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OFMD FIC: Three's a Crowd
Title: Three's a Crowd
Pairing: Izzy/Jack, Edward/Izzy/Jack
Rating: NC17
Words: ~3,700
Summary: Jack looks Ed up and down for a moment before saying, "I can share, if that's what he wants, but you're gonna play nice."
Notes: This was meant to be a twitter snippet but it immediately spiraled out of control, so here we are. Jen's original prompt was Jack/Izzy + Ed; Ed catching them doing it and getting jealous/possessive. This is plotless filth. I don't think it veers into genuine dub-con, but there are a couple moments where the line is danced upon. Language used for Izzy's anatomy: cunt, cock, hole.
[AO3]
Three's a Crowd
An hour past nightfall, Ed creeps down the ladder that leads to the orlop, intent on the bottle of rum he stashed with the linstocks so he wouldn't have to share it with Jack or Sam. It's been a bitch of a week—two rough raids, a bad wind that blew the Ranger off course, weevils in the hardtack, and a fight with Charlie over shares that ended with both of them getting lashed. He's tired, and his body aches, a constant throb between his shoulders and hips. At supper, he had a second mug of the stale piss-water the cook passes off as beer, but it didn't help. He needs a drink that hasn't been diluted to all hell.
The Ranger pitches with a wave as Ed opens the door to the munitions hold. He braces his shoulder on the jamb while he waits for it to pass and lifts his lantern. The barrel he's looking for is against the starboard wall, filled with linstocks stored butt-down and fanning out from the mouth like flowers in a vase. He lets another wave come and go before making his way over. He shutters the lantern and sets it by his feet, then reaches into the barrel.
He hears something just as his hand brushes the neck of the bottle—a thump and a low, muffled groan. He yanks the bottle free, pries open the cork, and knocks back a good mouthful of rum. He hears two more thumps as he's breathing through the sugar-sweet burn in his throat.
Curious, he heads back out to the passageway. He knows what is happening—this late, the hands who aren't on watch are fucking, unless they're drinking or playing cards or dice—but he can't imagine who would bother going below to do it. Privacy is a luxury the guys in the general quarters can't afford, so most don't waste their time trying. They're satisfied with ducking into the shadows when they're doing it on deck and keeping their shirts on and pulling blankets over their bare asses when they're doing it in their cots.
Another thump. Another groan—longer this time, louder. Ed swallows a little more rum and follows the noise fore, to an unused hold tucked into the curves of the bow. Its small size and strange shape make it impractical for genuine storage, so it's mostly a dying ground for the ship's odds and ends: a spare deck-mop, extra scraps of sailcloth, leaky buckets, candle nubs, lanterns without chimneys or wicks.
Ed gets his ear to the door just as someone says, "Yeah, baby. Open up for me."
Jack.
"Yeah. Just like that."
Ed shouldn't be surprised; Jack's the easiest lay on all three of Hornigold's ships. And he'll likely know who Jack's with by midday tomorrow, latest. Everyone will, because Jack loves bragging about his conquests when he's eating meals and hauling rope. It isn't Ed's business anyway. But. But. Instead of leaving, he brings the bottle back to his mouth. He has a bit more rum and leans closer to the door.
Whoever Jack's with, he must have them over a box or a barrel; Ed hears the rhythmic creak-whine-scrape of wood bearing weight and shifting against the floor. He wonders if Jack is hunched over them, crowded in close, his mouth at their shoulder or neck, or if he's standing straight so he can see their flexing back and heaving sides. Maybe he has a hand hooked under one thigh—holding them up, spreading them open, watching his cock slide in and out of their hole.
The ship pitches again. Jack makes a noise so rough and dark that Ed feels it in his gut. A throaty, rasping voice snaps, "Harder, Rackham. Fuck."
That—that's Izzy.
Ed can't fathom it. He would've bet on any other man aboard before betting on Izzy fucking Hands. He doesn't know Izzy well, even though they've been sharing a cabin since Ed got promoted to bosun's mate last month. He's short and dark-haired and good-looking, at least five years older than Ed, maybe more. But he's also a mean, quick-tempered bastard who works all the time. He's on deck from sunup to sundown, and after that, he uses his candle ration to go over the day's inventories and logs. After that, he checks the deck one last time and turns in for the night. He doesn't gamble, and he rarely drinks. He never carouses with the men when Hornigold's ships make port.
But. But. Right now, he's laid out for Jack and moaning like a whore.
And Ed—he has to look. He has to, even though he knows he shouldn't. Carefully, he rests his thumb on the door's latch. He waits until Jack is talking again to press it down. Once it clicks, he places his palm on the door and just barely nudges it. It opens the tiniest crack, about half the width of his smallest finger. But the four lanterns in the hold are giving off plenty of light, so it's enough.
