Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Deep shadows flicker over the wooden walls of a room only dimly lit by golden candlelight.

It feels like it should be familiar, but Ed isn’t quite sure where he is or how he got there. He blinks, once, twice, hoping to clear his vision and his mind. It doesn’t work. His eyes burn like he got smoke in them, and the room blurs behind a film of tears. Ed closes his eyes again. Keeping them open isn’t worth the effort. 

With his eyes closed, it’s easier to try and focus on the other sensations slowly bleeding into his consciousness.

He hears noises somewhere, voices, clatters, but they’re muffled. Far away, most likely. Ed can’t make out what’s being said. Probably doesn’t matter, either way. He’s lying on his bed on something soft—his bunk? Did he pass out drunk and someone dragged him down into the hull to sleep it off? 

His own bed doesn’t feel this soft, though. 

The only thing he’s certain of is that he’s still on the Ranger. The room sways beneath him, the familiar lull of the waves cradling him even here. They must have hit a storm, though. Instead of the gentle back-and-forth rocking he’s used to, the ship seems to almost… spin?

For a flash of clarity, Ed knows he should worry. Should be up on deck, helping his fellow crewmates to brave the storm, not down here, where he’d drown if the ship took a critical hit. 

He tries to sit up, but his body is heavy as if it’s being weighed down with an anchor. Somewhere on the surface of his drowsiness, Ed senses a lick of panic. He should be panicking. He’s in an unfamiliar room, immobile, his senses dulled—this is all less than ideal. There must be a way out of here, and Ed should be fighting to find it.

Instead, he stops moving. He’s never felt so tired in his life. There’s not much he could do in this state, after all. 

There’s a hand on him, he realises. On his shoulder, gently stroking him over the fabric of his shirt. It’s warm and heavy. Larger than his own hands. Larger than even Jack’s—and that reminds him, where the hell is Jack? Ed was with him, sharing a bottle of rum up on deck, before… 

Before what?

Before whatever happened that landed Ed here, wherever here is. Maybe Jack is still here? Ed tries to call his name, but his mouth refuses to cooperate. All he can muster up is a short, breathy “ah!”

The hand squeezes his shoulder firmly. 

“Oh, good. You are awake. I was beginning to worry I’d given you too much, dear.” A weathered, warm voice somewhere above his head. Ed knows the accent, but as he tries to place it, his memories slip out from under his fingers. 

Slowly, he forces his eyes open again. Like pulling teeth. It takes a moment to focus them on the face floating above him. Smoothed-back grey curls, a neat beard, eyes like spindrift. 

“Captain,” Ed wants to say, but his mouth feels like someone stuffed a fistful of hardtack in there. It comes out slurred, “capnnn…”

“Your captain is here, Edward. No need to worry your pretty little head about anything.”

Worry? Should Ed be worried about something? He can’t remember what he should worry about. He tries to look around, to figure out what might worry him. Even the small motion he manages is too much. Every tilt of his head feels like he’s pushing against resistance, like he’s deep underwater. The air in the room is wet and heavy.

Shit, is he drowning?

Something golden glints at the outskirts of Ed’s vision. If he moves only his eye, not his head, the nausea is mild enough to bear. There’s a desk by the far wall, stacked with papers and gilded nautical instruments. They catch the light, every flicker of candlelight dancing over them like the setting sun over the waves. Ed knows these instruments, if much less extravagant versions of them, has learned how to use them all. Hornigold taught him well, as he does all of the new conscripts, though most complain that his hands on their hips were distracting them from learning.

Ed’s in his captain’s cabin, then. Must be lying on his bed.

But why? Outside, the sun has long set, black clouds shrouding the stars from Ed’s vision. Now can’t be a good time for another lesson, with neither sun nor stars to guide them. 

“You’ve been indulging in that drink a bit too freely,” Hornigold chastises. “I thought you were smarter than that. You know I like my men sober and alert, prepared for all eventualities. Must be that dreadful Rackham you’re always running about with. The boy’s a terrible influence…”

Ed doesn’t know what he’s meant to say. He likes Jack, so part of him wants to defend him, but he knows better than to disagree with his captain. So he just nods. His eyes drift shut again, he notices, but that’s just as well—it’s too fucking exhausting to try and focus on anything. 

Hornigold taps his cheek. “Stay with me, dear boy.”

Ed sighs, but he obliges. Opens his eyes enough to see the man leaning over him. Eyes like the blade of a sword.

“There you are. You see, Edward, I always thought you were quite special. Such a quick mind, and your precision with a gun…” 

He traces Ed’s cheekbone with a single finger. It prickles. Ed wants to turn his head away, but he moves like his body is buried under wet sand. Too fucking slow. 

Hornigold tenderly touches his lips. “You have so much potential, Edward. It would be a shame to see all of it going to waste just because you’ve fallen in with a bad crowd, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head. From this angle, he looks almost like Ed’s dad did when he fell asleep drunk on the kitchen bench.

Ed shakes his head. He doesn’t want to waste his talent. He wants to—he’s not really sure what he wants, anymore. Not to disappoint his captain, maybe. Right now, he mostly just longs for sleep. 

“That’s what I thought,” Hornigold says, running his hand down Ed’s neck until he arrives at the loose collar of his shirt. “You see, I believe you were destined for something greater. I have a penchant for that—to predict who’s going to die in the next raid, who’s going to outlive me, and who’s going to earn their immortality.”

Immortality? Ed blinks at him. He must be dreaming, surely.

Hornigold laughs, a sound too deep and heated to be comforting. “Not of the sort you’re thinking, boy. Not of the body but of the reputation. You know what they say about death?”

Ed shakes his head. Too quick again, and the swirling feeling in his guts returns. 

“No man truly dies as long as his name is still spoken.” The bed creaks as Hornigold shifts again. A fingertip slips under the collar of Ed’s shirt. “You want that, don’t you? To live forever?”

“Uh,” Ed says. If he lives forever, does he get to sleep forever? 

“That’s what I thought. Boys like you, boys who are destined for greatness—they require a lot of special care and attention so they can grow into powerful men.” He hooks his finger into the collar of Ed’s shirt and pulls. Ed wishes he didn’t. “It’s awfully hot in here, isn’t it, darling? Wouldn’t it be more comfortable if we took this off?”

Ed tries to shake his head, to refuse as he’s done every time Hornigold propositioned him like this, but apparently, he can’t get the point across. He has to watch as Hornigold unbuttons Ed’s shirt all the way down, then pulls it open. 

He smiles down at Ed, like Ed’s done anything to deserve that. “There. That’s much better, isn’t it?”

Not really, Ed thinks, but he remains silent. 

Hornigold takes one of Ed’s small breasts into his hand. He’s so big, nearly a head taller than Ed when he stands, and twice as broad. The gigantic paw on Ed’s chest makes him feel tiny. Fragile. He doesn’t even have the space to flinch away when Hornigold roughly thumbs his nipple, callouses from more years of work than Ed’s been on this earth scraping over sensitive skin. Gooseflesh rises unbidden on his chest. Ed feels like he’s going to throw up for real this time. 

“Now, dear boy. You and Rackham have been indulging in the occasional smoke together, haven’t you?”

Despite everything, that knocks a giggle loose in Ed’s throat. “You weren’t…” His voice fails as Hornigold’s hand moves over to his other breast, squeezing painfully tight.”...not supposed to know,” he tacks on, strained. He doesn’t want to let on about the pain. 

“A good captain knows of everything that happens aboard his ship.” Hornigold glints down at him. “But I don’t mind, Edward. That means you already know how lovely it can be to unwind.”

Ed nods. His eyes suddenly focus, and it feels like being pulled out of a vivid dream. Hornigold’s not smiling anymore. Ed follows as he leans down the side of the bed to pick up a long, shiny black pipe. 

He helps Ed sit up a little—or rather, pulls Ed’s limp body up into a position mostly assisted by two pillows behind his back and head—and positions the mouthpiece of the pipe at Ed’s dry lips. The wood is warm and smoke rises from it, curls into the air in grey translucent tendrils that Ed instinctively pulls away from. Hornigold must have prepared the pipe earlier. Maybe took a couple drags from it as he did, though the idea of his captain smoking weed is so ill-fitted that he almost laughs again. 

Hornigold’s hand returns to rest on Ed’s cheek, turning his head for him so their eyes meet. “Go ahead, Edward, don’t be shy. You know how this is done.”

Ed’s not sure he has a choice in the matter. He doesn’t want to know what would happen if he refused. So he takes a deep breath from the pipe, Hornigold’s hand on his throat tracing the bob of it as he inhales the smoke. 

It’s not cannabis, Ed realises even in his stupor. 

Instead of the sweet, scratchy smoke he’s familiar with, this feels… sticky. Almost like inhaling water, and his body immediately fills with it. He sinks deeper into the mattress, his movements growing sluggish. 

Hornigold takes the pipe from him. Or maybe Ed dropped it?

“There’s a good boy. That ought to calm you right down.” Wood clatters on wood as Hornigold sets the pipe down somewhere Ed can’t see.

Then he’s next to Ed again, half on top of him, all over him, his rough paws running up and down Ed’s exposed torso. 

It feels nice, to be the centre of his captain’s attention. 

Ed wants to scream and cry and thrash, but he can’t bring his body to move. Everything is blurry, hazy, disappearing in the distance behind a screen of smoke. His mouth tastes like sand, and he has to fight sleep from overpowering him every time he blinks. 

Hornigold’s hand finally settles on the waist of his trousers. He tugs at the laces. Impatient, Ed thinks, the sort of thing he’d scold his boys for. 

“No,” Ed says, desperate, and this time he’s certain he said it out loud. 

The captain pays him no mind as he tugs Ed’s trousers down his stiff legs. “There. That’s a good boy. Like I said. Brave. Special. Now…” His finger traces up Ed’s thighs. If Ed could will himself to move, he’d clamp them shut. His body doesn’t respond, so he stays as he is; legs apart, laid out for the taking. Hornigold’s finger slips between his legs, over his slit, and comes away glistening wet.

Ed turns his face away, vertigo be damned. 

Something wet brushes over his cheekbone. “You’re going to be quiet and take what you’re given, aren’t you?”

Ed nods. What else is there for him to do?

His mind stays mercifully hazy as Hornigold shoves his legs further apart and drags him down the mattress. His head lolls to the side, and he tries to squirm away from the rough treatment, but Hornigold’s grip is like iron shackles around his ankles. Even under normal circumstances, he’s much stronger than Ed. But like this, whatever concoction he’s sent rushing through Ed’s system keeping him limp and docile, he can arrange Ed however he wants. This must be what a ragdoll feels like in the grip of a rowdy boy.

Hornigold crawls on top of Ed, then. He’s so heavy Ed swears his ribs creak under the weight. Finely spun cotton stretches over the slight swell of his gut and rubs over Ed’s exposed skin. Soft, Ed thinks. He’d want to bury his face in it, if not for—

Ed frantically shakes his head, even though he doesn’t expect Hornigold to react. It’s a reflex, almost. The movement wants out of him. Hornigold is so tall. So big. Could easily crush Ed, if that was what he wanted.

“Hey, now. None of that.” Hornigold’s hand caresses Ed’s face again, and Ed can’t find the energy to turn away. A thumb scrapes over his cheek, rough calluses over Ed’s perpetually sunburned skin, and comes away wet. Ed’s crying. Fucking embarrassing. He doesn’t want the captain to see him like this. 

Hornigold pats his cheek, too hard to be comforting. “Now, here’s a lesson for you, boy. Gifts are rarely given without an ulterior motive. Especially not to pretty things like you.”

Ed nods. Maybe, if Hornigold sees that he understands, that he’s willing to learn, he’ll leave Ed be. But the captain just licks his lips, reaches down his body to—Ed closes his eyes, but he can’t drown out the rustle and clink of Hornigold fumbling with his trousers. Ed bites his tongue, so hard his mouth fills with a metallic taste. 

Something thick and wet presses between Ed’s legs.

Everything else is numb and blurry, but Hornigold’s fat cock against his cunt cuts crystal clear through the haze. He slaps Ed’s cheek, and this time, it is a slap, unmistakably so. “Look at me when I talk to you, Edward.”

It’s a herculean effort to open his eyes just enough for Hornigold to be satisfied. Ed doesn’t want to see his face, so he tries to focus on the grain of the wooden planks above him. 

Hornigold tuts, but ultimately allows it. “And, darling? When a superior offers you a chance to do him a favour, you don’t cry and complain about it.”

Ed nods. I’m listening. Please don’t hurt me. Please make this stop. He’s not even crying anymore, too scared of making any wrong move. 

An icy cold rises behind Hornigold’s eyes, the sort of cold that burns your skin like fire. “You get to work, and then you thank him for the opportunity.”

And then he pushes in, and Ed thinks he’s going to be ripped apart. His traitorous cunt is wet, somehow, but it’s not nearly enough to make this anything close to pleasant. Hornigold is big, apparently, absurdly so, and even through the blissful haze of the drug every inch he forces inside Ed cuts like a knife. 

Ed follows a line in the woodgrain with his eyes, from one knothole to the next, but then his focus slips and he’s back in his body. He doesn’t want to cry again. He tries to just keep breathing, steady and even, but it’s almost too much of an effort. The air is thick with the scents of sweat, sex, and whatever sticky sweetness was in that pipe. Each inhale feels like drowning. 

After what feels like an eternity, Hornigold stops moving, and Ed can only hope that means he’s fully settled. “Well, darling, what do you say?” His voice is deep and gravelly.

Ed shudders. He can’t be fucking serious. 

Hornigold glares at him sharply, and Ed knows he has no chance. That look has made enemy captains give up their loot without any fight, and Ed is not the man any of them were.

“Thank you, sir,” he mumbles, the words unwieldy in his mouth. 

But Hornigold isn’t satisfied. “What are you thanking me for, boy?”

Ed wants to fucking fall asleep and never wake up again. He musters up the last of his vanquished strength to whisper: “For letting me serve you.”

“That’s it.” On top of Ed, Hornigold moves. He might as well shove a hot iron poker up Ed’s cunt—or maybe that would hurt less. “You’re a smart boy. A quick learner. Keep this up and you’ll make a fine sailor one day. Might end up the quartermaster one day. Or even as my first mate, if you really apply yourself.”

Ed’s mouth falls open. On Hornigold’s next thrust, he lets a little noise pour out, hoping it vaguely resembles a moan. 

“Fuck,” Hornigold groans, “such a perfect little cunt…”

After that, Ed allows himself to drift away. He tries to tune out the grunting man on top of him, the pain between his legs, the hard pit of his stomach. The drug makes it easier. He stares at the ceiling like he’s going to spot sails in the distance there. 

Something salty lands in his eye, and it pulls Ed back to reality. A drop of sweat. Hornigold’s sweat. 

Ed wants to claw his own face off. It hurts— burns— but he can’t find the energy to raise an arm and wipe it over his face. 

The ordeal goes on, Ed couldn’t say for how long. It could be seconds or hours, most of which Ed spends only half present, his consciousness submerged in dark water where he doesn’t have to think about any of this. If only he could stay there, never to surface again.

At some point, Hornigold’s thrusts speed up, and he groans low in his throat as he buries himself all the way inside Ed. He pants loudly, right into Ed’s ear, for a while. Then he finally pulls out. He rises from the bed, walks around the room somewhere, and Ed thinks he should stand as well. 

He can’t. He’s at the bottom of an ocean, someplace where the light won’t reach.

He lies on Hornigold’s bed like a dead fish, unable to even pull a blanket over himself. His legs are still spread as widely as Hornigold’s hips forced them apart. Something trickles out of him, something sticky and hot.

Ed wishes he could dissolve into the mattress so he’ll never have to face him again. 

Of course his prayers aren’t answered. Hornigold paws at his face again. “There. That was lovely, wasn’t it?” 

Ed doesn’t say anything. Even if he wanted to, he feels like he’ll never have the strength to speak again. 

“Oh, my dear. How rude of me! You must be exhausted.” Ed cringes at the fake concern in Hornigold’s voice. “You should sleep it off. Get some of that strength back.”

It’s the first sympathetic idea Hornigold had all day. Ed’s never going to do anything but sleep again. He’s going to lie here and hope he doesn’t wake up. Maybe the foetid air will poison his lungs enough to kill him.”

“Would you want to smoke some more?” Hornigold purrs from somewhere. “It does help with falling asleep, especially when you’re all wound up…”

Sleep is good. The smoke is good, too, makes his body stop aching and his mind stop racing. Anything to help him drift off. Anything to forget. Ed nods, and he only has to reach out blindly to take the long pipe Hornigold is holding out for him. He doesn’t even sit up this time. He opens his mouth a sliver, and Hornigold rests the stem against his lips. 

Ed inhales deeply and lets the now-familiar drowsiness wash over him.

The last thing he hears is Hornigold’s voice: “You did so well, my little poppy.”

Chapter Text

When Edward wakes, he is blessedly alone. 

He’s still in Hornigold’s bed, he realises instantaneously, in pretty much the same position he fell asleep in, only with a scratchy blanket covering him from the waist down. Ed pulls it up to his chin before rolling over to look out the window. The sun glares from far above the horizon. Ed has no fucking clue how long he slept. He’s probably missing out on whatever shift he’s supposed to be working today. He should worry about that, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit.

The sunlight is warm, which Ed would ordinarily enjoy, but much too fucking bright. He turns his back to the window. His head hurts like somebody bashed it in with a cannonball, and the inside of his mouth is dry as crumbling parchment. His entire body feels like one big bruise. Moving his legs too quickly feels like being fucked with a blade. 

Ed groans. He doesn’t want to get up.

He doesn’t want to stay here. Hornigold could walk in at any moment. How the hell is Ed supposed to ever face him again? 

His cunt aches even when he doesn’t move. A dull, throbbing pain radiates through his entire body.

Ed reaches down between his legs and finds himself all swollen and sticky. When he pulls his hand back out from under the blanket, his fingers are coated in reddish-brown crusted blood and something white and gooey. 

Great. Hornigold came inside. So now Ed’s going to have to take care of that, too. He wants to fucking scream until his lungs collapse. 

Instead, he quietly forces himself to get up. His legs are wobbly, a newborn foal taking its first steps still coated in its mother’s blood. Every step aches. 

On the small vanity table, a porcelain bowl filled with water waits for him, along with a piece of soap and a washcloth cleaner and softer than his own ever was. Ed’s clothes are folded over the back of a chair, which stings just as well. He hardly remembers undressing. 

As he steps in front of the mirror, he startles. Deep shadows under his eyes make him look like he hasn’t slept for a week. He looks gaunt. Haunted. On his ribs, a purpling bruise stands out starkly right below his left breast, in the unmistakable shape of a large hand. Ed rests his own over it, presses down and retches. He reaches for the chamberpot just in time to spit pallid bile into it instead of on the pristine floorboards. 

