There it is again. That sweet threat. Almost like Lucius can read his mind as he holds out on purpose. How infuriating. It works, too, because he is incredibly fussed.
"Don't offer something you aren't capable of," he growls back. He is into it. Not that he has ever sat down to really think about that sort of thing. Always just.. ends up that way and he's learned to use it.
"Adorable," Lucius declares with a bark of laughter and, just so Izzy can't come back at him snarling and snapping, uses that moment to sink into the man beneath him. This is a double edged sword, it turns out, because Izzy is so fucking tight and he's so fucking hot that it steals any coherent repartee from Lucius as well. His laughter becomes a throaty groan, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, and Lucius does absolutely nothing to stifle it.
Are these walls thin? Are magical walls in a magical cursed cruise ship thin?
Fuck it he doesn't really care.
"Forget breaking you, you're going to crack me in half--I knew you were tight-arse but--" He trails off as he sinks himself to the hilt and takes just a moment to savor. Then, because Izzy is so adamant about his not needing gentleness, Lucius withdraws and fucks into him, starting a rhythm that is not exceptionally kind.
Who cares about the walls, Izzy doesn't know his neighbors and he frankly doesn't give a single fuck. Not even if he did. The only thing he is concerned about is the way Lucius takes him with a confident thrust and the noise he makes whilst doing it.
Steals the words right from that smart mouth. There's a victory.
"Fh- fuck-"
Izzy doesn't need kindness. If he does, let's say in the hypothetical, it can wait. What he wants is this. He watches, of course he does, a small noise fucked out of him with every motion of Lucius' hips as he drives home without any hesitation. And fuck does it feel so fucking good. Izzy hooks his other leg to the man's hip and pulls him that much closer. Urging him, a little challenge, but also he just wants more.
Izzy curses and Lucius would smirk, if he had the capacity. As is, being slightly tipsy and buried balls deep in Israel Hands, Lucius would be lucky to remember his own name. The leg around his hip is welcome and he spares a hand to brace it. It puts him off balance though and, when he starts to tip, he has to lean forward to plant a hand on the mattress. Izzy's nearly bent in half about it, would be if Lucius weren't a tall mountain of a man, and the new angle makes it so much easier to fuck into him.
It also sets Izzy's prick bobbing between them with each thrust. It's not long before Lucius abandons holding his leg and uses that free hand to wrap around it.
That thought startles another semblance of a laugh out of him, which triggers another gut-wrenched groan. He's got his hand on Izzy's Jizzy. He would never declare that aloud, but it will amuse him until the day he dies.
It's doubly amusing because Izzy has a surprisingly nice cock. Thick, well shaped, nice curve to it. He hadn't really ogled much (not as much as he'd like) but just feeling it? God he'd love to draw it, just for his own imaginary reference. Now, tragically, is not the time to request that. Now is the time to hope his hand still has enough lube on it to ease the stroking he's doing.
It has enough. A glide catching on each end where the slick runs out and pulls that little bit of friction. Izzy doesn’t mind, it just adds another layer to the sensation.
He’s quite bendy, which is handy for being folded in two. Izzy’s abandoned leg rests on the small of Lucius’ back and he, too, abandons purchase in favor of touch. One hand back in Lucius’ hair where it tangles tightly. The other gripping his surprisingly strong shoulder.
Lucius has set this up to make Izzy come all over himself when the time arises and he doesn’t even fuckin care, sunk too deep into the pleasure of a man who has confused him since day one. This tension has always been there. Always. And now it’s broken to reveal itself, he is grateful. Matching rhythm, nails digging in, bodies in such perfect sync.
Lucius could listen to the breathy, punched out sounds that Izzy makes for hours. Each thrust drives a new one out of him and each stroke is a different sound on inhale. The man is loud and Lucius has never been more delighted to learn a fact about Izzy Hands. He rewards each noise, of course--rolling his hips just a touch each time he drives in, thumb smearing under the head of his cock with each pull--it's an exhausting amount of coordination but Lucius is very good at multitasking.
For the moment.
The longer this carries on, the tighter he's wound--mind blanking except for the points where they touch. The pressure and heat when he fucks in, the leg hooked over his shoulder, the fingers digging into his other shoulder, wound in his hair--those are the only things that exist, for the moment, and Lucius is perfectly content with that. Nails bite into skin and pleasure coils in his gut--
How long has he been on this boat? Too long. He can't remember the last time he was celibate this long. And Izzy is breaking the dry spell? God just the thought is maddening. He's not going to be able to make a production out of this at all.