At first, all Ed sees is Jack's ass and thighs, muscles straining as he fucks into Izzy slow and deep. As Ed suspected, he has Izzy bent over something, although it's a small table with uneven feet, not a barrel; the quartermaster probably stowed it in case they ever need firewood in a hurry. Their legs are tangled together, and one of Jack's hands is braced against the wall. The other drifts down Izzy's side from ribcage to hip, then slides back up and curls over Izzy's shoulder. Jack leans down and noses at the dip behind Izzy's ear. He whispers something Ed can't hear; whatever it is, it makes Izzy moan.
It's familiar. Intimate. This isn't the first time they've done this. It probably isn't even the tenth.
Ed's mind reels as it all falls into place: how Jack's most recent boasts have been about fighting, not sex; how he keeps skipping out on dice games despite Horace owning him five doubloons; how on their last leave, he'd stayed at the tavern when Ed, Sam, and Charlie headed for the brothel, claiming that he'd had too much to drink. Realizing this has something lancing through Ed's chest—something hot and sharp and dangerous. Jack's meant to be his friend, and he hasn't told Ed about any of this. And Izzy—Izzy's been settling for storage holds and rented rooms with Jack when he's been sharing a bunk with Ed for weeks.
Jack thrusts into Izzy a few more times, then pulls out and slaps Izzy's ass. Izzy makes a noise—something caught between desperate and annoyed—but Jack just says, "C'mon, sweetheart," and slaps his ass again. "I want you on top."
Izzy scoffs at that, but he lets Jack tug him upright and away from the table. The lantern light shifts over him as he turns and—fuck. Ed would not have bet on this either, not when he's only ever seen Izzy in a waistcoat and a baggy blouse or an overlarge nightshirt that hangs to his knees. His cock fills as he takes in the soft swell of Izzy's tits, the rings through his nipples, the strong set of his thighs, and the dark thatch of hair between his legs. Ed also would not have bet on Izzy having a cunt; it must be sweet as fuck because Jack won't stop touching it, even as he kicks a nearly-bald broom out of his way and lowers himself to the floor.
He sprawls his legs out in front of him, knees bent and one asscheek on a bundle of sailcloth, and he props his shoulders on a basket overflowing with oakum. The angle looks so uncomfortable that Ed feels it in his own back, but then Izzy kneels over Jack's lap, facing the door, and sinks down on Jack's cock. Jack rolls his hips a couple times before pulling Izzy back against his chest, almost putting him on display. After that, the only thing Ed cares about is Izzy's cunt, pink and split open and glistening with slick.
Jack plants his feet and fucks Izzy, his hands gripping Izzy's hips as he thrusts up and up and up and up. Izzy lets out a moan that sounds bone-deep, almost anguished—like he loves Jack using him like this, like he can feel Jack in his guts and it's so good it hurts. He rakes his nails down Jack's thighs, then brings his hands up to cup his tits and tug at the rings in his nipples. He tips his head back onto Jack's shoulder, and the long line of his throat is nearly as captivating as his cunt. He has a bruise where his neck curves into his shoulder—small, but purple enough to have been made by teeth. Dark heat jolts through Ed's chest again. He bites the inside of his cheek as he cups his cock through his pants, furious that Jack has marked something he wants for himself.
Another wave rocks the ship. Jack drops a hand down to Izzy's cunt. He teases two fingers around Izzy's hole, and for a breathless, frenetic moment, Ed thinks that he's going to push them in—that he'll get to see Izzy take more when he's already stuffed so full. But Jack just slips them around until they're wet, then drags them up and rubs them over the flushed head of Izzy's cock. Izzy squirms, whining high and desperate behind his teeth; Jack holds him still by wrapping an arm around his waist.
"Jack," Izzy hisses, his tone almost a warning. "Jack, don't. I'll make a mess."
Jack hums out a noise—low and pleased and a little dangerous. He says, "Yeah. Fuck, yeah," and thrusts up and up and up. He keeps working Izzy's cock. "It's so hot when you do that. C'mon baby. Show me how wet you can get."
Ed's hand is in his pants now. He doesn't remember putting it there. He strokes himself as he watches Jack slam into Izzy two or three more times, then pull out and palm at Izzy's cock—a slow, firm grind. Izzy tenses. He claws at Jack's knee and arm and chokes out a noise like he's been stabbed. A beat later, his cunt gushes, slick dripping down his thighs and over Jack's cock and balls and splattering all over the floor. Fuck. Fuck. Jack saying it was hot hadn't just been talk. Ed's never seen anything like it, and he wants—he wants. His cock throbs as he imagines spreading Izzy back open and licking him clean.
