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Henry woke to the sound of a knife being sharpened. Snick, snick, snick. Rhythmic and regular. The air was humid and warm, and the realization crept upon him that he was no longer on the Marymount. He was lying on a beach, his clothing stiff with salt.
He opened his eyes, flinching at the bright glare, and there, sitting on a rock and sharpening his cutlass, was Captain Johnny James, the skipper of the pirate ship that had attacked the Marymount. He looked perfectly at home on this beach, comfortable and calm. His linen shirt was torn, and he was barefoot, his breeches rolled up to the knee, but he otherwise wouldn't have looked out of place on the deck of his ship.
"Good mornin', sunshine," he said, green eyes flashing at Henry. Henry abruptly realized that he was defenseless, with nothing between him and the most infamous pirate captain on the Atlantic, and the sudden surge of terror this brought roused him to full wakefulness. He scrambled, crab-like, away from the captain.
The man laughed, a sky-bright thing that seemed to take up all the air between them. "Settle down," he said. "I've no plans to sully my blade with your innards. Not today, anyway," he said with a grin. "What's your name, lad?"
"H-henry," Henry said. "Ah, Lieutenant Henry Bosworth, of the H.M.S. Marymount."
"Captain Jonathan James," the captain said. "Johnny to my friends. We ain't there yet, but you can call me Johnny anyway. No need to stand on formality, as it were. I'd give you the name of my pretty ship, but she's sleeping six fathoms down alongside your Marymount."
Henry stared, trying to absorb all of this. His head throbbed, and he was sticky with sweat and salt. The last thing he remembered was standing on the deck of Marymount, frozen in horror as Johnny and his men swarmed up over the deck, listening to Captain Blake shout at him to move his useless arse.
"You didn't kill me," he said stupidly.
"Not yet," Captain Johnny said, his eyes gleaming. He looked different from the way Henry had imagined him. He'd seen drawings of pirates with braided beards, half-feral, with gold teeth and eyepatches. But Captain Johnny didn't look like that at all. He was tall and broad, clean-shaven. His hair was thick and dark, graying around the edges. And he had all of his teeth, and both eyes, which were currently watching Henry with an eagle's stare. "Might need to eat you later," he said.
Henry scrambled further away, reflexively reaching for his sword, which of course wasn't there.
Johnny laughed again. "Twitchy thing, ain't ya?" he asked. "Did no one ever tell you that two is better than one if you happen to be shipwrecked?"
No, no one had ever told Henry that. He'd assumed that if he were ever to be shipwrecked, he'd die shortly thereafter of thirst or starvation. He could barely manage life on a ship, much less on a deserted island.
"Come on, lad," Johnny said, and—Henry bristled a bit at that. He wasn't a lad. He was a grown man of 23, nearly as tall and broad as Johnny himself. But he thought better of arguing with a pirate captain, and he struggled to his feet.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
Johnny lifted an eyebrow. "Fresh water," he said. "Best find some sharpish." Henry felt very stupid at having asked, but Johnny paid it no further mind, sheathing his cutlass at his waistband and setting off towards the treeline at the western end of the beach. Henry, not knowing what else to do, followed.
The hike into the interior of the island was hot, sticky, and strenuous. Johnny led the way, cutting away foliage with his cutlass, and Henry tried his best to keep up. His legs were accustomed to the deck of a ship, not to hilly, overgrown earth.
"This'll be easier next time," Johnny said. "Once we know the way."
"Do you—" Henry panted, "really think we're going to find water?"
Johnny chuckled, but not in the mean-spirited way that the Marymount lieutenants used to do whenever Henry asked a foolish question. "Aye," he said. "Saw a stream falling high up in the mountains, and it has to come out somewhere, don't it?"
Henry looked up reflexively, at the mountainous crags looming in the distance. There was the flash of what might have been the sun on water, but he couldn't tell for sure. He scrambled after Captain Johnny.
"Have you been shipwrecked before?" Henry asked, emboldened by his last question having been answered so easily.
"Aye," Johnny said again, swinging his cutlass at a stubborn bunch of vines. "A party of my men came and got me after a few weeks. It was a lovely little holiday in the sun," he said, chuckling. "Got a bit lonely, though. No company that time."
Henry startled to realize that Johnny was talking about him. He was the company. "And company is...better?" he ventured tentatively.
Johnny cast him a look over his shoulder. "Depends on the company," he said. "But I reckon I've had worse." He laughed again, a pleased and mirthful sound, and Henry felt strangely and suddenly warm inside.
That night, Henry laid on the sand, listening to the faint snores of Captain Johnny, sleeping an arm's length away from him. They'd spread out palm leaves as a rudimentary sort of mattress for this first night. The leaves didn't do much to protect them from the sand, but they did smell good. Like eucalyptus, Captain Johnny had said. Henry had never smelt eucalyptus before, but if this was what it was, he liked it.