As long as it has been for Lucius, it has been longer for Izzy. Whist it doesn’t really bother him, he thinks it has been worth the wait.
Two hellcats colliding in the sheets and he wouldn’t change a fucking moment of it. Except, perhaps, to have done something about it sooner.
He really should have fucked Lucius in that hot tub.
Next time, maybe.
Praise hits his ears and Izzy gives a breathy laugh, punctuated with gasps every time Lucius fucks him deep to the hilt. He can feel it between his fucking eyes. Izzy wants in this moment, more than anything, to be filled to the brim. Fucked so stupid he can’t think, leaking with seed. Dizzy and sated and well bred.
Jesus Christ.
The thought coincides with a particularly well aimed thrust and Izzy yelps with sudden pleasure as Lucius bulls eyes his prostate.
True to expectation, Izzy cums all fucking over himself, moaning like a shivery whore. His cock spits a ribbon up his chest and neck while he blacks the fuck out for a second, body clenching even tighter - a whirl of existential bliss and what it means to get fucked good.
Izzy tenses beneath him, around him, and Lucius lets out a sound like Izzy's just punched him in the gut. His hands go tight in Lucius's hair and at his shoulder and it's all Lucius can do to fuck him through him, gaze torn between watching his face and watching him spend across his own chest.
"That's it," Lucius encourages nonsensically, hand still stroking, wringing every last drop of Izzy's spend from him. Izzy's cock throbs in time with his pulse as it jerks and, with such a show, it is only a handful of eager, grinding thrusts before Lucius spends himself as well.
Lucius sinks deep and grinds his cockhead against that lovely spot that had Izzy yelping. It's probably too much for Izzy--it's too much for Lucius and it's not even his prostate. He comes with a throaty gasp and a punched out, shivery moan of his own.
It’s way too intense, unforgiving, overstimulating, and could not be fucking better. Riding the line between everything and too much, dragging out noise after noise after noise. Made filthy and then filled while the axis of Izzy’s world goes rolling merrily off kilter.
When he can’t take it anymore, when the crashing waves of pleasure threaten to turn ugly, it still takes Izzy a moment to push back Lucius’ shoulder for him to stop. But by that time the man may have, already.
Spent and whirling, Izzy drops his leg from where he’s had it hooked on the small of the other’s back, panting openly, warm and sweaty and sticky.
Were he younger, he might push for another round after a short respite. Tempting. Very tempting. But right now all he can to try to survive riding out the aftershock of both their climax.
Lucius stays in place a moment, lingers as he catches his breath, and eventually has the wherewithal to lower Izzy's leg. He slips out of the man beneath him with that slip and the sigh that follows that turns indulgent. Lucius stretches, like a cat in a sunbeam, as he draws himself back up to standing. His back gives a satisfying pop which just...puts a little bit of icing on the whole evening.
Izzy is sprawled out, panting, and absolutely debauched. Lucius lets that image sink in a moment and then steps back. It's a quick walk to the washroom for a rag--and he can even use hot water. It cools a bit by the time he makes it back to the bed, but it's still the better side of warm. Rather than passing it off to him, Lucius drops down on the bed next to him, bouncing the whole mattress in the process. Once he's made himself comfortable, Lucius drops the washrag on his chest.
"I assume my reputation is in the clear?" Lucius prompts with a comfortable sort of smugness.
Having given a groan when Lucius pulled out, Izzy fell silent as he attempted to gather himself in the brief moment he was alone.
Now joined again (oof, why jostling, for what reason why) and presented with a warm cloth, he snorts at the quip and paws a tired hand to clean himself up. Nearly gave himself a facial, wouldn’t that have been embarrassing.
“For now,” by which he means an absolute, resounding yes. Drunk, Well Fucked Izzy, also isn’t above ruling out a next time.
It’s his turn to get up. To go and clear himself out, but he doesn’t want to. Not yet. There’s something terribly nice that curls in his belly and murmurs about being used and filthy.