But Jack is there, jerking his cock hard and fast and grunting, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," into the curve of Izzy's shoulder. "Wanna come in you. Wanna… fuck. Izzy—"
"No."
"Izzy, baby. Please."
Izzy, still catching his breath, grabs a handful of Jack's greasy hair and yanks, hard. "No. We're a hundred leagues from anything I can take for it." With his other hand, he reaches down and runs his palm over the flushed, sticky head of Jack's cock. "Come like this." He nips at Jack's jaw. "Jack. Come in my hand."
That seems to do it; Jack sucks in a breath, and then he's shuddering, muttering something that could be Izzy's name and spurting over Izzy's fingers. Izzy wastes no time sticking those fingers in his mouth, drawing them in deep and cleaning them off with wet flashes of tongue. Jack shudders again and hisses, "Izzy, fuck," and Ed—he rips his hand out of his pants, afraid he'll come right there in the passageway. Sweat is beading on his face, and his blood is rushing in his ears. He doesn't leave, though. He doesn't fucking leave.
He's still standing there, cock hard and hanging out of his pants, when Jack starts shuffling around—first blinking and rubbing his face, then rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands. A few moments later, he lifts up enough to yank the sailcloth out from under his ass and bats it away. Once it's gone, he shifts back into the basket until he's sitting more or less upright, then drags Izzy back against his chest. He hooks Izzy's legs over his, holding him open, and slides both hands down to his cunt.
"Jack," Izzy starts, but Jack just cranes his head around and kisses him—slow and deep, tongue pushing in and in like he's chasing the taste of his own come.
Ed's hand is back on his cock by the time they pull apart. He thumbs at the slit as Jack says, "I ain't done with you, Hands. I wanna see you come again."
Izzy says, "Jack," again, his voice a bit sharp at the edges, but he lets Jack fan his cunt-lips open with one hand, and he whimpers when Jack feathers one finger over the head of his cock. He arches into it, not away.
"Yeah," Jack murmurs, his mouth against Izzy's ear. "Just like that."
Ed rips his hand off his cock again and digs his nails into his thigh. It doesn't calm the heat coiling in his gut as he watches Jack tease Izzy toward another orgasm—as Jack draws one finger over the head of Izzy's cock and then down along the shaft and then over the head again, as he rubs at a spot underneath that makes Izzy whimper and claw at his wrist. Izzy starts rolling his hips, his mouth open and his face fever-hot as he tries to get more. Just as his thighs begin to shake, Jack pulls his hand away.
He says, "I wonder what Eddie would think if he could see you like this."
"You," Izzy spits, his face twisting in anger. He jabs his elbow into Jack's side and pulls away like he means to stand, but Jack gets both arms around him and holds him fast.
"You told me you want him," Jack insists, and Ed—fuck. His blood is rushing in his ears again. "Said bunking with him every night is doing your head in."
"Shut up."
"You know," Jack continues, grabbing Izzy by the jaw and stuffing his cunt-wet fingers in his mouth. Izzy must bite him for it—he winces—but that doesn't stop him from talking. Ed's not sure any force on earth could stop Jack fucking Rackham from talking. "I figure he hasn't tried anything because he thinks you're too stiff for it. I bet he'd come running if he knew what you're really like." He barely pauses before glancing at the door. "Right, Eddie?"
Ed freezes. He hadn't noticed it before, but the door is open nearly an inch now and probably has been for some time. That means Jack knew he was there. He knew, and he'd kept fucking Izzy anyway. Something spikes in Ed's gut—something sour but hot, more arousal that shame. When Jack's hands drift back down to Izzy's cunt, Ed steps into the hold and closes the door behind him.
"About time you joined us," Jack taunts, his smile smug as shit. He's rubbing at Izzy like he means it now, two fingers making tight circles over his cock. "I was starting to think were just gonna keep beating the bishop in the dark."
"Fuck off."
Jack snorts and turns his attention to Izzy, who's panting like he's close and watching Ed with wide, hungry eyes. He asks, "You gonna come for Eddie? You gonna show him how hot and tight you can get?"
Izzy makes an agreeable noise—desperate, caught in his throat, but curled up at the end with assent. Jack splits his fingers around Izzy's cock, trapping it between them as drags them up and down, up and down, and Izzy comes, his back arching as he shakes through it. His cunt doesn't gush this time, but slick drips from his hole as it flutters and squeezes, clamping down on nothing when it should be stuffed full—full of Ed. He's never wanted to fuck anything so badly in his life.
It must show on his face, because Jack snorts again—amused, mean. When he says, "I bet you want in there," it isn't a question.
"If he's offering," Ed hedges, like his pants aren't open and his cock isn't out.
"If I'm offering."
"It's not your cunt."
"Sure it is. It's been mine for some weeks now."
