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The prisoner didn’t stand a chance. Not against the likes of the Kraken. Edward barely had to lay a finger on him before he was blubbering about the shipping lanes of the luxury merchant liners, even down to their captains’ names and size of the vessels. All Edward needs – all he’s ever needed – were a few choice words about what joints he’d break, what skin he’d take his time flaying from the man’s body, what limbs he’d remove if he so felt the fancy. Israel Hands watches in contentment, smug in his pride of witnessing his captain finally find himself again.
It had been far too long since he’d seen the proper likes of his captain.
When they’re done with the interrogation, Izzy thinks they should throw the man into the sea. Edward thinks differently; he decides to release him to let the man tell stories of what he saw here today. That Blackbeard was no more. That the Kraken had taken his place, forever and always. They’d catch up on the ships far before he could return to the nearest port and warn anybody of their impending attack. And so, they let him go. A successful day indeed.
More tired than he’d care to admit, Izzy retires to his quarters as soon as the sun sinks fully below the horizon, first ensuring that Jim and Frenchie are securely locked away in theirs. He undresses and sinks into his cot and stares out the window. The more he lays still, the more restless he becomes.
When the moon is suspended high over the ink-black sky, Izzy tosses and turns in his bed, unable to sleep for what’s now the third night in a row. Despite the success of the day, his body vibrates in anticipation. He stares at the empty ceiling, the pain in his foot throbbing dully beneath thin blankets. He can’t seem to get comfortable no matter how much he tosses and turns. He has to be careful where he positions his foot; even bandaged, one wrong twitch could send a roaring lance of pain up his leg, leaving him immobile with pain for nearly fifteen minutes. But the pain in his foot has little to do with why he can’t sleep.
Izzy can’t sleep because he knows he’s expecting a visitor.
The first time Edward ever came to his bed, there had been enough pain and blood to fill his dreams for weeks to come. In his daze, he understood the man that Blackbeard used to be had returned with a vengeance, and that Izzy would no longer have to chase the man that was once his beloved captain. He had returned with all the ferocity Izzy had once adored, and Izzy had felt every last bit of it. He’d never walk right again; that was the price he had to pay.
But now, when Edward comes into his room, he does nothing. There’s no glint of a knife’s blade, no growling threats or hands around Izzy’s throat. He simply stands in Izzy’s doorway, watching him. Threatening him, probably; letting him know that he’s watching him, still, even if he intends no harm. It chills Izzy to the bone, sending blood rushing to all the wrong places in his body, knowing he’s being watched by Edward’s calculating eyes. It shouldn’t thrill him as it does.
Like before, Izzy tries not to wait for the familiar creak of his bedroom door and tries not to anticipate the light creeping into his dark bedroom when Edward inevitably steps inside. They’re closing in on a merchant ship and he needs to be ready, though he’d be of little use, considering he still can’t walk without a cane, and may never be able to again.
Like a whispered promise making its way through a crowd, Edward finally appears nearly an hour later. Izzy pushes himself upright in bed as he watches his bedroom door creak open, and Edward’s form steps into his room. He’s cloaked in shadow, a black haze in the night, and Izzy can’t see his face. Edward slowly steps inside in a slow, calculated stride, and sits at the edge of Izzy’s bed. Edward doesn’t face him; instead, he stares at the door, as though waiting for something that would never return. And Izzy has long since stopped whispering his name in the night; Edward doesn’t answer him. He just sits in silence, watching the shadows of his lantern dance across the wall, and waits.
And Izzy, who’s been waiting his entire life, does nothing at all.
As he does every day, Edward seems oblivious to the nervous glances Izzy casts his way. He doesn’t even do that thing he does when Izzy knows he’s lying to himself, that twitch of his mouth and the way his eyes just barely glaze over. Day after day, not even a single look, not a word about his odd behavior. He appears to have utterly forgotten. So Izzy tries to forget about it, too. He takes his place at Edward’s side, the breeze stirring their hair as they chase the horizon, and Edward mutters to himself under his breath – something about the vast, neverending stretch of water. Izzy doesn’t question it. He barks at Jim to ready the cannons instead; they’re closing in on a luxury merchant ship, a ship Izzy hadn’t wanted to bother with until Edward insisted. Ships like this don’t often hold any sustenance; they’re known for selling wine by the barrel and delicacies for people of Stede Bonnet’s ilk. At best, they could barter off a barrel of wine or two on the mainland, but Izzy doesn’t suspect anything they’d plunder would last more than two weeks at most.
But Edward insists. And as ever, Izzy follows his every move.
Quickly, they close in on the ship, and like every ship they’ve ever plundered before, their fearful shouts begin as soon as they see the Kraken’s flag flying high over the Revenge looming above the ship. Izzy has always been skeptical about the presence of omens (black cats don’t bring bad luck, Izzy knows, he gets enough of that without any sodding animals on board). But the presence of the Kraken’s flag and the fear it strikes in the hearts of lesser men – that’s something Izzy can believe in.
Being crippled in his left foot, Izzy cannot partake in the fighting the same way that he used to. Standing with a cane isn’t as painful as it once was, but he still walks with a limp and will for the rest of his life. Instead, he watches as their crew swings aboard the ship, swords clashing and guns firing as Izzy closes in behind, knowing he’s skilled enough to defend himself even with full use of only one foot, even if he can no longer man the front lines. He takes up the rear of their assault on deck, slashing through two terrified sailors who dare draw their guns, and quickly shoots a third.
Edward, on the other hand, moves like a dancer. If Izzy’s duties did not compel him to take part in the slaughter, he would content himself with sitting back and watching as Edward cuts through sailors as easily as a knife glides through a wedge of butter. Even in the throes of his irritable mood, killing is nothing short of art for him. Izzy is as fascinated as he is terrified by the ease with which he quickly takes another man’s life. Then another. Then another. He’s silent as he does it, cutting through flesh and skin like it’s second nature, as ifhe hadn’t spent most of his life carefully avoiding death like it’s a witch’s poison.
