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OFMD FIC: sail on this course and take it when it comes
Title: sail on this course and take it when it comes
Pairing: Izzy/Jack
Rating: NC17
Words: ~2,500
Summary: He isn't afraid. The sea is his home, and he's already dead.
Notes: Finale fix-it for those of us who thought Izzy deserved better than being buried on land.
[AO3]
sail on this course and take it when it comes
"But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated."
―Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
.
Darkness. Heaviness. A sullen, throbbing pain where his leg had been. Izzy comes to it slowly, but with a restlessness—a wrongness—that crawls beneath his skin. Cold weights press against his eyes. His chest won't rise or fall. His body, trapped and silent and still, aches for the creak of a deck, for the pitch and roll of a ship.
The stale, iron-sour tang in his mouth stirs a memory from the depths: a bullet ripping through his side, a ragged hitch in Ed's voice, the scratch of Ed's new-grown beard against his fingertips, his chest heaving as he'd bled out in Ed's lap. Dead. He's dead. Bonnet's stupid plan got him killed after all.
Dead. He's dead, and he's underground.
Something—salt-rough cloth—brushes the back of his hand. They'd at least had the decency to wrap him in a sail, even if they'd buried him on land like some idiot lubber. He told Ed years ago that when the time came, he didn't want a grave, but Ed's never been one to share. If he couldn't have Izzy, neither could the sea. Not when he'd begged Izzy not to go. Not when Izzy had defied his last orders.
For some reason, that's the thought that gets his corpse-stiff muscles to move. He kicks the sail away from his legs, the job made harder with only one foot. He tears at it with his hands until the edges part around his head and dirt rains into mouth. He spits and squirms upward. A worm clings to his finger; more dirt falls. He strains upward again, writhing and clawing. The weights slide from his eyes—coins. Someone, likely Frenchie, had given him tokens for the ferryman.
He finds the moon high and full when he breaks the surface. The mist rolling inland means a soft breeze, although his dead skin barely feels it. His grave is downslope from a small cottage that's shuttered for the night—no lights in the windows, no voices. Izzy doesn't need either to know that Ed's in there with Bonnet. That Ed got his retirement but still wouldn't give Izzy to the sea.
Something falls into the dirt beside him—the leg the crew made him. Apparently, they'd used it to mark his grave. He untangles the twine and driftwood that had made it a cross and fits it over his stump. A flutter of wind curls around him as he stands, lilting with a voice that's wordless but beckoning. He pockets the coins and puts the cottage to his back. He barely hesitates before dropping his tie and Ed's ring in the dirt.
He'd promised to serve Ed for life the night Ed gave it to him. Promised it with a stab wound in his shoulder and Hornigold's blood still staining his hand. He'd traded one captain for another. Promised his life.
By his reckoning, that debt has been paid.
The water isn't far, and once Izzy wades into it, he doesn't have to wait long. Moonlight ripples on the waves. The wind beckons him again. Something wraps around his ankle and drags him down.
Down.
Down.
He isn't afraid. The sea is his home, and he's already dead.
+++
"Look," the wind murmurs, and Izzy does.
He's standing on a rugged, jutting cliff, high above the water. After a moment, he recognizes it as the northwest tip of Curaçao.
He hears, "Look," again, but it's a woman this time, not the wind.
She's beautiful—dark skin and sharp, white teeth. A long neck that curves delicately into her shoulders. Beads and shells are worked into her braided hair, tied with shimmering silver threads. Her dress ripples between blue and green and white as the moonlight shifts. It looks like waves churning against the shore.
She says, "Israel," like it's a blessing. A gift.
"You," he starts, words catching in his throat. It's not possible. Although, neither is dead man crawling out of his grave. "You—Calypso?"
"I have more names than there are seas on this Earth," she replies, tilting her head. "But Calypso is one of them, yes." She gestures across the water and urges Izzy to, "Look," one more.
He does look, although he doesn't need to. He knows this cliff well enough; the Ranger had been anchored in its shadow the night Hornigold died. The night that changed the course of Izzy's life. The night he chose Ed.
"I have an offer for you," Calypso says.
Izzy asks, "Why?" with a tight throat and shaking hands. He hadn't expected this. He'd simply wanted to rest where he belonged. "Why me?"
"You loved the sea," she replies, smiling. "And by loving the sea, you loved me. You sang for me." Another smile. "And the first time I called to you, you answered."