Izzy's begrudging agreement is the highest possible praise and Lucius luxuriates in it. Izzy wipes his chest down lazily and Lucius watches him with hooded eyes. It is so far past his bedtime that, frankly, he's shocked he's not delirious with it. The fucking definitely gave him a boost of adrenaline but that is wearing thin and there's a comfortable sort of cotton fluff bearing down on his conscious thoughts.
"Good," Lucius says and idly picks a hand up to push some of Izzy's disheveled hair out of his face. He tries not to be too tender about it, but he's a tender sort.
"If it's ever in doubt, just send me a message," he says and, despite himself, just ends up staring at Izzy fondly.
“I’ll bear it in mind,” he murmurs and allows the touch as he works, dropping the cloth over the side of his bed without a care. Another problem for Tomorrow Izzy.
He still needs to get up.
Not gonna.
Instead, he settles down right where he is, aware that he’s being watched after a moment at which point he looks back from the corner of his eye. If there’s anything more intimate to say, he leaves it silent.
There’s a long beat before Izzy speaks. He, too, is exhausted, and sobriety is looming closer as dawn threatens to break in the coming hours.
“Get some sleep, Lucius.”
Not quite a soft, pillowy please stay, but it isn’t an order to leave, either.
He'd been wondering if he'd be kicked out after, if he'd really considered it, he would be surprised at the implicit invite. Later, he will be flummoxed, but right now he is just happy he doesn't have to get back up and put on trousers. Tragically, he does have to get up to haul the blanket out from under them. He does and, once he has it, just flops on the bed again and pulls it over both of them.
They've clumsily admitted to mutual regard, named themselves friends, fucked, and now they're draped perpendicular across a soft, comfy mattress, exhausted. This is the perfect end to a day. Lucius may shift closer as he drapes the duvet over both of them. It's not quite cuddling but not quite anything else--as much tenderness as he thinks Izzy will tolerate--and then lets out a comfortable sigh as he curls up.
It’s been a long time he’s shared a bunk and even longer since he’s curled up with other crew mates. Once upon a time any old barrel or heap of rope had done. A hammock if he was lucky. Working his way up the the luxury of a bed, even a thin, unforgiving one was a hard earned treat. This bed is absolute majesty in comparison. And despite being unused to sharing now, there’s something nice about drifting off to the breathing and weight of someone beside him - trusting completely that the person won’t stab and loot him in his sleep. Things have really come a long way.
And he sleeps well. Really well. Despite the dregs of a hangover when he wakes to the noise of a note being stuffed under his door, Izzy feels energised as he grunts and rolls out of bed.
It’s late morning but it’s also unlikely anyone has missed him. Edward doesn’t require nearly as much attention here, not that Izzy likes this development, and he trains with Darcy in the afternoons. His mornings are his own.
Izzy stretches, carding his hands through his hair before scratching his chest, padding naked to the door after a small detour to the bathroom.
He knows the writing on the page immediately and prepares himself for a fresh new hell as he turns and finds there is already one waiting. In his bed. Lucius Spriggs is in his fucking bed and-
“Oh my god.” Small but gruff.
Then he remembers. In great, vivid detail, why Lucius is in his bed.
Lucius stirs a bit when Izzy gets up but, honestly, you can't be a grunt on a ship without being able to sleep through a little jostling. (A lot of jostling.) He'd like to say the noise of the washroom and Izzy's exclamation woke him, but really, it was the cold creeping in through the blankets Izzy had just carelessly tossed away.
Lucius, suddenly and unhappily awoken to no duvet in an air conditioned room, makes a groggy noise of displeasure and gropes for the missing covers. He doesn't find them and waking up to properly manage the task means, well, waking up. He blinks blearily at the bed next to him--the open space is person sized. Then he blinks around the room, disoriented by the angle he fell asleep at--and wouldn't you know it, there's Israel Hands.
In his birthday suit.
Not a bad suit, all in all, and--oh--oh right! Lucius doesn't have a crisis, here, his sleepy face shifts with recognition and a broad grin spreads over it.
"Good morning," he purrs and shifts so he is reclined on his side, half posing. The position's inherent cuteness is complicated, for better and worse, by his sleepy inability to wrangle his long limbs and the mussed quality of his hair.
It’s very cute and for that reason also deeply upsetting.
This is his life now, is it.
It is. It is his life. Because last night they decided to be mates again before falling into bed where Lucius fucked his lights out. And it was good. It was very good.