When he dips the washcloth into the basin, the water is only lukewarm. God knows how long he must have slept. He washes himself slowly, methodically, scrubbing every inch of his skin twice. The echo of Hornigold’s touch lingers despite his efforts. He can’t wipe away the bruises, or the burning shame.

Ed dresses himself in yesterday’s clothes and nearly retches again at the smell of sex and smoke tangled in the fabric. He pockets the soap and the washcloth, and just as the ship bell chimes twelve times, he slinks out of the great cabin.

For lack of any other idea of what to do next, Ed makes his way up to the deck. He hurts too much to work, if he’s honest, but maybe he’ll find something to do that’ll keep him occupied and his thoughts from circling around last night. Instinctively, he wants to analyse every detail of what happened to him, but he knows he’ll come to no satisfactory conclusions. 

Mercifully, no one comments on his late arrival nor his look as he sits down with his fellow crew on the deck. A sailcloth is spread out in front of them, ripped to tatters after it was damaged in a recent raid. Ed picks up a needle. The repetitive motion of stitching could be something to focus on. Something simple. Something that doesn’t require any thought.

It sort of works, until someone slaps his back. 

Ed turns around, panic stabbing his heart like an icicle, a hand on his knife. 

“Damn, Eddie, calm down,” Jack says, jovial as always. “The fuck’s gotten into you?”

Ed doesn’t say anything, but he scoots over to make room for Jack before picking up his needle again. 

“Didn’t see you at breakfast today, so we saved you this,” Jack says and produces a piece of hard bread from a pocket of his coat. “You hungry?”

Ed shakes his head, but Jack still doesn’t let it rest. “Where the fuck did you even crash last night? Didn’t hear you come back to your bunk. Izzy was all worried about you ‘n shit. Kept waking up whenever someone made a noise, so he’s in a fuckin’ mood today.” His eyes widen. “Did you find someone else to keep you company? Not that I mind, you know, but I gotta say I’m a little jealous of whoever got their hands on you. Looks like they kept you up all night—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ed spits, and immediately feels bad about the outburst. Jack doesn’t know where Ed spent the night, and Ed sure as hell isn't going to tell him about it, either.

Jack would never stop giving him shit for it. He can just hear his gruff voice, seriously, Eddie? You smoke a little weed and suddenly you’re spreading your legs for the fucking captain? Thought you had some self-respect, man. Ed shudders.

“Sorry, mate,” Jack says, clearly taken aback, “was just worried about you.”

“Yeah, well, go fucking worry about something else,” Ed grumbles, and with that, the conversation is over. 

Jack stays next to him, which Ed is secretly grateful for. Even if he can’t force his way through a normal conversation, it’s a comfort to bump into Jack’s shoulder every now and then as they work. Ed stabs his finger with the needle several times because he can’t focus, his mind clouded by fragmentary memories of last night. Every time Ed hisses a curse Jack looks like he wants to say something, but ultimately, he stays quiet.

What the hell did Hornigold give him, Ed wonders as sucks the blood off the pad of his finger. It can’t have been the same weed he sometimes shares with Jack and Mary—he’s always fresh and bright the next day. Now, he feels infinitely worse than hungover, his body so dehydrated that he wouldn’t be surprised if he shrivelled up like a dried date. His stomach hurts, too, and he’s the farthest thing from hungry despite the fact that he hasn’t eaten all day. 

“Mister Teach!” a booming voice cuts through the animated chatter on deck. “A word?”

“Oh, shit,” Jack mumbles next to him. “Captain sounds mad. What’d you do to piss him off?”

Ed wants to curl up into a ball and cry. He can’t even find it in himself to reply to Jack or shrug off the question. All his energy is focused on holding back the tears and steeling himself to unfold his legs and stand up to face Hornigold. 

His stomach churns as he looks at the captain, and it’s more by luck than by any conscious effort that he manages not to vomit on his feet. Looking at a cloud above Hornigold’s head is the safer option, so Ed stares there as he answers. “You wanted to speak to me, sir?”

Hornigold’s voice is low, all threats hidden behind a guise of softness. “I wanted to see how you were feeling. After last night, I couldn’t help but worry about you, dear boy.”

Ed does look at him, then, even though his eyes sting like he’s glaring into the sun. Fucking worried? There’s a disgusting look of false compassion on his face, too. Did he come here to fucking gloat? Ed curls his hands into tight little fists. 

Hornigold’s knuckles caress Ed’s cheek, and his blood runs cold at the contact. “Why, yes,” the captain continues, “you were so terribly sick last night. Feverish, even, despite my personal care for you. I tried to administer a medicine to help with the pain, but I’m not positive it worked.”

Medicine? Is that what he wants Ed to believe was in the pipe? Ed stares at him, incredulous.

“Or rather, that it might have worked… differently than intended. You seemed to have had quite the vivid dreams, after. Crying and moaning, you were. God knows what outlandish nightmares you were having.”

Tears sting in Ed’s eyes, and his stomach rises again. He has no idea what Hornigold is talking about. He knows he didn’t dream his captain grunting on top of him. He’s too sore for it to have been a nightmare. 

Or is he?

Ed’s blood runs cold. Maybe he’s just finally paying the price for working himself ragged by day and playing yardies by night. He reaches out for a railing to hold onto as his legs start to shake, but he’s too slow. He stumbles forwards, right against Hornigold’s barrel chest. 

Ed gags at the smell of him—salt and sweat and a thick musk he’d know anywhere.

He didn’t fucking dream, he’s sure of it.

“Oh, Edward.” Hornigold runs a hand over his back, almost tenderly so. “Seems you’re still not out of the thick of it. Tak the rest of the day off. See that you sleep it off, yes? A fever’s no joke.”

He helps Ed stand on his own again, even though the horizon still seems to spin around them. Ed can’t do anything but stand rooted to his spot, stunned, as Hornigold explains to the quartermaster that Edward has fallen ill, that he’s taking the day off on the Captain’s personal orders and that he’s not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Then he ushers Ed towards the stairs. 

“Come on, now, dear boy. Go and sleep.” He strokes Ed’s cheek and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Don’t hesitate to find me, should you need anything, yes?”

Ed nods, and then, finally, Hornigold is gone. 

He stumbles down the stairs like a newborn foal, thunderstruck. The crew’s cabin is dark and mostly empty around this time of day. Ed slams the door behind himself, pulls the curtain around their little corner of the room closed. He plunges into his bunk face first, and screams the scream that’s been clawing its way up his throat all day. It hardly helps, Ed notices, and then he starts to cry his heart out. 

When Ed wakes from the least restful sleep he’s ever had, he knows exactly where he is. 

The room is dimly lit by golden candles and the silvery moon. Ed could likely draw the pattern of the wooden planks above him from memory. He stared at it throughout the entire ordeal. The air is oppressively warm and sticky, even worse than the first time he was here, and all noises are somehow slurred, blending together to one indistinct mass. 

“There you are again,” Hornigold says from somewhere behind him, sounding far away and right in Ed’s ear at the same time. 

Ed attempts to squirm away, but his body fails him. He’s hardly disappointed, this time. The feeling is becoming familiar, if anything.

“Darling, you don’t need to be afraid,” Hornigold rumbles, and he’s definitely closer, now. “I’m here. I’m going to keep you safe. I want to take good care of my special boy.”

Ed looks down, away from Hornigold. He’s naked again, but he doesn’t remember undressing. Doesn’t even remember getting here. He was in his own bunk, last time he was conscious. Where the fuck did his clothes end up? Strangely, he looks paler than usual. Even the sparse thatch of chest hair he’s managed to grow is gone—did Hornigold fucking shave him?

“You gave me quite the fright, my dear.” Hornigold touches his hair now, lightly petting it, but to Ed, it wouldn’t make a difference if he was ripping it out of his scalp in clumps. “You need to take your medicine. You understand that, don’t you? You’re sick, Edward, so very sick.”

Ed would disagree, but then something presses against Ed’s lips and he does feel sick. He squeezes his mouth shut and wildly shakes his head. It’s soft and big— no, Ed pleads silently, don’t let it be his cock, I can’t fucking take it, I’ll fucking choke, fucking die— but Hornigold pries his mouth open all the same. He forces himself inside—his thumb, Ed realises, and something like relief washes over him. Better than his disgusting prick, at least.

The respite doesn’t last long. A heated piece of wood slips in along the thumb. Ed knows what it is. Knows how it robbed him of his senses last night. 

Ed holds his breath, but of course Hornigold doesn’t let him get away with that. “Aren’t you a stubborn little thing?” He almost sounds fond. “You have to understand, Edward, I’m doing all of this for your sake.” 

Without warning, Hornigold pinches Ed’s nose shut. Tears sting in Ed’s eyes as he fights his body’s instincts to inhale. Ed can hold his breath for nearly four minutes—any good sailor can—but Hornigold seems to somehow have disabled the laws of physics and every normal function of Ed’s body.

Ed is still trying to count the seconds, but his body already draws in a gasping, rattling breath. 

Smoke fills him and dissipates in his lungs. It spreads out over him, heavy and clammy like a wet piece of fabric. Ed is defenceless again.

“There we go,” Hornigold coos. “That’s better, isn’t it, my sweet boy?”

Ed says nothing. The water in his lungs must have invaded his throat as well. 

The pipe disappears from his view. “I’ve got to take special care of my special boy, now.”

Ed wants to scream, but his voice fails him. Speaking feels like trying to catch smoke rings, the words dissolving right under his fingers every time he thinks he’s found them. 

He doesn’t know what happens, his mind slow and sticky like molasses, but Hornigold is on top of him. His hand finds Ed’s cunt and presses against his hole, pain flying like sparks at the touch. 

Ed’s limbs don’t obey him as he tries to get away. He knows what’s about to happen—would rather be fucking keelhauled than have to go through this again—but his arms stay limp on the mattress no matter how much he tells them to move. An unbearable weight lies on top of him, like someone threw him in a hole on the beach, covered him up with sand, and now the flood’s coming in. 

No matter how much Ed thrashes, it’s useless. There’s a ton of sand on him, and his body won’t budge. He’s going to fucking drown. 

Hornigold’s face hovers right above Ed’s own. 

Only he looks different than Ed remembers. Something is wrong with his face. He’s… blurring, melting into his surroundings. Panic seizes Ed like an icy hand around his heart. Something is very wrong, and Ed still can’t make his body move. He blinks to clear his vision, but when he looks up again—

Hornigold’s entire fucking head is gone.

A scream rattles through Ed’s body. He feels it more than he hears it, and it takes him a moment to understand that it’s his own voice, raw and rough, girlishly high. 

Above the stump of Hornigold’s neck, a wavering cloud of fog hangs heavy, curdling and dissolving like pipe smoke. The mist parts in a grotesque grimace, and he laughs, deafeningly loud. “Don’t be afraid, my little poppy.”

Ed shouts and kicks, driven by nothing but mindless panic, set only on throwing Hornigold off him. He thinks the endeavour futile, just as his earlier attempts were, but something must have changed. Finally, his body obeys and his legs move again. He hears his own voice, farther away than Hornigold’s sounded, desperately screeching like a panicked child, the echoes of it much louder than he expected.

His foot hits the wall, and he yelps.

There’s no wall to the left side of Hornigold’s bed. 

Ed pants like he just lost a fistfight. When he draws his arms over his chest, they move. Heavily and slowly so, but they move. Ed opens his eyes. It takes a moment for them to adapt to the half-light of the room, but when Ed finally recognises his surroundings, he could cry from the relief that comes with it.

He’s in his own bunk. Hornigold isn’t here. The only thing he kicked off his body was his old colourful quilt. 

It was only a dream, Ed tells himself as he takes slow, steadying breaths, just a bad fucking dream. His heart races with the adrenaline either way. 

If this was a dream, then what about last night?

Ed sits up reflexively, a new wave of panic gathering in his stomach. What if he’s fully losing his marbles? Why did his brain decide to start torturing him with these terrifying dreams just now? Frantically, he pulls his shirt over his head, the seams creaking with the force of it. 

The bruise on his ribs is still there, and Ed is almost relieved to see it again. He presses his hand down over it, smaller than the outline of Hornigold’s palm. Pain shoots through him anew, a welcome reminder. It happened. Hornigold fucked him. He’s not going fucking crazy. 

He pulls his trousers down next to discover more bruises. Over his hips, above his knees, speckling the insides of his thighs. Ed jabs his finger into every new one he finds. 

He still doesn’t  fully understand what happened or why it’s left him feeling like he’s been keelhauled. 

At least he knows it was real. 

Up on deck, the bell rings six times, calling the crew for dinner.

Ed pulls his sweat-damp quilt around his shoulders, then reaches for his discarded clothes. When he picks up the shirt, the stench of smoke and sex hits him like a punch to the face. He can’t fucking wear those again. He’ll have to burn them, if anything. For now, he stuffs them under the mattress and digs through the small crate containing the rest of his meagre belongings until he finds something wearable. 

The idea of sitting in the mess hall surrounded by his loud, rowdy crewmates fills Ed’s veins with dread. He’s still not hungry at all. But staying here alone in the darkness and waiting for another nightmare frightens him even more. 

Slowly, Ed peels himself off his bunk, then makes his way to the mess.

Walking still hurts, but if he’s careful and takes only small, deliberate steps, he can almost tune out the pain. The clamour of the men sounds out into the hallway, and the smell of whatever stew is being served today turns Ed’s stomach long before he’s even entered the room. He fights the bile down.

Maybe Izzy is in the hall. Maybe Ed hopes he’s there. Izzy knows when to shut up, at least.

Chapter Text

The next days—weeks? Ed seems to have lost all sense of time—drift by in a strange blur.

Ed’s bruises turn purple, then green and yellow, and then they fade, leaving unmarred skin in their place that feels oddly inept. There should be a scar at least, Ed thinks as he traces the phantom outline of Hornigold’s hand from memory. Along with the bruises, his strange hangover has vanished. That fateful night still looms over him with an almost physical weight all the time, but the pain passes.

The nightmares have become a nightly occurrence. Ed dreads falling asleep, for he can already expect Hornigold to visit him in his dreams. He hasn’t quite figured out yet how not to wake up screaming, weighed down by water in his lungs. 

Being awake is only slightly better. Ed knows he’s acting weird, but he has no idea how to stop himself. After his one day of sick leave on Captain’s orders, he’s working again, but it feels strange. Different from how it used to. He goes through motions mechanically, focused just enough not to make any life-threatening mistakes, but in the evenings, he couldn’t recall what he spent all day working on.

Izzy is the first to notice that something’s wrong, as he always is, but the rest of his little crew follow suit. Ed’s snapped at them enough times for them to let it rest He does feel bad for yelling at them, but he appreciates that they’ve stopped asking about his feelings at every opportunity.

The worst part of it by far is that Hornigold doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

He’s asked Ed if he’s feeling better exactly once, and after Ed forced himself to smile and nod, he doesn’t bring it up again. He’s the same sticky sort of friendly as always. He casually greets Ed like any other crewman whenever he passes him in the hallways. What he said and did to Edward remains unspoken. He doesn’t even try to touch Ed again. In his lonely, desperate moments, Ed finds himself wishing he would.

Now that the bruises are gone, Ed starts to doubt his own fucking memory all over again.

Until, nine days after Ed woke up bruised and sore in Hornigold’s bed, Quartermaster Stevens approaches Ed at supper to inform him that Hornigold wants to speak to him in private. “You are to join him in his cabin for a drink after you’ve eaten.” 

Ed begins to tremble even before Stevens leaves again. 

Anne snickers. “Aw, shit, a private summons? Means he’s either going to scold you for drinking on the job or giving you a promotion.”

“Don’t know if you’ve earned one, Eddie,” Jack joins in, “so you better prepare an apology. The heartfelt sort, ya know, where you cry and promise you’ll never do it again—”

Izzy shoots a deadly glare across the table that shuts both of them up. “It’s probably nothing. Don’t listen to them, Ed. Maybe he’s heard whispers of a mutiny and wants to keep an eye on who’s loyal to him. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Ed smiles at him. It probably doesn’t look genuine, but he is grateful for Izzy’s words.

But he knows that this is not about a mutiny. The soup tasted like rotten fish before, but now his appetite is entirely gone. He shoves the half-full plate towards Jack, who immediately begins to wolf it down.

“Shouldn’t keep the captain waiting, I guess,” he says, trying to keep fear from shining through his voice. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Ed makes it out of the mess and three steps down the corridor before his knees buckle and he topples into a wall. His heart races at the thought of having to go back there. It must be about to crack his ribs with how violently it pounds. Whatever Hornigold wants from him, it can’t be fucking good. 

Briefly, Ed contemplates jumping overboard instead. His legs carry him to the door of the captain’s cabin almost of their own accord, no matter how much he wants to run.

Ed leans his forehead against the cold, smooth wood of the door and sucks in a deep breath. He scrubs the back of his hand over his cheek to wipe off a tear. Would be fucking embarrassing for Hornigold to see him like this. He spends a bit of time hovering outside the door and steeling himself before he finally gathers the courage to knock. He raises a trembling hand and raps his knuckles three times against the polished wood.

The answer comes almost immediately. “Come on in!” 

Hornigold must’ve been waiting for him. 

Ed sighs and pushes the door open. He’s greeted by the sight of Hornigold lounging in an armchair in the central sitting area, cloaked in warm golden light from candles and oil lamps all around him. He’s dressed down from his usual heavy coat and pompous hat, leaving him in a simple shirt and linen trousers. 

Ed doesn’t make the mistake of seeing him as any less of a threat for it. He closes the door behind himself and clears his throat. “You asked to see me, sir?”

Hornigold looks him up and down, then smiles. “Edward! What a delight to see your lovely face again.”

Ed curls his toes in his boots and digs his fingernails into his palms. He feels disgusted already. Disgusting.

While he’s still contemplating how to even respond to that, Hornigold beckons him closer. “Come and sit with me, dear.”

With every fibre of his body protesting, Ed takes a seat in the other armchair, facing his captain. Only a low table separates them, but the added distance is a small comfort.

Hornigold likes to sit here for negotiations, Ed knows. English Royal Navy captains and Spanish traders must’ve sat in this very chair, sworn enemies and cherished allies, men plotting to kill Hornigold and men who would never leave the room alive.

Ed’s not quite sure where he fits on that list.

He pulls his sleeves over his hands to stop himself from fidgeting. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

Hornigold chuckles. “What can you do for me? Dear boy, I wanted to see how you were doing, above all. After you were so terribly unwell last week, I couldn’t help but worry about you.”

Ed’s eyes nervously flit up to Hornigold’s face. Is he fucking serious?