Izzy says, "I don't remember," but then Calypso insists, "You do," and he does.
It's faded now, forty-some years later: his empty belly, the angry fishmonger who'd caught him stealing, his bare feet slipping in the mud as he ran. A voice on the wind, wordless but beckoning, and the sudden desire to leave land behind. To stow away on the next merchant brig weighing anchor.
"I didn't know," Izzy admits, because it's true. He'd only been eleven or twelve, and he'd just wanted to be warm and dry and fed.
"But you answered," Calypso says, her dress winking between blue and green. "You answered, and you gave your life to me. In return, I am offering you a life." She reaches up and softly—softly—touches the X on Izzy's cheek. "I can bind your soul to the sea. You will thrive as long as she thrives. Never die as long as her tides ebb and flow and her waters keep kissing the shore."
"And your terms?" Izzy asks, although he can already feel it: the salt-air on his face, a ship's deck beneath his feet.
"Only that you love us as you've always loved us. That you answer when we call."
"Yes," Izzy says.
Calypso smiles and shoves him off the cliff.
+
Izzy surfaces beside a familiar ship. She's had repair work done recently—new ropes, a few new boards, a fresh coat of paint on the railing and the trim. Even so, Izzy recognizes the sleek sweep of the Kingston's hull. His eyes seem sharper than they'd been before he died. The moonlight has dimmed this close to dawn, but he can still see every stretch and fold of the sails, every curve and line of the mermaid bowsprit.
He's wondering who's sailing the Kingston now when a voice on deck shouts, "Man overboard!" and rope splashes down into the water.
In his previous life, Izzy had swum with heavy plodding movements—skill, but no grace. Now, he moves through water with the ease of a dolphin. His unicorn leg is useless as he climbs up, wet wood slipping against wet wood, but his arms and other leg have a new-found strength that carries him over the railing and onto the deck.
A pair of watchmen and their pistols greet him before he truly has his feet under him. Water is sluicing off him and puddling on the deck. He reaches for his sword, but it's not there. They took it off him when he died. It's probably hanging over the mantle in that fucking cottage.
A short, squat redhead steps up to him and cocks the hammer on his pistol. He demands, "Where'd you come from?" in a tone that suggests he doesn't plan to be reasonable. "You're not one of ours."
"I was out for a swim."
"Bollocks," the other watchman spits. He's taller and blonder than the first and sneering at Izzy twice as hard. "We're days from shore."
"I—"
"Stand down," a familiar voice barks. "Hawkins, Gillette. Stow your weapons."
"Captain?"
Jack says, "Stand down," again as he steps out of the shadows. He looks much the same, but there's something otherworldly about him now—a paleness to his skin, a brightness to his eyes, a sharpness to his teeth. His hand is resting on his whip, ready to pull it from his belt. His fingernails are black, but they have the look of healthy tissue, not disease or rot. "Mister Hands is a friend."
"Hands?" the blond watchman mumbles, his face going ashen. "Izzy Hands?"
"The one and only." Jack turns back to Izzy and asks, "You got Eddie with you?"
"No," Izzy replies. The next words try to stick in his throat, but he makes himself cough them out. "I don't think I'll be seeing him again."
Jack considers this for a moment, then gestures the watchman to the forecastle. "You two are relieved for the night. Mister Hands and I can keep watch."
"Sir," the redhead starts, uncertain. He darts a glance between them before continuing, "He has no weapon."
"That's alright. I think you'll find that Mister Hands and I share a… similar constitution."
That seems to be enough: the pair mumble an, "Aye, Captain," each and scurry toward the forecastle.
Once they're gone, Izzy asks, "How did you know?"
Jack pulls up his sleeve and shows Izzy the inside of his unburned wrist. He says, "She marked you," and runs one finger over a small, greenish shell seared into his skin. "Same as she marked me."
"Where?"
Smiling, Jack taps Izzy's cheek, right where Ed's X is—had been.
Something stirs in Izzy's chest, an aching mix of sadness and relief. A longing for what's gone and an anticipation for what's next. It's more than he can bear to think about, so he asks, "Where are we?"
"West side of Andros."
Izzy frowns; that's well outside the usual shipping lanes. "Why?"
"She came into my dreams the other night," Jack explains quietly. "Said if I put in here and waited, something I've been wanting would come to me."
"Jack—"
"Eddie do that to you?" Jack asks, pointing at the wooden leg.
"No. A shark got me."