Flush crawls over Izzy’s cheeks and down his neck and shoulders. Feeling extremely exposed, he slips on his dressing down, white and fluffy and obviously embroidered with the ship’s logo on the chest.
Not like Lucius hasn’t seen, not like modesty means much, but it’s the principle of the matter, shut up.
“Fuck off,” it doesn’t come out nearly as scathing as he feels it should have. Good morning to you, too.
God, they’re not going to talk about this, are they? Is this a thing? He’ll have to think about it later. Alone.
Moving right along. Whooosah.
Izzy takes a breath and turns the letter over in his hands as he moves towards the kettle. Like it’s just some domestic morning or Lucius came early to their daily scrum.
Very early.
The strength of him. The way he’d folded Izzy nearly in two. The confidence of his hand around Izzy’s cock, stroking in time with the thrust of his hips- enough! Enough.
Try to be normal about this, Isreal. For the love of god.
“Post came.” He holds up the letter as he fills the kettle and sets it, then moves to do the tea.
Being told to fuck off in lieu of a morning greeting, that's par for the course, but the idea that Izzy gets post? That jars Lucius out of his sleepy cute smugness and has him moving to sit up properly. He could not give a whit about being nude, particularly not when his clothing is pool gear that is only probably dry and filled with chlorine.
He groans as he sits up and plants his feet on the floor and, after a thought, drags the crumpled duvet with him, wrapping it around his shoulders. It does nothing to provide modesty, but it does keep his back warm.
"Why do you get post? Who is sending you letters?"
“Because I’m very popular,” Izzy answers deadpan without missing a beat.
The extremely flowery way in which his name is scrawled across the front is the clear and obvious hand of their most mutual cause of…let’s go with strife. Stede Bonnet.
Leaning against the dresser, Izzy opens and reads the letter, holding it back a bit so he can see. As he does, his face drops more and more and more, brow furrowing. It is not a good letter.
He closes his eyes and takes a breath.
It does not contain a single sentence to feel good about.
Even at a distance, Lucius recognizes that extremely loopy calligraphy. That, however, does nothing to alleviate his confusion. He pads over toward the water heater--burbling alongside them cheerfully--and, if Izzy doesn't move it, will crane and try to read it upside down.
"What in the world does the Captain want with you at this hour?" Lucius asks and then, after a beat, it occurs to him that he has no idea what hour it actually is. He glances back at the curtains, still drawn. It's light out. Fuck.
No, fuck off, this isn’t for you. He holds the letter away and shoos Lucius to deal with the tea. Be helpful if you’re here.
“Quarter to ten,” Izzy does answer, though. Not because he wants to, but it’s reflex and he’d glanced at the clock when he got up. They have had, maximum, five, six hours sleep. A very late start in their line of work but not so late for others.
“He’s summoning me to an execution it looks like.”
Lucius pouts and rolls his eyes but slogs his way over to the hot water machine and the box of tea. He makes the tea idly and stays half turned, listening to Izzy as he elaborates. He caught the time and he hates everything about that, but there's nothing for it.
"Stede Bonnet is not going to execute you. It'd be lucky to end up a slight maiming," Lucius drawls, missing the point by a mile. He's still very tired and woke up two minutes ago, don't expect much out of him right away. "How come he sends you mail?"
“Because he’s a childish cunt and he’s obsessed with me,”
Where’s the lie.
But alas that’s not all of it. This isn’t a challenge to a duel or anything so easy. Izzy doesn’t think Stede would be able to execute him in a million years, but it isn’t Stede Izzy is worrying about.
“He’s also an idiot. And he’s arranged parlay between myself, himself, and the captain of this vessel. Today.”
He's not awake enough to even attempt mixing Izzy's tea for him, or even to mix his own--today is a straight tea sort of day, apparently. He blinks blearily and then has a moment of vague alarm. He drops the duvet (not the tea thankfully) and uses his free hand to pat where his pocket would be.
If he weren't, you know, nude.
After blearily groping his leg for a moment he huffs and moves to his discarded trunks. They get hitched on, finally restoring some of his modesty (hah), and he fishes his phone from the pocket. After a moment spent peering at it, he pulls something up and just holds it out, screen pointed at Izzy.
Oh. Those things. Izzy has one too. But with literally zero use for it or any idea how it works, it rests ignored in the drawer with a dead battery.
