Chapter Text
When Frenchie goes below decks in the evening, it’s to let Izzy know that the Queen Anne is anchored a ways out and that Ed’s asked them to liaise with them in the morning. Ed had sent word ashore with Fang, mentioned that Stede had been talking about an operation that would require the three ships working as a fleet.
It’s been a good day, working the drills – his body aches in places from all the exercise he and Izzy had done last night, but it had been wonderful, the two of them walking back to port in the morning to find the Revenge already waiting for them, tethered, her sails bound up.
When he descends the stairs, the rest of the crew are going through a few extra drills together, and they’re making a little noise as they run back and forth – enough that he can’t really hear Izzy and Stede until he’s inside. Instead of hearing them, he sees them instead: standing in the corridor and looking through the gap, he sees when Stede spins around to pin Izzy down and slowly steps inside so that he can hear them, see them.
The dog talk he hears, but it goes over him like vague, blaring noise, ringing in his ears but not something he’s easily able to tune into, to pick apart. Even though he hears every word, his real focus is on what he’s seeing over the violent roar in his ears: the way that Izzy has gone stiff underneath Stede’s body, the way that he’s so frozen in place he’s not even trembling, the way his thighs are spread apart, one of Stede’s knees in between them.
He knows exactly what Izzy expects in this moment, what he’s scared of, what Frenchie would be scared of, if he was bent over a desk like this one – of Stede fucking him.
Frenchie wonders if it even occurs to Stede in the moment that he could do that, that another man in his position would – that others have. Is he just thinking about the last time Izzy disarmed him, how he pinned Stede down? He’s talking in the low, dangerous voice he’s been carefully trying to cultivate, the one that makes him sound like a real pirate, a real threat.
He can see the barest trembles in Izzy’s body, the twitches of it – it’s when Izzy lets out a choked, fearful, whining noise that he finally slams the door shut and gets both of their attention. The look on Izzy’s face is a devastation in itself, the terror before he lays eyes on Frenchie and sees it’s him instead of who – Ed? – and then he relaxes, his jaw slackening, his body loosening as he leans back against the desk.
The shame on Stede’s face is different – it’s cooler, more shut down, less obviously and blatantly expressive. It’s as much frustration at being caught as it is shame at being caught in the act.
“No one ever taught you to knock?” and and it happens so fucking fast that Izzy’s nothing more than a blur of black cloth and leather, the silver of the letter opener glinting as he holds it to the underside of Stede’s throat – one instinct, total submission, overwritten in the moment with this instinct instead: to protect, to defend.
“I forgot you two were an item.”
“Seems like you did. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be bending him over like that, would you?”
He doesn’t know if it’s satisfying or not, the way Stede fucking blanches, visibly turning paler. He hadn’t even realised, then. Frenchie doesn’t know if that makes it better or not, the idea that Stede had Izzy bent over a desk bracing himself to be raped for the umpteenth time in his life, and Stede didn’t even know. He understands now that Frenchie’s said it – Frenchie can see it written all across his face, the real shame now, the idea that he’s been caught doing something dirty, thinking something dirty.
How do you get off on something, and not even know that’s what you’re doing?
It’s like a fucked up game of rock, paper, scissors: Stede beats Izzy, Frenchie beats Stede, Izzy beats…
A part of Frenchie feels sick about it, actually.
He remembers being a kid, remembers walking in once or twice on one of the men from the big house in his mother’s room – he remembers being beaten once for not knocking after stepping inside, but that hadn’t been the only imprint left on him. He remembers the look on the man’s face as he’d shocked back from where he’d been leaning over her – a look a bit like this one, a sudden disdain for who is interrupting him, so far beneath a real concern, as he’d imagined.
Frenchie interrupting isn’t the same as Ed doing it – Ed or another captain.
Or Lucius, maybe. He doesn’t know.