It’s a quick raid, and the men – Italian merchants, babbling fearfully on their knees as Edward executes the captain for surly behavior – are cowards. It’s almost too easy. The ship itself is no bigger than The Revenge, though much more practical than Stede Bonnet’s nightmare of a vessel, and stocked to the brim. Down in the cargo hold, they find several dozen crates filled with pickled fruits, vegetables, and meats – and a variety of wine Izzy’s never heard of. Much to his surprise, t’s enough to keep them fed for months, far more than he expected from a sodding luxury vessel. Predictably, Edward goes straight for the crates of wine while Izzy, Frenchie, Jim, Ivan, and Fang go for the rest of the food and supplies.
They leave the vessel to burn, allowing just enough men to live to tell the tale that the sea belongs to the Kraken. With a satisfied nod, they sail back to their ship, watching the flames crawl high in the sky. Izzy watches Edward with soft awe and pride, unable to take his eyes off of him even when Edward is careful to turn away. He’s not Blackbeard anymore, Izzy thinks to himself – he’s something better. Something far more commanding and powerful than he’s ever been before. It terrifies him as much as it fascinates him, and the urge to crawl inside Edward’s skin and never return only grows stronger by the day.
Izzy tries not to think about it.
All in all, it’s a highly successful raid, one that Edward finds worth celebrating once they’re back aboard The Revenge. Even Frenchie and Jim hesitantly accept the mugs of wine Edward fills nearly to the brim above deck, taking careful sips, before declining to drink anymore. Smart, they are – drinking just enough to satisfy Edward’s insistent need for company and waiting ‘till he’s drunk enough to excuse themselves without him making a fuss. Izzy doesn’t insist that they stay; he doesn’t give orders anymore, not unless they come right from Edward himself.
They’re sitting across from a small, wooden table on two, rickety stools with several bottles of wine on the table between them. It’s small enough that Edward can reach across and grab his shoulder and laugh over nothing in particular. The touch lingers when Edward removes his hand, like his skin is searching for the familiar sensation.
But as Edward finishes off an entire bottle on his own, Izzy has a sinking suspicion that this isn’t going to be a celebratory drinking night. Edward can outdrink the likes of any pirate Izzy’s ever seen, even Calico Jack, but the wine is making him tipsy far too fast. Izzy has a feeling he’s not going to enjoy tending to this particular mood of his, and he doesn’t want to, either.
“I’m going to bed, Edward,” Izzy mutters, taking a careful sip before placing the mug back onto the deck floor. “And I think you should, too.”
Edward grins. Slowly, he leans forward until his face is inches from Izzy’s, and Izzy has to suppress a shudder. “Izzy,” that low, rumbling voice purrs practically right against his ear. “Stay. Don’t bug out so soon on me.”
Izzy closes his eyes with a shuddering sigh. He’s told Edward, time and time again, that he can’t drink a lot of wine. Wine makes him tired, and red Italian merchant wine as strong as this makes him loopy after only a single glass. It’s like a fucking shot of laudanum right to his veins. But it’s been a while since Izzy allowed himself the luxury of a good drink, and Edward’s smug smile is doing all sorts of things to him that it shouldn’t be.
Izzy settles for one glass tonight.
“We’re celebrating, aren’t we?” Edward asks, sloppily raising his mug that he’d filled with another half a glass. “Success. Renewal. No more rich, foppy, prissy twats running our lives aground.”
Izzy closes his eyes. Of course, this is about Stede. The man Izzy had hoped he’d never have to think about ever again.
“It’s worth celebrating,” Izzy sighs and takes another long drink before raising his glass. “But I have no desire to wake up hungover tomorrow.” He pauses and raises his glass. “To the death of Stede Bonnet.”
Something dark flashes across Edward’s vision, and for a long moment, he says nothing at all. It’s the first time anyone’s mentioned Bonnet’s death since word of it reached the high seas. He wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake.
Edward raises his glass again and clinks it against Izzy’s. Crisis averted, for now.
“To the death of Stede Bonnet,” Edward murmurs darkly. “The worst fuckin’ pirate the world has ever seen.
A-fuckin’-men to that.
Once they wrap up for the night, Izzy lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to keep Edward off his mind. Thoughts of him spread like a merciless plague through his consciousness, sitting just at the forefront of his brain in ways he’d never been before. Since Stede Bonnet’s departure from their life – and news of his death that quickly followed – it’s as though Edward lingers only just out of Izzy’s reach, unable to ever fully be his. But the possibility remains, and that’s what drives Izzy to the brink of insanity. Izzy imagines himself touching him, a brush of his fingertips against his leather jacket, daring to find a small expanse of skin. Searching for warmth.
Izzy throws an arm over his eyes and groans out loud in the silent dark. In the throes of his self-pity, a torrent of insults directed at himself hover just at the tip of his tongue until he hears the familiar creak of his door being pushed open again and a shadow hovering in the doorway. Izzy hadn’t dared to believe Edward would come to his bed again. He’d told himself that it’d been a drunken mistake, perhaps Edward had gotten himself trashed enough to make him believe it had been his own room he’d stumbled into the night before.
But nevertheless, he’s here, now. And like before, Izzy goes completely still in his bed, hardly daring to move a muscle as the quiet shadow creeps into his room, his footsteps making the faintest of sounds against the wooden-plank floor. Like before, he sits at the edge of Izzy’s bed, motionless in the dark, nothing but a silent shadow.
Except this time, Edward moves. Izzy draws in a shaky breath, his fists balling into the sheets as Edward begins to climb over him. Izzy hears the slide of his skin over the blankets as he straddles his waist, leaning down until he’s mere inches from Izzy’s face. His hair hangs in a thin curtain around them, his breath ghosting against Izzy’s mouth, their lips only a hairsbreadth apart. Izzy doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t dare twitch a single muscle less he shatters what illusion he must be living in.
Edward doesn’t kiss him, and he doesn’t move. He hovers there, his hands planted on either side of Izzy’s shoulders, and the two of them breathe in the silence of the room together. No matter how badly Izzy wants to touch him, to stroke his hair and whisper his name, he doesn’t.
Time passes. Izzy doesn’t know how much or how little. It could be hours, for all he knows. Maybe mere seconds. But then, little by little, Edward pulls away. He slides back over the thin blanket, and it's only then that Izzy lifts his head to watch him climb off his cot and stand back up. Dazed, he watches as Edward turns his back and walks steadily out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
It’s not until Izzy’s frantic heartbeat finally slows in his chest that he can sleep, tossing and turning like the waves on the open sea.