The sudden spring of action grabs his attention from his whirling thoughts and he takes the little thing, reading through the conversation. There is.. there is a lot of information here.
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"Don't offer something you aren't capable of," he growls back. He is into it. Not that he has ever sat down to really think about that sort of thing. Always just.. ends up that way and he's learned to use it.
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Are these walls thin? Are magical walls in a magical cursed cruise ship thin?
Fuck it he doesn't really care.
"Forget breaking you, you're going to crack me in half--I knew you were tight-arse but--" He trails off as he sinks himself to the hilt and takes just a moment to savor. Then, because Izzy is so adamant about his not needing gentleness, Lucius withdraws and fucks into him, starting a rhythm that is not exceptionally kind.
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Steals the words right from that smart mouth. There's a victory.
"Fh- fuck-"
Izzy doesn't need kindness. If he does, let's say in the hypothetical, it can wait. What he wants is this. He watches, of course he does, a small noise fucked out of him with every motion of Lucius' hips as he drives home without any hesitation. And fuck does it feel so fucking good. Izzy hooks his other leg to the man's hip and pulls him that much closer. Urging him, a little challenge, but also he just wants more.
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It also sets Izzy's prick bobbing between them with each thrust. It's not long before Lucius abandons holding his leg and uses that free hand to wrap around it.
That thought startles another semblance of a laugh out of him, which triggers another gut-wrenched groan. He's got his hand on Izzy's Jizzy. He would never declare that aloud, but it will amuse him until the day he dies.
It's doubly amusing because Izzy has a surprisingly nice cock. Thick, well shaped, nice curve to it. He hadn't really ogled much (not as much as he'd like) but just feeling it? God he'd love to draw it, just for his own imaginary reference. Now, tragically, is not the time to request that. Now is the time to hope his hand still has enough lube on it to ease the stroking he's doing.
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He’s quite bendy, which is handy for being folded in two. Izzy’s abandoned leg rests on the small of Lucius’ back and he, too, abandons purchase in favor of touch. One hand back in Lucius’ hair where it tangles tightly. The other gripping his surprisingly strong shoulder.
Lucius has set this up to make Izzy come all over himself when the time arises and he doesn’t even fuckin care, sunk too deep into the pleasure of a man who has confused him since day one. This tension has always been there. Always. And now it’s broken to reveal itself, he is grateful. Matching rhythm, nails digging in, bodies in such perfect sync.
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For the moment.
The longer this carries on, the tighter he's wound--mind blanking except for the points where they touch. The pressure and heat when he fucks in, the leg hooked over his shoulder, the fingers digging into his other shoulder, wound in his hair--those are the only things that exist, for the moment, and Lucius is perfectly content with that. Nails bite into skin and pleasure coils in his gut--
How long has he been on this boat? Too long. He can't remember the last time he was celibate this long. And Izzy is breaking the dry spell? God just the thought is maddening. He's not going to be able to make a production out of this at all.
"You feel--fucking amazing--"
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Two hellcats colliding in the sheets and he wouldn’t change a fucking moment of it. Except, perhaps, to have done something about it sooner.
He really should have fucked Lucius in that hot tub.
Next time, maybe.
Praise hits his ears and Izzy gives a breathy laugh, punctuated with gasps every time Lucius fucks him deep to the hilt. He can feel it between his fucking eyes. Izzy wants in this moment, more than anything, to be filled to the brim. Fucked so stupid he can’t think, leaking with seed. Dizzy and sated and well bred.
Jesus Christ.
The thought coincides with a particularly well aimed thrust and Izzy yelps with sudden pleasure as Lucius bulls eyes his prostate.
True to expectation, Izzy cums all fucking over himself, moaning like a shivery whore. His cock spits a ribbon up his chest and neck while he blacks the fuck out for a second, body clenching even tighter - a whirl of existential bliss and what it means to get fucked good.
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"That's it," Lucius encourages nonsensically, hand still stroking, wringing every last drop of Izzy's spend from him. Izzy's cock throbs in time with his pulse as it jerks and, with such a show, it is only a handful of eager, grinding thrusts before Lucius spends himself as well.
Lucius sinks deep and grinds his cockhead against that lovely spot that had Izzy yelping. It's probably too much for Izzy--it's too much for Lucius and it's not even his prostate. He comes with a throaty gasp and a punched out, shivery moan of his own.