He stared up at the Southern Cross, a signpost burned into the sky that would lead him home, had he only a ship to do it in. The Marymount was timbers at the bottom of the sea now.
It bothered Henry less than he'd have expected. Captain Blake would never shout at him again; he'd never be mocked for being slow to lay aloft, or not knowing when to trim sail, or—or any of a dozen other things that he was no good at. All of that had been swallowed up by the sea.
Captain Johnny stirred in his sleep next to him. Henry supposed he could try to run away, but—that was a ridiculous thought. Where would he run to? He could barely tie a proper knot, much less catch a fish or build a shelter or any of the other things that Captain Johnny was capable of. And—
And Captain Johnny seemed to like him. For now, anyway. In Henry's experience, such things never lasted long. But it was nice to not be shouted at, and nice to have someone like you, even if it was just for a day.
The next day, Henry stood by the banks of the freshwater stream Johnny had unerringly led them back to. He held Johnny's shirt, spread between his hands, with two flopping fish trapped in the fabric. Upon arrival, Captain Johnny had stripped his shirt off, told Henry, "Make a bag out of this," and then stalked into the waist-high water with a sharpened stick he'd carved with his cutlass.
He looked like drawings Henry had seen of Roman gods. Strong, muscular and tall, with gleaming eyes. Henry had never seen someone catch fish this way, and he was transfixed by it. Johnny would stand perfectly still in the water, still as a statue, and then he'd lunge. His makeshift spear would usually come back with a wriggling fish on the end, and he'd stride over and deposit it with the rest into Henry's outstretched hands.
Henry didn't even know how to fish with the usual hook and line. If it were up to him, they'd probably starve to death on this island. All he was good for, apparently, was standing by with a wet shirt tangled around his hands, trying to keep fish from flopping out onto the ground.
After Johnny dropped the fourth fish into the bag, he wrapped his hand around Henry's neck and gave him a squeeze. "Good lad," he said. "That'll be enough for our dinner tonight."
"I didn't do much," Henry admitted. He wished he could have been of more use, a feeling he was dismally familiar with.
Captain Johnny lifted an imposing eyebrow. He smelt of river water, and his legs were muddy up to the knees. His hand was large and firm on Henry's neck. "You did as I asked," he said. "Didn't you?"
"Well—yes," Henry said, feeling oddly hot, his skin prickling.
"That's all I require," Johnny said, and then he grinned. "Posh lad like you doesn't even know how to build a fire or catch a fish, I bet."
Henry wasn't really posh; his father had been only a country vicar, not a knight or a peer like the fathers of some of the other officers on Marymount. But before he could protest, Johnny kept on, "I bet you know your maths and your star tables, though, hm?"
Henry nodded. He'd had to learn those things, and he'd turned out to be quite good at them. He was useless in battle, and useless on this island, but he knew the stars, for all the good that did them here.
"A worthy skill," Johnny said. "And you're biddable enough. Reckon you could learn anything I taught you."
Something deep inside Henry stirred, and he nodded again, wide-eyed. "I reckon so," he said, his voice cracking. He flushed, embarrassed, but Johnny's grin deepened.
"Eager," he murmured, finally releasing Henry from his grip.
Henry felt the phantom weight of his hand all the way back to their camp at the beach.
After their dinner of roasted fish, there were still a few hours of daylight left. Captain Johnny enlisted Henry to help pick through the debris of the two ships that had begun washing up on shore, collecting anything that looked useful. There was a floating crate of wine, a lot of timbers with nails that Johnny said "might come in useful," and the biggest find of all, a net. It was in poor repair, with gaping holes, but Johnny clapped Henry on the back triumphantly.
"One fish at a time with a spear," he said, his eyes gleaming. "A dozen at once with a net."
The next day, Johnny set Henry to work repairing the net while he went to catch their dinner for that evening. Henry agreed to it, even though he'd never been very good at knots. He made his way laboriously through the first few, his fingers clumsy on the slippery, damp hemp rope, worrying himself into a tight, nauseating ball of panic over what Johnny would say when he saw his efforts.
Nearing sundown, Johnny returned to look over what he'd done. "Not your strong suit, hm?" he asked, and Henry flinched. Johnny crouched down, examining the knots that Henry had made, pulling the net taut in his broad hands. "Well, they ain't pretty, but they'll hold," he finally said. "And look here, is this your first one?" He pointed at one of the knots, and it was indeed the first one Henry had done.
"Yes," Henry said, cheeks flaming red.
"This next one's better, and the one after is better yet. By the end, they ain't half bad. You just need practice, lad. And don't worry, you'll get plenty of it." He laughed, his eyes sparkling.