“Have you been able to recover a bit? Sleep it off like I told you to?”

Ed frowns. He can’t really tell his captain to fuck off, can he? “I—” Ed coughs, something sour crawling up his throat as he tries to speak. “It’s… it’s fine, sir. I’m fine.” He hopes Hornigold can’t detect the lies on his face as easily as Izzy always does.

“Wonderful. You couldn’t imagine how relieved I am to hear that you’re feeling better.” Hornigold reaches for a cup on the side table and places it in front of Ed. Yellowish steam rises from it, curling and dissipating into the air. If Ed stared at it long enough, he might discover his captain’s laughing face in there. “Here. I’ve had this prepared for you. It should help with your stomach.”

Ed wants to decline, God knows what might be in there, if it’s going to knock him out like that fucking pipe did—but under Hornigold’s stern look, he can’t refuse. He takes a tentative sip, then promptly gags at the bitter taste.

Hornigold grimaces at him, a caricature of honest concern. “It doesn’t taste very pleasant, I know, but you should better drink up, yes?”

Ed nods and keeps the cup in both hands, which seems to please Hornigold. 

“Now, Edward, let’s get to the point of this summons, shall we?”

A wave of terror rises in Ed’s throat. He can’t go through with this again. He can’t. He won’t let Hornigold touch him again, even if he throws Ed overboard for denying him.

Oblivious to Ed’s turmoil, the captain continues. “How long have you been sailing for, dear?”

Ed frowns. “Just over three years now, since I was fifteen.”

“And all of them under my flag.”

“Yes, sir. Signed onto your crew when you were docked in Nassau.”

Hornigold nods, satisfied. “I remember that day, you know. You were just a starving, scared boy, just like all the others who joined us over the years. But I knew you were special right away. Do you want to know why, Edward?”

Ed bites his tongue. It can’t be anything good, surely. “Please.”

Hornigold smiles at Ed, a strange sort of pride in the curl of his lips. “You were curious. Never took an order without asking why.” He imitates Ed’s voice: “What’s the point of scrubbing the deck if it’s just gonna get dirty again. What does this line do? What the hell are we sailing to fucking Florida for in this heat?”

Ed cringes at the impersonation, even though he does recognise his own younger self in the words. Or maybe precisely because of it. 

“You always wanted to learn, dear. And it’s paid off, hasn’t it?”

Ed shrugs. “I mean, I’d hope it has? I’m just trying to make myself useful, sir.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re smart and capable. You know the right thing to say to keep your old Captain satisfied.” He grins, somewhat wolfish. Ed suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Hornigold thinks he’s so fucking clever, fancies himself some sort of mindreader, and he never wastes an occasion to flaunt it. “But, my dear—and this is much more important! You’ve got a vision.” 

He leans over the table and places a hand on Ed’s knee. Ed nearly drops his mug. He catches it, just barely, spilling hot tea all over his fingers.

Hornigold ignores it. “Edward, if you keep up like this, you may well be able to captain your own ship in a few years from now.”

Ed sets his mug down to avoid spilling any more. For the first time tonight, he brings himself to meet Hornigold’s eyes. His words are, in a way, a painful reminder of that night, of Hornigold waxing poetic about Ed’s potential while stripping him of his clothes and his dignity.

Still, Ed can’t help but gleam under his praise. It’s childish, Ed knows, but he’s been dreaming of his own ship and crew from the moment he first set foot on the deck of the Ranger.

“You really think so?” Ed asks, and he hates himself for it. He must sound so desperate for the captain’s approval.

Hornigold squeezes his knee. “With a mind as sharp as yours, it’s only a matter of the right education.”

Ed blinks at him, somewhat confused. He’s been sailing and fighting for three years. He knows his way around the rigging, can defend himself with a gun or a cutlass. He doesn’t need to be fucking babied.

Hornigold finally takes his hand off Ed to reach for a stack of parchment scrolls. He takes one of them and unfolds it in the middle of the table. “Here, take a look at this. What do you see?”

Ed bends over the table and takes the sketch in. It’s a map, he quickly recognises, the outline of an island. Tortuga, he reads. He knows that coastline. “Hispaniola?” Ed asks, apprehension slowing his tongue.

“Very good,” Hornigold says, and again the compliment washes over Ed like warm summer rain. “But look here.” He points to a different line on the map, green instead of the black indicating the shape of the coast. Norwich, the text next to it indicates.

“This right here, Edward, is the usual route of a Royal Navy ship that has been after me for well over a decade. This one—” he points to a dotted red line closer to the shore, “this is a very popular trading route for French spice merchants.”

Ed looks at him, eyes wide and jaw slack. Hornigold can’t seriously be offering him this. 

“All of this,” Hornigold taps the stack of scrolls, “is the result of forty years on these waters. The secret behind my success, one might say.”

“And you’re showing them to me because…” Ed simply has to ask, even though every potential answer terrifies him. 

Hornigold lets out a raspy sound that’s probably supposed to pass for a laugh. “Because you’re a skilled sailor and a brilliant fighter. You’re going to do grand things, one day. The only thing you’re missing to command your own ship is experience. I am simply electing to share mine with you.”

Ed’s hands tremble. Tears bead at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill over at the next wrong move. Some of the men here have been sailing for decades, yet he’s the one Hornigold is entrusting with this treasure? “Why me?” he croaks, dreading the reply.

Hornigold reaches over the table to cup Ed’s cheek in his weathered palm. “I’m taking a leap of faith because I believe in you. A simple kindness. Nothing more.”

A tear falls from Ed’s eye. He doesn’t fucking know what he’s feeling anymore, only that there is a hard knot in his stomach that he does not dare tug at, composed of overwhelming emotions and memories he’d rather forget. It’s all too much. He wants to scream with fear and dance with joy. “Thank—thank you, sir,” he finally croaks out.

Hornigold catches the tear with his thumb. He’s so revoltingly gentle. His voice is soft, too, as he chuckles: “ Sir. Always so formal. Someone raised you right. But really, you should call me Ben. At least here, where it’s just the two of us.”

“Okay,” Ed sniffles. He doesn’t dare to pull back from the Captain’s touch just yet. “Ben. Thank you, Ben.”

“There’s no need to thank me, dear boy. Just remember that I’m doing you a favour here.” He sounds stricter now, almost like Ed’s Sunday school teacher back in the day. “And in our line of work, nothing ever comes for free. I need to trust that I can call in a favour from you, should the need arise.” He tips Ed’s chin up with two fingers, forcing Ed to meet his eyes.  “Can I trust you, Edward?”

Ed has no clue what the hell Hornigo— Ben is on about. 

Is this about sex again? He hasn’t mentioned fucking Ed all evening, not even implied what happened in his bed, just feet from where they’re sitting now. Or is he talking about actual business? It may well be that he’ll want Ed to lead a charge in a raid or something of the sort.

Ed looks between Ben’s stone face, the stack of maps on the table, the bed, then the spot right above his own knee where he remembers a deep blue bruise. The maps again. Whatever is in them, if Ed ever wants to make it out of here, he needs it. He sucks in a shuddering breath. “You can trust me, Ben.”

Hornigold beams at him. “I knew you were the right boy for this. Now, we shan’t rush into it. It’s already late, and you should get a good night’s sleep before we begin.” He starts to roll the map up again but pushes the mug back towards Ed. “Drink up, dear boy, then go and rest.”

Ed watches as Ben picks up the maps and puts them away in a compartment above his desk as he sips the now-cold tea in silence. It still tastes gross, but at this point, he presumes it to be harmless. He’s still thinking clearly and moving normally.

Only after he’s emptied the cup does Ben direct him to the door. His hand comes up between Ed’s shoulder blades and hovers there, a strange, featherlight touch. His fingers tickle up and down Ed’s spine. Again, Ed really fucking wants to run.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Ben opens the door for him, smiling as they part. “We’re going to get along just great, you and I.”

Head spinning, exhausted, and more confused than ever, Ed stumbles down to the crew’s quarters. It’s late already. Hornigold is right on one front at least—Ed really needs to sleep. Instead of crashing in his own bunk, he grabs his quilt and crawls into Izzy’s bed. 

Izzy says nothing when he wakes. He lifts up his blanket for Ed to slip under and briefly brushes his fingers over Ed’s shoulder, but that’s all the acknowledgement he has for Ed’s presence before he turns away and begins to snore again. Ed is achingly grateful for it. He pulls the blankets over his face and lets the scent of Izzy’s sleep-warm hair lull him to sleep.

For the first time in nine days, Ed doesn’t wake screaming from a nightmare. Instead, he’s at the helm of a ship he knows belongs to him, Anne and Izzy by his sides, Jack and Mary somewhere up in the rigging. The sun shines on their faces and fear is only a distant memory.

When Ed wakes in the morning, he still hasn’t figured out how he feels. The bitter taste of the tea still sticks to his tongue. When he undresses, he finds a streak of blood in his smallclothes, and he bursts into silent happy tears. One less fucking thing to worry about, at least.

Chapter Text

Ed doesn’t really know what he expected to happen after Hornigold’s offer, but when he doesn't receive a summons the next evening, he feels strangely rejected. 

He’s also unsure if he’s allowed to gloat about his new position as Hornigold’s disciple. When his friends inevitably press him about last night’s conversation, he probably raises more questions than he answers, and he finally has to shut Jack up by shouting at him. He regrets it instantly, but what the fuck is he supposed to tell them? That the captain maybe drugged and raped him, if Ed’s memory serves correctly, but it’s all fine and dandy now because he’s decided to make up for it with the promise of all the knowledge Ed needs to become the most successful pirate captain on these waters?

The more Ed prods at his emotions, the more confusing they get. How is he supposed to feel about being Ben’s new golden boy—his fucking favourite?Despite everything, he straightens his spine proudly whenever he thinks of it, then has to choke down bitter bile.

When Ben finally invites him for the first lesson three days later, Ed could cry with relief and fear. 

Once again, it starts out fairly innocuous. Ben smiles warmly when he opens the door for Ed, offers him a drink and has him sit at his desk. Ed’s heart pounds in his throat as he takes a seat in Hornigold’s high-backed chair while the captain lingers behind him.

He rests a heavy hand on Ed’s shoulder as he unrolls one of the maps in front of him. “Now, dear boy, let’s cut the pleasantries short. We’ll get right into it. Do you remember where we are right now?”

Ed hates the patronising question. Of fucking course he knows where they are, he’s not a fucking stowaway. “Just southeast of St. Augustine, sir. A little under a day until we make port there, given that the wind doesn’t change.”

“Very good.” Ben runs his finger up the back of Ed’s neck in response. “It’s always good to see that you’re paying attention. Just one thing you’re wrong about. We won’t rush to make port tomorrow, but only arrive in three days' time.”

Ed blinks at him, surprised. Is the wind going to turn? He would have noticed, surely. “Why?”

What follows is genuinely one of the most delightful hours of Ed’s life. Ben explains in detail how they’re going to hold out a little longer to avoid a patrol currently guarding the coast of Florida, then make port and stay anchored for several days so they can intercept a Portuguese spice trader on her way back to the continent. They’ll attack the ship, freshly strengthened after a couple of days of shore leave, surprising them with a strike from the opposite direction they’ll be prepared for.

Ed’s heart races as he follows the lines on the map and tries to etch each word Ben says into his memory. 

It’s almost fascinating enough to distract him from Ben’s hands all over him. What starts with an almost paternal pat on the shoulder soon devolves to fingers running through his hair. Whenever Ed makes a suggestion Hornigold particularly likes, he cups Ed’s cheek in one hand, as if he’s about to kiss him. Ed wants to fucking melt away.

“Brilliant,” Ben coos, and Ed is tempted to lean into his touch.

The thing is—Ed knows this comes at a price. But as he traces the route they’re going to take with his finger, memorises rich harbours and suggests spots to avoid for their unpredictable currents, his blood rushes like the first time he climbed up to the crow’s nest and felt the wind in his hair.

This is what he was born to do. Even Ben’s grubby hands can’t ruin this for him.

Or so he thinks, until Ben rolls the map up again to tuck it into its hiding place behind the panel above the desk. “I should think that’s enough for one day,” he declares, his hand awkwardly resting on Ed’s bicep.

Ed isn’t naive enough to think that means he’s free to leave now. Still, he tries to worm his way out of Ben’s grip without drawing any attention to himself.

“Dear boy, what’s wrong?” Ben asks—again with that fucking mockery of concern. 

Ed wants to retch. “Nothing, sir.” He can hear the nerves in his own voice. “I just thought…”

“See, darling, that is your first mistake. You simply think too much.” He taps his knuckles against Ed’s forehead. “Always so wound up in that pretty head of yours. Really, we need to get you to relax more often. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He doesn’t wait for Ed’s reply before directing him towards the plush sofa in the middle of the room. 

Ed is still busy trying to catch up. Ben praised him for his clever contributions earlier, and now this? 

Ben shoves him to sit down, gentle but unmistakably an order. Ed digs his nails into his palm, his breath catching in his throat. Ben doesn’t sit down next to him but putters around somewhere Ed can’t see him. Ed’s heart rabbits in his chest, so brutal that it must surely bruise his ribs from the inside. He wants to bolt, down to the crew’s cabin, hide in Izzy’s bunk and pull the blanket over his head until he’s forgotten all about this.

Ben hums happily behind him, and instead of running, Ed presses his hand over the ghost of the bruise on his ribs his captain left on him. Tears sting in his eyes, and he blinks them away. He wishes Hornigold would just say something, anything, because the tense silence in the room is worsening his terror with every passing second. 

The sound of a match being struck rings through the room, and Ed nearly snaps his wrist in half with how hard he clenches his hand around his arm at the sudden noise. 

Then, a smell crawls up Ed’s nostrils that he recognises instantaneously. Sticky thick, sweet and cloying, a scent like drowning in a noblewoman’s perfume. Like poison seeping into his lungs to choke him from the inside out. His body slips from his control. He trembles, unable to subdue the fear any longer, and a hot little tear rolls down his cheek.

He can’t fucking do this again.

Ed has no idea how long he sits there and fights to get himself back under control. He only gives up when Ben steps in front of him again, a tray with a burning oil lamp in one hand and a smoking pipe in the other. Ed knows how the mouthpiece feels pressed against his lips, how the smoke tastes, how the drug disables every useful part of his brain. A shaky sob escapes him.

Ben sets the tray down on the table, only to run his now free hand through Ed’s hair. “There’s no need to cry, my little poppy. This here should calm you right down.”

My little poppy. The words clatter around Ed’s brain like loose cannonballs during a storm. A scream is lodged somewhere between his ribs. If he opened his mouth he’d never stop bawling.

Ben holds the pipe out to him, the stem floating in front of his lips. His thumb caresses Ed’s bottom lip, revoltingly gentle. “Now open up, dear boy…”

In the end, Ed doesn’t fight it. He chooses not to fight, this time, or at least that’s what he will tell himself later. Opening his mouth to welcome the thick plumes of smoke is the only option he has, but at least he does so willingly.

It’s easy to give himself over to the drug, easy as drowning. The smoke fills his lungs like saltwater, and Ed sinks into it quickly, as if he’s weighed down with an anchor. He takes another lungful from the pipe—how many drags was that now? He’s lost count. Can’t have been enough for whatever end he’s tumbling towards, since Ben still insistently presses the pipe to his mouth. 

Ed is somewhere deep, now. It’s dark. All the light is gone. He floats, or maybe he is still sinking? His body feels heavy, or maybe the heavy thing is the rising pressure above him. The ocean floor draws nearer. Ed’s movements grow sluggish. 

There’s something heavy on his leg, much realer than the deep, dark ocean.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” a voice cuts through the murky waters of Ed’s mind. 

He pries his eyes open—when did he close them? He doesn’t remember—and sees Hornigold. Right next to him on the sofa, a hand on his thigh, bent forward so his face is level with Ed’s. 

Ed does feel better, so he nods. His surroundings are weird and fuzzy, and so are his movements, but at least this time, his body obeys him, if slow and sluggish. He’s slumped back against the pillows, his head resting on Ben’s arm, and—it’s nice, Ed thinks. He can stay here for a bit.

“My dear,” Ben starts talking again, and this time Ed really tries to pay attention, if only because the pet name makes his heart flutter in his chest. “I was thinking about the night we spent together. About how wonderful a time I had with you.” 

Ed stares at him, his mouth hanging open. Is he finally talking about that night? Ed knows he’s supposed to have some sort of feeling on the matter—he’s got a lot to say, actually, or at least he did, but it’s hard to remember in the soft, dark place where he is right now.

Wonderful is not the word he would have used for it, though.

“But, my sweet, I was worried you didn’t get quite as much out of it as I did.”

Ed got a lot out of it, now that he thinks about it. Night terrors, for example, and heart palpitations every time Hornigold walks past him on deck, but that’s probably not what he wants to hear.

Ed also really doesn’t fucking want to admit to any of that. He shrugs. “Dunno. Was fine, I guess.” His mouth is sticky and stuffy, like it’s filled with tar.

“Oh, no, Edward.” Ben’s hand moves further up his thigh, until his fingers graze that soft crease between his thigh and hip. “I should have given more attention to your pleasure, I see that now. Would you mind terribly if I tried to rectify my mistake?”

Rectify—

Ed stares at him, terrified.

Ben’s fingers press in, right under Ed’s hipbone, too hard. He’s strangely close to Ed. Close enough to lean in for a kiss, if he wanted. If Ed wanted. 

Ed turns his head away to evade the temptation and tucks his face into Ben’s shoulder instead. “Don’t have to,” he mumbles. Probably the right answer. Probably too quiet and muffled for Ben to have heard.

Ben’s hand finds the laces of his trousers either way and pulls, much quicker than Ed’s cloudy mind can follow.

And Ed wouldn’t resist him either way. Easier to just go along and tell himself he wants this, too. Right?

“There you are. That’s lovely, isn’t it?” Ben’s voice is sweet and suffocating. His hand is warm, big and brutal as he tugs Ed’s trousers open, then slips inside

Ed can’t look at him. He’d throw up if he did. He leaves his face where it is tucked away under Ben’s chin, burning with shame.

Ben’s hand slides between his legs, then between his lips. He hums happily at what he finds. “Beautiful. So wet for me.”

Ed’s cheeks are wet as well. Ben doesn’t know that. Ed doesn’t want him to know.

“Been waiting for this all evening, have you, my little poppy?” 

He moves his fingers somehow—Ed’s not sure what exactly happens, he’s so numb, everything is so intense—but someone moans like they’re being paid for it, and—that’s his own voice, isn’t it, Ed realises, and then he’s bucking into the hand groping at his crotch, and—

“So eager. So excited.”