Edward drinks a lot these days, and by virtue, so does Izzy. He swore he wouldn’t keep up with Edward’s alcohol habits – he refused to during the days they served with Calico Jack under Captain Hornigold – and yet, he finds himself turning to the bottle. Like most things in Edward’s life, drinking is a phase he comes in and out of, consuming bottles by the dozen each week and then going years without so much as touching a drop.
Usually, Izzy nurses these obsessions and treats them like the changing tides and currents of the raging sea. That’s what Edward is, after all – unpredictable and beautiful as the raging sea they call home. He’s long since given up trying to understand Edward’s idiosyncrasies, rather waits for them to pass until they can move on to their next big project. Alcohol is just a more recurring obsession Edward has a habit of falling back into.
They catch up to the next vessel in several days' time. This one’s just as easy as the rest, and just as stocked with frivolous goods. They take more wine, more cheese that Izzy thinks smells like it’s been left to rot, and some riches they could sell the next time they find land. Izzy stays on the upper deck, keeping the captain’s mouth shut with Jim and Frenchie, while Edward hurries down below, returning with – Izzy guessed it – more wine.
When the raid is done, Edward wants to celebrate. Again. This time, there’s something off about him that Izzy can’t quite place. Something that’s clearly shaken him, left him eager to lose himself in enough alcohol to put down a large jungle animal.
This time, Izzy indulges. Maybe it’s because Edward has been visiting his room at night. Maybe it’s because, for the first time, Izzy wonders if he has a chance. Perhaps it’s just his imagination, but he swears Edward’s been brushing against him more. His gaze lingering for longer. And so, despite himself, Izzy drinks. He drinks until they lose track of time, and Izzy almost doesn’t hear Edward muttering his name.
“‘Nother bottle, Izzy?” Edward hiccups. Izzy lifts his head, peering at Edward with a grimace. He lost count how much they’ve drunk, having sent Jim, Frenchie, and Fang off to their quarters so as to not be disturbed some hours ago. Izzy shakes his head.
“We’ve drunk enough, Edward.” His head spins. He hates this so much. All at once, he feels like an idiot for letting Edward convince him to turn into some drunken fool. This isn’t who Izzy is, and no amount of Edward’s attention is worth it. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
“Pshh, Izzy, you know that isn’t true.”
They’re quiet after that, leaving Izzy to watch Edward without needing to avert his gaze. The way Edward moves when he’s drunk is fascinating, to say the least. He isn’t like the typical stumbling, arrogant deckhand who insists upon pissing on every surface – and human being – that he lays eyes on. In the past, when Edward drank a little too much, he’d tell the most ridiculous stories known to man, his eyes wide and childlike in their eagerness, and he danced to music only he could hear, like a puppet being pulled to and fro on a single string. Izzy finds it as baffling as he does irritating, though he’s a sight to watch if nothing else.
Now, he sits with a hazy smile stretched across his face, shaking his head at every little thing like it’s all so fucking fascinating. He doesn’t even remember what they were talking about before silence overcame them both – something about teaching Jim how to use a proper sword instead of just knives. He’s drunk at least a quarter of a bottle now, and the ship feels like it’s moving faster than the sea’s gentle waves.
“Izzy, Izzy, Izzy,” Edward draws, repeating Izzy’s name like he enjoys nothing more than the taste of it on his tongue.
“Edward,” Izzy mumbles, briefly averting his gaze, “if there’s something that you want –”
Edward laughs, a wheezing, full-body sound that makes Izzy roll his eyes. “Izzy…I don’t want anything from you that you haven’t given me already.”
So it goes.
“Then stop saying my fuckin’ name, then,” Izzy huffs. He only half-means it. He’s too drunk to tend to Edward right now, and he doesn’t think he should try.
“You sound like you need a nap,” Edward chuckles.
“Well considerin’ that it’s fucking nighttime, maybe we should both go to bed. Like everyone else did.”
But Edward shakes his head. Heaving a small sigh, Izzy lets himself look at Edward again. He watches the easy way he crosses his legs as he sits back in his chair, lips closing over the bottle once more. He watches the way Edward’s tongue lingers on the lip of the bottle for a long moment as if savoring the taste of the wine-wet glass, and Izzy stirs involuntarily.
“Mmh, I’m not tired,” Edward says shortly, eyeing Izzy as he slides him the bottle again.
“Well, I am.” He doesn’t want to be here anymore. Edward uncrosses his legs and spreads them under the table, making Izzy grit his teeth. Like a teenager unable to control himself, he can feel the discomfort deep in his groin. This is why he doesn’t fucking drink. He can’t stop thinking about Edward’s mouth, and suddenly, he realizes he’s envious of the glass bottle Edward’s drinking from, having lost the need to use a glass. “Izzy?”
Izzy hadn’t realized he’d been staring straight at Edward’s groin the entire time. He snaps his head up, feeling a God-awful flush spread down his neck, and tries unsuccessfully to meet Edward’s eyes. “What?”
“Am I awful?”
Izzy blinks. “What?”
“Am I awful?”
What the fuck? Izzy blinks rapidly at the question, urging his brain to catch up, to provide some kind of answer to Edward’s question. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Edward shrugs. “Well, I’m not Blackbeard anymore, am I?” he asks. Izzy blinks again. “I’m something different. Is it bad?”
Izzy has no idea what the fuck the word ‘bad’ is supposed to mean, but he decides not to question it. “You are more yourself than you’ve ever been, sir.”
You’re something more beautiful than you’ve ever been. The Kraken – It sounds like the kind of name you hear in dark fairytales, whispered between children by candlelight. But Izzy is grateful for all that it represents; a return to their old lives. Normalcy. Edward is his again.
And the Kraken is powerful. Far more powerful than Blackbeard.
“Right,” Edward sighs. “Suppose that’s something, then. I think I’d rather be left alone, now. You’re dismissed.”
Dismissed as though this were a formal meeting or something. Izzy scowls. “I thought we were celebrating. Like friends. Hence all the fucking wine you’ve been insisting we drink over the past couple of days.”
“You’re dismissed, Izzy.”
All at once, Izzy is reminded of the dull, aching pain in his foot. The pain that would probably never go away.