He wonders if he’s being fair on Stede or not as he touches Izzy’s face, checks him over, holds Izzy in front of him and reassures himself that Izzy’s body is alive and warm and strong, assures himself that Izzy’s safe, that Stede hasn’t done a thing to him, not yet.
Maybe he is being unfair – it’s not like Stede sees Frenchie as a slave or a servant. He sees him as lesser, sure, but not as much as he does Izzy. Izzy’s rungs below Frenchie, and that’s… The disgust isn’t on its own, this time. There’s disgust and there’s more, too, a kind of twisted heat.
He’d moved so fucking fast, just because Frenchie was insulted – Hell, barely even that. Stede was just fucking rude, and when is he not?
“How long were you there?” Izzy asks.
“Long enough,” Frenchie says, and makes the choice right there and then – it feels good to turn Izzy over now he knows he’s okay and lay him on his belly across the desk again, to grip tight at his hair to push him down, feel how different Izzy’s body is, how different it looks, laid out under Frenchie instead of Stede. His body is loose and limber – stiff with anticipation in places, his back slightly arched to put his arse obediently in the air, his thighs slightly spread apart but not in the way of somebody expecting a blow if they weren’t, his forearms underneath him, bracing him.
Stroking over his body, Frenchie can’t help but smile at how obediently he’s gone over and how good he looks like this – Izzy’s not got much of an arse to speak of, has a generous chest but a flatter, less defined backside, but his thighs are thickly muscled, and it all still feels pretty warm under his palms.
He looks at Stede, at Stede’s expression – mouth closed, eyes big as anything. He’s collected himself at least a little bit, has pulled himself together – he meets Frenchie’s gaze, and Frenchie can see the understanding in his eyes, the comprehension of his and Izzy’s relationship.
An item.
Frenchie’s never liked that phrase – it’s a posh person’s way of saying it, that kind of idiom, or, not just an idiom, but a euphemism. More than calling a couple a pair – it’s calling them the same thing, and it’s not like it’s romantic, it’s more like saying they could be bought and sold together.
It’s not like Stede means it like that – Frenchie doesn’t know that he thinks about it enough for that, that he thinks about anything enough.
“Long enough to hear you,” Frenchie tells him, and Stede’s eyes flit to Frenchie’s, meeting his gaze. He’s got nice eyes, the brown colour of them – Stede’s genuinely got pretty kind eyes, eyes that can look kind, when he wants them to. “He said he was your dog,” Frenchie agrees, and Stede at least looks a little bit abashed at that, slightly more ashamed, “and that means you’re in charge of his discipline.”
Under Frenchie’s hands, pressing into the meat of his muscled shoulders even through his leathers, he can feel Izzy shudder and relax, shifting up into slightly more of Frenchie’s touch. It’s easier, sometimes, to massage his shoulders through the leather – it’s oversensitive, Frenchie thinks, when he presses right on the skin, what with how much scar tissue there is down there. Like this, the pressure’s spread out a bit more, isn’t as direct.
He doesn’t need to wonder why his mind is wandering to stuff like this in this moment – he’s so hard about what he’s about to do he almost feels a bit dizzy, his skin so hot he feels like it’s going to start steaming out from under his clothes. He wants to think about this stuff to calm him down a bit, to distract him, so that as soon as he slides inside Izzy he doesn’t just shoot off immediately.
And also—
Also it’s hard, to touch Izzy, and not think about people who’ve touched him beforehand. Even if it wasn’t hard, he’d want to remember, he thinks, he’d want to remember and make sure he never forgets why Izzy’s the way he is, why Frenchie is more careful with him, why he wants to be careful with him.
It’s not about not repeating past mistakes – no one who’s ever hurt Izzy has even thought of it as a mistake, Frenchie guesses. It’s funny that they’re similar that way, even if they’re not the same.
Funny.
“It’s a bit more than that, right, Cap? You want to be in charge of it.”
Frenchie’s good at judging people’s expressions in high-stakes situations, good at reading them when they’re gambling or when he’s running a con or when he’s having a debate or an important conversation. People’s expressions are a little easier than what they say, sometimes – keeping them quiet so that Frenchie can talk instead.