Jack huffs out a laugh. "Sure. And I burned in a ship fire, not because my old man shoved me into a hot stove." He leans his elbows on the railing and looks out over the water. "I never should've let him take you after the mutiny."
"Fuck off. He didn't—"
"Yeah, he did."
"I wasn't plunder to be taken!"
"He sure as shit thought you were."
"So did you."
Jack huffs again, then turns toward Izzy and hooks two fingers between the buttons of Izzy's vest. "Yeah, I did."
After a pause, Izzy admits, "I don't regret leaving with him. We had some good years. But I don't… I don't regret that it's done now, either.
"You got plans?" Jack asks. He twists his hand a little, letting his knuckles brush the space between Izzy's tits. "Eternity is a long time."
"I might look for my friends."
"You? Friends?"
"They helped me when my wound festered," Izzy explains, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. "They built me the wooden leg."
"We can find them."
"Yeah." Izzy doesn't know who's captaining the Revenge now, or if Bonnet's lot are still together. He hopes they are. "Maybe."
"Or…" Jack slides his hand up to Izzy's neck, resting it right over his swallow. "You could sail with me. We had fun together, didn't we? Back before Old Horny died?"
"Jack," Izzy warns, but heat is already curling in his gut. "It's been twenty-five years."
"Yeah, and now we're undead." Jack tugs Izzy closer and presses his lips to Calypso's mark. "Bet you still taste the same. Feel the same. Bet you're still the hottest, tightest thing I've ever had."
Izzy says, "Jack," again, but then Jack kisses him, and he tastes like the sea.
+++
They don't make it to the cabin. It's a recklessness Izzy had never shown in life—too concerned with order, with propriety, with maintaining the respect needed to keep his place in the chain of command. Now, dead and returned, he just laughs as Jack yanks his leathers down and hoists him onto the capstan. He feels like nothing can harm him now. Nothing can shame him.
It feels right, to do this in sight of the sea, where he can smell the salt-air and hear the waves lapping against the Kingston's hull.
Jack mouths at him slowly at first, like he's trying to relearn every fold and furl of Izzy's cunt, but soon he's licking at Izzy like he's starving for it, making obscene, wet sounds as his tongue pushes and presses and curls. Izzy shakes with it, spread open and overcome; it's been years since he's felt pleasure like this, a flaring heat that twists and writhes beneath every inch of his skin.
He falls back onto his elbows, gasping. Jack hooks the wooden leg over his shoulder and—somehow—presses in closer. He drags his wet, flushed lips up and down Izzy's slit, then pulls Izzy's cock into his mouth and sucks until Izzy is whining and grabbing at his hair. He comes in a rush, back arching, chest heaving, every muscle snapping taut. Jack works him through it and then beyond, never letting the heat ebb away. He slides two fingers into Izzy's cunt and rolls his tongue over Izzy's cock until Izzy is moaning and limp, sucking in breaths he no longer needs.
"I was wrong," Jack says, standing. His mustache is heavy and damp. "You taste better than I remember." He pulls Izzy closer by the hips, until his ass is hanging off the capstan, and ruts his cock into the slick crease of Izzy's thigh. "Want to fill you up."
"Yeah," Izzy mumbles, clawing at Jack's shoulders. "Go on."
The wind picks up around them, snapping the sails above their heads. Jack mutters, "Storm's coming," but doesn't stop pushing into Izzy's cunt.
He holds there for a moment, his hands at Izzy's waist and his face against Izzy's neck. When he finally moves, it's almost too much. He fucks Izzy hard and fast, making more wet, obscene sounds, and Izzy—too full, too wrung out—feels like his entire body is on fire. His heart, undead but still beating, pounds like it means to burst out of his chest.
Jack slips a hand between them to toy with Izzy's cock. Izzy makes a thin, animal noise and grabs at Jack's wrist.
"I can't," he pants, shaking again. "Not as old as I am."
Jack taunts, "You ain't old." His hips jerk like he's close. "Not anymore."
The wind is howling now, whipping the ocean into a frenzy. Jack finishes with a handful of uneven thrusts and his teeth in Izzy's neck. As he pulls out, he catches some of his come on his thumb and uses it to rub at Izzy's cock. It's too much—so bright and sharp it almost hurts—but it drags Izzy over the edge all the same. He comes as a wave crashes against the Kingston's hull, spraying water in the air and heaving the ship larboard.
"Storm's coming," Jack says again.
Izzy murmurs, "Yeah," and smiles.