Stupid, fucking Edward and his stupid, fucking depressive moods. At least, now, they feel more measured. Calmer, since they’d heard the news of Bonnet’s death. If Izzy’s honest with himself, Edward is calmer than he ever has been in his life. With that calm comes a measured, calculating side to his captain that Izzy hadn’t seen in years. His hands move with certainty, spreading out maps, cleaning his guns, careful fingers dancing across parchment with ease. Fingers that could wrap around Izzy’s throat in seconds until he’s gasping for air, unable to move.
The thought sends another lurch through his groin as he dizzily stumbles back to his quarters, the dull throb of his foot pulsing jolts of pain up his calf. At once, he’s relieved Edward dismissed him because he can’t stop thinking about his fucking hands – hands around his throat, hands expertly unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off his shoulders, carefully discarding his weapons until Izzy is bare and exposed. Sliding his trousers down his thighs and skirting over the leaking head of his cock.
This is why he doesn’t fucking drink. He slams the door to his quarters shut, sinks onto his cot, and wipes his hands down his face.
When he finally undresses himself down to his pants, he lays back and tries to ignore the spinning in his head. There were so many things he nearly said to Edward tonight; you seem happier, now. You seem calmer. You’re beautiful when you’re an angry bastard, you know that?
But the throbbing pain in his foot had kept his tongue still. He doesn’t want to lose another appendage and doesn’t really know what he wants from Edward other than those hands wrapped tightly around him – one around his prick, one around his throat. Izzy’s loose tongue would likely get him the latter, and quite possibly, a prick that would suddenly find itself detached from his body should Edward deem it appropriate.
He may be no stranger to the delights of pleasure and pain, but that's not an image Izzy cares to hold in his head any longer than necessary. Still, the idea of Edward’s hand around his throat (again) makes him stir uncomfortably on the bed, chasing away any thoughts of drifting off to sleep. The more he thinks about it, the harder it becomes to chase away, and the harder his heart begins to thud in his chest.
He’s on the wrong side of fifty to be getting hard when he’s drunk this much alcohol. He shouldn’t be able to. But the more his hazy thoughts wander, the more his hand twitches toward his crotch, and the more Izzy is tempted to let his mind wander to the violent, lovely things he knows, deep in his gut, excite him beyond anything else.
Violent, lovely things that all involve Edward Teach, of course. He calls himself the Kraken, nowadays, but to Izzy, he’ll always be Blackbeard. Firm, strong, headstrong Blackbeard with eyes deeper than the darkest trenches of the earth, strong arms, and a delectable mouth that Izzy could stare at for the rest of his days. The most fearsome pirate to ever command the seas who Izzy had been chosen to serve 'till his dying day.
He twitches uncomfortably in his underwear, and like that, Izzy knows he won’t be going back to bed unless he takes care of himself first. He’s just about to pull his pants down his legs when he hears footsteps outside his door. Izzy curses under his breath, eyeing the door with a harsh stare, all but daring someone to come in when he's preoccupied. He quickly pulls the blankets over his body when he begins to hear the door rattle.
“You know how to knock, don’t you?!” Izzy barks. Probably Fang or Ivan, no doubt, or maybe even Frenchie; can’t imagine that twat learned any proper privacy etiquette when he was on Stede Bonnet’s ship. “It’s the middle of the fuckin’ night, what do you want?”
There’s no answer. Instead, the doorknob turns and opens quickly, revealing a dark, outlined shape in the dim light of the candle lit in Izzy’s room. Silent as a tomb, the figure stands unmoving, cloaked in dark shadow, making it impossible to work out any facial features. But Izzy doesn't need to see the figure's face to know that it's unmistakably Edward. Izzy would know the shape of that body anywhere. Fumbling to compose himself, Izzy quickly sputters out an apology.
“I didn’t know it was you, sir, I’m sorry. Rattled off there for a bit, won’t happen again.”
He shifts under the blankets, suddenly anxious to know why Edward is here, all while praying he doesn't insist he get up at once. The last thing Edward needs to see is Izzy's exposed crotch, cock at half-mast. They'd seen each other naked before in the least intimate ways possible, but when it came to sexual matters, those were kept as separate as could be.
But why would he be here now? Surely Izzy hadn’t misspoken in a drunken stupor, and Edward is returning to feed him the rest of his toes? Or, even worse, surely Izzy hadn’t mistakenly moaned, his head loosened with wine, and Edward had heard?
But, if Edward intends to punish him, he doesn’t give any indication that he’s planning to do so. Instead, he takes a step inside Izzy’s quarters, silent as a tomb, as the door creaks shut behind him with a quiet thud that seems to vibrate over Izzy’s bones.
“Sir?” Izzy whispers hesitantly. He sits upright, making sure the blanket still covers his lap. “Is something the matter?”
Edward still doesn’t respond. In the bleak light of the room, Izzy can make out movement at Edward’s sides, like something slithering down his legs and across the floor. Izzy doesn’t believe what he sees at first, but as his eyes adjust to the low light, he can make out three, slithering tentacles making their way up to Izzy’s bed. They’re black as the night, no thicker than two of his fingers, and undoubtedly alive. Izzy’s eyes blow wide, and for a moment, he has the urge to shy away.
“You –” Izzy begins, but a hush from Edward makes him clamp his mouth shut.
“Save your breath,” Edward growls. “I’m a monster, aren’t I?”
Yes. The most beautiful fucking monster the world’s ever seen. But Izzy doesn’t say that. Instead, he croaks out, “You…you’ve changed.”
Surely, he must be imagining things. But when he blinks, the tentacles don’t disappear. Instead, they creep toward his bed, slithering up under the sheets, and begin to gently prod at Izzy’s thighs. His breath catches. He doesn’t dare move a single muscle.
“Sir?” he whispers again. But this time, Edward doesn’t answer. As one begins to stroke just below his navel, Izzy jerks back from the alien touch, but they’re warm, and achingly familiar, as though he can feel the touch of Edward’s hand in the strange appendages . They leave a trail of goosebumps up his legs when they touch him underneath his blanket, and Izzy is helpless to do anything but stare mutely down at the strange arms, then up at Edward again.
