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It’s been two weeks, five days and seventeen hours since Blackbeard returned, and Izzy has barely had a wink of sleep.
It’s not just his bad foot, now less a toe, throbbing like a headache. It’s the drowning heat, their deadened sails, the ship rooted on waters flat as a pane of glass. But above all, it’s the muffled sound of Blackbeard’s late night sobbing that keeps Izzy awake on his bed of nails.
He’s banished the others to the bow for fear of anyone else overhearing. The new crew is a proper improvement over the last lot: battle hardened men chomping at the bit for the opportunity to be under the Kraken’s command. They speak of Blackbeard in hushed, deferential tones; they think he has taken ill, convalescing below decks from a bout of dengue fever. Izzy has no intention of correcting this assumption.
As de facto captain, he snaps and growls and works them hard. Any idiot who tries it on, mistaking his smallness and his bad leg for weakness, learns very quickly that Izzy’s blade cuts much deeper than his words.
But men like these can only be idle for so long. If the winds don’t stir the sails, if they can’t raid, if Blackbeard doesn’t show his face soon, then not even Izzy can keep them at bay.
He keeps all his buzzing anxiety stuffed down low, keeps his shite together in day light, but late at night Izzy stares exhausted at the ceiling and wishes he’s never set eyes on Stede fucking Bonnet.
He wants Blackbeard back. Not this broken, faded wraith but the dread pirate who burned an entire ship's crew alive for the crime of almost killing his first mate. Til his dying breath Izzy will remember being carried up to the deck so he could watch the conflagration. Dizzy with pain and medicinal rum, he heard the wails of those wretched souls but he only had eyes for his captain. Lit by flames and wreathed in smoke, Blackbeard was every inch the legend, looking out at a world that was his to despoil.
Blackbeard had turned his dark gaze upon Izzy, proclaiming "You're not to die until I am done with you. Your life is mine." And Izzy had trembled then with fearful love; he felt the fire within himself and understood why those men screamed.
*
Come evening, Izzy is hobbling to Blackbeard’s quarters with dinner. Normally it’s Fang’s job to fetch and carry for the captain, but things are hardly normal. Izzy is now captain and first mate and chambermaid all at once, which does little to ease his ire. He juggles the laden tray and his cane, and manages to push through the door without dropping everything.
Where it’s hot above decks, it’s a steam bath in the captain’s quarters. Sweat springs up on Izzy’s brow as he hobbles towards the table. Blackbeard is in his customary place, burrowed in a nest of Bonnet’s frippery, seemingly indifferent to the heat. The place smells of misery and spoiled food.
The tray from lunch is barely touched, though this morning’s rum bottle is already empty. Izzy sets the dinner tray beside it and grumbles, “If you’ve got the time to pickle your liver then perhaps you could crack a window or two? It smells like death in here.” He hears the tone of his own voice and winces. Damn Edward for making him feel like a nagging fishwife.
No, damn that ponce Bonnet. Oh how Izzy wishes the English had riddled him with bullets as per the plan. Part of him still smarts at how easily Blackbeard had given himself over for that infuriating nancy.
Blackbeard doesn’t seem to notice him. He’s staring out the window; the night is inky black, there’s naught to see but his own face, and behind him, hazy in the low light, Izzy reflected like a bad angel on his shoulder. Blackbeard’s chin is whiskery with stubble, his eyes as flat as the sea they are stranded upon.
Izzy wants to slap him, scream in his face, or fall at his feet and beg for Blackbeard’s hand around his throat. Anything but this deathly stillness. Instead he bites back his rebuke and pastes on a false smile. “Anything else I can get you?”
The nest stirs. “More rum.”
Not entirely gone then. Izzy sucks at his teeth. “Sorry, captain. Can’t have you drinking yourself to death under my watch.”
“Why not?” comes the raspy response. It’s hard to tell from here but Blackbeard’s reflection might be looking back at Izzy.
“Just looking out for you, Edward.” Even if no one else will.
Blackbeard is definitely staring at him now. The small hairs on Izzy’s nape stiffen, but the lack of sleep and his bad foot both dull his reflexes. By the time he sees the dagger Blackbeard is already on him.
Izzy slams up against the table, sending bottles crashing to the floor. He should probably care about the sharp steel leveled at his eye but instead he worries that someone might have overheard and come knocking. Please, christ, let no one else see their captain in this state.
Blackbeard bears Izzy down over the table until his back screams in complaint. His face is the false calm before a storm, the whites of his eyes startling in the smears of charcoal. He smells of rum and stale tears. “You’re just looking out for me, huh? Turning Jack against me, giving me up to the English, all for my own good?”
“Yes, you twat,” Izzy spits back. He will not be shamed for his loyalty. “And I’d do it again.”
Blackbeard grins without mirth. “How lucky for me, to have such a friend as you.”
Izzy tracks the tip of the blade with a nervous eye. If Blackbeard tries to blind him, will Izzy cut him down? It’s not a question he ever hopes to answer.
“Izzy, Izzy,” Blackbeard coos, caressing his cheek with the side of the blade. “My dear friend. How lost you must’ve been without your captain. Did you miss me while you were gone?”
With every breath. But Izzy still has his fig leaf of pride to cling to, so he says nothing. Blackbeard, still grinning, strokes a thumb over the corner of Izzy’s mouth. This close there’s no way he can miss Izzy’s trembling, nor mistake the way Izzy’s thighs have parted to make room for him. Those dark eyes sink into him, anchoring him to the spot. "You'll not leave me again, will you, Izzy?"