Storms can't harm him anymore. He is the sea.
Pairing: Izzy/Jack
Rating: NC17
Words: ~2,500
Summary: He isn't afraid. The sea is his home, and he's already dead.
Notes: Finale fix-it for those of us who thought Izzy deserved better than being buried on land.
[AO3]
"But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated."
―Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
.
Darkness. Heaviness. A sullen, throbbing pain where his leg had been. Izzy comes to it slowly, but with a restlessness—a wrongness—that crawls beneath his skin. Cold weights press against his eyes. His chest won't rise or fall. His body, trapped and silent and still, aches for the creak of a deck, for the pitch and roll of a ship.
The stale, iron-sour tang in his mouth stirs a memory from the depths: a bullet ripping through his side, a ragged hitch in Ed's voice, the scratch of Ed's new-grown beard against his fingertips, his chest heaving as he'd bled out in Ed's lap. Dead. He's dead. Bonnet's stupid plan got him killed after all.
Dead. He's dead, and he's underground.
Something—salt-rough cloth—brushes the back of his hand. They'd at least had the decency to wrap him in a sail, even if they'd buried him on land like some idiot lubber. He told Ed years ago that when the time came, he didn't want a grave, but Ed's never been one to share. If he couldn't have Izzy, neither could the sea. Not when he'd begged Izzy not to go. Not when Izzy had defied his last orders.
For some reason, that's the thought that gets his corpse-stiff muscles to move. He kicks the sail away from his legs, the job made harder with only one foot. He tears at it with his hands until the edges part around his head and dirt rains into mouth. He spits and squirms upward. A worm clings to his finger; more dirt falls. He strains upward again, writhing and clawing. The weights slide from his eyes—coins. Someone, likely Frenchie, had given him tokens for the ferryman.
He finds the moon high and full when he breaks the surface. The mist rolling inland means a soft breeze, although his dead skin barely feels it. His grave is downslope from a small cottage that's shuttered for the night—no lights in the windows, no voices. Izzy doesn't need either to know that Ed's in there with Bonnet. That Ed got his retirement but still wouldn't give Izzy to the sea.
Something falls into the dirt beside him—the leg the crew made him. Apparently, they'd used it to mark his grave. He untangles the twine and driftwood that had made it a cross and fits it over his stump. A flutter of wind curls around him as he stands, lilting with a voice that's wordless but beckoning. He pockets the coins and puts the cottage to his back. He barely hesitates before dropping his tie and Ed's ring in the dirt.
He'd promised to serve Ed for life the night Ed gave it to him. Promised it with a stab wound in his shoulder and Hornigold's blood still staining his hand. He'd traded one captain for another. Promised his life.
By his reckoning, that debt has been paid.
The water isn't far, and once Izzy wades into it, he doesn't have to wait long. Moonlight ripples on the waves. The wind beckons him again. Something wraps around his ankle and drags him down.
Down.
Down.
He isn't afraid. The sea is his home, and he's already dead.
+++
"Look," the wind murmurs, and Izzy does.
He's standing on a rugged, jutting cliff, high above the water. After a moment, he recognizes it as the northwest tip of Curaçao.
He hears, "Look," again, but it's a woman this time, not the wind.
She's beautiful—dark skin and sharp, white teeth. A long neck that curves delicately into her shoulders. Beads and shells are worked into her braided hair, tied with shimmering silver threads. Her dress ripples between blue and green and white as the moonlight shifts. It looks like waves churning against the shore.
She says, "Israel," like it's a blessing. A gift.
"You," he starts, words catching in his throat. It's not possible. Although, neither is dead man crawling out of his grave. "You—Calypso?"
"I have more names than there are seas on this Earth," she replies, tilting her head. "But Calypso is one of them, yes." She gestures across the water and urges Izzy to, "Look," one more.
He does look, although he doesn't need to. He knows this cliff well enough; the Ranger had been anchored in its shadow the night Hornigold died. The night that changed the course of Izzy's life. The night he chose Ed.
"I have an offer for you," Calypso says.
Izzy asks, "Why?" with a tight throat and shaking hands. He hadn't expected this. He'd simply wanted to rest where he belonged. "Why me?"
"You loved the sea," she replies, smiling. "And by loving the sea, you loved me. You sang for me." Another smile. "And the first time I called to you, you answered."
Izzy says, "I don't remember," but then Calypso insists, "You do," and he does.