Izzy snaps, "Shut up, Rackham," and smacks Jack's thigh. But there's a flush on his face and a glassy look in his eyes. He's getting off on it—being talked bout like he's not there, being fought over like spoils from a raid. He studies Ed for a moment, then shifts out of Jack's lap and slides down until he's lying on the floor. He spreads his legs and asks, "Are you going to fuck me or what?"
"Yeah," Ed replies, kneeling. He pushes his pants down, then skims his hands up Izzy's thighs, damp with sweat and slick. He feels Jack watching him as he urges Izzy's legs around his waist and as he runs his cock along Izzy's slit to wet it. His fingers graze Izzy's cock, and Izzy whines out a high, thin noise—discomfort, not pleasure. Ed asks, "Too much?" with his jaw clenched; if he has to stop now, he'll lose his fucking mind.
Izzy shakes his head. "No. I can take it."
"He really can," Jack adds. "Besides, you ain't gonna need much."
Ed's anger rises at that, furious and hot, but he doesn't bother arguing about it. His cock is harder than the mainmast and leaking so much his knuckles are sticky with it, and Izzy—Izzy's digging a heel into the meat of his ass and mumbling, "Ed, Ed, please."
He shifts until he's lined up and pushes in, in, in. It's a sudden shock—the softness, the snug pressure, the velvet-wet heat. A ragged moan hooks out of his throat. He rushes so close to the edge so quickly that he has to shut his eyes and heave in a few breaths. His hands flex on Izzy's hips.
Jack laughs, the fucking bastard. "Yeah. Thought so."
Ed snarls, "Shut the fuck up," and pumps his hips—once, twice, three times. The fourth time, Izzy rolls up to meet him, panting and clawing at Ed's shoulders and arms. He digs his heel into Ed's ass again, like he wants it harder, faster. Ed tries to give it to him, but he can't find a rhythm. He just keeps shoving in and shoving in and shoving in.
He hears shuffling—Jack, hard again, kneeling over Izzy's head as he jerks himself quick and tight. He gets his other hand in Izzy's hair and asks, "Where do you want it, baby? In your mouth or on your face?"
Izzy tips his head up and grabs at Jack's wrist, and Jack comes, grunting like it surprises him. The first stripe hits Izzy's chin, the second his lips, and the third his cheek. The rage that spears through Ed as he watches Jack mark Izzy while he's fucking him feels like a dagger straight through the chest.
Suddenly, he needs Izzy to come again—come while he's inside him. He needs it more than fucking anything. He fumbles a hand away from Izzy's hip and drags his thumb over Izzy's cock. He tries to keep it easy and light, but Izzy tenses all over and chokes out a noise that's clipped and rough.
"Does it hurt?" Ed asks.
"Ed," Izzy whimpers. "Ed."
Ed touches him again—softer this time, but evidently still too much. His cunt clamps down on Ed's cock and he squirms between Ed's body and the floor. Before Ed can touch him again, Jack slides down until his head is level with Izzy's hip. He bats Ed's hand away and pushes him back until he's sitting on his heels, then leans down and brushes his mouth over Izzy's cock.
"Oh," Izzy breathes, grabbing at Jack's hair. His legs are shaking so bad that one falls away from Ed's waist. "Fuck, fuck."
"Yeah, that's it," Ed says. He grabs at Jack's hair too, pushing it back so he can see his cock moving in and out of Izzy's cunt. "Come for us."
It's almost awful when it happens: the way Izzy's body locks up, the way he trembles all over, the way his back arches clear off the floor and his eyes roll back in his head. His cunt clutches at Ed's cock—again and again and again—and Ed fucks him through it, desperate, heat building and building inside him, unable to stop.
"Ed," Izzy slurs. Sweat is beading between his tits. "Not inside."
"Yeah," Ed mumbles, but his hips keep moving. He can't fucking stop. "Yeah, okay."
Jack scrambles to his knees. He snags his hand in Ed's hair, yanking as he warns, "You come in him and I'll slit your fucking throat."
Ed pulls out then, cutting it way to fucking close; he comes as soon as he gets his hand around his cock. He spurts all over Izzy's cunt, right where he's still open and slick, and it fucking wrecks him, leaves him hunched over and hollowed out, his tongue thick and too much spit in his mouth, barely able to breathe.
By the time Ed's heart stops pounding, Jack has moved back over by the basket. He's sitting with his legs sprawled and his shirt in his hands. His hair is sweat-stuck to his temples. Beside him, Izzy is dozing, his hand on Jack's knee and his face tucked against Jack's thigh.
Jack looks Ed up and down for a moment before saying, "I can share, if that's what he wants, but you're gonna play nice."
Ed can do that. He can play nice as long as it takes to get Izzy all to himself.