Ed shoves his face deeper into Ben’s chest and gets an arm around his shoulders for the trouble. He wails as his body moves uncontrollably, chasing Ben’s touch. It’s nothing like trading handies with Jack in the dark of their bunks. Ben’s hand is so big, somehow both rougher and softer than Jack’s or his own, moulded by decades of hard work and years of leisure as the captain. He pushes a finger into Ed, and Ed eagerly ruts into the sensation.

Ben coos into Ed’s hair. “That’s good, isn’t it?” 

It is, and that’s the fucking problem. It doesn’t even hurt this time. Ed almost wishes it did. How is he supposed to survive the coming days without bruises to prod at whenever he loses faith in his own mind? If it hurt, it’d be easier to remind himself that he doesn’t want this. That he’s not doing this only because Hornigold told him to. That he’s anything but a fucking whore for his captain.

“So good,” Ed mumbles between hiccuping moans.

“Can I touch your little pearl, as well?” Ben’s voice sounds like it’s coming from inside Ed’s skull.

“Please,” Ed gasps before he even has a chance to think about it, and great. Begging for it. That’s a new fucking low. 

Ben brings his thumb over Ed’s— pearl, what the hell, and it’s devastating. Ed’s body is distant, entirely separate from him, and he can’t control himself any longer. He bucks into Ben’s hand to meet his every stroke. His eyes are still closed. If Ben looked at him, he would combust, he’s certain of it. The noises falling from his mouth with every breath are embarrassing. Disgusting. Ed can’t tell if he’s moaning, or crying, or both.

Ben grabs the back of his neck to hold him close. Ed shudders.

“Beautiful. There you are. That’s it. So wonderfully easy for me.” 

His movements speed up, and Ed follows right after him. The ocean threatens to swallow him whole once again.

Ben’s mouth is suddenly right above his ear. “There’s my poppy. My brilliant Edward.” He presses down on Ed’s cock. “My good boy…”

Ed sobs.

A wave crashes over him, and then it’s over.

He’s coming. Quickly, wetly, wailing and twitching under Ben’s brutally precise touch. Ben slows down, but his fingers stay where they are on Ed’s cock and buried deep inside his cunt. Ed wishes he’d move. The longer Ben’s hand rests on him, the more Ed wants to grab his arm and rip it off—or rip his own cunt off, while he’s at it. Doesn’t really feel like a part of him anymore.

Ed feels wrung dry, and it’s only Ben’s hand on his neck that keeps him from flopping over on the sofa. Ed tries to calm himself with deep, slow breaths. Every inhale is a lungful of Ben’s musk, so it has much the opposite effect. As Ed sits in silence, everything around him goes slow and dark. 

After what feels like an eternity, Ben removes himself from Ed’s trousers and reaches for one of Ed’s hands, fingers still sticky. “Darling,” he says, his tone returning to the warmth he’d donned during their lesson. “That was a lot of fun, wasn’t it?”

Was it?

Ed still can’t bring himself to meet Ben’s eyes, but he swears he tries. He tries until his eyes sting as if smoke had got in them, and he has to blink away.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Ben.” His voice hardly wobbles. 

Ben smiles like a shark. It feels condescending. Ed’s cheeks burn. Ben has somehow perfected the art of making Ed feel like the small, stupid boy he was years ago, wet behind the ears and not yet seasoned with the three years of experience he’s racked up since then. “Just as I thought. Now, Edward, it’s time for another lesson. Do you remember what I told you about favours?”

There was… something, Ed remembers vaguely, but he’s not sure where in his dazed mind to feel for it, the memory shrouded in a sheet of fog. Something about maps and knowledge and kindness, and—

Ah. “They never come for free.” Ed hopes his stupid heart stops beating.

“I knew you hadn’t forgotten.” Ben’s grip on Ed’s hand tightens as he pulls it over to his own lap and onto his crotch, where he’s hard and straining against his breeches, finely spun linen stretching to contain an erection Ed could feel for days every time he sat down. “You’re too smart for that, aren’t you?”

He presses Ed’s palm flat against his cock and glides it over the length of it. He’s stupidly big, Ed thinks. It’d be almost funny if it wasn’t so terrifying. Ben lets go of him to unbutton his flap, but Ed keeps his hand where he is, suddenly paralysed. His body must’ve kept the score, his cunt burning already in anticipation of the stretch.

Ben pulls himself out of his breeches, and Ed can’t hold his tears back any longer. “Now, Edward. Be a dear and make it up to me.”

His grip on Ed’s neck tightens painfully as he drags Ed forwards, downwards, until Ed slips off the seat and onto his knees. It all happens faster than Ed comprehends. His body still doesn’t react as quickly as it usually does, and when he hits the ground he’s too slow to catch himself. His knees slam on the planks at full speed. Pain shoots up his legs, white hot sparks that make Ed whimper high in his throat. Finally it hurts, Ed thinks, finally he’s fucking hurting me. It’ll bruise, he’s sure of it. Ben can’t know how much of a blessing he’s doling out. 

He seems to has lost all consideration for Ed’s feelings, forgetting how much he pretended to care minutes ago. He twists Ed’s hair around his hand to drag him forwards by it. Ed yelps, but he doesn’t fight it. He’s still too hazy, he’ll later tell himself.

Ben’s cock looks just like Ed’s body remembers. Meaty and girthy, the head wet and flushed a violent purple. Ed’s cunt stings just looking at it.

“Come on, sweet thing. Open up for Daddy.” Ben takes himself in hand and pulls Ed’s closer, until the sweat-musk of him overwhelms Ed’s senses.

Whatever last crumb of rational thought Ed has left in him kicks in, and he clenches his jaw. He doesn’t fucking do this. The one and only time Jack talked him into sucking his dick, Ed threw up all over his bunk and had to spend hours scrubbing it out of the mattress while Jack laughed his stupid ass off. 

Ben’s prick rubs a wet smear over the seal of his lips. Tears streak down Ed’s cheeks. He’s stopped trying to curb them.

Ben tuts, disappointed. “None of that, now. Fighting it will only make it worse for you.”

Ed hates himself for the way his lips tremble as he presses them tighter together.

Ben lets go of his hair to swipe his fingers through the tear tracks. “Beautiful.”

Ed tries to turn away as a desperate sob shakes his body to the core. He’s too slow. Ben catches his chin in one of his huge hands. He presses down on his cheeks, until Ed’s bones creak under the force and he has no choice but to open his mouth. “There. You know, Edward, this is going to happen whether you want it or not. So if you’re as clever as I think you are, you’ll play nice and put some effort into it, yeah?”

Ed sobs openly now. He can’t stop it, and he sees no point in trying. He must look disgusting, tears, snot and drool mixing on his face.

He nods. The motion feels like ramming a knife into his own neck and twisting it, but he nods. Keeps his jaw slack and opens wider when Ben pulls him forward.

The head of Ben’s cock invades Ed’s mouth, and Ed wails. He hopes some biblical wave will rise and break the ship in two so he doesn’t have to sit like a dog at his Captain’s feet and suck his fat disgusting prick.

He gives it an awkward lick, hoping it’ll somehow hasten the ordeal.

Instead, it deepens his yearning to lie down on the ocean floor and breathe saltwater until he forgets. 

Ben has no patience for Ed’s tentative suckles. By the hand on the back of Ed’s head, he pushes him further down on his prick. Ed tries to force his jaw open and be good for his captain.

He doesn’t make it far until he gags. Bile rises in his throat, acidic and burning from the inside with every inch it rises. His mouth is too full to spit, his lips a tight seal just below the head of Ben’s cock. It dribbles from Ed’s nose instead, a biting sensation in his sinuses until it runs down his face. Ed thrashes, panicked. With his nose clogged, he can’t fucking breathe anymore. He must look particularly pathetic, because Ben finally lets go of him.

Ed turns around to retch water on the polished planks. His body fights in shivers and convulsions until he has nothing left to give, until he can only cower, heaving, covered in spit and vomit, on the floor between Ben’s legs.

Ben still strokes his cock like all of this wasn’t even a little off-putting as he watches Ed intently. “Almost done being dramatic?”

Ed scrubs his sleeve over his face. It hardly helps with the filth on his face, but he can tell himself he feels a little cleaner for it. “I’m sorry, sir.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds broken and thin. Fucking pathetic, like a child’s. “I can’t…”

Ed sobs again. He wishes he could disappear. Wishes he could curl up and hide somewhere, make himself small enough to never be found again. Or, if whatever God ignores his prayers won’t grant him that, he wants to at least float in the sweet relief of the drug forever, so that he never has to think about all this again. 

“I t-think I need to smoke some more,” Ed stammers. “‘Cause I’m not relaxed. Be easier if I was…” He gestures, unsure of what to call it, and forces himself to look Ben in the eye as he speaks.

Ben’s face lights up and he immediately reaches for the pipe. “See, there’s my brilliant boy. That’s a wonderful idea. Sure to get you nice and obedient for me again, yeah?”

This time, Ed almost rips the pipe from Ben's hand, so eager is he. His first drag is so quick that he coughs. Ben laughs, a cruel edge to the sound, but Ed doesn’t care. He’d stand his captain’s derisions if it means the smoke will wrap around him quickly. He’ll need it to get through this. So he doesn’t have to think the next time Ben tries to force his prick down Ed’s throat.

Although this might arguably be even worse. Ed is still crouched between Ben’s legs like a kicked dog, smoking too much, too fast. Ben’s hand in his hair soon becomes the only thing keeping Ed upright. Ben lazily strokes his dick as he watches. 

Ed can’t imagine he’s much to look at like this, dishevelled and sticky with tears and spit, though Ben doesn’t seem to mind. His hand moves up and down his cock unerringly, his thumb catching against the foreskin on every stroke. It’s strange, Ed thinks. He used to want a dick of his own so badly, but really, up close it looks rather stupid.

Ed giggles, his cheek pressed against the inside of Ben’s thigh. The pipe is heavy in his hand as he lifts it to his mouth, tendrils of smoke coiling and unspooling in the air around him. He presses the mouthpiece into his cheek on accident, his aim a little worse than the razor-sharp precision he’s used to. “Whoops,” Ed laughs again. Ben’s dick looks like it’s angry with him. What a stupid fucking thought. Ed snorts all the same.

“Alright, little poppy. That’s quite enough.” 

Ben takes the pipe from him. Ed can’t see where he puts it, and it doesn’t matter, because Ben pulls him forward again. Ed has no choice but to let it happen. He opens his mouth and closes his eyes. Sputters a little when Ben pushes him down farther than his body can take. 

But that’s all.

He’s not fighting anymore. He can’t, and it feels good not to have to come up with excuses to himself anymore.

Ben’s hand in his hair pulls and pushes Ed where he wants him, and Ed loses himself to the unpredictability of it all. His jaw strains from how wide it’s forced to open, but the pain is distant behind the haze of the drug. 

Ben is talking, and Ed isn’t listening. Fragments of it filter in, beautiful and clever and golden, and he clings to them, cutting his fingers on their unexpectedly sharp edges as he tries to ignore the salt on his tongue. 

He zones out. Allows Ben to do what he must. Imagines himself far away. The ship he dreamt of, playing cards with Mary and Izzy in his own great cabin, on a table stained with rum from innumerable feasts after successful raids. On a beach somewhere, dozing off in the sun. So deep underwater that no one will ever find him.

Ed floats. The ocean surrounds him again, deep blue and peaceful. He could stay here forever, never come up for air again. 

Ben grunts and stutters, forcing Ed deeper down, down, and Ed gargles until the bitter taste of come floods his mouth. It feels heavy on his tongue, and even when he swallows, he can’t rid himself of the sticky feeling in his mouth. 

Ed keeps drinking it down hazily, until Ben violently hauls him off, still groaning. Ed is too slow to catch himself. He falls over onto his back, his head hitting the planks with a bone-splitting cracking noise. 

Ben tucks himself away. He says nothing to Ed as he gets up and begins to clear away the tray. Ed should be getting up as well. He tries to roll over, but fails. His body is heavier than he’s used to, like miles and miles of dark water still weigh him down. “Captain,” he whines.

Ben apparently can’t hear him. Ed already misses his voice, the filthy ease with which he’d showered him in praise earlier. Brilliant still rings in Ed’s ears. It hurts. His head hurts. Ed no longer floats. Reality has slowly begun to bleed through the cracks of his composure.

“Captain,” he whispers again, because there’s no one else to call out for. 

Still, no reaction. Ed closes his eyes. Only for a moment. 

Only for a moment. 

He's laying in something wet. 

Chapter Text

Once again, Ed wakes up alone and naked in Ben’s bed. It’d be funny if it didn’t make him want to fucking die.

The last thing he remembers is laying on the floor in front of the sofa, trying to call for Ben as his voice disobeyed. Ben must’ve carried him to bed after he dozed off, and somehow that makes Ed feel sicker than if he’d just left him on the floor. Did Ben sleep next to him? Did he pretend Ed was his lover, wrapping an arm around his waist? Ed is glad he’s gone. 

As Ed kicks the blanket off, he realises he’s naked. He wasn’t last night, and he doesn’t remember undressing. 

Shit, did Ben fuck him again?

Panic rises like bile in Ed’s throat as he reaches down between his legs to check. He doesn’t find any of Ben’s sticky spend there, and only his throat hurts with the rest of his body sore but not ravaged by the sharp pain he remembers. Silently, Ed thanks whatever god granted his prayers. He swallows around the pain, then sits up. 

It’s incredible how familiar all of this feels after only his second time around, Ed muses as he stands up. There’s the vanity table bearing a bowl of water, a washcloth and the chamberpot, taunting him like they’re waiting for him to rise. There’s the pile of clothes folded over the back of a chair, likely still heavy with the sting of smoke and the cloying scent of sex. And, when Ed looks at his reflection in the small mirror above the vanity, there are the bruises, too. They catch his eye far too easily, prominently placed on the side of Ed’s neck where Ben held him, and over the point of his cheekbone where he slapped him. 

Fuck. He won’t be able to hide that.

The one thing that takes Ed by surprise is the glass of milk awaiting him on the vanity. It reminds Ed how parched he is, his tongue dry and heavy in his mouth, so he downs a couple of long gulps. Sweet warmth surges through his weary body, soothing his aching throat.

For a moment, a strange fondness for Ben rises in him. It’s kind of him to remember Ed’s needs after a night like this, isn’t it?

Ed slowly sips the rest of the milk as he readies himself to leave. He washes his hair and tames it into a braid, then picks up his clothes. Something is wrong, he realises the moment he touches his shirt. The colour is familiar, the same faded once-black as the shirt he wore last night, but that’s about where the similarities end. The soft fabric slips over his hands like water, and a line of decorative stitching curls around the collar, a beautiful garment that Ed could never afford.

He can’t fucking wear this. Everyone would know Hornigold gave it to him, and he couldn’t stand—

A sudden noise has him flinching. The door swings open, too fast for Ed to hide his nudity with his hands. 

Blessedly, it’s only Hornigold, so there’s really nothing to hide anymore, but Ed’s body doesn’t understand it as the relief it should be. His heart picks up speed, and his fingers tremble with a sudden burst of nervous energy. In a parody of modesty, he holds the shirt in front of his crotch, hiding what Hornigold has seen already. Has defiled already.

Ben pays it no mind. “Edward!” He sounds far too jovial. “Up already, are you? That’s good. Bright and early, I like to say. Did you sleep well?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Ed presses out, forcing himself to smile back. 

Ben prattles on—he’s so glad to hear that, he didn’t want to wake Ed—but Ed can hardly hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. 

Once Ben stops talking and looks at Ed expectantly, Ed points at the shirt he’s still holding, carefully pinched between two fingers like anything more might ruin the delicate fabric. “This isn’t mine, sir. Where are my clothes?”

Ben indulges with a laugh. “Oh, I had to get rid of your old things. They were positively filthy after last night! I found these for you to replace them, they should just about fit you.”

Ed stares between him and the pieces of fine fabric in his hand. It’s not like he was particularly attached to his old clothes, but he still liked them. Would’ve been nice of Ben to ask, but then, Ben doesn’t really seem to do nice. Ed’s opinion doesn’t seem to matter much here, anyway. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says softly, struggling to look Ben in the eye.

Ben takes a seat on the chaise, the same spot he was in last night when he…

Ed swallows heavily. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, like it’s caked in a layer of grime and dust. 

“Don’t be shy now, dear boy! Put them on. We want to see if they suit you, no?”

Ed feels like a piece of meat in front of a pack of wild dogs under Ben’s heavy-lidded gaze, but he can’t exactly refuse. So he turns to the side, picking up the rest of the clothes even as Ben’s eyes rove up and down his body, the hunger burning in them heating up his skin.

Getting dressed in front of someone else, it turns out, is even more humiliating than stripping. There’s no way to do it without bending over into positions that feel far too revealing, and there’s a vulnerability in it that Ed never considered before. He pulls on the stockings and underthings first, and they fit like a dream. The soft material glides over his skin like a lover’s caress, much softer than the bite of rough-spun linen he’s used to. 

Ben nods approvingly, and Ed mutters a reluctant thank you.

The breeches are stunning as well, so black that they must still be bleeding dye, the fit around his thighs and hips snug and unfamiliar. 

“Beautiful,” Ben praises, and Ed doesn’t know what the heat rising in his cheeks is even supposed to mean. 

When he puts on the shirt, Ed’s breath stutters. It’s gorgeous, exactly the kind of embroidered linen Ed always admired at the markets but knew he’d never be able to afford.

There’s just one problem. “Sir, this is really pretty, but it’s too large.” Ed gestures at the neckline, plunging down far deeper than his body permits. It’d be impossible to hide the swell of his breasts underneath.

Ben shakes his head. “None of that, darling! You look delectable. Like a pump fruit, ripe for the taking.”

Ed curls his fingers until he can bury his nails deep in his palm. That’s sort of exactly what he’d want to avoid. But as he searches Ben’s face for even the smallest wiggle room, he understands that he has no say in the matter. He’ll have to accept, at least until he can get to his cabin and change. “Okay, sir. Thank you, sir,” he mumbles past the fear in his throat.

“Wonderful. I knew you’d enjoy your lovely gift,” Ben says, his eyes trained on a spot below Ed’s collar.

Ed wants to run. “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Not right now, Edward. I have no intentions of keeping you.”

It’s not like Ed was seriously worried about that, but it’s still a relief. “Right. See you, I guess.”

When Ed is almost at the door, Ben stops him again. “Oh, and Edward? Take today off. We have enough men on watch, and you were so good last night. Brilliant, just as I expected. You deserve a reward for it.”

Against Ed’s will, his heart flutters. He has no defences against Ben’s flattery, as much as he knows it’s only honey to mask the bitter truth beneath. 