At once, Izzy understands; Edward had proclaimed himself to be the Kraken, and now, the Kraken he has become. Two more tentacles crawl from his back as Edward takes a careful step toward Izzy’s small bed, his face cloaked in shadow. Izzy trembles, utterly speechless save for a small gasp when one of the tendrils begins tugging at his pants.
“Edward, I don’t–”
“Ssshhh.”
The command is wordless, but it has the same effect on Izzy as though Edward had cut out his tongue. Whatever Izzy was going to say next is caught in his throat, and he quickly clamps his mouth shut. His pants are dragged down his thighs, down his knees, and past his feet before being quickly discarded on the floor. The tentacles are pulling softly enough that Izzy could easily kick them off and leap from his bed, but he doesn’t.
“Sir?” he whispers. “What is this?”
Edward says nothing. One by one, each of the five tendrils begins sliding over Izzy’s skin, shuffling the blanket aside to expose him to the warm air of his quarters. At some point, Edward had climbed onto Izzy’s bed and straddled his knees, watching the sleek, thick tendrils work over Izzy’s skin. They don’t touch his cock, but instead, touch around it, and Izzy moans helplessly as he watches in horrified fascination. He’s half-hard, his face flushing with arousal and fear, though his fear has no bearing on just how much he wishes they’d touch him more.
He’s never been so turned on – or so terrified – in his life. Every slick slide of the wet appendage over his thighs and hips feels better than the last, but with no explanation as to how this is possible, Izzy can only assume Edward is in full control of these things, content to watch his handiwork as Izzy is rendered helpless by the sheer anticipation of it all. Be it some insane magic or God-knows-what else, Izzy can only flicker his attention between the appendages and Edward kneeling over his legs. It’s undoubtedly intimate, Izzy knows that much. Like Edward had come to make every perverted fantasy Izzy had tucked away in the recesses of his mind come true.
“You’ve been dreaming of the Kraken, Izzy,” Edward finally rumbles. His voice is hardly the voice Izzy recognizes; instead, it sounds musical and ringing, like something unworldly is pulling the sound right out of Edward’s throat and into the air. He isn’t wrong. Dreams haunt Izzy’s sleep, night after night, with splashes of color that rarely make any sense. When they do, the colors form lines and images in the shape of Edward. Edward laughing on Hornigold’s old ship. Edward conquering an entire navy armada single-handedly. Edward in Izzy’s old childhood home. Edward in his bed. Edward visiting him each and every night, watching him, waiting until it’s time for him to make his move.
Izzy squirms where he sits as a tendril begins sliding over his nipple, making him bite down on his lip to keep back a strangled moan. Like the arms of a real giant squid, little suckers catch on his skin, leaving small pop sounds when they let go. It sends a flurry of goosebumps down Izzy’s ribcage, especially as one begins to curl around his throat. They remain just like that for a long moment, teasing the buds of his nipples until Izzy is gasping for air, slick enough that they never hurt too much when they drag mercilessly over his skin and pull.
Above him, Edward watches him. In the dark of the room, Izzy can barely see his face – he’s barely more than a shadow. But Izzy knows he’s waiting for him to tell him to stop, to writhe away from the alien touch, to beg him to leave – but he doesn’t. Izzy’s too far gone, his cock too eager for the attention all the sensitive spots on his throat are getting as the tentacle squeezes his windpipe. It’s humiliating that he’d take Edward like this when they both know Izzy would beg for far, far worse if it meant feeling Edward’s touch on his skin.
“Is this what you dream about?” Edward asks.
Izzy nods desperately. It’s all he knows how to do. “Yes. Yes, sir.”
“You’d take this? You’d take all of me? No matter what it was?”
Izzy swallows thickly, his body trembling as the creeping appendage squeezes his throat tighter than before. “Yes,” he chokes out. “Anything.”
They lock eyes in the dark, and Edward’s irises glow. Izzy lets out a weak noise just as feather-light touches from the tendrils begin ghosting up his thighs, making him shiver violently where he sits. He knows, now, that he doesn’t need to ask what this is. Edward is the Kraken, and the Kraken takes what it wants without mercy.
Izzy has never asked him for mercy. Never wanted it, either. The Kraken would find no resistance with Izzy, tonight. It feels too good, like a blessing bestowed upon Israel Hands that his body should be subject to such violent, alien pleasure at the hands of Blackbeard’s true form. Carefully, the tentacle around his throat unwinds itself, leaving a swath of tiny bruises around Izzy’s throat where the blood rose against the skin.
Izzy won’t beg, no matter how tempting it is for Edward to touch his cock already. But his body is wound tighter than a spring, shaking harder than the storm-tossed waves near the eye of a storm. His fingers grope the sheets, and when Edward finally leans down to press a fierce kiss to Izzy’s mouth, they plunge through Edward’s long hair, clinging to him as though afraid Izzy might drown from the sheer hunger for his touch. His mouth is gaping and raw, and when he begins to mouth at the tiny bruises along Izzy’s throat, he lets out a whine. Only when Edward pulls away, leaving his throat sensitive and tingling, does Izzy have the sense to try and understand what he’s seeing.
“Edward,” he grunts hoarsely. “You–what happened to you?”
“Everything you wanted,” Edward hisses. He shoves Izzy down, and the tendrils around his thighs grab his hips to turn him around, propping him up on his hands and knees. Fully on display, Izzy has never felt more vulnerable, more exposed than he’s felt right here, and the thrill it sends up his spine goes straight to his cock. He’s achingly hard now, and the slick appendages haven’t even so much as brushed over his cock. He’s that desperate – maybe he always has been this way. Eager to take anything Edward could ever dream to give him, no matter what. He could string him up and suck him off in front of the crew and Izzy would beg him to do it all over again the minute he was done.
He’s always known he’s wanted Edward, no matter how much he wished that he didn’t. He’s always wanted all of Edward’s darkness, all of his hell, everything his strong hands are capable of. But Izzy never imagined wanting him quite like this, wanting this inhuman touch like he’d die without it.
Finally, a tendril begins tugging at his balls as the other two slide under his body to give his nipples a sharp pull. Izzy gasps, fingers twisting through the sheets as his hips involuntarily rock into the air. “God,” Izzy gasps, but even still, he doesn’t beg.
“Be quiet now,” Edward murmurs. “If you aren’t gonna be a good boy for me, I can’t possibly give you what you want.”
