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Ed’s past is Ed’s business. Jack rolls it over and over in his head and then twenty minutes later decides: the fuck? Fuck kind of pussy says that? Ed’s past is everyone’s business. Steve doesn’t have the first fucking idea how many people made Ed their business. Jack doesn’t have the first fucking idea how many people made Ed their business except that it’s a fucking lot, and Jack’s made it his business to know how many people made Ed their business. So that’s a lot of fucking business.
And Ed’s business is all over the Caribbean. The time Ed’s dick went in every hole on Tortuga until it didn’t work anymore and he was just squishing his soft worm against a dry gap while someone moaned about it. The time Ed’s hole gave every whore at the Republic the night off. One dick after another til Ed was crying or passed out and waking up to find another dick in there. Flexing til he didn’t have any more to give. The time Ed bent over in a bar and pulled down his pants and spread. The time Ed persuaded the crew to leave him on shore and circle back whenever they liked and when they did a week or two later he couldn’t get up on deck without someone (Jack) yanking on his upper arms and hauling him up and over the side, and when Jack fucked him about it later it was through the splattered dried-out come of every man with a wanted poster from here to Western Europe while Ed panted and moaned against the window in the captain’s cabin. Good while Jack fucked him, good when he came, unlucky the captain walked in at the end.
Well, unlucky for Ed.
Right now it’s like Ed’s got little signs that say Open For Business and then also Come On In! around his hole. Or at least for anyone passably blond and curly. And especially anyone with a dick that looks like Steve’s, big and pink and punchy, Ed’s always liked a pretty white boy—Jack isn’t embarrassed to admit to it, taken advantage of it a few times and made Ed enjoy it, more or less.
Jack’s reasonably sure Ed isn’t already taking Steve’s dick because if he was then he wouldn’t have taken it out of his mouth to shut up about it. He might’ve made Izzy listen and later describe what a good gagging sounded like, and then the rest of Ed’s crew would weigh in about it because those were the kind of men Ed likes to surround himself with. And then Izzy would describe it more exactly and Ed would get hard remembering and go and drag Steve below deck and make him fuck his throat again. Maybe he'd make it sound good enough that Jack would give it a try. Or a watch. Something like that.
Ed’s business. Ha.
;;
He puts it out of his mind. Then he pulls it back. Jack’s not the kind of pussy to get jealous of a cunt but he’s the kind of dick to feel proud when the cunt is ready to go, and right now on the beach Jack’s realising he’s neither jealous or proud. He’s confused.
“Hey,” he says, staring at the palm fronds swaying overhead. Lots of palm fronds in Jack’s life but still more often than not they remind him of hiding underneath an upturned dinghy and a spray of leaves through the one gap in the floorboards with Ed, getting high on the local weed, snickering in fear and bravado any time Hornigold stormed by without noticing, their names in his mouth, the two of them hiding their laughter in each other’s necks and their want in their hands, tugging on each other’s dicks so they couldn’t betray each other. Like teenagers necking out back instead of men just months away from being the most infamous pirates the world has ever seen. The kind of men that Ed wanted to become and the kind of men Jack wanted to fuck. “Hey. Eddie. Ed. Wake up.”
Ed’s barely even asleep. They drank enough last night to knock out a bull, two bulls, six—but Jack can hold his liquor by now and Ed’s special. Ed’s always been fucking special. “Mhuh?”
“You fucking him?”
“What?”
“The big girl. Steve. Deve. Whatever his name is.”
Ed is quickly less asleep. Jack takes his answer from that and ignores whatever Ed splutters and mumbles and instead pays attention to the blush. Jesus fuck. It’s the middle of the fucking night and still Jack can see it. “You’re blushing. You’re fucking blushing.”
“No? I’m—”
Jack gawps. Edward fucking Teach.