Henry's throat went hot and tight. He nodded, because he would get better. He'd practice until his fingers bled if he had to. He'd make a good, solid net, and he'd show it to Johnny, and—
Johnny was watching his face, an odd expression in his eyes. "Can't feature you on one of them British ships," he said beneath his breath.
"I wasn't really a very good officer," Henry confessed.
"Reckon you were just fine," Johnny said. "But they wouldn't have had the first idea what to do with you."
And you do? Henry wasn't brave enough to ask. Johnny had said enough already to make Henry feel warm and unsteady.
"By tomorrow afternoon, that will be a fine net," Johnny said. "We'll eat like kings."
On their fourth day, Johnny decided that it was time for Henry to learn to swim. "Afraid of the water?" he asked, eyeing Henry up and down in a way that sent curlicues of heat twisting through Henry's middle.
"No," Henry said truthfully. "Just never learned."
He'd have been mocked roundly for admitting to that on his old ship, called names. Not for being unable to swim—lots of sailors couldn't—but for admitting to it. For showing a weakness. But Johnny only nodded, thoughtful. "You'd learn either way," he said, "but this makes it easier."
The freshwater stream meandered lazily along, shallow and slow, an eminently unthreatening body of water. Here, a scant half-mile from the beach, it was far from its origin in the mountains. It was no deeper than waist-level, even in the very center.
Johnny stripped down to his breeches, showing off his broad chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair. His back was striped with old scars from the lash, which was no surprise. Henry couldn't really imagine Johnny submitting readily to any other captain's command. "Come on, then," Johnny said. Henry dutifully stripped down to his own breeches and waded out after Johnny, shuddering when the occasional fish brushed past his ankles.
"Here's what you're to do, lad," Johnny told him, and before he knew it, Henry found himself prone in the water, hovering his head just above the surface, with Johnny's broad hand supporting his belly. "Stretch out your arms and legs; that's right. Dip your face into the water, get it wet. Can't swim without getting your face wet, can you?"
He was encouraging and commanding in equal measure, like no captain Henry had ever met. Like no man Henry had ever met. It made Henry feel raw and brave all at once, like he could do anything at all, so long as Captain Johnny asked him for it.
Henry scrunched his eyes tightly closed, took a deep breath, and submerged his face in the cool river. Johnny's hand was warm on his belly, his fingers splayed from Henry's breastbone to his navel. Henry counted up to 10, fighting the urge to flinch away from the water streaming through his hair and past his face. If Johnny wanted to, he could drown Henry like this. He could hold his head down in the water while Henry squirmed and thrashed. He was stronger than Henry, bigger. It would be easy for him.
The thought was strangely exciting. Henry came up for air, panting for breath.
"Good," Johnny said. His free hand came to rest on the back of Henry's head. "Now again." He pushed Henry gently back down into the water and held him there for several seconds before letting him back up. Then again, and again after that.
If anyone else had done this to Henry, he'd have been terrified. But here with Johnny, his mind was calm. Placid. Like nothing bad had ever happened to him, or would ever happen, or could ever happen. Johnny pushed him down, and he was inside the cool rush of the stream, and then Johnny let him up, and he breathed in fresh air. Down, then up. Over and over. Putting himself at the mercy of Johnny's broad hands.
I love this, Henry thought, a lone drifting thought in the formless sea of his mind.
When Johnny finally let Henry up, he stood on wobbly legs in the river, staring blankly into Johnny's handsome, craggy face.
"Them last few times, I wasn't even holding you," Johnny said. "You was floating all on your own. Quick learner, just like I said." He looked smugly proud.
Henry wasn't really a quick learner, never had been. But when Johnny said it, it felt true. "Thanks," he breathed.
Johnny, still bare-chested and half up to his waist in the river, cocked an eyebrow. "You look like someone knocked you on the head and left you drying on the line," he said. "Are you ill, lad?"
Henry shook his head. "No," he said, and then, without meaning to, he said, "I was just thinking about how you could have held me down. In the water." He blinked up at Captain Johnny, wishing vaguely that his hand was back on his neck.
Johnny gave him a sharp, calculating look. "You thought I would?" he asked.
Henry shook his head again. It was like his thoughts were wrapped in cotton wool. "No," he said. "But you could have. Easily. I couldn't have stopped you." That was the important part, he felt sure. That was the part that Johnny had to understand—that he was strong, and that Henry couldn't have stopped him.
Something flickered in Johnny's eyes, his gaze darkening. "No, I reckon you couldn't've," he agreed. "That's an interesting observation, Lieutenant Henry Bosworth." He spoke Henry's name with precise, careful syllables, as though savoring every sound as it passed his lips and teeth.
Henry became abruptly aware of his own skin, damp and exposed to the sea breeze. His thoughts picked up speed again. He realized he was standing very close to the captain, and he took an uncertain step back.
"Don't you worry," Johnny said. "As it happens, I like interesting." He grinned, and Henry shivered.