“You’re a clever boy. A quick study, and so refreshingly eager to learn. It’s good to see that I haven’t misplaced my faith in you.” Something else flashes in Hornigold’s eyes as he speaks—a threat, Ed understands. Do anything stupid and I’ll stop being so kind.

Ed’s not an idiot. He’s not going to utter a word of this to anyone. “Thank you, Captain.”

Hornigold nods. “Go now. I’ll let you know when it’s time for another lesson.”

As soon as he’s left the cabin, Ed straightens his spine, immediately feeling lighter by a ton.

He doesn't even make it down to his own bunk before he starts to cry.

Without any plans for the day, now that he’s been dismissed from work, Ed doesn’t think he’s going to leave his bed any time soon. He curls up on his side, cries for a while, then tries to fall asleep again. It’s almost noon, as far as he can tell from the bright rays of light infiltrating the room through gaps between the planks, but Ed still feels like he could sleep for hours. 

Whatever Ben makes him smoke causes headaches much worse than rum.

When Ed wakes anew, sometime in the early afternoon, he rips the stupid shirt off his body. It’s pretty, yeah, but it makes him feel like a dockside molly parading a john’s garish gifts. He can’t forget the way Ben looked at him. He might have to burn the fucking thing.

For now, he stuffs it under the mattress and changes into one of his old plain shirts. 

After that, he returns to staring blankly at the ceiling. He has no fucking clue what to do with himself. Usually, when he has a day off, he spends it playing cards with his friends, but he can’t imagine facing them today. It must be obvious what happened last night—what he allowed to happen to him. The book of poetry he bought on shoreleave in Port Royal seems more appealing at first, but when he reads of a lover’s embrace on the first page he opens, he slams the thing closed again like he burned himself on the paper.

A drink seems like a good idea—or at least like it won't make him feel like jumping overboard. Ed’s private stash is unfortunately empty, but he doesn’t want to walk back up to the galley. “Fucking hell,” Ed grumbles as he turns over an empty bottle and watches a lone droplet spill out. He should’ve kept a better track of that. Whatever. Too late now to promise himself he’ll stay on top, in the future. Looks like he’ll just stare at the wall and try not to think about last night for the rest of the day.

After unsuccessfully attempting to put this plan into practice, he hears footsteps.

For a second, Ed considers pretending to be asleep, but then he sees Izzy’s boots. He can’t fool Izzy, that much is certain. 

“Hey, Ed,” Izzy says casually, then freezes on the spot a couple of steps away from Ed’s bunk. “Jesus fucking Christ, what happened? Are you alright?”

Ed stares at him for a moment. How could Izzy know—is Ed’s poker face really that terrible? A throb in his cheek reminds him. The fucking bruise. He pulls his blanket over his face. “‘S fine. It’s nothing. Just fell up the stairs.” 

Izzy doesn’t look like he believes it, but he doesn’t push the matter. Instead, he turns to dig around in a satchel in his own bunk. His posture is tense; Ed knows something else is coming. He braces himself with a pointed poke into one of the bruises. 

Finally, Izzy speaks again. “By the way. What did the captain want from you last night? Was a late night, wasn’t it? Didn’t hear you coming back to bed.”

Because I didn’t, Ed is tempted to say. If there was one person in the world he could trust with this, it would be Izzy. 

But when Ed opens his mouth, the words crumble like charred paper on his tongue. He can’t talk about the drug, about how easily he spread his legs for the captain. About how his cock felt on Ed’s tongue. 

Tears rise, but Ed blinks them away and straightens up his story.  “He showed me a map.” Ed’s voice sounds like a knife on a whetstone. “He… he’s teaching me things, Izzy.”

Izzy spins around abruptly. “What sort of things, Edward?”

It’s difficult to remember. The memory of the lesson sits clouded by what happened after. “Navigation,” Ed scrapes up from the bottomless barrel of his brain. “Trading routes. Safe ports. Things like that.” He blinks up at Izzy, pleading. “Things I need to know to make it as a sailor.” 

“That’s fantastic.” Izzy’s expression easily betrays how not fantastic he finds this information. “It’s good for you to learn. Can never know when you might need it. But—Edward? Not at any cost, alright?”

Ed’s blood runs cold. Does Izzy know? How could he? Ed doesn’t want him—doesn’t want anyone to know what happened in Hornigold’s cabin. 

If Izzy knew, Ed would die from shame. If Izzy told anyone, Ed would take care of the dying part himself. 

“What the fuck do you mean?” Ed barks, louder and harsher than he wanted to.

Izzy’s expression softens and he leans in. “Eddie, I don’t want to worry you, I just think you should know this. Hornigold tried something like that with me once. He said I could work my way up the ship faster if he put in a good word for me. Might even make it to first mate one day, he said. He promised he’d teach me what I needed to know. Soon as I was at his desk, he tried to put his hand down my pants.”

The words rain in on Ed like punches. He can’t do anything but stare in shock, his blood ice cold in his veins. Izzy can’t be fucking serious. Does Hornigold tell these stories to every pretty boy on the Ranger?

Izzy misinterprets Ed’s expression. “Ed, I don’t know if that’s what he’s angling for with you. Hell, I sure hope it’s not. I just want you to be careful with him, yeah?”

Ed nods, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. This is the one part of Ben’s endless monologues that he remembers well: Ed could captain his own ship one day. That’s miles better than just being the old fucker’s first mate. 

Izzy has no clue what the fuck he’s talking about. Ed is special. Ben said so, after all.

And hell—he’ll gladly suck the captain’s cock to get what he wants, Ed tries to think, even though his gut feels like lead as he does; even though he wants to scream himself hoarse as he thinks of Hornigold’s hand slithering into his breeches. 

Another part of him, something small and scared at the back of his brain, still wants to tell Izzy and hope he’ll find comfort on the other side of his fear. 

Still, his tongue is heavy and knotted at the mere idea of sharing what happened last night with Izzy. So he just unsheathes a hand from under the blanket and reaches for Izzy. “Sit with me for a bit, Iz?”

“I should be working,” Izzy says, but he still crawls into bed next to Ed, like that excuse never carried any weight. 

Ed scoots up the mattress and leans his forehead against Izzy’s shoulder. Izzy wraps his arms around him in return, and Ed sighs. He immediately feels a little lighter. His bunk hasn’t been this safe in a long time. 

Again, Ed opens his mouth and rifles through his brain for words, for anything that could come even remotely close to describing how he felt when Ben touched him.

He can’t, Ed realises soon enough. Because Ben told him to keep his mouth shut, and because the shame would burn a hole through his chest if he did. 

So instead, he tells Izzy about the plan. He talks about the Portuguese trading ship Ben described. About shore leave in Saint Augustine. The riches that await them, the spices they’ll loot, the dinners that might contain the slightest hint of flavour in the weeks to come.

About the new boots Izzy will finally be able to buy from his share of the spoils. 

“That’s great, Eddie,” Izzy murmurs, his hand carefully running through Ed’s hair. “I can’t wait.”

And maybe, that alone makes it all worth the pain. 

Chapter Text

It is terrifying how quickly the horrors of the seafaring life feel like just another day. Ed remembers vividly how sick he was for days on end after the first time he saw a friend bleeding out from a stab wound to the gut. 

These days, that’s just something that happens every couple of months. Nothing Ed can’t get over with the help of a bottle of rum or two. 

He’s still working on applying this logic to his private meetings with Hornigold. The couple of swigs of bitter golden rum he took before making his way up certainly help, but his gut still swoops like he’s some seasick powder monkey as he knocks. 

At least this time, he’s reasonably sure about what to expect—a lesson, the pipe, Ben’s hand wreaking havoc under his clothes. He fucking hates it, but he’ll live. At least he has a chance to brace himself for it. In the seconds between the knock and the answering call, Ed tries to steel himself. Like he’s gearing up for a raid, he straightens his spine, breathes slowly, balls his fists. 

Ben smiles as he ushers him in. “Edward, my dear! Please, do come in. What a joy it is to see your beautiful face.”

With a hand between Ed’s shoulder blades, Ben directs him towards the sofa they sat on last time, where a pile of paper and parchment is already laid out on the table. A bottle of wine and two glasses wait for them. Ed stiffly sits down on the edge of his seat while Ben uncorks the bottle and fills the glasses.

He pushes one of them in front of Ed. “And don’t you look even lovelier than usual?” His hand ghosts over the collar of Ed’s shirt, then down the deep V of the lacing at the collar. “Truly, it’s like you were made for a life of luxury.” 

Ed isn’t sure if wearing the shirt Ben gifted him—or rather, forced upon him—was a good idea or if he should start regretting it. He wore the stupid thing hoping for some sort of reaction, but right now he doesn’t feel like rejoicing much. 

Hornigold already looks at him like he’s something to eat.

Ed smiles at him in deference, his heart hammering so hard that Ben must surely hear it, too. 

Ben finally takes a seat on the sofa, his knee bumping against Ed’s. He swirls his glass, wine sloshing against delicate crystal, blood red behind fragile sparkles. “I know you’re not here for idle chatter. Let’s skip the pleasantries and cut to the chase, shall we?”

He pulls a map front he stack and smooths it out in front of Ed. His hand lands on Ed’s thigh, the tips of his fingers brushing the inner seam of his trousers and sickly warmth radiating through the fabric. Ed instinctively wants to recoil, but he knows he can’t. He forces his body into stillness, tensing every muscle while his heart speeds up. 

Ben’s hand squeezes briefly. A warning—don’t you dare move. Ed bites his tongue. “Now, dear boy, tell me what you see.”

It’s nigh impossible to ignore the Captain’s touch, but Ed tries as hard as he can. He takes another steadying breath, like Izzy taught him to before he takes aim with a pistol, mentally detaching himself from his left leg. Then he leans forward and over the map. Once again, there’s a coastline, clearly labelled Florida, but the landmass only takes up the far left part of the parchment. The rest of it, east of the land, shows the open ocean, clearly marked by waves and finely drawn little ships. Dozens of colourful lines cut through the sea, weaving an intricate pattern that Ed can hardly even begin to understand. 

Hornigold’s hand moves on his leg, ever so slightly trailing upwards. It takes every ounce of self-control for Ed not to twitch away, and he curls his fingers around the stem of his wine glass instead. “Come on, Edward. I’m sure you can tell me what we’re looking at.” 

Right—he’s still waiting for an answer while Ed agonises over this smallest of touches. “This is the coast of Florida,” Ed replies, dutifully pointing at the map, “and I guess these are shipping routes? Like, here you’ve got those red lines again, I think that’s the Spanish navy?”

Ben curls a thumb into Ed’s flesh. Ed wants to shed his skin, defiled as it is now, lay bare whatever untouched creature lies beneath, and crawl into some hiding place deep in the belly of the ship, never to be found again. 

“Very well observed, darling boy.” Ben's voice rings with sickening pride, and against his will, Ed preens. “The red ones are military routes, but these days, they’re used by traders as well. They think themselves safe there, treading the paths of ships with a hundred guns. Now, of course it is a dangerous undertaking for us to attack ships here, but the reward may well be worth it. And if you plan it all correctly…”

The rest of the lesson passes by rather uneventfully. Ed’s heart races with excitement as Hornigold bestows upon him his wealth of experience, explains battle tactics and points out good hiding spots for ambushes. At some point, after Ed’s emptied two glasses of wine, it becomes easier to ignore the hand on his thigh over the rush of blood in his ears. 

Ed knows he’ll never get enough of this. As he memorises shipping routes and safe ports, a picture forms in his mind: his own ship, the fastest and sturdiest in the entire Caribbean. Izzy as his first mate, Mary manning the cannons, Jack with his ridiculous whip, Anne shouting orders in that tone that makes men thrice her age tremble, all of them a terror to anyone who spots their flag on the horizon. 

Ed can’t fucking wait for it. This has got to be worth it. 

Ben’s hand slips further up his leg, a rude awakening from his indulgent daydream. Ed manages not to flinch. Hell, he’s getting good at this, he thinks, pushing down disgust.

“Now, my dear, let’s have a look at these islands, shall we? There are a handful of friendly ports there that have come in handy for me many times.” He points to a smattering of land just east of the Floridian coast. 

Ed nods. “The, uh, that’s the Virgin Islands, right?”

Ben frowns, a mockery of sympathy on his face. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, dear boy?”

Ed swallows. Shit, he fucked up; the Virgins are farther south and he fucking knows that. How could he be so stupid? “Sorry. It’s the Bahamas. Got confused there for a moment, I don’t—”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s getting late. Time we wrap this up anyway, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Ed bites his lip before he answers. “I only—I misspoke. Think I still have another hour or so in me, please, sir—”

But Ben is already rolling up the map, which at least frees Ed from the burden of his grip for a moment, but still Ed itches to rip it from his hands. He wants to keep it until he has absorbed all of its secrets, but much more urgently, he wants to punch himself in the face. He fucked up, mindless, stupid, fucking useless, and now it’s his own fucking fault he’s not getting any more of what he actually wants. Sure, he learned about a million new things today that his head still spins with, but—

If the lesson is over, that means it’s time for his personal hell to begin.

And just like in a well-rehearsed performance, Ben’s hand trails up the inside of Ed’s leg once again, stopping just short of his crotch. Ed considers slapping it away. It remains a thought, of course, but it makes him feel a little lighter. “No, my little poppy. We don’t want to overexert your clever mind, do we? We’ve both had a long day. It’s time for us to unwind, now. Care to join me for a smoke?

It doesn’t sound like Ed’s allowed to say no.

But—and he’d sooner die than admit this to anyone—he’s been waiting for this moment. A part of him has, in a strange, depraved way, been longing for it. As much as he despises what he knows Ben will do to him, he aches for the heaviness of his limb that the smoke always fills him with. To sink into the drowsiness and ignore everything else, even if it’s just for one evening. He’s missed it, these last few days when Ben didn’t send for him. Even Jack noticed that something was up when Ed spent the third evening in a row pacing their tiny cabin instead of settling down to sleep.

So Ed nods eagerly. “Yes, sir. I’d love to share a pipe with you.” 

Ben lifts his hand off Ed’s leg, brushing over his knee in the process. “Wonderful. I shall get everything ready for us.”

He disappears to dig through the cabinet and Ed remains alone. It’s familiar now: the waiting, the anticipation, the fear. He’s gotten through this before. He can survive it again if he drowns himself in the plumes of smoke so he doesn’t have to feel too much of what Ben does to him. 

He feels more than he sees Ben sitting back down next to him, that familiar tray in his hand, smoke already rising to caress Ed’s face. This time, he doesn’t go through the whole show of taking a drag of his own first but immediately hands the pipe over to Ed. The wood is smooth under Ed’s fingers, a comforting warmth emanating from the bowl. Ed takes the bit between his lips and inhales deeply, the smoke filling up his lungs and along with it the chasm behind his ribs that had been aching for the drug. 

Ben stretches an arm on the backrest of the sofa behind Ed’s head. His other hand comes up to pluck a stray strand of hair off Ed’s cheek. “There you are. That’s much better than forcing your tired mind to keep prattling on, isn’t it?” 

When Ed nods, it’s not even a lie. Not better perhaps, in whatever sense of the word, but easier. Like giving in to the current and letting himself be dragged out into the sea. He leans his head back, finding the firm muscle of Ben’s arm instead of soft cushions, but he doesn’t even care. He takes another drag, and it doesn’t matter anymore. Doesn’t fucking matter. 

Ben’s arm comes to wrap around his shoulder, and Ed takes another hasty drag. He’s not ready to give the pipe back just yet. “Careful, darling,” Ben reprimands. He’s fashioning his voice into something soft and gentle, Ed can tell, but the dishonesty is all too obvious. “Not so quick. We don’t want you to choke on it.”

Ed’s not so sure he agrees, but he consciously slows his movements down. The next drag he takes is small, more measured.

“That’s it,” Ben coos. “That’s how I like to see you. All good and obedient.”

He tightens his arm around Ed’s shoulder, and Ed doesn’t resist. He leans into the touch, still holding onto the pipe like a lifeline. The pleasant haze has long since risen around him, rendering his movements thick and liquid. It’s difficult to pay attention to anything that happens. Ben is talking, that much Ed can tell, but when he doesn’t consciously try to focus, it’s more of a droning background noise, the words melting into each other. 

Ed is almost surprised when Ben reaches out to unlace his shirt. Dimly, he remembers—that’s what he came here for, wasn’t it? Ed giggles mindlessly as Ben pulls apart the fabric, down over his shoulders. He’s a fucking idiot, really. Shouldn’t have expected anything else. Or forgotten about his expectations, whichever one it was. 

Ben scrubs a thumb over the bandages Ed uses to flatten down his breasts, poking roughly until he finds the end of the fabric, tucked underneath, and pulls. “You shouldn’t hide yourself from me, little poppy,” he says. Ed doesn’t move to help him take off the bandages, but he doesn’t resist either, which is as good as tacit agreement, isn’t it? Good enough for Ben, at least. “Such lovely little breasts should be out there, for the world to see.”

Ed blinks nervously. No one except for his closest friends even know that he wasn’t born a boy. Surely Ben doesn’t mean—?

“Oh, my sweet, don’t worry. No one else is going to see. This is our secret, yes?” 

Ed nods. His head spins.

“But next time I summon you, I don’t want to see these horrible bandages again. Like you’re dressing a nasty wound! Your little madams don’t deserve that.”

Ed almost retches at that word choice. Almost. He’s getting better at keeping himself in check.

“Do I make myself clear, Edward?” 

Tits out next time. Whatever. It’s hardly worse than anything he’s done before. Ed nods, his eyes lolling closed. That drowsiness is taking over, flooding his entire body, and he finds it hard to care about anything else than the pleasant warmth of it.

Ben’s hand covers his own on the pipe, and before Ed has time to struggle, Ben has peeled the wooden stem out of his hand. Ed protests weakly, his voice failing him somewhere between his lungs and his lips. Only a meek whimper comes out, and Ben chuckles, a sound like shrapnel. “Now, dear. That was quite enough for today. I say we take this to bed, hm?”

No, Ed wants to say. He doesn’t want to be in Ben’s bed. Ben would fuck him again, if Ed allowed him to take him there, and it’d hurt just like the first time, and—

Ed’s heart feels like a stabwound inside his chest, only there’s no way to put pressure on it to stop himself from bleeding out.

“Nnnhh,” he finally manages.

Ben’s thumb runs over the seam of his lips. “One more drag, yes?”

Ed opens his lips, nodding. Maybe this will be the one that kills him. The wooden mouthpiece slips between his lips, and Ed takes as deep a breath as his tired, heavy body can manage. Smoke fills him, swirls like a cyclone around his lungs and bleeds into his veins, deepening the languid liquidity of his joints. He tries to retrieve the mental armour he laid out for this purpose: Izzy’s fingers tangling in his hair just last night. Annie sharing all the good gossip she heard on shore leave as she's sharpening her knife. Jack’s raucous laughter at one of Mary’s bawdy jokes. 