“Frenchie—” Stede starts, looking indignant, sounding indignant, but Frenchie doesn’t really care. It might be his office, but Izzy’s not his – and this is Frenchie’s show now.
“Feels powerful, right?” he interrupts, and he sees the guardedness in Stede’s expression, sees the hesitation there. “The idea of a guy like this on the end of a leash,” he strokes down Izzy’s back and feels his body shudder, and he thrills at the way Stede follows his gaze and looks hungrily at the way Izzy’s body moves, at the involuntary show of how good this makes him feel, how much he trusts Frenchie, and the fact that Stede wants a piece and won’t fucking get one, “the idea that you’re holding that leash. Izzy’s powerful, strong. Fucking scary.”
Fuck, there’s so much muscle underneath him right now. Frenchie knows he couldn’t hold Izzy up for any length of time, couldn’t carry him somewhere – he’s vaguely certain he could probably drag his body down a hallway or something with the right leverage, but he couldn’t even carry Izzy over his shoulder or on his back, let alone carry him bridal style like Izzy could easily carry him.
He thinks about the fact that Stede can do it, that Frenchie’s seen him do it, that carrying Izzy isn’t necessarily the easiest thing to him in the world, but that it’s not hard. He thinks about all the muscle under Stede’s clothes, about the weight in his shoulders and his upper arms, his thighs – not as muscular as Izzy himself, but pretty dense.
And Frenchie doesn’t need muscle to win out against him – it doesn’t need to be a physical fight, and if it was one, he’d have Izzy.
“If you can bend him over like this,” he muses out loud, still stroking Izzy, “he’s an extension of you, almost.” The words feel like they’re fizzing on his tongue, bubbling under his skin. His ears feel hot, his lips, the lower part of his neck. He can hear the anticipation in his own voice as he asks, “It’s almost like, if you have a guy like Izzy doing what you say, if you can really scare a guy like Izzy into doing whatever you say, into obeying your orders to the T, then who the fuck is going to stand up to you?”
Frenchie unbuttons Izzy’s trousers.
Izzy goes obediently as he does, lets Frenchie reach under him and lifts his hips to let Frenchie undress him, and Frenchie looks at the pale curve of Izzy’s arse in the light, at the hair on it. Stede’s looking too, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, and Frenchie can see that he’s rooted to the spot but desperate to move closer. He wishes he was in Frenchie’s position, and he can’t be, won’t be. Frenchie’ll fucking kill any captain who tries to be in this position over Izzy again, he thinks, and the violence of the thought thrills through him, feels like it’s burning him a bit from within, but not in a bad way.
“Lots of other guys have done it, right?” he asks. His voice has a shiver in it, anticipatory, eager. Izzy’s cock bobs as Frenchie shoves his trousers down, and Frenchie can see the shift of his balls, see the wink of his hole as it tightens. “Ed did it.” He hears the clench of his own teeth before he realises he feels it, and he almost laughs, but bites that back. He’s trying to deliver a certain vibe right now, can’t let himself break it. “Sure, he’s fucking scary, he’s Blackbeard, but like… That’s just the legend. Once you’re up close, it’s not just the one guy, is it?” It’s theatre. He's known all along that it’s theatre, in its way, that it’s just another mummer’s show, but as he’s saying it out loud now it feels like kind of a revelation, not because he didn’t know, but because of the contrast. “It’s his crew.” He doesn’t need a crew. “It’s his ship.” Frenchie doesn’t need a ship. “It’s all the people lighting lamps behind him, so that his shadow’s fucking huge on the wall.”
Frenchie doesn’t even need to cast a shadow in this moment – the room is warm and well-lit and it isn’t his and it isn’t Izzy’s either, and they don’t need it to be because the real power is right here, in how obedient Izzy is right now, how pliable he is, how biddable.