“Yes,” Izzy breathes. “Yes. I understand.”
“Of course, you do. What would you be if you didn’t?”
If he plans to tease him to the point of desperation, it’s working. Edward has always been a master at illusion and manipulation, and in the good old days, his brutality never failed to match his neverending wit. But now, the brutal tenderness the alien appendages are showing Izzy’s body is enough to drive him mad. They slip and slide over his hot skin, making him shiver with goosebumps as they drag across his ribs. They circle around his cock, prodding and caressing his balls without touching him where he needs it. One teases around the edge of his lips, and Izzy’s mouth drops open, his tongue twitching to taste whatever Edward has to give him.
But even still, Izzy remains quiet. Finally, one tendril pushes past his lips and enters his mouth, and like a man dying of thirst, Izzy sucks at the tip of it with greedy, muffled moans. It tastes of nothing, and Izzy doesn’t care – it’s Edward, and Edward deems Izzy worthy of putting himself in Izzy’s mouth. In utter rapture, Izzy nearly gags trying to suck it down his throat, and drool begins leaking out of the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, Izzy,” Edward croons. “Look at you. That’s a good boy, innit? Let’s take care of you, now.”
Izzy could cry. He’s not sure that he isn’t crying already, he’s so overwhelmed. At last, a thick, inky tentacle wraps itself around Izzy’s cock, winding in slow, wet spirals until Izzy moans loudly in the quiet of the room, sending a silent prayer to a God long forgotten that he doesn’t come within seconds of being touched. He lurches forward, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his ears ring with a sudden onslaught of violent pleasure. Izzy hadn’t realized before that the tendrils are much like the arms of a squid – now, little suckers catch on his foreskin, tugging and pulling, and Izzy whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut.
Bowed over the mattress, the tentacle winds thickly around his cock, from his balls up to the tip, and begins to wriggle, forcing a choked noise from Izzy’s throat. His head goes limp, mussed hair brushing against the pillow as Izzy desperately thrusts into the pooling heat. It’s silent in the room for a long moment, save for Izzy’s ragged breathing and the slick, wet sounds of being jerked off by the appendage. Izzy tries to keep silent, tries with everything he has, but when he feels the relief of orgasm begin to creep into his limbs and the tentacle squeezes, Izzy can’t help but cry out.
“Oh, please, please, Edward. Please.”
The broken plea is muffled by the tentacle in his mouth, but Izzy doesn’t care. His hips jerk against the mattress when he feels one of the creeping tentacles tease at his rim, circling in slow, wet spirals until tears prick at Izzy’s eyes. It’s slow, agonizingly slow, as it pushes its way inside of him, flicking over his prostate with painfully light touches. Izzy’s arms give out, causing him to pitch forward in a half-sprawl on the mattress, but Edward only gives a low chuckle.
“I’ve got you,” he promises against his ear. The tendril slides out of Izzy’s mouth, leaving him empty, and he chokes out a broken sob.
“B-Blackbeard,” he whispers. “Please.”
“Sshhh…you don’t need to talk. What did I tell you? I’ve got you. Now be quiet. ”
Edward’s hand twists through Izzy’s hair and pushes his head down onto the bed with harsh force, and it’s all Izzy can do not to beg for it harder, rougher, more. The tendril in his arse begins to pump in and out of him at a brutal pace, thoroughly fucking him better than anything he’s ever felt in his life. His nipples are sore from the attention, but still, the tendrils pull and pinch and flick over the buds. Between his legs, the one wrapped tightly around his cock has him seeing stars – it pumps his pick at a pace just slow enough to keep an orgasm at bay, but quick enough to get Izzy rutting against the touch with an animalistic need.
“Fuck me, please, God,” he babbles. “I n-need–”
“I know what you need.”
“Edward. Sir. I’m–”
He’s coming all over the sheets in thick, white ropes, and it still doesn't end. He’s sensitive and raw and red and greedy for more, and his cock hurts from the overstimulation, but he’s chasing another orgasm as soon as the first one ends. His body aches, burns, and demands more, knowing that there’s no way he could possibly want anything else. Deliriously, he wonders if his body can possibly take much more, or if he’d simply break apart in Edward’s hands. His ears ring, his muscles wound tight as a sail, and yet, he’s as willing as he’s ever been. He wants to be his in every way that counts. In every way this dark fantasy can make possible. In every way Edward can hurt him, can love him, can break him apart, and make him whole.
Edward shows him no mercy, and Izzy wouldn’t dream of letting him do so.
As soon as he opens his mouth to talk, to beg Edward not to stop, a warm, rough hand clamps over his lips and Edward’s voice is low against his ear. “Would you give yourself to me?” he rumbles softly. The muffled moan against his palm is the closest Izzy can utter to yes. Surely, Edward knows this. Surely, Izzy’s done nothing but prove to him that he’d give himself to Edward however he wanted, in whatever way he wanted. He wouldn’t even have to ask. He’d never have to ask. Izzy is his in every way that matters, in every way that Edward could ever dream.
Trembling in his grip, the ink–black tentacles keep Izzy from squirming in place. Several are wrapped around his torso, with two pinning his wrist in place. Another two spread out his legs from behind, keeping him immobile. The tentacle softly curling into his ass is unbearably slow, too gentle to give Izzy any kind of relief a second time over. But it’s just enough to make him shudder with near-overstimulation, enough to make him clench his teeth and let out a moan that sounds more like a sob.
And still, Izzy can’t stop chanting: yes, yes, yes. Take what you want. All of me. All of me. He doesn’t know if he said any of it out loud, or if it was merely a silent plea in the recesses of his mind. Either way, he knows Edward can hear him. He knows Edward would always hear him.
“Be still, now.”
Izzy does as he’s told. His stomach clenches, forcing himself not to writhe into his touch, as Edward leans back and positions himself behind him, lining his cock up with a patience Izzy is sure will drive him mad. Edward is bigger than the tentacles, the girth wider, and much less soft. Whatever slick they left behind inside of him allows Edward to easily glide inside. A thick grunt punches out of Izzy’s throat as his fingers yank desperately at the sheets. Move, he wants to growl. But he knows better than to not hold his tongue in such a vulnerable position. He asked for this, begged for it, and now he’s going to take it however Edward wants.