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When he can’t take it anymore, when the crashing waves of pleasure threaten to turn ugly, it still takes Izzy a moment to push back Lucius’ shoulder for him to stop. But by that time the man may have, already.
Spent and whirling, Izzy drops his leg from where he’s had it hooked on the small of the other’s back, panting openly, warm and sweaty and sticky.
Were he younger, he might push for another round after a short respite. Tempting. Very tempting. But right now all he can to try to survive riding out the aftershock of both their climax.
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Izzy is sprawled out, panting, and absolutely debauched. Lucius lets that image sink in a moment and then steps back. It's a quick walk to the washroom for a rag--and he can even use hot water. It cools a bit by the time he makes it back to the bed, but it's still the better side of warm. Rather than passing it off to him, Lucius drops down on the bed next to him, bouncing the whole mattress in the process. Once he's made himself comfortable, Lucius drops the washrag on his chest.
"I assume my reputation is in the clear?" Lucius prompts with a comfortable sort of smugness.
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Now joined again (oof, why jostling, for what reason why) and presented with a warm cloth, he snorts at the quip and paws a tired hand to clean himself up. Nearly gave himself a facial, wouldn’t that have been embarrassing.
“For now,” by which he means an absolute, resounding yes. Drunk, Well Fucked Izzy, also isn’t above ruling out a next time.
It’s his turn to get up. To go and clear himself out, but he doesn’t want to. Not yet. There’s something terribly nice that curls in his belly and murmurs about being used and filthy.
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"Good," Lucius says and idly picks a hand up to push some of Izzy's disheveled hair out of his face. He tries not to be too tender about it, but he's a tender sort.
"If it's ever in doubt, just send me a message," he says and, despite himself, just ends up staring at Izzy fondly.
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He still needs to get up.
Not gonna.
Instead, he settles down right where he is, aware that he’s being watched after a moment at which point he looks back from the corner of his eye. If there’s anything more intimate to say, he leaves it silent.
There’s a long beat before Izzy speaks. He, too, is exhausted, and sobriety is looming closer as dawn threatens to break in the coming hours.
“Get some sleep, Lucius.”
Not quite a soft, pillowy please stay, but it isn’t an order to leave, either.
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They've clumsily admitted to mutual regard, named themselves friends, fucked, and now they're draped perpendicular across a soft, comfy mattress, exhausted. This is the perfect end to a day. Lucius may shift closer as he drapes the duvet over both of them. It's not quite cuddling but not quite anything else--as much tenderness as he thinks Izzy will tolerate--and then lets out a comfortable sigh as he curls up.
"Night, Izzy," Lucius says and drifts.
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It’s been a long time he’s shared a bunk and even longer since he’s curled up with other crew mates. Once upon a time any old barrel or heap of rope had done. A hammock if he was lucky. Working his way up the the luxury of a bed, even a thin, unforgiving one was a hard earned treat. This bed is absolute majesty in comparison. And despite being unused to sharing now, there’s something nice about drifting off to the breathing and weight of someone beside him - trusting completely that the person won’t stab and loot him in his sleep. Things have really come a long way.
And he sleeps well. Really well. Despite the dregs of a hangover when he wakes to the noise of a note being stuffed under his door, Izzy feels energised as he grunts and rolls out of bed.
It’s late morning but it’s also unlikely anyone has missed him. Edward doesn’t require nearly as much attention here, not that Izzy likes this development, and he trains with Darcy in the afternoons. His mornings are his own.
Izzy stretches, carding his hands through his hair before scratching his chest, padding naked to the door after a small detour to the bathroom.
He knows the writing on the page immediately and prepares himself for a fresh new hell as he turns and finds there is already one waiting. In his bed. Lucius Spriggs is in his fucking bed and-
“Oh my god.” Small but gruff.
Then he remembers. In great, vivid detail, why Lucius is in his bed.
Oh no.
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Lucius, suddenly and unhappily awoken to no duvet in an air conditioned room, makes a groggy noise of displeasure and gropes for the missing covers. He doesn't find them and waking up to properly manage the task means, well, waking up. He blinks blearily at the bed next to him--the open space is person sized. Then he blinks around the room, disoriented by the angle he fell asleep at--and wouldn't you know it, there's Israel Hands.