He says, "Sure, Jack," and smiles.
Pairing: Izzy/Jack, Edward/Izzy/Jack
Rating: NC17
Words: ~3,700
Summary: Jack looks Ed up and down for a moment before saying, "I can share, if that's what he wants, but you're gonna play nice."
Notes: This was meant to be a twitter snippet but it immediately spiraled out of control, so here we are. Jen's original prompt was Jack/Izzy + Ed; Ed catching them doing it and getting jealous/possessive. This is plotless filth. I don't think it veers into genuine dub-con, but there are a couple moments where the line is danced upon. Language used for Izzy's anatomy: cunt, cock, hole.
[AO3]
An hour past nightfall, Ed creeps down the ladder that leads to the orlop, intent on the bottle of rum he stashed with the linstocks so he wouldn't have to share it with Jack or Sam. It's been a bitch of a week—two rough raids, a bad wind that blew the Ranger off course, weevils in the hardtack, and a fight with Charlie over shares that ended with both of them getting lashed. He's tired, and his body aches, a constant throb between his shoulders and hips. At supper, he had a second mug of the stale piss-water the cook passes off as beer, but it didn't help. He needs a drink that hasn't been diluted to all hell.
The Ranger pitches with a wave as Ed opens the door to the munitions hold. He braces his shoulder on the jamb while he waits for it to pass and lifts his lantern. The barrel he's looking for is against the starboard wall, filled with linstocks stored butt-down and fanning out from the mouth like flowers in a vase. He lets another wave come and go before making his way over. He shutters the lantern and sets it by his feet, then reaches into the barrel.
He hears something just as his hand brushes the neck of the bottle—a thump and a low, muffled groan. He yanks the bottle free, pries open the cork, and knocks back a good mouthful of rum. He hears two more thumps as he's breathing through the sugar-sweet burn in his throat.
Curious, he heads back out to the passageway. He knows what is happening—this late, the hands who aren't on watch are fucking, unless they're drinking or playing cards or dice—but he can't imagine who would bother going below to do it. Privacy is a luxury the guys in the general quarters can't afford, so most don't waste their time trying. They're satisfied with ducking into the shadows when they're doing it on deck and keeping their shirts on and pulling blankets over their bare asses when they're doing it in their cots.
Another thump. Another groan—longer this time, louder. Ed swallows a little more rum and follows the noise fore, to an unused hold tucked into the curves of the bow. Its small size and strange shape make it impractical for genuine storage, so it's mostly a dying ground for the ship's odds and ends: a spare deck-mop, extra scraps of sailcloth, leaky buckets, candle nubs, lanterns without chimneys or wicks.
Ed gets his ear to the door just as someone says, "Yeah, baby. Open up for me."
Jack.
"Yeah. Just like that."
Ed shouldn't be surprised; Jack's the easiest lay on all three of Hornigold's ships. And he'll likely know who Jack's with by midday tomorrow, latest. Everyone will, because Jack loves bragging about his conquests when he's eating meals and hauling rope. It isn't Ed's business anyway. But. But. Instead of leaving, he brings the bottle back to his mouth. He has a bit more rum and leans closer to the door.
Whoever Jack's with, he must have them over a box or a barrel; Ed hears the rhythmic creak-whine-scrape of wood bearing weight and shifting against the floor. He wonders if Jack is hunched over them, crowded in close, his mouth at their shoulder or neck, or if he's standing straight so he can see their flexing back and heaving sides. Maybe he has a hand hooked under one thigh—holding them up, spreading them open, watching his cock slide in and out of their hole.
The ship pitches again. Jack makes a noise so rough and dark that Ed feels it in his gut. A throaty, rasping voice snaps, "Harder, Rackham. Fuck."
That—that's Izzy.
Ed can't fathom it. He would've bet on any other man aboard before betting on Izzy fucking Hands. He doesn't know Izzy well, even though they've been sharing a cabin since Ed got promoted to bosun's mate last month. He's short and dark-haired and good-looking, at least five years older than Ed, maybe more. But he's also a mean, quick-tempered bastard who works all the time. He's on deck from sunup to sundown, and after that, he uses his candle ration to go over the day's inventories and logs. After that, he checks the deck one last time and turns in for the night. He doesn't gamble, and he rarely drinks. He never carouses with the men when Hornigold's ships make port.
But. But. Right now, he's laid out for Jack and moaning like a whore.
And Ed—he has to look. He has to, even though he knows he shouldn't. Carefully, he rests his thumb on the door's latch. He waits until Jack is talking again to press it down. Once it clicks, he places his palm on the door and just barely nudges it. It opens the tiniest crack, about half the width of his smallest finger. But the four lanterns in the hold are giving off plenty of light, so it's enough.