Edward starts slow. Izzy’s body rocks with each thrust, moving like a wave at a near-perfect pace with Edward. Both of their ragged breathing fills the room, and Izzy’s head spins. He’s overstimulated, he wants more. He’s sore, he wants more. He loves every minute of knowing he’s something to be used, little more than a toy or a hired prostitute you fuck once and never see again. The tentacles holding his body firmly in place begin to move, pinching a nipple, ghosting over his spent cock, dragging gently down his thighs until goosebumps erupt over his skin. No part of his body goes untouched when Edward finally fists his hand through Izzy’s hair, yanking his head back when his thrusts begin to quicken in pace.
The gentle pain of it all will kill him, he knows. It’s already chased away his sanity, burned right through his senses, and left him this begging, drooling mess of a man he’d rather die than let anybody but Edward see.
“Harder, please,” he chokes out. He needs it like he needs the air rushing in and out of his chest like he needs the blood flowing to his cheeks and cock, turning both a brilliant red. “ Please .”
To his surprise, Edward complies. He begins to thrust faster, sending Izzy into a series of choked moans and senseless babbles. He’s almost entirely limp, now, and if not for the slippery appendages keeping him in place, if not for Edward’s rough hands through his hair, Izzy knows he’d be nothing more than a limp ragdoll on the small mattress. But he knows Edward wouldn’t let him fall – not unless he was there to catch him. Izzy would be useless to him, otherwise.
“God, look at you,” Edward breathes. “Fucking look at you. Can’t believe you’re all mine.”
The words rush over Izzy like a dirty, blasphemous prayer. He nods frantically, and, with Edward’s name on his lips, begs him to say it again.
“All mine,” Edward croons. “All. Fucking. Mine. ” He’s just about to finish, Izzy can feel it, his thick cock hardening inside him, the tentacles writhing and squeezing Izzy’s limbs, and Izzy might actually come with him. Because of him. Because Edward, a beautiful monster, worthy of nothing short of worship, chose him.
“Again,” Izzy babbles. “Again.”
“Mine. ”
Dear God, the glory of being his. The need to be his. The understanding that Izzy could never be whole if he didn’t belong to somebody else, if there was nobody there to catch him when he fell. He’d never admit that, of course. Never admit that need out loud to anybody, not even himself. He wants Edward inside him, wants his body to be owned by him completely, and for Edward to never let him forget it.
Edward’s tentacles push deep inside him, ghosting over his organs, slipping beneath his ribs. His body is nothing more than a vessel for Edward’s touch as he slips around the most vulnerable parts of his body. He feels the slick arms push up through his body until they find his lungs and begin gently crawling around the flesh. His breath tightens, his chest constricting, but even still, Izzy doesn’t tell him to stop.
“E-Edward.”
“You want to belong to me?” Edward whispers. “Then take it.”
“Please.”
Put something inside me. Let it grow. Let it be yours.
He thinks of those women who are heavy with child that he sometimes sees on the mainland, their stomachs hidden by flowing dresses. He thinks about the way they can have a part of their husband inside them, that the beautiful thing that would come later would be there forever. He’s always found it ridiculous, stupid, and outright foul – all while wrought with jealousy that it could never be him.
A hard thrust nearly sends him tumbling off balance, his fingers tightening through the fabric. He lets out a weak, muffled moan, feeling the slick, inky black arms slide up and down his lungs, like they’re testing his sensitivity there. Slowly, the tip of the tentacles thickens against his lungs, against the walls of his throat, tighter and tighter until Izzy’s head goes limp. Until something bursts inside and Izzy can no longer breathe. Spots form around his vision like stars dancing in the night, and Izzy thinks that if he dies here, he’d find nothing more beautiful, nothing more perfect. It’s in his chest, wriggling around his ribs, settling over his stomach, pushing and pushing until the pain becomes almost too much to bear.
Perfect, perfect.
The pain doesn’t stop. Edward’s thrusting doesn’t stop.
Don’t ever stop.
Something is breaking through. Snapping his bones.
Fucking perfect, he thinks deliriously. Fucking perfect.
The second Izzy feels Edward’s seed flood inside him, Izzy comes, too. It hurts – he’s too old for this much sex, for this much roughness after an orgasm, but biology be dammed, he comes. He comes from the feeling of Edward tightening his fist through his hair, comes from the soft moan he hears from Edward’s lips, comes from the pain and the writhing tentacles pinning his body in place from the inside. He comes with a sob of Edward’s name, an unholy prayer in the dark, that’s more a plea than anything else.
Just as Izzy feels the painful, agonizing bliss of relief, his chest bursts open, and in a fountain of blood and his own flesh, a monster crawls forth, reaching for the light. A child, Izzy thinks deliriously. A child. Their child, as beautiful and monstrous as the Kraken himself. A child that would bind them together for as long as they’d live, an unspoken promise that they would never leave one another’s side. Izzy smiles as his eyes roll into the back of his skull.
And then he’s falling. Edward’s hands disappear, and then his voice, then the weight on his chest. He scrambles to find his consciousness again, to cling to the child that they made together, but there’s nothing there. Izzy wants to scream, but he knows that if he does, nobody would hear him. He sinks into darkness, entirely alone, unable to feel anything but the heavy weight of his own limbs. As he sinks below, further and further, he begs for Edward to pull him ashore. But Edward doesn’t hear him, and likely never would.
Izzy’s eyes fly open with a start. The first thing he feels is his face against a damp pillow, soaked through with sweat and saliva. His heartbeat roars in his ears, frantic and desperate like a bird’s wings rattling in his chest. In a panic, he gropes at his torso with shaking hands – but no wound remains there. Nothing wriggling underneath. He’s whole.
For a long, long moment, revulsion overtakes him, for he thinks he’s going to vomit. He dry-heaves, his arms clutching at his midsection, but nothing comes up. Soon, his body stills, leaving Izzy numb – numb and entirely alone.
He pushes himself partially upright, grimacing at the ache in his groin and the stickiness in his pants. Every part of his body feels wet , disgustingly so, from sweat, semen, or drool. But, luckily, not from blood. He needs a wash, but it’s the middle of the night, and he’s too groggy to get up from bed, let alone clean himself. He peels off his pants and tosses them aside, shivering as the cool air dusts over his damp skin.