He’s going to get through this, somehow. He has to, for their sake.

When Ben takes the pipe from him, and leads him over to the bed, Ed is only half conscious. He stumbles over his feet and Ben has to catch him, Ed falling face first into his barrel chest. It should be humiliating, but Ed just doesn’t care anymore.

Ben has him sit on the edge of the mattress. He insists on undressing Ed himself, catching Ed’s wrists in one of his paws when he raises his hands to the laces of his trousers to speed up the process. “None of that, poppy. You just stay good and still, yes?”

“Uh huh,” Ed says, allowing his vision to blur and the droning in his ears to grow into a deafening roar. It’s easier to pretend he’s not really here and that this body doesn’t belong to him. He feels the hands on him, the fabric of his trousers sliding down his legs, cool air hitting them as they’re revealed, but the sensation is distant, like living someone else’s memory. He’s laid down on the bed, his body sinking into the soft mattress. Under any other circumstance, the soft give and silken fabric would feel divine, but here, on his floating island far from familiar waters, he can’t enjoy it. Besides, the feeling is now inextricably linked to Hornigold. But that’s just life, isn’t it? No comfort ever comes for free, every kindness has a price. 

A sweet smell pops Ed’s little bubble far away from the world. It’s sugary, sickly sweet, almost like the pipe smoke, but there’s an unfamiliar freshness to it that somehow stirs Ed back into something closer to a wakeful state.

Something slips into his cunt. It barely hurts, and for a moment Ed wonders—did he really get that high? He pries his eyes open. Ben has settled between his legs, still fully dressed, but his hand—

It’s only a finger. Ed sighs. Probably not even half of what awaits him. He doesn’t even want to fucking look.

Ben pats his cheek with the hand not busy between Ed’s legs. “Rose oil,” he says. “To ease the way. You made such a ruckus, the first time I had you like this, so I figured this would make things more satisfactory for all of us.”

Satisfactory? If he were of a sounder mind, Ed would scoff—how dare Hornigold talk about satisfying himself while he’s forcing himself upon him. He’s tempted to be grateful for it, because at least this doesn’t hurt as much as he recalls, but the words are just as painful. Ben shoves a second finger into him alongside the first, and any quip he might have had on his tongue evaporates. 

It feels good. Ed hates how good it feels, wants to cut every fibre of his body burning with pleasure at the violation out of himself, wants to scream and thrash and kick. Instead, he gasps softly, a sound punched from the depths of his chest with the first thrust of Ben’s fingers.

“Beautiful,” Ben coos. “Aren’t I being so good to you?”

Ed nods. Please, just get this fucking over with.

Thankfully, Ben is not a patient man. Time is a briny rope under Ed’s shaking hands, but it can’t be long until Ben pulls his fingers out of Ed and his cock out of his trousers. It still hurts when he enters, and Ed would yell if he could find the strength. At least it’s not as terrible as the first time, he tells himself. At least he doesn’t feel like he’s being ripped apart at the seams.

Ben begins to grunt and groan on top of him, spearing Ed open with every painful thrust. Ed’s skin feels too tight. Mentally, he flips through his distractions—the ship he’s been dreaming of, the fragments of their earlier lesson, the safety of his cabin—but none of them can form fully before they’re dissolved by a snap of Ben’s hips. 

So Ed stops trying. He lets himself lose focus, his eyes stumbling over the woodgrain above him. He’s well acquainted with the pattern by now, knows it better than the maps Ben made him memorise, better even than the ceiling over his own bunk. He loses himself in it, the happenings between his legs fading into the background.

“Are you not enjoying yourself, Edward?” Ben asks sternly. Ed blinks until he’s back in his body. “I spend so much time providing you pleasure, and now you’re being awfully quiet. You know, I don’t need to waste my time doing all that, the oil and the fingers, if you’re going to be ungrateful—”

“No! ” Ed gasps, more desperate than he wants to sound. “Please. You’re so good to me. Feel so good. Ah,” he tries to moan on Ben’s next thrust.

Ben threads his fingers through Ed’s hair, close to his scalp, and angles Ed’s head upwards until he can’t avoid meeting his eyes. “Don’t fucking keep that from me, then. Go on, darling. I want to hear how much you love my cock.”

Ed would rather eat his own fucking toe. Disgust washes over him, hot and acrid, and he turns his head away.

Ben fucks into him, deep and hard. “Come on. Say it.”

“Love your cock,” Ed says mechanically. “Feels so good. So big. Ohhh…” The moans are easier, he realises, because they’re not that far off from the pained gasps tangled in a web of fear behind his teeth. 

Ben makes an appreciative sound, low and almost calming. “Keep going. I want you to enjoy this as well, poppy.”

If it didn’t hurt so much, Ed would laugh in his fucking face. Maybe if he plays along it’ll speed up the ordeal somehow. Stroking a man’s ego is sometimes just as good as stroking his cock, he’s learned over the years. “Yeah,” he tries. “So good. I love… love how big you are. How good…” Fuck, and he’s already out of ideas.

Ben doesn’t seem to mind. “Lovely,” he purrs. “That’s how I like you. But darling, tell me—don’t you remember your manners?”

Ed opens his eyes as far as they’ll go, which is not very, but enough to squint at the backlit outline of Ben’s face. “I’m—I don’t… don’t think I understand your meaning, sir?” 

“Oh, darling.” Ben’s paw is back on his face, stroking tenderly at his temple. When Ed turns away, Ben follows. “We learned something about favours, a couple of nights ago, didn’t we?” 

The gears in Ed’s head rattle slowly, until he spots a shadowy silhouette of a memory that he tried to banish to the most distant corner of his mind. “Never come for free?” he asks.

“Oh,” Ben laughs, like Ed just made the most adorable childish error. “This one does, dearest. I only expect your gratitude in exchange.”

Oh. So that’s what he’s fucking playing at. Should be fucking easy to grant him what he wants, but his body convulses with physical repulsion as he opens his mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

Ben tuts. “What are you thanking me for, boy?”

Ed blinks to hold the rising flood of tears at bay. “For teaching me. And for… for fucking me.”

“That is awfully vulgar, is it not?”

Ed shrugs. It’s what Ben’s doing, is it not?

“I prefer to call it making love.”

This time, Ed can’t catch the retching noise before it leaves his mouth. Ben still stares at him expectantly, so Ed swallows, tasting bile. “Thank you for making love to me, sir.”

Ben groans, louder than before. His hips piston forward, so deep his cock must break something inside Ed, and it hurts, it hurts, Ed claws his limp fingers into the sheet as he wails, but Ben pays it no mind. He buries himself deep inside Ed, his head rolling back as he pumps his seed into Ed, hot and sticky and vile. 

For a long time after, Ben doesn’t move. He stays seated, his body dead weight on top of Ed, his hips twitching as his balls empty themselves into Ed’s aching cunt. 

Somehow, this is more degrading than anything he’s done to Ed before. It’s almost like a cuddle after a satisfying fuck—only there’s no way for Ed to worm himself out of it once he inevitably overheats. 

When Ben finally sits up, Ed doesn’t remember when he last took a full breath so he floods his lungs with sweet air the moment he can. It tastes of Ben’s musk, sweaty, animalistic and a hint of unwashed genitals. 

“That was lovely, wasn’t it?” Ben asks.

Ed keeps his eyes closed and his breaths slow. Maybe he can convince Ben he’s sleeping to avoid any further conversation. 

Ben falls for it, or at least has the good grace to pretend. “Look at you. My beautiful poppy, all tired and withered. Rest now, darling. I’ll be right back.”

Ed feels the mattress shift as he moves to the edge of the bed, then rises. He’s not sure what Ben is doing, but he’s too weak to care and too tired to open his eyes.

Within a few breaths, sleep overcomes him, and he slips into darkness. 

Chapter Text

Ed quickly learns to play the part Hornigold has destined him for.

He wouldn’t say he’s used to it. He doesn’t expect himself to ever get used to it, really, but at least he can bring himself to eat after the Captain has summoned him where he would get so nervous that he couldn’t stomach even the driest bit of tack just weeks ago. He doesn’t wake up sick most mornings after, and when he does, after Ben’s had him do something particularly revolting, he often manages to scrape himself together to work despite the pit of guilt and hatred sitting tight and tangled between his entrails. 

It’s probably thanks to the repetitiveness of it all. 

Back when Izzy was teaching him how to wield a sword, when Ed was still green, freshly aboard the Ranger, he used to go on and on about the importance of repetition. He made Ed run through his drills hundreds of times, until Ed could have executed them fast asleep, before he was finally be satisfied. Ed always rolled his eyes at Izzy, back then, but he thinks he’s starting to get it. Only took him a handful of repetitions to figure out how to let the memories of Hornigold’s violations ricochet off his skin. 

Something shatters each time, Ed knows that, but at least he’s numb to it instead of crying himself to sleep for days after. One day, when Hornigold is where he belongs—dead on the bottom of the ocean—Ed will deal with the broken pieces of himself. 

For now, he’s getting really fucking good at going with the flow. Hornigold summons him to the great cabin every evening that Ed’s not on the work roster—which, these days, seems to be more often than not. By some miracle, Ed’s shifts align very well with the Captain’s nightly invitations. What happens then is a well-rehearsed dance by now, and Ed rarely trips over his feet: Ben teaches him a lesson, rewards him with the pipe, then has Ed show his gratitude on his knees or in Ben’s bed, legs apart and mind dulled to the pain and disgust. 

The lessons are still amazing. There’s nothing in the world Ed wouldn’t give for the knowledge Ben has chosen to bestow upon him. A sense of power comes with it—knowing where they’re headed and what ambushes Ben has planned even before the most seasoned members of the crew makes Ed feel like fucking royalty. They’re worth everything else, he often reminds himself when he gags around Ben’s cock or bites back screams of pain as Ben forces himself inside.

He’s figuring out how to handle the sex. The less he resists, the easier Ben makes it for him, Ed has learned. When he makes himself pliant and mouldable under the Captain’s touch, Ben slows down and prepares Ed before fucking him. When Ed shows even the faintest traces of enthusiasm, Ben will even use that rose oil to ease the way. The smell of it made Ed’s stomach mutiny when he walked past a stall selling something similar at a market, but still, it’s a kind gesture. 

And if Ed moans instead of crying, Ben will make sure that Ed comes as well. 

That part is the worst of all. Because—if he’s enjoying himself, it can hardly be true that Ben is forcing anything, can it? Ben’s fingers on his cock make him feel strangely complicit in his own defilement. 

Today has been one of those days. Ben brought his hands over Ed’s breasts while thrusting into him, and in an unguarded moment, a little noise slipped out of Ed. Not of pleasure, perhaps, but easily mistaken for it. Too far off from a grunt of unambiguous pain. 

Ben’s hand is on Ed’s cock now, though he doesn’t call it that. “Do you like that, darling? When I touch your little pearl for you?”

Ed doesn’t know the honest answer to this, but he knows the one Ben wants to hear. Another lesson he’s learned. Gratitude. “I do, Daddy,” he whispers, summoning the dull specks of pleasure dancing under Ben’s fingers into his voice. “Thank you for touching me.”

Ben thrusts deeper and groans louder. For some reason, he gets off on pretending like Ed's having a good time as well. Fucking weird for a man who has never even considered asking before he takes what he wants. He doesn’t ask what Ed wants either, just makes those choices for him and then decides that Ed has to like whatever he’s dishing out. 

Enjoyment is difficult to muster up when Ben fucks into him ruthlessly like he does now. Pain shoots through him with every thrust. There seems to be no way of getting used to the size of Ben’s cock and the force with which he pushes into Ed, or if there is, Ed’s still miles away from figuring it out. He’ll be sitting funny for days after this. At the same time as he almost drowns in agony, Ben wrings pleasure out of him with the fingers on his cock. He’s efficient about it, pressing down in time with his thrusts and finding all of Ed’s weak spots with the same precision he shoots enemy sailors out of the rigging of an approaching ship.

The sensations don’t mix together but tear at him, pain pulling him one way the second pleasure shoves him into another direction. In his mind, they overlap, each enough to be overwhelming on its own but utterly unbearable in combination. 

Ben fucks into him particularly deeply the moment he tugs at Ed’s sensitive cock with two fingers. Two waves crash over Ed simultaneously, and he wails out loud, all shame forgotten. He goes under, water burying him, until he can’t breathe.

“Oh, is that a lot for you to take?” Ben coos into Ed’s ear. His breath is hot and wet, like the fucking pipe smoke. 

Sometimes Ed thinks Ben himself is made of nothing but that drug he gives Ed—there’s got to be a reason why Ed keeps running to him. 

“You’re taking me so well,” Ben continues, and Ed is too out of it to pretend like the praise doesn’t scratch an itch under his skin. He moans softly in response, shoving his hips into the twin avalanches of Ben’s fingers and his cock. “Like you were made for my cock. That’s it, isn’t it? You were born to—fuck!—born to be my good girl.”

Ed cringes, but Ben punctuates the words with a forceful rub over his cock that leaves his brain too hazy to protest. 

“It’s a real shame you have to hide yourself. Why dress like a shoddy street urchin when you’re hiding such treasures underneath? Those lovely little breasts of yours, and that perfect tight cunt…”

A helpless noise falls from Ed’s mouth. Ben’s got it wrong, all wrong—he’s not fucking hiding, he’s creating himself, if anything. 

Ben keeps droning on. “Really, a beautiful thing like you should be wrapped in silks and pearls, not those rags you wear… I need to take you to my tailor soon. So we can get you what you deserve.” His fingers on Ed’s cock speed up, along with his thrusts. Ed spreads his legs to accommodate, trying to disguise his pained groans as something akin to pleasured moans. “Because my good girl deserves the most beautiful dresses money can buy.”

Ed sobs. His cock throbs at the words, no matter how wrong they make him feel. He’s never hated himself more than he does right now.

Ben’s lips brush over Ed’s ear in an idea of a kiss. Ed feels too weak to turn away. “That’s what you are, darling, isn’t it? My good girl? All sweet and obedient for her Daddy.”

“No,” Ed says, his voice high and thin. Girly. Probably exactly what Ben wants. 

“Oh, I don’t want to hear you complaining.” Ben’s lips are still pressed to Ed’s ear, each word a wet-hot exhale against his skin. “I’d rather hear you say it, dearest.”

Ed shakes his head and presses his lips together. He’s not going to sink this low. Allowing Ben to keep fucking him is embarrassing enough, but this…

“Come on, poppy,” Ben says, impatience imbuing his voice with an edge of danger. He lets his teeth scrape over Ed’s earlobe before he continues. “Say it for me. What are you?”

Ben squeezes Ed’s cock between his fingers, and Ed sobs. “I’m a good girl for you, Daddy.” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels hollow. Like someone scooped his insides out with a spoon, and now he’s got nothing left to give. Ben’s thrusts become erratic, the way they always do right before he comes, and Ed grins cynically at the ceiling. The moment he feels empty, Ben’s there to fill him right back up. Almost funny, in some fucked up way. Anne would appreciate the joke, if Ed could force himself to explain it to her. 

Ben grunts and flails on top of him, and then Ed feels him coming. He registers it distantly, without any emotion attached to it, like it’s happening to someone else. He’s grateful for the detachment, couldn’t get through a single night like this if he allowed all his feelings to get close. 

Still, tonight something gnaws at him, almost as heavy as Ben’s body on top of him. 

Ed doesn’t mind the fact that he’s got a cunt instead of a proper prick, most of the time. It’s fucking fun sometimes—like when he rode Jack’s face until he came three times in a row. Couldn’t do that with a dick. Jack even got a bit jealous and complained about how he wishes he could do that. But as fun as that had been, right now, Ed wants to sew his cunt shut, or chop it off his body. It feels fucking wrong, like it doesn’t belong to him anymore. 

Like his body belongs to Ben now. 

Ed sighs. He’s not touched himself once ever since that first night in Ben’s cabin. He pushes Jack away whenever he’d slip a hand under Ed’s shirt hoping for more. Usually— before—Ed would enthusiastically lean into it, but these days, he just can’t fucking stand to be touched. He knows he’s acting fucking weird, but the memory of Hornigold’s touch is enough for him. There’s no space left for anyone else to carve their marks into his skin on top of that. 

Jack’s been cool about it, thankfully. Ed’s pretty sure he’s just got Annie sucking his dick instead. If anyone has smelled the rat of what keeps Ed up at night, it’s Izzy, but he’s polite enough to keep his mouth shut. 

Ben finally shifts and pulls out of Ed’s cunt, forcing Ed back into this side of reality. Ed tries to roll over, but Ben’s hand slips between his legs before he has a chance to move. Two fingers come to fill the hole Ben’s cock left gaping wide. Ed cringes internally as Ben shoves them in and out with a squelching noise. 

“I do so love to see you like this, dear. Your pretty little quim, all covered in my spend,” Ben says, something like genuine affection warming his voice. Ed shudders as Ben keeps fucking him on his fingers. “We’ll have to be careful though, yes? We don’t want it to take, after all. A ship’s no place for a child.” Ben curls his fingers at an angle, then, hitting some spot inside Ed that sets him alight with sparks of white-hot pleasure. When Ben pulls back out, his fingers are coated in his seed. He looks at them almost proudly before holding his hand out to Ed. “As much as I would love to see you swollen with my child… Open up, princess.”

Ed winces, but does as he’s bid. Somehow, Hornigold manages to press into all his weak points at once. He’s been worried about this, of course—he doesn’t want a fucking child, not ever, but even more certainly not like this. There’s a witch in Nevis who sells herbs that get rid of any accidents, but they haven’t docked there in a while. The fear and humiliation taste just as bitter as Ben’s spend on his tongue. Still, Ed doesn’t protest. He keeps his mouth open and swallows everything Ben scoops out of him. Maybe it’ll keep him from getting knocked up, at least.

“Lovely,” Ben praises as he wipes his hand on a corner of the blanket. “Beautiful, as always. Would you like the pipe again?”

“Please,” Ed replies a bit too quickly. He knew this was coming next, held onto that prospect while he was suffering through the captain’s affections. 

When Ben lights the pipe again, Ed eagerly reaches for it and clasps his hands around the thing like a rope in a storm.

As Ed once again throws himself head first into plumes of smoke, Ben dresses himself, then rearranges the pillows on the bed. Ed barely registers it, so lost is he on his cloud of sticky smoke, until Ben lifts his legs up to shove one of them under his hips. Ed blinks at him, slow and tired. “What’s this about, sir?”