Every pirate Jack’s met in the last who the fuck knows how long has talked in hallowed tones about Ed—Blackbeard—terror of the seven seas. The man you aspire to be. The man who brought down half the Royal Navy in the night and the sugar trade in less—for a week or two, anyway, enough to make a dent—and hangs traders from the main mast by their own silk until the salt eats through to leave their bodies in the wake of the ship.
Last time Jack shared a ship with him, Ed relieved another crew of six weeks of rum and twelve of bread and dried meat, and then the riches they’d set out with, tea and tobacco and an ungodly number of tapestries, and then he took their ship too. And now Blackbeard’s crew are bigger and fucking slovenlier on the far side of the Atlantic than when they set off, and Jack’s—Jack’s been proud of him, all right? And of course he was fucking jealous, told everyone who mentioned Blackbeard that once upon a time Blackbeard was a twinky little shitstain who didn’t know the first fucking thing about sailing, and just like everyone else he cried the first time he fell asleep on the night watch and woke up to get himself eight strokes with the cat, and once upon a time he ran away (twice, actually)—actually once upon a time he literally fucking pissed himself when Hornigold—
Eddie learned everything he knew about piracy from him so every poster about Blackbeard kind of refers to Jack. The beard sits on Ed’s face but the ships got to the ocean floor and their treasures on the deck by way of Jack’s know-how, and now they’re here, together again, kicked off a ship to sit on an island again, and Ed might not like it but Jack remembers where they came from.
Anyway: "Not fucking him,” says Ed. Sulky, and soft. Like a girl.
Him. Him? Oh right. Jack reminds himself why he’s here: Steve. Weird of Izzy to get all het up about a dude like that. Ed’s always been a bit sentimental though, so Jack rolls the sulk around to get the taste of it and then rolls himself over the sand to get up close and personal with him. Sand and palm leaves and whatever bits of crab the shitehawks didn’t get.
All right. Fucking's not everything. He waits for Ed to get curious enough to catch his eye. “He know you though? Really?”
Dumb shit like what Ed does in a storm and when he’s becalmed. How many fingers he likes. What he does to navy men and to mutineers, his favourite way to cheat the dealer. How many drinks it takes to make him cry and how many to haul a guy into the room to bend over for him. Shit like that.
Ed toys with his hair. Winds it around his fingers. Just like a girl. “Been living on his ship for weeks.”
Weeks. Iz bought him for the navy for a fopping wet rag Ed’s known for weeks. Jack tips his head back in the sand and tries again. “Didn’t think about getting him on one of your ships? Get the,” the Revenge, the fucking Revenge, Ed of ten years ago would have blown the fucking thing out of the water on principle alone, “the—Royal, is it?—out front to catch the canonfire?”
“It’s called the Revenge mate, I know you know that. And no, didn’t cross my mind.”
“Revenge, yeah.” Jack looks at Ed. “He a fan?”
“What’s your point?” Ed looks back, quick and annoyed, gaze catching on Jack’s chest before he can stop himself. Jack grins because that does it, that’s it, that’s the moment. “You’re a fan, too.”
Jack laughs. “I have good reason.” Tortuga, twenty years ago, Hornigold at night.
“Fuck off, I do too.” And Ed does the subtle leg-spread trick that works better on people who haven’t already seen him bent over a barrel, begging for a dick inside him, either hole. Not that that doesn’t work on everyone, Ed’s the kinda guy that has to turn men down, including men who thought they didn’t like men. Jack’s never met a guy who really actually didn’t like another man even in the right circumstances, but Ed’s the right guy in every circumstance. The pretty hair. The collarbones. The long legs, the nice ass, the open mouth. Open, wet. “He likes me.”
“Oh yeah? How’s his cock?”
Ed should say: thick. Heavy. Let him choke me with it last night. Got a nice face full. He fucked my throat and I fucked his fist til he got hard again and knocked me over and stuck it back in. Not too long but it's a mouthful. Real sensitive tip, he’s new at feeling it up. Knocks it around the hole to start like he’s trying to find the way in even with a signpost. Slips and slides til he gets it in and then he’s like a hellion, yeah actually, he held me down til it wasn’t worth the effort anymore.