At first, all Ed sees is Jack's ass and thighs, muscles straining as he fucks into Izzy slow and deep. As Ed suspected, he has Izzy bent over something, although it's a small table with uneven feet, not a barrel; the quartermaster probably stowed it in case they ever need firewood in a hurry. Their legs are tangled together, and one of Jack's hands is braced against the wall. The other drifts down Izzy's side from ribcage to hip, then slides back up and curls over Izzy's shoulder. Jack leans down and noses at the dip behind Izzy's ear. He whispers something Ed can't hear; whatever it is, it makes Izzy moan.
It's familiar. Intimate. This isn't the first time they've done this. It probably isn't even the tenth.
Ed's mind reels as it all falls into place: how Jack's most recent boasts have been about fighting, not sex; how he keeps skipping out on dice games despite Horace owning him five doubloons; how on their last leave, he'd stayed at the tavern when Ed, Sam, and Charlie headed for the brothel, claiming that he'd had too much to drink. Realizing this has something lancing through Ed's chest—something hot and sharp and dangerous. Jack's meant to be his friend, and he hasn't told Ed about any of this. And Izzy—Izzy's been settling for storage holds and rented rooms with Jack when he's been sharing a bunk with Ed for weeks.
Jack thrusts into Izzy a few more times, then pulls out and slaps Izzy's ass. Izzy makes a noise—something caught between desperate and annoyed—but Jack just says, "C'mon, sweetheart," and slaps his ass again. "I want you on top."
Izzy scoffs at that, but he lets Jack tug him upright and away from the table. The lantern light shifts over him as he turns and—fuck. Ed would not have bet on this either, not when he's only ever seen Izzy in a waistcoat and a baggy blouse or an overlarge nightshirt that hangs to his knees. His cock fills as he takes in the soft swell of Izzy's tits, the rings through his nipples, the strong set of his thighs, and the dark thatch of hair between his legs. Ed also would not have bet on Izzy having a cunt; it must be sweet as fuck because Jack won't stop touching it, even as he kicks a nearly-bald broom out of his way and lowers himself to the floor.
He sprawls his legs out in front of him, knees bent and one asscheek on a bundle of sailcloth, and he props his shoulders on a basket overflowing with oakum. The angle looks so uncomfortable that Ed feels it in his own back, but then Izzy kneels over Jack's lap, facing the door, and sinks down on Jack's cock. Jack rolls his hips a couple times before pulling Izzy back against his chest, almost putting him on display. After that, the only thing Ed cares about is Izzy's cunt, pink and split open and glistening with slick.
Jack plants his feet and fucks Izzy, his hands gripping Izzy's hips as he thrusts up and up and up and up. Izzy lets out a moan that sounds bone-deep, almost anguished—like he loves Jack using him like this, like he can feel Jack in his guts and it's so good it hurts. He rakes his nails down Jack's thighs, then brings his hands up to cup his tits and tug at the rings in his nipples. He tips his head back onto Jack's shoulder, and the long line of his throat is nearly as captivating as his cunt. He has a bruise where his neck curves into his shoulder—small, but purple enough to have been made by teeth. Dark heat jolts through Ed's chest again. He bites the inside of his cheek as he cups his cock through his pants, furious that Jack has marked something he wants for himself.
Another wave rocks the ship. Jack drops a hand down to Izzy's cunt. He teases two fingers around Izzy's hole, and for a breathless, frenetic moment, Ed thinks that he's going to push them in—that he'll get to see Izzy take more when he's already stuffed so full. But Jack just slips them around until they're wet, then drags them up and rubs them over the flushed head of Izzy's cock. Izzy squirms, whining high and desperate behind his teeth; Jack holds him still by wrapping an arm around his waist.
"Jack," Izzy hisses, his tone almost a warning. "Jack, don't. I'll make a mess."
Jack hums out a noise—low and pleased and a little dangerous. He says, "Yeah. Fuck, yeah," and thrusts up and up and up. He keeps working Izzy's cock. "It's so hot when you do that. C'mon baby. Show me how wet you can get."
Ed's hand is in his pants now. He doesn't remember putting it there. He strokes himself as he watches Jack slam into Izzy two or three more times, then pull out and palm at Izzy's cock—a slow, firm grind. Izzy tenses. He claws at Jack's knee and arm and chokes out a noise like he's been stabbed. A beat later, his cunt gushes, slick dripping down his thighs and over Jack's cock and balls and splattering all over the floor. Fuck. Fuck. Jack saying it was hot hadn't just been talk. Ed's never seen anything like it, and he wants—he wants. His cock throbs as he imagines spreading Izzy back open and licking him clean.
But Jack is there, jerking his cock hard and fast and grunting, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," into the curve of Izzy's shoulder. "Wanna come in you. Wanna… fuck. Izzy—"
"No."