A thought, off to the side, off at the back of his head, flares into being, that maybe he should feel bad about this, guilty, about how much he loves this moment, Izzy underneath him, Frenchie over him. How easy it is. How easy.
“Frenchie—” Izzy starts, and Frenchie grips his hips slightly tighter.
“Shut up,” comes out of his mouth so reflexively that he does feel a stronger flare of guilt now, and his chest pangs, his stomach turns over, but his cock is still hard as he leans over and covers Izzy’s body with his. He’s still so fucking warm, and he’s not breathing – it’s not a freeze, Frenchie doesn’t think, it’s not a panicked freeze like before, it’s just… doing as he’s told. “Is this okay?” he asks in Izzy’s ear, squeezes his hip more gently this time. “Nod or shake your head,” he adds, before Izzy can work himself into a tizzy at too complicated a question, trying to voice his feelings, feeling like he has to when he can’t, when this isn’t the right time for that. “No talking.”
Izzy’s already nodding his head, nodding it repeatedly, and Frenchie hides his smile against the back of the older man’s neck before he pushes himself back upright.
“Were you going to?” he asks Stede, keeping his expression as neutral as he can, aware there’s still a faint smile on his face, but that it’s only really boosting the intimidation factor. He’s almost certain Stede wasn’t going to, but that’s not the point. He wanted to, whether he knows it now or not – whether he knew it a second ago or not. “Fuck him?”
The word punches out of Stede loud and hard and sharp: “No!”
He stays rooted to the spot, moving his hands but not his feet, and Frenchie wonders what’s going through his head, if he’s fighting the urge to get closer, to lean in, to touch – if he’s scared that if he moves, he’ll leave, and then he’ll miss out on what comes next. His dick is hard, too – as hard as Frenchie’s, probably, even if it is bigger.
God, of course Stede would have a big dick.
“He would have let you,” Frenchie says, just to see the slight widening of Stede’s eyes, the burst of further colour in his cheeks and on his chest as the blush takes over, because it’s true, and because he wants Stede to know it’s true, and he wants Izzy to hear it. He pulls a bottle of oil out of his pocket and wets his fingers with it, makes them glistening and slick. “That’s kind of why I had to come in,” he admits, “he would have let you. You’re his captain.”
He glances down at Izzy’s body, prone beneath him, watches the ever so slight jiggle of his thighs, and then he looks back at Stede. Frenchie’s smiling a bit more now, can’t help it, knows there’s a coldness in it he doesn’t have to work to show.
“I bet he would have let you fuck him dry, even,” he says – a shudder goes through Stede that’s almost a match for the one that goes through Izzy, even before Frenchie slides his fingers forward and into him – he forces them forward when he meets resistance and then there’s none, just Izzy choking on air in response.
“Ed’s never done this, you know, Captain,” Frenchie says, because he can – Izzy clenches around him, his thighs shuddering, and fuck, but Frenchie’s dick is straining in his trousers, actually aches and he’s so excited to get it inside, where Izzy’s wet and hot and ready for him. Stede’s suddenly looking at them with even more hunger than before, and Frenchie almost laughs because this shit really is easy in more ways than one. Is he good at this, actually? Is it really just the same as anything else, this kind of performance? “He’s done everything else to Izzy,” he can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, “he’s never fucked him.” He tilts his head to the side and looks at Stede as he undoes his trousers, sliding them down to his thighs. Raises his eyebrows at him, grins a bit wider. “Do you wish you had, knowing you’d be doing something even Blackbeard hadn’t?”
Of fucking course he does. As if Frenchie would let him. As if he’d ever.
“Oh, God,” Stede whispers, almost whimpers.