He sits on the edge of his cot, letting his face rest in his hands for a long moment as he breathes through the high the dream had sent him on. The pleasure that had morphed into something out of a nightmare – a nightmare he’d enjoyed. As he looks around him, he realizes he’d been rutting against the mattress through not one, but two orgasms, something he didn’t think was possible for a man of his age. Being unable to breathe would have been because his face was pressed against the pillow, and the feeling of Edward’s many hands all over his body…would have been his overactive imagination. An overactive imagination he’d worked so hard to shove down, store away, and never acknowledge.
He doesn’t want to think about what made him imagine the monstrous thing inside his chest. He’d do best to forget that as soon as possible. If he ever could.
Izzy shudders as he wipes his hands down his face, feeling his stomach finally begin to calm itself. He takes a shaky breath. He doesn’t care how late at night it is. He knows that he needs a wash and needs one now.
Luckily, they’d been anchored off the coast of the Jutland peninsula for the night, and dipping into the water would be quick and easy. At three in the morning, Izzy doubts anyone is awake to see him slip across the deck in only his pants, climb down the ladder, and slide beneath the gentle waves. The cold water chills him, and as he closes his eyes and lets himself hover beneath the water for a long moment, he can feel the traces of Edward his subconsciousness left on his skin wash away and trickle into the deep. The water cools him, renews him, and calms his frantic heartbeat into a steady lull. He wouldn’t be dying in Edward’s name today. Hopefully, not any day.
He comes up for air and lets himself tread water for a long moment, gazing up at the expanse of stars stretching across the endless black sky.
Edward isn’t his in the way Izzy wants most, and by God, he has to make peace with that, or these dreams would never end. A part of him understands that maybe the dreams don’t have to end – that he can make peace with the fact that Blackbeard would never be his in the way that he wants, but that he would never have to worry about losing him to some twat ever again. Stede Bonnet is dead, and his presence would never soil their lives the way that it did before. Izzy could be content with his dreams, with his fantasies of violence, with his desires, knowing that he’d never have to worry about Blackbeard running off with some other man, ruining all that they ever worked to build.
Perhaps Izzy can make peace with that.
Shaking his head wearily, he climbs back out of the water and dresses once he’s dry, giving one, last look at the sea with a quiet sigh. For a moment, he lets himself linger on the top deck, gazing out over the railing at the endless, inky-black sea.
“Do you ever sleep, mate?”
Izzy nearly jumps out of his skin. Quiet as a cat, Edward had managed to sneak up behind him without making a sound, leaving Izzy tense and on edge. He feels exposed, like Edward will understand in an instant why Izzy’s out here, in the dark, soaking wet under the pale light of the moon.
“I sleep just fine,” Izzy says quickly. “Just had a rough go of it tonight.”
Edward sighs. “Yeah. I get you.” Izzy watches as Edward leans his forearms against the railing beside Izzy and watches the waves, silent for a long moment. Like this, he looks so gentle – so soft, kind, and vulnerable in his sleep clothes. So unlike the man in his dreams who could pin Izzy to the mattress with so much as a single look.
“We should get to bed,” Izzy points out. “Long day ahead of us in a couple of hours.”
For a moment, Edward says nothing at all. He doesn’t even look at Izzy – he just stares straight ahead, silent as the night. Izzy isn’t sure how much longer he can stay in Edward’s presence like this – the guilty look on his face and the flush in his cheeks despite his hasty swim would certainly give him away. He pushes himself off the railing and begins to make his way back across the deck.
“I was just off to bed anyway, sir. I’ll see you in a couple of –”
“Bonnet’s alive.”
Izzy freezes where he stands.
“What?”
Edward, his back turned to him, doesn’t look at Izzy. “Bonnet’s alive,” he says again.
Izzy prays that he’s dreaming. He knows that he isn’t. Not this time.
“Sir, I – rumors spread, surely whoever you heard this from –”
“I saw him, Izzy. On the boat yesterday. He tried to talk to me, you know, down in the brig when I was going for the wine. I left him there. He said the ship was secretly his, that he was captaining it quietly to keep his identity a secret. Said he was using the name ‘Edwards.’”
“You talked to him?!”
“The hell else was I supposed to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe blow his sodding brains out?”
The Edward he knows wouldn’t just let Bonnet live. He wouldn’t. He’d take his knife and drive it right through Bonnet’s throat. He’d shoot him. He’d cut him into ribbons and throw the pieces out to sea. Izzy refuses to believe what he’s hearing is true. It can’t be. Bonnet is dead.
“He wasn’t real, Edward,” Izzy continues slowly. “What you saw was a lie.”
“Iz, I told you, I saw him with my own two eyes –”
“Then your eyes were playing tricks on you!” Izzy screams. “You’ve done nothing but drink your arse off for weeks and I’ve tolerated it just so I could –” He stops himself. Just so he could what? Do more than just dream about Edward touching him? He limps back across the deck, grabs Edward by the shoulders, and turns him around, forcing him back against the railing. He can feel his towel start to come loose, but he doesn’t care. “You’ve been drinking too much and seeing things that aren’t bloody real. Bonnet is dead . He’s gone from both our lives. He’s done. Finished! Whatever you think you saw, you didn’t see. He’s never. Coming. Back. And for your sake – for our sake, Edward – you better let him go.”
Izzy expects Edward to hit him. To grab him by his throat and throw him against the deck. To throw him overboard, maybe, or to cut off his other toe. The violence Izzy holds close to his heart, that he needs from Edward – it doesn’t come. Instead, Edward looks at him in pity, as though Izzy is the one to be pitied. As though Izzy is the one letting his whole life be ruined by one man.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Izzy?” he asks softly.
Izzy shakes his head. “No, I don’t. But if you’re seeing ghosts, Edward, I suggest you let them go.” Before we’re haunted ‘till the end of our days.
Edward easily shakes himself free of Izzy’s grasp and walks calmly across the deck and back to his quarters, leaving Izzy alone on the deck, lost in his own thoughts, and terrified to learn the answer. Edward doesn’t imagine things. Everything he’s ever believed in has been real, too real for Izzy’s liking, sometimes.
Izzy limps back to his bed, thinking about ghosts, Stede Bonnet, and dreams that would never be.