"Izzy, baby. Please."
Izzy, still catching his breath, grabs a handful of Jack's greasy hair and yanks, hard. "No. We're a hundred leagues from anything I can take for it." With his other hand, he reaches down and runs his palm over the flushed, sticky head of Jack's cock. "Come like this." He nips at Jack's jaw. "Jack. Come in my hand."
That seems to do it; Jack sucks in a breath, and then he's shuddering, muttering something that could be Izzy's name and spurting over Izzy's fingers. Izzy wastes no time sticking those fingers in his mouth, drawing them in deep and cleaning them off with wet flashes of tongue. Jack shudders again and hisses, "Izzy, fuck," and Ed—he rips his hand out of his pants, afraid he'll come right there in the passageway. Sweat is beading on his face, and his blood is rushing in his ears. He doesn't leave, though. He doesn't fucking leave.
He's still standing there, cock hard and hanging out of his pants, when Jack starts shuffling around—first blinking and rubbing his face, then rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands. A few moments later, he lifts up enough to yank the sailcloth out from under his ass and bats it away. Once it's gone, he shifts back into the basket until he's sitting more or less upright, then drags Izzy back against his chest. He hooks Izzy's legs over his, holding him open, and slides both hands down to his cunt.
"Jack," Izzy starts, but Jack just cranes his head around and kisses him—slow and deep, tongue pushing in and in like he's chasing the taste of his own come.
Ed's hand is back on his cock by the time they pull apart. He thumbs at the slit as Jack says, "I ain't done with you, Hands. I wanna see you come again."
Izzy says, "Jack," again, his voice a bit sharp at the edges, but he lets Jack fan his cunt-lips open with one hand, and he whimpers when Jack feathers one finger over the head of his cock. He arches into it, not away.
"Yeah," Jack murmurs, his mouth against Izzy's ear. "Just like that."
Ed rips his hand off his cock again and digs his nails into his thigh. It doesn't calm the heat coiling in his gut as he watches Jack tease Izzy toward another orgasm—as Jack draws one finger over the head of Izzy's cock and then down along the shaft and then over the head again, as he rubs at a spot underneath that makes Izzy whimper and claw at his wrist. Izzy starts rolling his hips, his mouth open and his face fever-hot as he tries to get more. Just as his thighs begin to shake, Jack pulls his hand away.
He says, "I wonder what Eddie would think if he could see you like this."
"You," Izzy spits, his face twisting in anger. He jabs his elbow into Jack's side and pulls away like he means to stand, but Jack gets both arms around him and holds him fast.
"You told me you want him," Jack insists, and Ed—fuck. His blood is rushing in his ears again. "Said bunking with him every night is doing your head in."
"Shut up."
"You know," Jack continues, grabbing Izzy by the jaw and stuffing his cunt-wet fingers in his mouth. Izzy must bite him for it—he winces—but that doesn't stop him from talking. Ed's not sure any force on earth could stop Jack fucking Rackham from talking. "I figure he hasn't tried anything because he thinks you're too stiff for it. I bet he'd come running if he knew what you're really like." He barely pauses before glancing at the door. "Right, Eddie?"
Ed freezes. He hadn't noticed it before, but the door is open nearly an inch now and probably has been for some time. That means Jack knew he was there. He knew, and he'd kept fucking Izzy anyway. Something spikes in Ed's gut—something sour but hot, more arousal that shame. When Jack's hands drift back down to Izzy's cunt, Ed steps into the hold and closes the door behind him.
"About time you joined us," Jack taunts, his smile smug as shit. He's rubbing at Izzy like he means it now, two fingers making tight circles over his cock. "I was starting to think were just gonna keep beating the bishop in the dark."
"Fuck off."
Jack snorts and turns his attention to Izzy, who's panting like he's close and watching Ed with wide, hungry eyes. He asks, "You gonna come for Eddie? You gonna show him how hot and tight you can get?"
Izzy makes an agreeable noise—desperate, caught in his throat, but curled up at the end with assent. Jack splits his fingers around Izzy's cock, trapping it between them as drags them up and down, up and down, and Izzy comes, his back arching as he shakes through it. His cunt doesn't gush this time, but slick drips from his hole as it flutters and squeezes, clamping down on nothing when it should be stuffed full—full of Ed. He's never wanted to fuck anything so badly in his life.
It must show on his face, because Jack snorts again—amused, mean. When he says, "I bet you want in there," it isn't a question.
"If he's offering," Ed hedges, like his pants aren't open and his cock isn't out.
"If I'm offering."
"It's not your cunt."
"Sure it is. It's been mine for some weeks now."
