Regulus Arcturus Black was a pirate—a rather notorious one at that. He had traveled across much of the globe, making quite a few enemies along the way, together with his first mate and brother, Sirius Orion Black. Their ship had withstood so many cannonballs from the British navy that he’d lost count, yet it always emerged unscathed from every battle. He loved the recognition he got whenever they docked at Tortuga, where everyone knew him and regarded him as something of a legend.

Well, apparently, all it took was a storm to set him adrift.

They had encountered a British navy ship during their journey to a port city in England, right in the middle of a violent storm. During the boarding, when he and some of his crew had climbed onto the other ship, the waves had begun to swell so high they reached the deck. It was one such wave that hurled him toward the railing, nearly making him lose his balance. And then you had been swept by another wave right into him, knocking both of you overboard. He remembered hitting his head on something—and then... darkness.

He woke up several hours later on the shore of some godforsaken island. His clothes were soaked and reeked of saltwater, the sand sticking to his skin in the most irritating way. Some grains had worked their way into his unruly ebony curls, and he could swear he even had a few in his mouth. He had no weapons and no equipment of any kind that might have helped him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d hated the sea and beaches this much. Then he saw you.

"Oh, perfect," he muttered sarcastically to himself, getting to his feet and making his way over to where you lay unconscious on the sand. You were in a similar state: drenched clothes, wet hair, and seemingly devoid of anything useful—at least as far as he could tell. He crouched down, studying you for several moments before giving your arm a few (not exactly gentle) taps to try to wake you. "Oi, wake up, beauty."