Stede’s gaze locks on his as Frenchie pushes his pants further down – his own cock bobs free, bounces a little, and Stede glances at it before he looks back to Frenchie’s face. Frenchie sinks inside Izzy all the way and he’s so fucking tight and hot and God, but it’s good. It’s good on its own merits, good to fuck Izzy over a surface like this, over a desk, but also, the fact that Stede is watching—
“He’d have let you,” Frenchie tells him – again, because he can. Again, to see the slight slackening of Stede’s jaw, the way his head tips forward as he realises that not only did he want to, not only could he have, but Izzy would have let him, would have almost invited it, as much as Izzy can invite stuff, once his brain’s shut down a little bit. “But I wouldn’t,” Frenchie says softly, grins when Stede’s expression tightens a bit, showing him the carrot and then pulling it away, “I’ll just let you watch.”
He grips Izzy’s hips and doesn’t thrust forward, but instead pulls Izzy back onto his cock, using the position he’s braced in, and Izzy lets out a low, desperate howl of noise at the way he’s being fucked, the way he’s being used, as Stede watches, powerless.
Frenchie’s surprised at how easy it is to concentrate on two things at once, to keep dragging Izzy down onto him and feel him grip tight around him, feel the wet drag of his walls around Frenchie’s prick. He wishes he could see it from Stede’s angle right about now, watches Izzy scrabble and grab at the desk and whine, and fuck, has he ever been as loud as he’s being right now?
He's always so quiet when they fuck, when Frenchie fucks him, grinds him into the bed or pulls Izzy to bounce on his prick – always quiet, bitten-back grunts and softer, lower noises, muttered phrases and curses.
Now?
The sounds are earth-shattering, ringing in Frenchie’s ears, and maybe he’d be jealous that Stede gets to hear them first time, except that Frenchie’s the one conducting the fucking music of it, controlling it, and it’s worth it.
“You wish this was you, Cap?” Frenchie asks, and Stede stares at him, somewhere between aghast and again indignant. “Wish it was you in my place?”
“Seems like I don’t have to wish,” Stede manages to bite out – he finally takes a step forward, off of the single board he’s been standing on. “Seems like Izzy here would let me.”
“He would have,” Frenchie agrees. “Things have changed now.”
He keeps one hand on Izzy’s hip and with the other he reaches forward, grips Izzy’s chin loosely underneath and then forces his head up – the different angle means Frenchie can’t pull back as much to thrust in him, has to stay deeper, but Izzy whines from deeper in his throat now, each sound coming out quavering and tremulous. His eyes are watering.
“Do you want him to fuck you, Iz?” Frenchie asks, Izzy’s head forced to turn slightly so that Frenchie can meet his gaze, and he sees Izzy’s eyes widen, sees his lip quiver. “No wrong answers here, babe – you want Stede to fuck you too?”
Izzy shakes his head, the tiniest motion, and Stede, who’d been stepping forward, freezes mid-step.
“You sure?” Frenchie asks. “Seems like he’s got a pretty big dick – you don’t want to see if he knows how to use it?”
Izzy laughs, breathlessly, still with a hint of a whimper in it. Shakes his head again, slightly more of an increment now.
“No, he doesn’t deserve it, does he?” Frenchie asks softly. “He doesn’t get to fuck you just because he’s the captain – I’ve got you covered there, right?”
Izzy’s lips tremble.
“You want to watch him?” Frenchie asks.
Izzy’s lips, still trembling, part to show his teeth. His eyes shift to Stede.
“You aren’t going to ask what I want?” Stede asks.
“I know what you want,” Frenchie says, “and I don’t care. I care what he wants.”
Izzy’s hole clenches around him, his cock jumping underneath them both, and Frenchie has to concentrate not to just fucking come right there, gripping tighter at Izzy.
“And what he wants,” Frenchie murmurs, stroking his thumb against Izzy’s cheek before he releases the other man’s jaw, “is to watch you touch yourself. Sit down, Cap. Take a load off. Let him see you.”
“See me?” Stede repeats, and he hesitates, but he slowly pulls a chair closer, sinks down into it. His hands are trembling as he goes for the fastenings of his own trousers, and Frenchie could totally help the low whistle that comes out of him, but he doesn’t bother.