It's faded now, forty-some years later: his empty belly, the angry fishmonger who'd caught him stealing, his bare feet slipping in the mud as he ran. A voice on the wind, wordless but beckoning, and the sudden desire to leave land behind. To stow away on the next merchant brig weighing anchor.
"I didn't know," Izzy admits, because it's true. He'd only been eleven or twelve, and he'd just wanted to be warm and dry and fed.
"But you answered," Calypso says, her dress winking between blue and green. "You answered, and you gave your life to me. In return, I am offering you a life." She reaches up and softly—softly—touches the X on Izzy's cheek. "I can bind your soul to the sea. You will thrive as long as she thrives. Never die as long as her tides ebb and flow and her waters keep kissing the shore."
"And your terms?" Izzy asks, although he can already feel it: the salt-air on his face, a ship's deck beneath his feet.
"Only that you love us as you've always loved us. That you answer when we call."
"Yes," Izzy says.
Calypso smiles and shoves him off the cliff.
+
Izzy surfaces beside a familiar ship. She's had repair work done recently—new ropes, a few new boards, a fresh coat of paint on the railing and the trim. Even so, Izzy recognizes the sleek sweep of the Kingston's hull. His eyes seem sharper than they'd been before he died. The moonlight has dimmed this close to dawn, but he can still see every stretch and fold of the sails, every curve and line of the mermaid bowsprit.
He's wondering who's sailing the Kingston now when a voice on deck shouts, "Man overboard!" and rope splashes down into the water.
In his previous life, Izzy had swum with heavy plodding movements—skill, but no grace. Now, he moves through water with the ease of a dolphin. His unicorn leg is useless as he climbs up, wet wood slipping against wet wood, but his arms and other leg have a new-found strength that carries him over the railing and onto the deck.
A pair of watchmen and their pistols greet him before he truly has his feet under him. Water is sluicing off him and puddling on the deck. He reaches for his sword, but it's not there. They took it off him when he died. It's probably hanging over the mantle in that fucking cottage.
A short, squat redhead steps up to him and cocks the hammer on his pistol. He demands, "Where'd you come from?" in a tone that suggests he doesn't plan to be reasonable. "You're not one of ours."
"I was out for a swim."
"Bollocks," the other watchman spits. He's taller and blonder than the first and sneering at Izzy twice as hard. "We're days from shore."
"I—"
"Stand down," a familiar voice barks. "Hawkins, Gillette. Stow your weapons."
"Captain?"
Jack says, "Stand down," again as he steps out of the shadows. He looks much the same, but there's something otherworldly about him now—a paleness to his skin, a brightness to his eyes, a sharpness to his teeth. His hand is resting on his whip, ready to pull it from his belt. His fingernails are black, but they have the look of healthy tissue, not disease or rot. "Mister Hands is a friend."
"Hands?" the blond watchman mumbles, his face going ashen. "Izzy Hands?"
"The one and only." Jack turns back to Izzy and asks, "You got Eddie with you?"
"No," Izzy replies. The next words try to stick in his throat, but he makes himself cough them out. "I don't think I'll be seeing him again."
Jack considers this for a moment, then gestures the watchman to the forecastle. "You two are relieved for the night. Mister Hands and I can keep watch."
"Sir," the redhead starts, uncertain. He darts a glance between them before continuing, "He has no weapon."
"That's alright. I think you'll find that Mister Hands and I share a… similar constitution."
That seems to be enough: the pair mumble an, "Aye, Captain," each and scurry toward the forecastle.
Once they're gone, Izzy asks, "How did you know?"
Jack pulls up his sleeve and shows Izzy the inside of his unburned wrist. He says, "She marked you," and runs one finger over a small, greenish shell seared into his skin. "Same as she marked me."
"Where?"
Smiling, Jack taps Izzy's cheek, right where Ed's X is—had been.
Something stirs in Izzy's chest, an aching mix of sadness and relief. A longing for what's gone and an anticipation for what's next. It's more than he can bear to think about, so he asks, "Where are we?"
"West side of Andros."
Izzy frowns; that's well outside the usual shipping lanes. "Why?"
"She came into my dreams the other night," Jack explains quietly. "Said if I put in here and waited, something I've been wanting would come to me."
"Jack—"
"Eddie do that to you?" Jack asks, pointing at the wooden leg.
"No. A shark got me."