Ben runs a fingernail up the inside of Ed’s thigh, stopping just short of his still-tender cunt. “You’ve been so sweet for me today, dear boy. I reckon you deserve a reward for that.”

Ed pointedly raises the pipe. “Thought this was my reward, sir.”

Ben smiles mildly, and somehow, it’s more terrifying than all of his wrath that Ed has witnessed. Like a vengeful God choosing mercy for once, but without ever letting Ed forget the thread that still looms beneath the still surface. “That’s just part of our usual routine, isn’t it?”

Routine. Ed shrugs. He’s never been good at keeping up with those, no matter how hard he tries. He likes how it sounds, though. Our usual routine. Like two posh wankers retiring to the sitting room to have a glass of wine every night after dinner. Better than what the nagging voice in the back of his head has been suggesting for the past few weeks—a vice that’s slowly grown on him and is now becoming increasingly difficult to resist. It should worry him. He’s seen what happens to men when they can’t put their drink down anymore, and whatever Ben gives him is much stronger than rum. 

He takes a deep breath from the pipe, dispersing his worries behind a cloud bank of smoke. Just a fucking routine. A habit he’s come to hold dear.

Ben taps on Ed’s thigh sharply, beckoning his attention back towards him. Ed exhales smoke and meets his captain’s eyes through the mist. “No, darling,” Ben says, slowly leaning forward. “I thought I should show you how good you make me feel and return the favour.”

Under Ed’s incredulous gaze, Ben sinks down onto his hands and knees. 

“What…” Ed whispers. This feels wrong, but at the same time, Ben has shown him time and time again that he does not appreciate any sort of backtalk. 

Regardless, Ed can’t quite believe his eyes when Ben dips his head to brush his lips over Ed’s cock, still flushed and swollen from earlier. Ed curls his fingers into the sheets at the first contact, a surprised noise slipping from his mouth unbidden.

Ben hums appreciatively. “Oh, sweetheart. Your cunny tastes just as good as it feels.”

He laves his tongue along the length of Ed’s slit, and this time, Ed moans out loud. He hates the sound of his own voice, but he can’t hold back. This is the first time Ben has done anything for him that feels honestly and purely good. There’s no serving of pain on the side, no afterthought or expectation of reciprocity attached. Unless he wants Ed to suck his dick after, but… he’s really fucking old, so Ed doubts he could even get it up again that quickly.

Still, as good as it feels, Ed can’t fully enjoy himself. The problem isn’t that Ben doesn’t give it his all to make Ed feel good, his tongue dipping into Ed’s hole as his fingers rub circles over his cock. The problem is that… it would feel like a betrayal to enjoy this. 

Anger swells in Ed’s chest like sails in a sudden gust of wind. How does Hornigold dare to care for his pleasure now, after he’s done nothing but hurt Ed so far. He could have fucking had it all, had he only asked. Ed doesn’t think he’d have said no. But apparently, that option was never on the table.

A dry sob bursts out of Ed’s chest, heavy with all the hatred he holds for Hornigold and himself. 

Ben raises his mouth from Ed’s cunt and looks up at him with a ravenous smile. “That’s what I thought, dear. Don’t be shy and let me hear you. The pleasure’s all mine, you know.”

Ed quickly takes another drag from the pipe. The higher he is, the harder it gets to move or to think. Maybe it’ll help him have a good time for fucking once, or at least keep him from bawling his eyes out as Ben wreaks gentle havoc on his cunt.

It sort of works. High as he is, Ed can’t really focus on what Ben is doing, only on the slow building pleasure in his gut. Ben must know his way around a cunt. Ed rocks into his touch with small, abortive movements. There’s a pressure on his cock that feels absolutely divine, Ben’s tongue poking softly at the sensitive rim of his hole, and an ever-increasing need that laps at Ed’s body like waves at a shore.

Just as he finally thinks he’s properly getting into it, Ben pulls off. Ed almost begs him to keep going, but he bites his tongue in time. “You see, darling,” Ben says, and Ed sees his lips glistening with his own fluids, “this is exactly how lovely it is when you let me have your mouth.”

Ed nods. The memory of it is nearly as bitter and heavy as the real thing—Ben’s fat cock on his tongue, his jaw straining to accommodate his girth and the choppy breaths through his nose to stop himself from vomiting all over him. 

Ed lets his head fall back onto the mattress and groans in frustration. Fucking great. Now he can’t even enjoy this anymore without feeling sick about himself. 

None the wiser, Ben pinches his cock between two fingers and sucks it into his mouth for a few seconds. When he pulls off, he smiles at Ed darkly, like a shark smelling blood. “Aren’t you going to come for me, poppy? After I’ve gone out of my way to make you feel so good?”

If he could, Ed would curl up into a ball and cry himself to sleep, but he knows Ben will persist until he gets what he wants. So he nods weakly and, in a half-hearted whisper, adds: “Gonna come for you, Daddy.”

He’s already prepared just to fucking fake it so he can be done with it, but Ben doesn’t even grant him this small mercy. His fingers on Ed’s cock are harsh and fast, a grip like iron that doesn’t feel anywhere near good. Ed’s moans are close to screams, and he squirms under Ben’s hands, trying to somehow get away from all of it. 

His orgasm, when it finally tears through his body, feels like a slap to the face.

At least Ben lets go of him, Ed thinks as he writhes through the aftershocks. Fucking hell. He didn’t know coming could feel this fucking awful. 

When it ends, Ed stays where he is, unsure of what happens next. This—Ben’s horrible little reward—was a deviation from their usual routine, and as much as he hates it, the repetitiveness of it at least assures he knows what’s expected of him most of the time. 

But Ben doesn’t seem to realise the toll all this is taking on Ed’s head. He simply takes the pipe from Ed as he always does, rising to put it away and clean himself up. Ed is left by himself on the bed, only his thoughts for company and a body that feels like it belongs to someone else. 

Ed tries to slow his racing mind and fall asleep, but he doesn’t manage before Ben climbs back into bed with him. He tugs a blanket over Ed’s chest and caresses his hair. Like a lover. Too fucking real and intimate. Ed’s cunt still throbs with every heartbeat. “Sleep well, my dearest,” Ben purrs, the words burning into Ed’s skin like acid. 

Still, Ben pretends he doesn’t realise Ed’s only feigning sleep. After all, that is also part of their routine.

Chapter Text

Ed hates this routine that he and Ben have settled into with a burning passion. 

Every time he walks up to the great cabin for his lesson, a childish part of him still wants to be excited. Ben is letting him into the secrets of his success and handing him the keys to his own career as a captain. It should be fun—hell, it used to be fun, but with the lingering fear of what Ben expects of him afterwards, it’s kind of fucking hard to focus on that. 

Besides, with how much he’s smoking these days, his memory of the lessons is growing hazy. He suspects that Ben has shown him some of his maps several times over, and still, Ed fails to remember the details of them. They’re just too distant behind the plumes of smoke that cloud his mind as soon as they’re done with their lessons.

Tonight, he’s going to pay attention, he silently vows as he walks down the final stretch of the hallway. He’s doing this for the knowledge that Ben bestows upon him, not for the fucking drug. The drug is just what he needs to get through the sex, which he’s long accepted as the price for his education. 

He straightens his shoulders and raises his chin before he knocks. He’s gotten through this before, and he’ll get through it again. 

The door swings open, and Ben smiles at him. It’d read as warm and inviting to anyone else, but Ed has learned not to trust it. Something evil lurks underneath. Ed’s guts writhe like a pile of snakes. 

“Good evening, sir,” he says despite himself, trying his best to sound cheerful. Ben is a bit like a shark, sniffing his fear out like blood in the water. Ed doesn’t want to give him any reason to suspect he’s being ungrateful. Ben doesn’t take very well to that. 

As always, Ben ushers Ed into the cabin as they exchange pleasantries. Ed barely has to think about the words before they leave his mouth. It’s just idle chatter, and as long as he’s polite, Ben doesn’t actually care about what he’s saying. 

Ed nearly stumbles over his words, though, as he notices that the small table by the sofa is empty tonight. Normally, Ben takes him there for his lessons, and they pour over a handful of maps together before Ben breaks out the pipe. His heart plunges into his stomach, a sensation like falling over the railing and into the ice-cold ocean. Is he even going to get a lesson tonight, or has Ben decided to finally drop this last bit of pretence? Ed bites his tongue, trying to drown out the fear he’s suddenly feeling with pain. If Ben’s going to fuck him without any semblance of an excuse, then Ed might as well just jump overboard and save himself the trouble. 

Ben must notice his horrified stare. He brings his hand to Ed’s shoulder in a mockery of a fatherly gesture. “Don’t worry, Edward, you’re still getting your lesson. I just thought we might try out a different setup tonight.”

He points towards the desk, nestled into an alcove on the other side of the room, and Ed’s shoulders sag with relief. Ben has prepared the maps there, two unrolled on the table and a few others stacked neatly by the wall like they’re just waiting for Ed to come closer and reveal their secrets. Two glasses of wine have already been poured, too, and Ed can suddenly not make his way over to the desk fast enough. 

“Eager, aren’t we?” Ben says with a laugh. “Sit down, dear boy. I’ve got a very exciting lesson planned for you tonight.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Ed asks. This time, he doesn’t have to try at all to sound excited. One of the maps has gilded edges, and another roll is held together with what looks like a strip of velvet. These must truly be special maps, if they look this fucking fancy. 

“Take a seat, Edward, and help yourself to the wine.” 

Ben pulls out the high-backed chair for Ed, and for a beautiful moment, Ed’s treacherous heart flutters in his chest. As much as he despises Ben, it’s moments like this one that allow him to linger in the fantasy of truly being special. Even if it hurts, and even if he sometimes can’t remember his own name through the fumes of the drug—Ben wouldn’t be doing all this if he didn’t believe that Ed was special, and that alone makes it all worth it. 

Right?

Ed curls his nails into his palms, steadying himself. He’ll focus on the lesson for now and postpone the weird moral qualms until later. 

There’s no second chair, so Ben remains standing, his large, broad body making Ed feel small and insignificant. “I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your keen eye that these are very special maps.” 

“Yeah.” Ed clears his throat, shifting uneasily in his seat. “They’re… fancier than the ones we usually use. Like, decorated ‘n shit. Gilded.”

“An astute observation,” Ben praises, like that was fucking hard to notice. Ed feels like a stupid schoolboy, but he swallows his annoyance down like rising bile. “You see, my dear, we shouldn’t always judge a book by its cover, but in this particular case, we just might. These are not only beautiful but also of immeasurable use for us. Four years ago, we stole them from an English Navy admiral.”

Ed’s jaw drops. He probably looks rather stupid, but he’s too stunned to care. This was long before his time aboard—how the hell did Ben’s crew pull this off? English Navy ships are notoriously difficult to capture, and Ed can only imagine how well a vessel carrying an admiral must’ve been guarded. How many poor sailors stood in the way between Ben and these maps? 

The sea must’ve run red with blood that day. 

Ed shudders with awe and horror. Not these poor sods’ fault they were born on the wrong side of the Atlantic. He’ll honour their memory by absorbing every smidge of knowledge these maps hold in store for him. 

“These maps contain everything the English know about our ways,” Ben continues his speech. “Or perhaps I should rather say—everything they think they know about us.”

“Holy shit,” Ed mutters under his breath. “This is how we’ve escaped them for so long.”

“Teaching you truly is a joy. You are so clever,” Ben says, a smile like poisoned honey on his face. “This is indeed what has kept us out of their reach for so long. We know all the routes they think we’ll take. We know of all the once safe harbours that have been compromised. And we’ve been making the most of it ever since.”

Ed feels a little dizzy as he regards the stack of maps in front of him. Everything Ben has taught him so far has been invaluable—but this? This is effectively granting Ed safety for the foreseeable future, leaving the Navy to attack pirates still following the old routes while slipping through their surveillance. 

For a brief moment, he feels like he’s floating, already high on the drug that Ben will give him in just an hour or so. 

God, he can’t wait for Ben to light a pipe for them to share. 

He sinks his teeth into the soft insides of his cheeks. Christ, he sounds like an addict. Izzy would scold him, if he heard Ed talking like this. Ed needs to keep it together. He’s here for the lesson, not for the drug. 

“Now, let’s have a look at these maps together, shall we? I’m sure you’ll be able to learn a lot from them.” Ben comes closer, bringing his hand to Ed’s back once again. 

Ed has learned not to stiffen or squirm under his touch, and tonight it’s easy. He leans over the desk, his eyes wide as he tries to take it all in. 

Ben keeps rubbing his back, but as he begins to speak, it becomes easy to ignore. Ed listens in awe as Ben explains the map to him. He goes through every little detail of it, every route, every pirate hideaway, every friendly harbour. Ed feels on fire, his brain rattling to take in every crumb of information that Ben tosses his way. 

If only it weren’t so hard to focus. Ed wants to learn everything that Ben has to offer, but his mind feels like a candle burning from both ends. Every time he tries to clutch onto some piece of information, it melts away, and he ends up staring blankly at the map and wondering about the purpose of it all. For a moment, the map dissolves in front of his eyes, turning into nothing but meaningless dots and lines on parchment. Ed tries to shake some sense into himself. He wants this—needs this if he’s ever going to make it as a captain. 

Right now, though, it’s hard to want anything but a fucking break from it all. Ben’s touch is as chaste as it can be after everything he’s done to Ed, but still, Ed feels it so intensely that it drowns out all other sensations. Ed craves to crawl out of his skin and leave it behind like the moulted hide of a snake. Let Ben grope his shed skin and leave Ed fresh, bleeding and reborn. 

Anything to get away from Ben’s ravenous touch. 

God, Ed can’t wait for the fucking pipe. 

He wishes Ben would hurry the fuck up with it. He can’t tell whether time is passing fast or slow, but he’s already emptied two glasses of wine and now Ben refuses to pour him a third. Ben drones on and on about the fucking maps, and Ed answers his questions occasionally, but he’s lost all real interest in the subject. He should hate himself for it, but he just wants all this to stop. He wants to jump headfirst into the haze of the drug and not fucking think at all. 

“Are you listening, Edward?” Ben asks, his voice cutting through the storm raging in Ed’s mind.

“Uh. Yeah,” Ed says despite not having listened at all. 

Ben raises a brow. “Really? Then I’m sure you don’t mind repeating what I just said about our trade relations with Barbuda?” 

Ed blinks at him, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He has no idea what Ben said—admittedly, he hasn’t been listening for a long time. He wants to slap himself. Hell, he wishes Ben would slap him for being so inattentive. For once, it’d be a punishment befitting his crime.

Ben still looks at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

“Uh.” Ed gulps down a mouthful of air. “They’re… good?” 

Ben shakes his head with a little sigh, and suddenly, Ed feels like crying. Ben doesn’t even look like he’s angry, but still, the thought of having disappointed him makes Ed’s chest clench with fear. What if Ben flips his shit, like Ed’s dad used to, and beats him black and blue? What if he thinks Ed unworthy of these lessons now? What if he won’t let Ed have the pipe as a reward for it?

“I’m sorry,” Ed blurts out before Ben can open his mouth to reprimand him. “I’m trying to listen. I am listening, I’m just… struggling tonight.” 

Ben cups Ed’s cheek with his meaty hand. “Oh, darling. And why is that?” 

“Dunno,” Ed says. He shamefully lowers his voice. He knows very well what’s going on, but saying it out loud would feel like capitulating to his own failures. “I’m gonna try harder next time. ‘m sorry.”

“Next time,” Ben echoes. “I should think you’d try harder tonight, as well.”

Ed frowns up at him. “I thought the lesson was over, sir.” 

“Oh?”

Ed’s eyes flick to the window beyond which the sun has long set. The few stars peeking above the horizon tell him that he’s been in here for over two hours. Their lessons don’t usually last this long. Normally, by this time, he’s stretched out on the sofa, pipe in hand and smoke in his lungs. No wonder he’s having such a hard time staying on task today. 

“We’ve been going for a while, haven’t we?”

Ben follows his gaze to the window. “I suppose we have. But isn’t that what you always ask for—more knowledge to stuff your eager little mind with?” 

“Guess my mind’s not so eager tonight,” Ed says, defeated. He fucking wishes it was, but he can’t change it, can he?

“I suppose I should send you back to your cabin, then,” Ben says. “Catch up on some rest and hope you’ll have an easier time concentrating tomorrow.”

A sudden, violent cold takes over Ed’s body. Ben wouldn’t do that, right? He couldn’t send him downstairs to sleep without offering him a smoke. He can’t!

Ed’s skin begins to itch at the mere thought of it. He needs a fucking smoke, and he fucking needed it an hour ago! 

Ben cocks his head, his eyes laden with worry. “What’s wrong, dear?”

Ed swallows down his pride, knowing he won’t be able to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow. “I just thought… I figured we’d share a pipe after our lesson, is all.”

“I understand.” Ben’s fingers curl under Ed’s chin, caressing him in a strangely paternal gesture. “Edward, I’m worried about you. You seem to be forming a habit.”

Something small and slimy squirms in Ed’s gut—fear, perhaps, or plain revulsion at the memories he has of sailors who lost themselves to drink and smoke. That’s not Ed, he tells himself. He’s got it all under control. It’s not like he can smoke whenever he wants to—he has to wait for Ben to invite him, and even then, apparently Ben won’t always let him smoke. Lately, Ben has called him to his cabin nearly every night, but… Ed would rather ignore that fact. 

If he is forming a habit, it’s Ben’s fault, not his own. 

“Don’t worry,” Ed says, trying and failing to sound cheery. “It’s not an addiction, just… a routine I’ve grown very fond of.” Ben still doesn’t look convinced, so Ed forces a smile. “I just enjoy spending my evenings with you.”

It’s a miracle that Ed doesn’t throw up in his mouth at the words. 

Whatever. If it gets him a smoke, it’s worth the lie, no matter how disgusting it makes him feel. He balls his fists in his lap and forces himself to breathe slowly.

Ben’s hand travels down from his cheek, over his shoulder and his arm, gooseflesh rising in his trail, until he can pick up Ed’s left hand. “Look at you, my poor sweet thing. You’re shaking already.”

Ed swallows. He didn’t notice it earlier, but now that Ben grabs him by the wrist and raises his hand into the air, his fingers tremble. He thinks of a beggar he once saw outside of an opium den in Jamaica, his hands shaking hard and his gaze empty as he pleaded with Ed for a coin. Ed refused to give him even a penny—it was the man’s own fault, he reckoned. 

It’s fine, Ed tells himself. He has nothing in common with that man. 

He could stop whenever he wanted to. He simply doesn’t want to stop right now. 

“Let’s get you your pipe, then,” Ben finally declares, and the skies of Ed’s heart clear like Ben blew the clouds away with his words. 