Stede’s pink all over as he gets his dick out, and God, Stede might be a dick himself, but his really is pretty nice – it’s big and curved and thick and has a blunt head. Frenchie kind of wishes Izzy was into it, that Frenchie could watch Izzy sink down onto it – if Stede could be normal about it, which Frenchie doesn’t know that he could.
Stede’s pants are around his thighs and his hands hover over the folded fabric, and Izzy grunts as Frenchie starts to pull Izzy back onto his cock again, bounce him back in place.
“Come on, Bonnet,” Izzy says, his voice hoarse as ever, but a little wet, and with the slightest keen to it. Frenchie feels fucking dizzy once again, and God, it’s good. “Put on a fucking show for us. Return the favour.”
Stede’s hand raises, trembles.
“Never put a fucking hand on that thing before, Bonnet?” asks Izzy, and Frenchie swallows as he grips Izzy’s hips tighter, because there’s something about Stede’s expression, the twist to it, the wrinkle of his nose, that implies, maybe…
“Want me to talk you through it, Cap?” Frenchie asks quietly. “Put your hand around your cock – that’s it. Grip it. A little bit tighter. Stroke yourself at the same time as I pull Izzy back on me – imagine what it would be like, if he let you fuck him. If he actually wanted you to – maybe if you begged him.”
Izzy gasps at the same time Stede breathlessly whines, his eyes looking like they’re about to fucking cross, and his hand stutters on his dick before he grips hold of it again. His thighs are spread wide, the muscles in them shifting, and it occurs to Frenchie that he’s never going to think of Stede Bonnet without thinking of him like this again, breathlessly palming his cock because he wants to fuck Izzy Hands, and he can’t – because Izzy said no.
So Frenchie won’t let him.
He doesn’t mean to slam home as hard as he does, but it makes Izzy groan into his hands, which have bite marks all over them – indentations from Izzy’s teeth into the backs of his hands, his wrists, all that and he’s still so fucking noisy.
“Frenchie,” Izzy whines, and Frenchie looks to Stede’s expression, the desperation in it as he fists himself faster, harder.
“What, sweetheart?” Frenchie asks, his voice coming out kind of mocking, kind of condescending, and he feels bad, except then Izzy convulses under him, arching his back. “You want me to keep talking?”
Izzy nods feverishly, and Frenchie can’t help but laugh - it makes both Izzy and Stede jump. Stede’s thighs spread wider: so do Izzy’s.
“See that, Cap?” Frenchie asks. “He knows he can ask me for what he needs, what he wants he knows I can give it to him. If he wanted someone to fuck him clumsy and hard, selfish as Hell, not knowing what the fuck they’re doing, then maybe he’d ask for you.” Izzy heaves in a breath, shocking – Stede lets out a babbling, breathless noise, and Frenchie says sharply, “Speed up, Stede. Same pace as me, come on.”
Stede’s hand is a blur around his cock as Frenchie fucks Izzy harder, and Izzy is whimpering constantly now, his hands not even gripping at the desktop, just kind of palming at it. Frenchie’s fucking hammering into him, doesn’t think he’s ever fucked anybody so hard – his own thighs are twinging a bit, soaked in sweat under the clothes he can’t believe they’re all still wearing.
“Imagine what it’s like,” Frenchie says. “I mean, Cap, I can tell you – Izzy’s so fucking tight, so wet. Whenever you call him a slut or shove him the right way, bite him the right way, his hole clenches around you – he loves it. Loves me anyway.”
Izzy yelps, and that’s the only warning Frenchie gets before he’s coming and fuck but he’s a vice grip around him, and Frenchie tries to school his breathing as he keeps thrusting into him, feels the almost painful tightness of Izzy’s hole as he bears down.
“Let me see it, Bonnet,” Izzy growls, and Frenchie doesn’t know what it is that gets him over – if it’s Izzy tightening, if it’s the fact that he and Izzy have basically taken the leash Frenchie’s put around his neck and used it on Stede together, if it’s the way Stede’s whole body bows as he comes and white ropes cover his chest, spatter up onto his own chin, his face—
Frenchie’s coming hard, and he covers Izzy’s body with his own as he rides it through, moaning quietly against the back of his neck, feels him.
