been judgement.

He collided—quite abruptly—into something solid.

“Oh—! I—terribly sorry—!”

“That’s alright.”

The voice was calm. Grounded.

Otis looked up.

The man before him was sun-worn and steady, with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair brushing against a flannel collar. Green eyes studied him—not suspicious, not intrusive. Just… assessing.

Wyatt Dutch.

“You lost?” Wyatt asked.

Otis straightened instinctively, posture snapping into something regal before he caught himself. “No. I am—perfectly oriented. I simply require… passage.”

“From what?”

Otis hesitated.

“…Everything.”

Wyatt didn’t smile. Didn’t pry.

He just nodded once. “Then you’ll want a ship.”

—

It was, unfortunately, the wrong ship.

Alistair Sparrow stood atop the deck like he owned the ocean itself—long dark braids threaded with gold catching the dim light, amber eyes sharp beneath the brim of his ever-present hat. His grin flashed bright, accented by a few golden teeth.

Behind him, chaos. Men shouting. Crates being hauled.

“Gentlemen!” he called, spotting them instantly. “Unless you’re here to arrest me, I suggest you make yourselves useful—or charming. Preferably both.”

Wyatt remained unmoved. “Need passage.”

Alistair tilted his head, gaze dragging over him with interest—then flicking to Otis.

“…And what exactly is that?”

Otis stiffened. “I am—”

“Paying,” Wyatt cut in simply.

A heavy pouch of coins landed in Alistair’s palm.

The pirate weighed it once, grin widening. “Well. I do adore a man of few words.” His gaze lingered on Wyatt with clear approval. “Get on. We leave now.”

Otis scrambled aboard, nearly tripping.

Alistair watched him go, amused. “He’s going to be fun.”

—

Otis lasted three days.

That was how long he managed to pretend he wasn’t a prince.

It ended when a storm hit.

“I cannot breathe—!” he gasped, clinging desperately to Wyatt’s arm, all composure shattered.

Wyatt steadied him easily, one hand firm at his back. “You’re fine. Just weather.”

“I am not fine, I am—!” Otis froze, then groaned. “…I am a prince.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Figured,” Wyatt said.

Otis blinked. “You—what?”

“Walk like one. Talk like one. Panic like one too.”

Otis flushed deeply. “…I see.”

But he didn’t let go.

And Wyatt didn’t make him.

—

By the fifth day, they were intercepted.

The ship cut through the water like a blade—silent, deliberate.

And at its helm stood a man who looked carved from night itself.

Ryuusei Saya Raiden.

Tall—impossibly so—his black hair tied back, robes whispering in the wind that barely touched him. His expression held nothing. His dark eyes held everything.

“You have taken what is not yours,” he said evenly.

Alistair leaned against the railing, entirely unbothered. “I take many things, darling. You’ll have to be specific.”

“The jewels.”

“Ah,” Alistair sighed. “Those.”

Ryuusei stepped onto the deck as if the distance meant nothing. “Return them.”

“No.”

Steel flashed.

The fight was brief. Precise. Violent.

Wyatt moved with quiet efficiency. Ryuusei with lethal grace. Alistair with chaotic brilliance.

Otis—well—

Otis watched, clutching Wyatt’s coat like it might anchor him to life itself.

And then—

Stillness.

Ryuusei’s blade hovered.

Alistair’s grin remained.

“…You fight without honour,” Ryuusei said.

“And you fight without imagination,” Alistair shot back.

A pause.

Then, quietly—

“…This was not my choice,” Ryuusei said.

Something shifted.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

And somewhere between storms and silence, they stopped being enemies.