He takes Ed by the elbow and leads him to the sofa. Ed is so relieved that he almost doesn’t mind the touch.

Besides, he is getting a little shaky—just from the anticipation, of course—so he’s glad to have Ben’s body to lean against when he needs to steady himself. Ben deposits him there before going to get the pipe. Ed slumps into the pillows, unsure of what to feel. Anger, hatred and relief all battle in his chest. It’s maybe an hour or two later than their lessons usually end, yet he already had to beg Ben for a fix? He should be ashamed of himself. 

He really doesn’t want to deal with this right now. He’ll enjoy his smoke now and think about all the difficult implications tomorrow. He curls his fingers around the hem of his shirt—one of his old ones, not the fancy thing Ben gave him to wear. He hasn’t bandaged his breasts like he usually would, though, a small concession to the rules of Ben’s bizarre games. He hasn’t given it much thought during the lesson, but now, he feels strangely vulnerable and exposed. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and cranes his neck, just in time to see Ben approaching with the silver tray in his hands. The pipe is already lit, tendrils of smoke wafting towards Ed like they’re rushing to embrace an old friend. Ed melts into it like he would accept one of Jack’s bone-crushing hugs. He already feels lighter, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of it. 

“Here, my little poppy,” Ben says. He deposits the tray on the table and hands Ed the pipe. “I’ve made you wait a terribly long time, haven’t I?” 

Ed reaches out with a shaky hand. “‘s fine” is all he has the patience to say before taking a long, deep drag from the pipe. He fills his lungs to the brim, and the smoke covers his insides like a heavy blanket. Ed wants to crawl into it, wants it to swallow him whole. It soothes him, stops the tremors in his hands and calms the racing of his mind. 

He sinks deeper into the pillows and exhales slowly, the smoke clouding his vision for a moment. Ben sits next to him, wrapping an arm around Ed’s shoulders, and Ed simply takes another drag. He remembers, vaguely, how the smoke made him cough the first few times Ben handed him a pipe. Times truly change, he thinks, and takes another drag. 

Ben doesn’t even attempt conversation, which is odd, but just as well to Ed. He doesn’t have the presence of mind left to exchange pleasantries with Ben. They only ever lead to Ben fucking him, anyway, and… if Ben wants that, he doesn’t need to flirt his way into Ed’s pants. He simply takes what he wants. 

Hastily, Ed smokes more until his brain feels pleasantly gooey. 

If Izzy could see you now, he’d be so fucking disappointed, his brain supplies, but the thought is distant behind wafts of smoke. 

It’s whatever. It’s not like Izzy is ever going to know. It’s Ed’s little secret—and Ben’s, but that barely counts. 

Speaking of Ben—he is talking now, but Ed hasn’t paid attention to a word he said. Not like Ben cares. He’s talking because he likes listening to his own voice, and Ed’s presence is just an excuse to blather on. Ed closes his eyes and lets the velvety smoke caress his lungs. 

He’s smoking faster than he should. His mouth is dry and tacky like plumes of it are stuck to his palate, and his lungs feel like they’ve been rubbed raw. Still, he keeps going, willingly giving himself to the drowsiness that comes with it. Ben’s going to take the pipe from him eventually, so Ed figures he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. 

He sinks deeper into the sensation, allowing himself to be buried beneath the avalanche of smoke, and it’s perfect. It’s easy, most importantly. So much fucking easier than trying to memorise shipping routes. In moments like this, he wishes he could spend the rest of his life here, unmoving, unthinking, and high out of his mind. 

Shit, he really shouldn’t think stuff like that. He sucks on the pipe again, but he tastes only air. With a barely suppressed sound of annoyance, he tries again. Ed shakes the pipe, desperate to get another few moments of bliss from it, but nothing happens. 

“Oh, darling,” Ben says, his voice suddenly loud and clear for the first time since Ed started smoking. “Let me take care of this.”

He reaches for the pipe, and Ed’s blood runs cold. He wants to curl his fingers around the wooden stem and hold on. If Ben takes the pipe, that means it’s time for Ben to drag him to bed, and he doesn’t fucking want that. But his hands open easily, and the pipe slips through his fingers like water.

A shudder runs down Ed’s spine like icy fingers tracing his skin. So Ben is going to fuck him tonight, after all. Ed tries his best to steel himself, but he fails. His body still feels horribly solid, the room around him sharply outlined. Weeks ago, when this first started, a couple of drags were enough to make him feel like he was dissolving into the sofa, but clearly, it doesn’t have the same effect on him anymore. 

Ed blinks slowly, purposely trying to lean into the fuzz at the edges of his brain, but there’s no use. If Ben wants to fuck him now, he’s going to feel every excruciating detail of it. 

But when Ben’s hands find him again, they’re holding the pipe, spilling sweet-smelling smoke all through the cabin. Ed nearly weeps with relief. 

“Here, take another drag, poppy,” he says, brushing his fingertips over Ed’s arm. “You’ve worked so hard today. You’ve earned yourself a treat.”

Ed could really fucking kiss him right now. Gifts never come for free, he’s learned, but whatever the price of this one may be, it’s the greatest gift he’s ever received. He takes another drag, so hasty he breaks into a coughing fit, and he doesn’t even care. All he wants is to get lost between plumes of smoke. 

“Careful, darling,” Ben says, pulling Ed closer until his head rests against Ben’s chest. “We don’t want you to choke.” 

Ed’s not entirely sure he doesn’t want that, but he’s too tired to follow that train of thought. He’s precisely where he wants to be, now—high and rapidly getting higher, floating just below the surface of the sticky warmth of the drug. He doesn’t even remove the pipe from his mouth to exhale smoke, now, just blows it out one side of his mouth before inhaling more on the other. 

He closes his eyes, settles against Ben’s shoulder, and sinks. 

He’s not moving again tonight. 

Ben’s hand slowly creeps from his shoulder to the neckline of his shirt. It’s the last thing Ed feels before he drifts away.

Chapter Text

When Ed wakes, he feels like a drowned corpse dragged to the surface. 

Every part of him is heavy, bloated and sore. The headache is the first sensation he perceives; not the dull thud he’s used to but a splitting pain like someone’s trying to cleave his head in two. As he surfaces, more pain dribbles in at the edges of his consciousness—biting tension in his shoulders like he slept on a hardwood floor, even though he’s on a thick, comfortable mattress. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is. Ben’s bed. No doubt about it. Where else would he be? His chest hurts, too, every breath rattling in his lungs like wind through the skeletal remnants of a burnt-out house. Fucking hell. How much did he smoke last night? His legs hurt so much he doesn’t dare move them just yet. He already knows what he’ll find. The worst pain radiates from his cunt, a sharp ache like someone shoved a razorblade up his hole. 

Ben fucked him last night, then. It’s not exactly a surprise, but it still makes Ed’s stomach swoop with disgust. He doesn’t remember it at all—not Ben touching him or taking him to bed. Come to think of it, he doesn’t even remember Ben taking the pipe away, which, once again, has him wondering just how fucking much he smoked. 

Evidently, it was way too fucking much. He squeezes his eyes shut harder and pulls the blanket over his head. He’s never taking that stupid pipe from Ben again.

The longer he wallows in his misery, the worse he feels. Rays of sun sting his eyes, and his throat is dry like he wolfed down buckets full of ash. He’s parched. A glass of water won’t fix all of his problems, but it sure would fucking help. It takes him a couple of minutes to work up the strength, but finally, he pushes himself into a sitting position. He moves slow, his joints aching like they’re filled with sand. 

God, he fucking hates himself. 

As always when Ben leaves him to wake up alone, there’s a washbasin on the vanity table, along with a glass of milk and some other toiletries he surely expects Ed to use. A question rises in Ed’s mind, impossible to ignore: Who the hell sets these up? Is it Ben himself, moving slow and quiet in the cabin to not wake Ed up? Surely, he has better things to do than care for his sleeping whore. But if it’s not Ben, that means some crew member has come in and seen Ed sleeping in his captain’s bed. Ed’s throat tightens at the thought. So far, no one has commented on the many nights he spends in Ben’s cabin, but even the captain himself couldn’t stop those kinds of rumours once they arise. 

Ed rubs his hands over his eyes, pressing until he sees stars behind his closed lids. Ben wouldn’t expose him like that, would he? This is their dirty little secret. 

Right?

Ed sighs, his shoulders slumping. As long as Izzy doesn’t believe whatever whispers must be running rampant across the ship, Ed can ignore them, too. 

He wraps a sheet around his shoulders, creeps over to the vanity, and downs the glass of milk—cold now, which means that Ed has slept in for longer than usual, and with a familiar bitter aftertaste. Something to take care of any risk of pregnancy, Ed suspects. He’s been bleeding regularly despite the fact that Ben never bothers to pull out before he spends. 

When Ed washes himself, he can’t bring himself to look his reflection in the eye. He can’t even put his finger on why, but he feels even more disgusting than usual. It’s not like he wants to face Ben now, but waking alone always makes him feel like a mouldy piece of fruit, discarded to rot on the side of a road. 

Deep shadows hang heavy under his eyes like stormclouds, and Ed can’t scrub them off, no matter how hard he tries. 

Once his skin is rubbed raw, he ditches the washcloth and grabs the pile of folded clothes that have been left for him on a small wooden stool. His fingertips brush over the fabric, and he realises—these are not his clothes. He’s not surprised, per se, but his heart still sinks. 

Carefully, he unfolds the shirt. The white silken fabric flows through his hands like water, and it’s also about as translucent. Which means that, since Ed came to the cabin without his bandages around his chest, he might as well walk down to his own bunk shirtless. For lack of any other option, he pulls the shirt on, the ashen taste arising in his mouth once again. It brands him as the captain’s bedwarmer, and despite the soft fabric, it stings against his skin. Ed stares at himself in the mirror and doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He looks like a dockside molly, dressed in frippery that barely covers her bruises. 

Ben has left him undergarments, too, and those are even more insulting. Ed doesn’t need fucking silken smalls, and he sure as hell doesn’t need white lace stockings. He’d look like a wannabe prince in them, and his fellow crewmen would tear him apart for the vanity. 

He might as well wear a sign around his neck, telling everyone that Ben fucked him. 

Still, Ed dresses in the clothes Ben chose for him, like he’s nothing more than a doll. Once he’s done, he doesn’t look at the mirror again but stares down at his hands. They shake like he’s already craving the next hit of the pipe, and—

Wait. Fuck.

He was wearing a ring on his left pinky when he entered the cabin last night. It’s gone now. A sinking feeling bursts forth from his stomach like the ship tilting over rapidly during a storm. He grabs his hand, feeling for the empty spot just to make sure it’s not just his tired brain playing a trick on him. His finger is naked, though, just a slightly paler line of skin mourning the absence of his ring. 

His only family heirloom—the only thing he still has left of his mother. 

He lets out a tense breath as panic clutches his insides. Did Ben take it? The ring isn’t worth anything in material terms—seaglass and scratched-up brass wouldn’t fetch a penny, even with Ed’s negotiation skills. Did Ben toss it out along with Ed’s other clothes, completely unaware of how precious it is to Ed? Silent tears streak down Ed’s face as he turns around, his gaze erratically darting through the room. He tries to retrace his steps in his mind, but he comes up blank. He was still wearing the ring when Ben took him to the sofa. He would have noticed if he’d lost it. 

Or… would he? 

With how out of it he was last night, he can’t be sure of it. He wants to punch himself in the face for his stupidity. How could he let himself go like that? If he was gone far enough for Ben to fuck him without Ed remembering it, he surely could’ve lost his ring, too. 

He looks around the cabin, his head spinning wildly. His old clothes could still be somewhere in a corner, waiting to be disposed of. He looks into every corner, inside every cabinet and drawer, but he finds nothing. His things are gone, and so is his ring. 

Ed falls to his knees and sobs like hasn’t in a long time—maybe not since he last cried in his mother’s arms. He misses her so fucking much, her absence a knife between his ribs. He should’ve never run away. He should’ve stuck it out—figured out a way to blame his father’s death on the sea, or the Kraken, or just the drink, and stayed home with his mother. He wishes he could undo every turn of the path that led him here. 

He drags himself to his feet, moving slowly to keep the pain swirling around his head to a minimum. 

Then, he spots something from the corner of his eye—a green glint, so subtle he would’ve missed it if his headache didn’t make his skull throb at the bright burst. He dives under the sofa he sat on last night, groping around for its source. When his hands touch the cool metal, relief washes over him. He must’ve dropped the ring as he was sitting here last night. Ben probably didn’t notice, or else, he would’ve thrown the ring out with the rest of Ed’s clothes. 

Ed cradles it to his chest, blinking away his tears. He has to figure out a way to keep the ring—the last thing he has from his mother—safe. Finding it again was pure dumb luck, and honestly, after last night, he would deserve to have lost it. His life is a mess, he’s long accepted, but he can’t lose this. 

After these surges of panic, walking down to the crew cabin in the stupid clothes Ben has given him feels like a piece of cake. He only runs into two other crewmen, and while they look rather confused at the state of him, they have the good sense not to comment on it. He’ll have to change before he can fight or even work, but then, he doubts he’d be able to do either of those things today, no matter what he wears. He just wants to crawl into bed and sleep for another twelve hours at least. 

It hardly matters what he spends his day doing, anyway. His name is rarely on any of the watch schedules these days, and if Ben has noticed him slacking off, he’s never pointed it out. Ed sort of just assumes he’s allowed to do whatever he pleases in exchange for Ben doing whatever he pleases with Ed’s body. 

Ed hoped no one would be in the cabin at this hour, but there’s a figure moving around in front of his bunk. Izzy. 

Shit. Ed tries to hide behind a thick wooden beam, but it’s too late; Izzy has already noticed him. “Edward?” 

Ed flinches, but he doesn’t respond. Maybe Izzy will leave him alone if Ed just ignores him. It’s a stupid idea, so of course it doesn’t fucking work. 

“Edward, what—” Izzy comes closer. The moment he takes Ed all in, his face falls. “What are you wearing?”

He sounds less scandalised and more concerned, and it makes Ed’s chest clench around an old longing. “Nothing. Fucking—ignore it.” 

Izzy takes another step forward, lowering his voice. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me. You look like you raided a very skinny prince’s closet.” 

“Fuck off,” Ed says, but a slight smile tugs at his face at the cocky comment. “Told you to ignore it.” 

“Hard to ignore when you go to Hornigold’s cabin for a lesson and come back fifteen hours later, looking like this,” Izzy says, his voice sharper now. “Ed, you… you can’t expect me not to worry about you.” 

Ed swallows around the tears rising in his throat. Izzy’s worry sounds genuine, nothing like Ben when he pretends to give a fuck about Ed’s feelings. A small part of Ed wants to give in, to curl up in Izzy’s arms and to cry until he has no tears left. 

But what if Izzy blames him for it? Ed keeps willingly going up there, even knowing what waits for him at the end of the lesson. He’s seen the way Izzy’s gaze darkens when they hurry past an opium den on shore leave, and he would crumble if Izzy looked at him like that. 

“Do us both a favour and stop worrying,” Ed snaps. 

“Right,” Izzy says, visibly deflating. “I’m not going to force you to talk about it, but if you ever need a listening ear…”

“You’ll hear all about what Ben’s teaching me once I captain my own ship in his fleet.” Ed’s mouth tastes like bile as he regurgitates Ben’s bullshit. “It’s nothing, Iz. Really. He just thought my old clothes were looking kind of dirty, so he got me new ones. Simple as that.”

“Alright.” Izzy runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

There’s a distance between them now, Ed knows, his stupid pathetic lies as wide as the open ocean, and he wants to fucking cry. Izzy has always been there for him, has always known better than him what to do. 

“Actually, wait,” Ed says as something of an olive branch. “I got a favour to ask.” 

Izzy’s tense shoulders fall. “What is it?” 

Ed holds up his left hand until the green glass of the ring glints in a slim ray of light. Izzy’s eyes shimmer, too, as he follows the motion. 

“This was my mum’s,” Ed says, dropping his voice to a reverent whisper by some instinct. 

Izzy nods. Ed hasn’t told him much about his family or about why he ran away from home, but it’s enough to make Izzy fall into a solemn whisper as well. “It’s beautiful.”

“I nearly lost it this morning,” Ed confesses. “Think I would’ve jumped overboard if I actually did.” He tightens his hand into a fist, cradling it to his chest as if that could keep his ring safe. “You know a place where I could hide it?”

Izzy squints at him. “Why do you need to hide it?”

“My lessons with Ben—with Captain Hornigold can be intense. I’m just worried I might actually lose it.” 

Izzy looks like he doesn’t believe him, and Ed’s chest aches. Don’t make me say it, he thinks, don’t make me admit I worry I might lose it when I’m too high to think.

Finally, Izzy’s expression softens a little. “Fine. If that’s all, give it here.” 

Despite his sour tone, Ed plucks the ring from his finger and hands it over without hesitation. Izzy is the person he trusts most in the world, and even when he’s pissed, Ed knows he’s going to be careful with his most prized possession. He handles it like it’s precious and fragile, gently cradling it in the palm of one hand. With the other, he loosens his cravat, moving efficiently but slowly like he’s trying not to spook Ed. 

Ed appreciates the gentleness, even though he’d be caught dead before admitting it.

“Here,” Izzy says, slipping the ring over the knot of his cravat, then tightening it again. “So you can always see it. Safest place I know. I won’t let anyone take it, I promise.”

Ed feels himself getting a little choked up, so he swallows quickly. “Thanks, Iz.”

“Don’t mention it,” Izzy says, his cheeks turning pink. “I’ve got shit to do up on deck. You coming, too?”

Ed pretends to mull the question over in his mind before replying. “Nah. Feel a little under the weather today. Think I’ll just try to sleep it off.” 

“Right,” Izzy says, disbelief clear on his face. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

“Sure hope so,” Ed says. He shapes his face into a mask of cheeriness. “See you, mate.”

Izzy dips his head and rushes toward the exit like he, too, doesn’t want Ed to see his face. 

Ed’s chest clenches as he watches Izzy leave. He didn’t exactly want Izzy to prod any more, but at the same time, he’s disappointed Izzy just accepted his bullshit. 

“And—Edward?” Izzy stops in his tracks and turns on his heels. “If you ever want to talk—about Hornigold, or about anything else… you know where to find me.”

“Yeah,” Ed sighs, staring at his ring instead of meeting Izzy’s eyes. “Thanks, mate. Appreciate it.” 

Izzy remains frozen, opening his mouth like he still wants to say something, but no words come out of his mouth. Finally, he leaves Ed alone in the dark of the cabin. 

Ed crawls into his bunk, pulling his quilt over his head. He’s never going to take Izzy up on the suggestion, and they both know it.