“Fuck,” he says against the back of Izzy’s head. He doesn’t know how many seconds have passed.
“Fuck,” Izzy agrees, blearily raising his head, and they both look to Stede, who’s sprawled back in his seat and covered in his own come, soaked with sweat, looking a little shell-shocked. “Bonnet. Bonnet, are you with us?”
“It really is… something, isn’t it?” he asks in a small, almost dreamy voice, touching the side of his own neck – Frenchie hadn’t really looked before even though he’d heard Izzy mention them, but with Stede’s neckerchief pulled off and his sweat-soaked shirt pulled to the side, he’s got hickeys all fucking over his neck. “Sex, it’s really… It really is…” He laughs faintly, and Frenchie’s actually concerned for a second that they’ve cracked him and made him like, actually crazy.
“It really is,” Izzy agrees. “There’s a whole world out there, Bonnet. Your tumble with Eddie last night can be the first of many to come.”
Frenchie pulls back, sliding his thumb over Izzy’s open hole and tracing around it where it’s red and slick and open, and Izzy shudders, tipping his head forward into the desk.
“You’ve never…?” Stede starts. “You and Ed?”
“No,” Izzy says.
Stede looks at him, and Frenchie wrinkles his nose. “Me neither.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Stede says, looking at Izzy as he sits forward, tucking his cock away. “Israel, I would never… It never even occurred to me, I promise you, I was only—”
“It’s fine,” Izzy says, standing up and pulling his trousers up, fastening them.
“But I—”
“Shut up, Bonnet,” Izzy says, and Frenchie touches his lower back, doesn’t flinch when Izzy does, whipping to look at him. Izzy looks him up and down, his expression guarded, but then one of his hands touches Frenchie’s chest, barely ghosts over it. “You want a trophy, you said?”
“I want to make my stamp on the world,” Stede says. “I want to take a prize no one would ever believe of me – if we need a fleet to do that, so be it. I’ll coordinate the three vessels.”
Izzy looks at him sidelong, his hand still lingering on Frenchie’s chest, and Stede actually falters.
“Er,” he says. “If you think I…?”
“I think you can,” Izzy says, and unlocks the door, his hand sliding to hold Frenchie’s as they step out into the corridor. “Clean up this mess, Bonnet. Hardly becoming of the fiercest pirate captain on the high seas.”
He tugs the door shut and Frenchie can’t help it, shoves Izzy back up against it and kisses him as hard as he dares and Izzy moans and lets him, goes loose and easy and leans into Frenchie’s hands as Frenchie grabs and pulls at him, kisses him, bites into his mouth.
“Fucking— Again?” Izzy demands breathlessly, laughing as he asks, and Frenchie definitely can’t get hard again that fast, but he thinks about it, thinks about laying Izzy out and fingering him, sucking him off, maybe. How long would he have to, until Izzy could come again?
Would he cry?
The wave of arousal that hits him is as powerful as any he’s gotten so far tonight, but fuck, the way it makes his balls tighten and twitch, the way his spent cock jumps like a corpse trying to come back to life, the way his heart skips a beat, it’s—
“I think you could kill me, you know,” he says, sounding dizzy to his own ears. “Like— Izzy, I actually think I could die of just, how fucking hot you make me.”
Izzy laughs, head tipped back against the wood of the door where right now, Stede Bonnet is in there, probably cleaning up all three of their come, fuck, and then says, “Do you know, lad, I was just thinking something similar not even an hour ago?”
“I’m going to make you come again,” Frenchie tells him seriously, their noses together, and it comes out more threatening than he intended, meaner – he actually sees Izzy’s pupils dilate, feels his breath change.
“Okay,” Izzy whispers, and Frenchie might not be able to carry him, but he can still drag him down the corridor to fuck the old man in his own bed.