Izzy snaps, "Shut up, Rackham," and smacks Jack's thigh. But there's a flush on his face and a glassy look in his eyes. He's getting off on it—being talked bout like he's not there, being fought over like spoils from a raid. He studies Ed for a moment, then shifts out of Jack's lap and slides down until he's lying on the floor. He spreads his legs and asks, "Are you going to fuck me or what?"
"Yeah," Ed replies, kneeling. He pushes his pants down, then skims his hands up Izzy's thighs, damp with sweat and slick. He feels Jack watching him as he urges Izzy's legs around his waist and as he runs his cock along Izzy's slit to wet it. His fingers graze Izzy's cock, and Izzy whines out a high, thin noise—discomfort, not pleasure. Ed asks, "Too much?" with his jaw clenched; if he has to stop now, he'll lose his fucking mind.
Izzy shakes his head. "No. I can take it."
"He really can," Jack adds. "Besides, you ain't gonna need much."
Ed's anger rises at that, furious and hot, but he doesn't bother arguing about it. His cock is harder than the mainmast and leaking so much his knuckles are sticky with it, and Izzy—Izzy's digging a heel into the meat of his ass and mumbling, "Ed, Ed, please."
He shifts until he's lined up and pushes in, in, in. It's a sudden shock—the softness, the snug pressure, the velvet-wet heat. A ragged moan hooks out of his throat. He rushes so close to the edge so quickly that he has to shut his eyes and heave in a few breaths. His hands flex on Izzy's hips.
Jack laughs, the fucking bastard. "Yeah. Thought so."
Ed snarls, "Shut the fuck up," and pumps his hips—once, twice, three times. The fourth time, Izzy rolls up to meet him, panting and clawing at Ed's shoulders and arms. He digs his heel into Ed's ass again, like he wants it harder, faster. Ed tries to give it to him, but he can't find a rhythm. He just keeps shoving in and shoving in and shoving in.
He hears shuffling—Jack, hard again, kneeling over Izzy's head as he jerks himself quick and tight. He gets his other hand in Izzy's hair and asks, "Where do you want it, baby? In your mouth or on your face?"
Izzy tips his head up and grabs at Jack's wrist, and Jack comes, grunting like it surprises him. The first stripe hits Izzy's chin, the second his lips, and the third his cheek. The rage that spears through Ed as he watches Jack mark Izzy while he's fucking him feels like a dagger straight through the chest.
Suddenly, he needs Izzy to come again—come while he's inside him. He needs it more than fucking anything. He fumbles a hand away from Izzy's hip and drags his thumb over Izzy's cock. He tries to keep it easy and light, but Izzy tenses all over and chokes out a noise that's clipped and rough.
"Does it hurt?" Ed asks.
"Ed," Izzy whimpers. "Ed."
Ed touches him again—softer this time, but evidently still too much. His cunt clamps down on Ed's cock and he squirms between Ed's body and the floor. Before Ed can touch him again, Jack slides down until his head is level with Izzy's hip. He bats Ed's hand away and pushes him back until he's sitting on his heels, then leans down and brushes his mouth over Izzy's cock.
"Oh," Izzy breathes, grabbing at Jack's hair. His legs are shaking so bad that one falls away from Ed's waist. "Fuck, fuck."
"Yeah, that's it," Ed says. He grabs at Jack's hair too, pushing it back so he can see his cock moving in and out of Izzy's cunt. "Come for us."
It's almost awful when it happens: the way Izzy's body locks up, the way he trembles all over, the way his back arches clear off the floor and his eyes roll back in his head. His cunt clutches at Ed's cock—again and again and again—and Ed fucks him through it, desperate, heat building and building inside him, unable to stop.
"Ed," Izzy slurs. Sweat is beading between his tits. "Not inside."
"Yeah," Ed mumbles, but his hips keep moving. He can't fucking stop. "Yeah, okay."
Jack scrambles to his knees. He snags his hand in Ed's hair, yanking as he warns, "You come in him and I'll slit your fucking throat."
Ed pulls out then, cutting it way to fucking close; he comes as soon as he gets his hand around his cock. He spurts all over Izzy's cunt, right where he's still open and slick, and it fucking wrecks him, leaves him hunched over and hollowed out, his tongue thick and too much spit in his mouth, barely able to breathe.
By the time Ed's heart stops pounding, Jack has moved back over by the basket. He's sitting with his legs sprawled and his shirt in his hands. His hair is sweat-stuck to his temples. Beside him, Izzy is dozing, his hand on Jack's knee and his face tucked against Jack's thigh.
Jack looks Ed up and down for a moment before saying, "I can share, if that's what he wants, but you're gonna play nice."
Ed can do that. He can play nice as long as it takes to get Izzy all to himself.
He says, "Sure, Jack," and smiles.