Instead Ed turns the colour of a sunset fucking sky. “None of your fucking business. Look, drop it mate, all right? Maybe I want something different these days.”
Jack rolls onto his front. The alcohol is still sloshing around his skull but not so much he can’t sniff out a steaming pile of bullshit when it’s served up in front of him. Ed can make all the pretty fuck-me eyes he wants at bigger than his breeches blond out there but he still followed Jack off ship: there’s bored and then there’s knowing what you like, and what Ed likes is getting fucked, hard and repeatedly, long and through the night, and the next day, and the day after too, and if he’s here then he’s not getting—
“So. You like him but you haven’t,” Jack thrusts his tongue into his cheek and points it, and reaches down at the same time. “Tested the goods.” And obviously he’s good to go. Cock rockin’. Prick slick. Dick thick.
“Watch your mouth.”
“Just saying. What you waiting for?”
“I’m not.”
Jack waits to find out what Ed isn’t waiting for.
“I’m here on an island with you, aren’t I,” Ed says eventually. He’s way the fuck more awake now, which is fun. And pissy. Like Jack fuckin forced him off the ship. Like Jack’s supposed to be fuckin sorry for reminding Ed who he fuckin is and where he fuckin came from.
Ed gestures a ways around them like where they are now has anything to do with where he was way back when. And where Steve’s dick was or wasn’t. Wasn’t, if they’re being real. “Not waiting for anything.”
Uh huh. “Roll over, then.”
“Eh?”
“You heard me. Get on your belly and spread.”
“Jack—”
“Jack,” Jack parrots in a fuckdick voice, and reaches to shove Ed over sideways. He’s not bored yet but he’s about to be, Ed’s never been this hard to get a leg over before. Be pretty fuckin funny if turns out it’s Ed saying no to Steve instead of the other way around.
He waves his hand over his own dick. Making an appearance just for Ed. “Roll over or climb on. You telling me you don’t want it?”
Because Jack can work with that.
“Telling you I’m drunk. You’re drunk.” Ed trails his gaze down the length of Jack’s body before he remembers he doesn’t want it and wrenches it all the way back up. But his mouth is open and his lips are wet and without moving an inch he’s practically fucking draped across Jack. His hair’s still wet from their swim earlier but it’s twisty too, like he’s been wrapping it around his finger or he’s thinking about tying it back or letting someone get their fingers in it to pull.
He’s not even trying to say no any more. He’s not even pretending. Fuck he’s not even pretending to pretend.
So he’s seen the dick and he’s gagging for it, or maybe he’s even taken it for a go round once or twice, not more, just enough to get interested, and now he’s not got anywhere else to go with it. Eddie’s the kinda guy to get fucked once and then get stuck all in his head about it, which is all right ‘cause most times Jack’s the guy to screw him right back out again, but it’s normally not this hard to get the tip in. So to speak.
Whatever. Ed’s down bad.
For Steve.
;;
Ed whines when Jack gets all the way inside.
“Too much?” Jack pants, and gives it a couple quick, sharp fucks just in case the answer is yes and he’s gotta deal with crying or whatever. Ed doesn’t answer so Jack does it again. Buries himself the way he knows Ed likes, even if Ed’s forgotten right now, being hard up as he is. Ed makes the noise again. “What is it?”
“Too long,” Ed grunts. “Jesus. You start buying shit from that guy behind Jackie’s?”