Jack huffs out a laugh. "Sure. And I burned in a ship fire, not because my old man shoved me into a hot stove." He leans his elbows on the railing and looks out over the water. "I never should've let him take you after the mutiny."
"Fuck off. He didn't—"
"Yeah, he did."
"I wasn't plunder to be taken!"
"He sure as shit thought you were."
"So did you."
Jack huffs again, then turns toward Izzy and hooks two fingers between the buttons of Izzy's vest. "Yeah, I did."
After a pause, Izzy admits, "I don't regret leaving with him. We had some good years. But I don't… I don't regret that it's done now, either.
"You got plans?" Jack asks. He twists his hand a little, letting his knuckles brush the space between Izzy's tits. "Eternity is a long time."
"I might look for my friends."
"You? Friends?"
"They helped me when my wound festered," Izzy explains, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. "They built me the wooden leg."
"We can find them."
"Yeah." Izzy doesn't know who's captaining the Revenge now, or if Bonnet's lot are still together. He hopes they are. "Maybe."
"Or…" Jack slides his hand up to Izzy's neck, resting it right over his swallow. "You could sail with me. We had fun together, didn't we? Back before Old Horny died?"
"Jack," Izzy warns, but heat is already curling in his gut. "It's been twenty-five years."
"Yeah, and now we're undead." Jack tugs Izzy closer and presses his lips to Calypso's mark. "Bet you still taste the same. Feel the same. Bet you're still the hottest, tightest thing I've ever had."
Izzy says, "Jack," again, but then Jack kisses him, and he tastes like the sea.
+++
They don't make it to the cabin. It's a recklessness Izzy had never shown in life—too concerned with order, with propriety, with maintaining the respect needed to keep his place in the chain of command. Now, dead and returned, he just laughs as Jack yanks his leathers down and hoists him onto the capstan. He feels like nothing can harm him now. Nothing can shame him.
It feels right, to do this in sight of the sea, where he can smell the salt-air and hear the waves lapping against the Kingston's hull.
Jack mouths at him slowly at first, like he's trying to relearn every fold and furl of Izzy's cunt, but soon he's licking at Izzy like he's starving for it, making obscene, wet sounds as his tongue pushes and presses and curls. Izzy shakes with it, spread open and overcome; it's been years since he's felt pleasure like this, a flaring heat that twists and writhes beneath every inch of his skin.
He falls back onto his elbows, gasping. Jack hooks the wooden leg over his shoulder and—somehow—presses in closer. He drags his wet, flushed lips up and down Izzy's slit, then pulls Izzy's cock into his mouth and sucks until Izzy is whining and grabbing at his hair. He comes in a rush, back arching, chest heaving, every muscle snapping taut. Jack works him through it and then beyond, never letting the heat ebb away. He slides two fingers into Izzy's cunt and rolls his tongue over Izzy's cock until Izzy is moaning and limp, sucking in breaths he no longer needs.
"I was wrong," Jack says, standing. His mustache is heavy and damp. "You taste better than I remember." He pulls Izzy closer by the hips, until his ass is hanging off the capstan, and ruts his cock into the slick crease of Izzy's thigh. "Want to fill you up."
"Yeah," Izzy mumbles, clawing at Jack's shoulders. "Go on."
The wind picks up around them, snapping the sails above their heads. Jack mutters, "Storm's coming," but doesn't stop pushing into Izzy's cunt.
He holds there for a moment, his hands at Izzy's waist and his face against Izzy's neck. When he finally moves, it's almost too much. He fucks Izzy hard and fast, making more wet, obscene sounds, and Izzy—too full, too wrung out—feels like his entire body is on fire. His heart, undead but still beating, pounds like it means to burst out of his chest.
Jack slips a hand between them to toy with Izzy's cock. Izzy makes a thin, animal noise and grabs at Jack's wrist.
"I can't," he pants, shaking again. "Not as old as I am."
Jack taunts, "You ain't old." His hips jerk like he's close. "Not anymore."
The wind is howling now, whipping the ocean into a frenzy. Jack finishes with a handful of uneven thrusts and his teeth in Izzy's neck. As he pulls out, he catches some of his come on his thumb and uses it to rub at Izzy's cock. It's too much—so bright and sharp it almost hurts—but it drags Izzy over the edge all the same. He comes as a wave crashes against the Kingston's hull, spraying water in the air and heaving the ship larboard.
"Storm's coming," Jack says again.
Izzy murmurs, "Yeah," and smiles.
Storms can't harm him anymore. He is the sea.