Never mind that it was Blackbeard who sent him away. The truth is whatever Blackbeard says it is. He is the north star around which Izzy pivots.
"Never," Izzy croaks, love and dread indistinguishable. "Never, I swear."
"Until death." No question of whose.
"Yes, Blackbeard."
The blade digs into him tenderly, carving bright fire across Izzy’s cheek. Izzy barely dares to breathe. His pulse pounds in his skull as his collar grows wet with blood. It's not the knife that sets his heart running; never a great beauty, another scar will make little difference. No, what shortens his breath and cinches his gut tight is Blackbeard; this is the closest he's been to his captain in weeks. Blackbeard's face is taut with concentration, his tongue tip caught between his teeth. Izzy has his full attention, no room between them for Bonnet's ghost. Izzy can only hope that Blackbeard won't feed him his own face.
After an eternity the cutting stops; the pain doesn't. When Blackbeard lowers his blade Izzy can breathe again, blood fizzing in his veins and running down his cheek. As he tries to rise, rough knuckled hands close around his collar and jerk him forward. Izzy gasps, but instead of the expected knife in his gut he gets Blackbeard's mouth instead, kissing him like he wants to swallow Izzy alive.
Shock is the only thing that keeps Izzy from moaning out loud. Blood rushes to his prick so fast he'd stumble if not for the grip Blackbeard has on him. His captain tastes like salt and ash, a sacked ship, death at sea.
"Get on your knees,” Blackbeard growls into his mouth.
Anyone else Izzy would gut like a fish. But Blackbeard–for Blackbeard, he drops, a supplicant before his god. He fumbles at Blackbeard’s breeches but is slapped away. Blackbeard doesn't bother to undress any more than it takes to dig out his cock. His captain's prick arches up out of his fist like a blade, ready to run Izzy through.
A fist jerks hard at his hair but there's no need; Izzy's mouth is already open, tongue lolling, panting like a dog. Without ceremony Blackbeard shoves in right to the hilt, gripping Izzy's hair so tightly there’s nowhere for him to go even if he wants to. Izzy gags, nose pressed hard against his captain's belly. It's been a long time since he’s tasted cock, it's all he can do to snatch precious air between thrusts. Spit is slopping messily down his chin. His cut cheek burns with the stretch. His prick is so stiff he could cry.
A boot grinds down into his lap; it’s more than Izzy dares to hope for. His desperate moans choke up against the driving cock in his throat. All Izzy can do is swallow and swallow. Blood pounds in his head, between his legs, to the rhythm of Blackbeard’s brutal thrusts. Hard to tell if he’ll black out or come in his pants first. He bucks raggedly against the pressure, humping at Blackbeard’s boot sole like a bitch in heat. What will the crew say if they could see him now? It doesn’t matter, dignity is a small price to pay to have his captain's touch.
He dares not to touch Blackbeard back; instead Izzy digs his fingers into the meat of his own thighs and sucks as best he can.
Blackbeard makes no sound. It's impossible to make out his expression in the dark, through the haze of Izzy's reflexive tears. He is so close and large that there’s no room for anything else in Izzy’s world, only the musk and leather and burning heat of Blackbeard taking his due.
Izzy gags and swallows and strains against Blackbeard’s boot; a few more moments are all he’ll need, weeks of pent up stress rigged like a powder keg ready to blow. Just as the fuse sparks, Blackbeard pulls out, leaving Izzy empty and gasping. The loss is unbearable. He strains forward against the painful grip in his hair. When he tries to beg the words are half formed rasps scraping from his raw throat.
“Stay still.” Blackbeard shakes him like he’s scruffing a dog. Izzy stills instantly. "Keep your fucking mouth open." Blackbeard takes himself in hand and jerks his prick roughly once, twice, then comes with a dull grunt on Izzy's face. Jism stripes across Izzy's tongue and burns into his cut cheek.
Izzy flinches, gasping, his dumb prick throbbing between his open thighs.
Blackbeard's fingers unclench from Izzy's head, taking strands of hair with them. It only takes a moment for him to dress. He looks unmoved, unchanged, while Izzy is left ruined, crumpled at Blackbeard's feet with spunk cooling in his beard. Those dark eyes skim over him, indifferent to Izzy's bleeding cheek or the tent in his breeches. "Come back tomorrow after sundown. Don’t show your face until then. And for fuck’s sake, bring me another bottle of rum.”
Izzy nods dumbly, too sore to speak. He grinds the heel of his hand against his aching prick, stumbles to his feet, and goes.
*
As soon as he makes it back to his own room Izzy shoves both hands down his breeches. A few rough strokes are all it takes; he comes so hard he can barely stand, whimpers scraping up against his clenched teeth. His heart pounds to the rhythm of Blackbeard Blackbeard Blackbeard until he can breathe again. His throat is raw, his knees jelly.
He wobbles to the basin to clean up and catches himself in the mirror. Izzy is no stranger to blood, but the sight of this wound sets him trembling: beneath the gore, glazed with spunk, are two jagged Bs carved into his cheek. Blackbeard's mark, unmistakable, impossible to hide.
Pale and hollow eyed, the Izzy in the mirror grins back at him in a rictus.
Come back, Blackbeard has ordered. His captain needs him. And if this is what's necessary to coax Blackbeard back to the land of the living, then Izzy will gladly pay. He's sworn his life to his captain already, he can commit his body too. He traces his new wounds with a trembling hand and hears their siren song: Loyalty above all else, they sing. Til death do we part.