Obviously. Obbbbbviously it’s that fuckin guy. That guy had substances that promised a hard-on for days and fuckin hell did he deliver. Jack’s ship—his actual ship, not this fuckin dollhouse version of a sloop and not the dinghy floating behind it, not even the grimdark ship Eddie was apparently gussying up right before he found Steve: Jack’s real ship, cargo hold full of rum that makes him hiss through his teeth and doubloons that might get a bit soft on real hot days but who gives a shit as long as the crew doesn’t notice (that’s what the rum’s for) and now the hold’s got a whole little section carved out to make the good times last. Shit, it’s a whole shelf full of good times, the corresponding bill as long as his arm, but only if anyone fucking catches him and the guy from out back isn’t gonna be doing much catching of anyone any time soon, what with all the getting trapped in a burning building with his dick still in that pretty bartender. Oops.
Not that Ed needs to know about any of that. It’s not like Jack’s taken anything right now. The day he needs an assist to get it up for Ed is the day he swallows a bullet.
Not that Ed needs to know that, either.
“Eh?” says Jack, pulling out at the same time as spitting out a wad of tobacco and then ramming back in: Ed whines again and grunts again, so Jack pulls out and does it again. “What guy?”
“Guy,” manages Ed. “That one that likes the pretty ones—oh fuck—gotta stash of—of—fuck—”
“Oh yeah,” says Jack, thinking about the bartender. Another mouthy blonde. Like Steve but shorter, with better tits. “That one.”
It’s weird that Steve keeps showing up again in Jack’s thoughts. Ed’s the one that fucking fancies him, and maybe this is why: he just won’t take a hint and leave. Like a tick that stays behind after you twist the body off. Or like his ship, still sitting there in pissing distance, small and fat and gaudy like he doesn’t know that you go to Blind Man’s Cove to trap some other pirate into giving up all his loot. Or shit, maybe he does know, and this is all some contrived power play, like he thinks he’ll win Ed back by proving that he’s the dumber one.
Ed makes an impatient noise—all right, princess, except it reminds Jack that it doesn’t fucking matter what some rich prick who tried to buy his way in thinks. Jack’s the one balls-deep in winning.
He puts Steve out of his head, sticks his fingers in Ed’s mouth and drags his head back, lets the sound of him choking and struggling for breath take over the sound of the waves ten feet back, focuses on the wet around his fingers instead of the sand gritting his knees. This is just a new way of doing what they’ve done ten or twenty times before, a new reason, Iz could’ve done this himself if he’d put, less than half a second’s thought into it. Or less than twenty years. Or he could’ve got the rest of that disaster fucking crew to do it for him. Steve—jesus christ, he’s back—Steve doesn’t seem the type to share. The way Jack sees it, one night spent passing Ed around four or five of the crew in front of the captain that didn’t have the balls to do it himself would’ve done just the same as inviting the English to sniff and follow.
Jack leans down to say it right as Ed’s loudly getting close, gets his mouth close against Ed’s ear and mutters: “Bet he’s watching. Bet whatever’s left of my ship he’s got a scope and a hand on his dick. Whatcha think, Eddie? Reckon he’s got the balls to watch and—” he reaches lower and grabs Ed’s balls, rolls them in his fingers, then works his way to his prick and pulls on it til Ed’s there, pushing into Jack’s hand and gasping, like he knows what Jack was doing but he doesn’t fucking care cos he’s too busy coming to think about it, or respond to it, and that does it for Jack too, actually, Ed getting tight and loud around him, always has, on a ship, a beach, a bartop while every other man in there pretends not to watch and wish it was Blackbeard on his dick.
Jack fucks out the rest of his orgasm thinking about that, and lets himself down on Ed’s back without pulling out.
He never gets to enjoy this part. So he doesn’t rush, lets himself feel Ed’s breathing slow and their sweat cool. Lets his eyelids droop and his touch go light on Ed’s shoulder blade, where the letters JACKED have long since faded and been obscured by a wonky seahorse, but Jack knows. Jack will always know.
Soon it’ll be morning and Ed will be annoyance and wasted guilt and Jack’ll be all booze and oil and sunburn because he’s woken up in full sunshine and someone’s set the rum to hammering the inside of his skull. And Jack’ll give Ed back to whoever wants him. Til the next time.