In his birthday suit.
Not a bad suit, all in all, and--oh--oh right! Lucius doesn't have a crisis, here, his sleepy face shifts with recognition and a broad grin spreads over it.
"Good morning," he purrs and shifts so he is reclined on his side, half posing. The position's inherent cuteness is complicated, for better and worse, by his sleepy inability to wrangle his long limbs and the mussed quality of his hair.
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This is his life now, is it.
It is. It is his life. Because last night they decided to be mates again before falling into bed where Lucius fucked his lights out. And it was good. It was very good.
Flush crawls over Izzy’s cheeks and down his neck and shoulders. Feeling extremely exposed, he slips on his dressing down, white and fluffy and obviously embroidered with the ship’s logo on the chest.
Not like Lucius hasn’t seen, not like modesty means much, but it’s the principle of the matter, shut up.
“Fuck off,” it doesn’t come out nearly as scathing as he feels it should have. Good morning to you, too.
God, they’re not going to talk about this, are they? Is this a thing? He’ll have to think about it later. Alone.
Moving right along. Whooosah.
Izzy takes a breath and turns the letter over in his hands as he moves towards the kettle. Like it’s just some domestic morning or Lucius came early to their daily scrum.
Very early.
The strength of him. The way he’d folded Izzy nearly in two. The confidence of his hand around Izzy’s cock, stroking in time with the thrust of his hips- enough! Enough.
Try to be normal about this, Isreal. For the love of god.
“Post came.” He holds up the letter as he fills the kettle and sets it, then moves to do the tea.
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Being told to fuck off in lieu of a morning greeting, that's par for the course, but the idea that Izzy gets post? That jars Lucius out of his sleepy cute smugness and has him moving to sit up properly. He could not give a whit about being nude, particularly not when his clothing is pool gear that is only probably dry and filled with chlorine.
He groans as he sits up and plants his feet on the floor and, after a thought, drags the crumpled duvet with him, wrapping it around his shoulders. It does nothing to provide modesty, but it does keep his back warm.
"Why do you get post? Who is sending you letters?"
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The extremely flowery way in which his name is scrawled across the front is the clear and obvious hand of their most mutual cause of…let’s go with strife. Stede Bonnet.
Leaning against the dresser, Izzy opens and reads the letter, holding it back a bit so he can see. As he does, his face drops more and more and more, brow furrowing. It is not a good letter.
He closes his eyes and takes a breath.
It does not contain a single sentence to feel good about.
“Fuuuck,” he growls under his breath.
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"What in the world does the Captain want with you at this hour?" Lucius asks and then, after a beat, it occurs to him that he has no idea what hour it actually is. He glances back at the curtains, still drawn. It's light out. Fuck.
"Wait, what time is it?"
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“Quarter to ten,” Izzy does answer, though. Not because he wants to, but it’s reflex and he’d glanced at the clock when he got up. They have had, maximum, five, six hours sleep. A very late start in their line of work but not so late for others.
“He’s summoning me to an execution it looks like.”
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"Stede Bonnet is not going to execute you. It'd be lucky to end up a slight maiming," Lucius drawls, missing the point by a mile. He's still very tired and woke up two minutes ago, don't expect much out of him right away. "How come he sends you mail?"
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Where’s the lie.
But alas that’s not all of it. This isn’t a challenge to a duel or anything so easy. Izzy doesn’t think Stede would be able to execute him in a million years, but it isn’t Stede Izzy is worrying about.
“He’s also an idiot. And he’s arranged parlay between myself, himself, and the captain of this vessel. Today.”
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He's not awake enough to even attempt mixing Izzy's tea for him, or even to mix his own--today is a straight tea sort of day, apparently. He blinks blearily and then has a moment of vague alarm. He drops the duvet (not the tea thankfully) and uses his free hand to pat where his pocket would be.
If he weren't, you know, nude.
After blearily groping his leg for a moment he huffs and moves to his discarded trunks. They get hitched on, finally restoring some of his modesty (hah), and he fishes his phone from the pocket. After a moment spent peering at it, he pulls something up and just holds it out, screen pointed at Izzy.
"Here, scroll down."
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The sudden spring of action grabs his attention from his whirling thoughts and he takes the little thing, reading through the conversation. There is.. there is a lot of information here.
“Where did you get this?”
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