The next day, Henry knelt on the beach, building a fire out of sticks he'd gathered. As the flames started to lick at the little pile of kindling in the center, he let his eyes drift to the sea. Johnny stood in the breakers rolling in to the beach, readying to cast Henry's net. He was shirtless as usual, and the sun glinted from the water droplets on his back and shoulders.
Henry stoked the fire, prodding at it to get it going. But his eyes were trained on Johnny. He stalked through the waves like a Roman god, muscles rippling as he flung the net out, landing it in a perfect circle over the waves. He drew it back in, hand over hand, and even from halfway up the beach, Henry could see the fish flopping and twisting inside it. Johnny gathered it up, slung it over his back, and strode out of the water back onto the beach, dripping saltwater.
He dropped the net full of fish near to the fire Henry had built. "This'll be a good dinner, I reckon," he said. He eyed the fire with approval. "And you've made good progress, I see." Henry blushed a little, but he couldn't look away from Johnny.
"What's that look now?" Johnny asked, a smile playing about his mouth.
Henry was used to lying to his captains. Not about anything important, like logbooks and watch times, no; but about everything else. About his thoughts or, the Lord forbid, his feelings. He'd been mocked harshly for it, the few times he'd tried. So he'd learned to pretend. It was easier, safer, to pretend to be just the same as everyone else.
But it was different, here on the island. Maybe the tropical sun had burned it out of him, or maybe it was just that Johnny still, astonishingly, seemed to actually like Henry.
"You looked like Neptune," he told Johnny.
"Neptune," Johnny repeated, lifting an eyebrow.
"The Roman god," Henry explained. "Do you know him?"
"Can't say we've ever met," Johnny said with a laugh. "Why don't you introduce us, since you're such fast friends?"
Henry smiled a little. "He's the god of the sea," Henry said. "He's great and powerful, and he carries a trident—a spear with three spikes on the end."
"A useful thing," Johnny agreed. He seemed to want Henry to go on, but they'd reached the sum total of what Henry had read about Neptune.
"He wears a crown, and his skin shines gold in the sunlight," Henry said, coming up with it in the spur of the moment. "And he rides in a chariot pulled by fish, and—and he's salty as the sea itself. He's tall, and he has an eagle's eyes, and he knows just about everything. And—and he's kind, even though people think he's not," Henry blurted out. "And his laugh sounds like the best thing in the world."
He went red in the face, because he wasn't really talking about Neptune anymore at all. Johnny stared down at him, his lips parted. "Anything else, then?" he asked.
"He's beautiful," Henry said, his voice cracking slightly. "They—they say he's beautiful."
Johnny knelt down gracefully, next to Henry in the sand. "And what do you say?" he asked. He was very close to Henry, his green eyes bearing the weight of the ocean, his body hot and close and broad.
Henry summoned up every last bit of his bravery. "I say he is beautiful," he said. The fire crackled as though in agreement, casting dancing patterns over the sand.
Johnny regarded Henry with his eagle's stare, and Henry waited in perfect calm, giving himself over to whatever might happen next. It seemed strange, he thought, that they had only been on the island for five days. It felt like a lifetime. A glorious, strange lifetime far away from everything Henry had ever known.
Finally, Johnny nodded to himself, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a sly, dark grin. "Why don't you see for yourself, then?" he asked. He lowered himself to his elbows on the grassy verge at the edge of the beach, stretching his body out long over the eucalyptus leaves.
"See f-for—?" Henry stammered.
"You say I remind you of Neptune," Johnny said, no less imposing from his semi-prone position. His broad chest rose and fell with his even breaths, and his breeches were damp from the surf. "Go on, then. See if I taste of salt."
Terrible, glorious wanting slammed into Henry all at once. He moved without conscious thought, and practically before Johnny had finished speaking, Henry was splayed alongside him, mouthing and tonguing at the sun-drenched skin of his belly and chest. He tasted of the sea, just as Henry had known he would. Of salt, and ships, and clean air.
Johnny rested one of his big, heavy hands on Henry's head. "That's right," he murmured. "Good lad."
It was like drinking the sun. Henry made a helpless little noise, which inspired Johnny to tug gently at his hair, and then Henry went right back to kissing every bit of salt from Johnny's perfect skin, licking delicately at his belly, mouthing his way up to his chest. He kept his hands braced on the ground, because Johnny hadn't asked for his hands; he'd asked for Henry's mouth, and so that's what Henry would give him.
"Don't be shy, lad," Johnny said, and Henry realized, through the hazy fog of lust, that he was mouthing and laving the skin near to Johnny's nipples. He gave one a tentative lick, and Johnny hissed, tightened his hand in Henry's hair. Excitement thrilled through Henry's body, and he flicked his tongue again, and again. Johnny moved beneath him, his hips rising and falling like a ship cresting the waves. Half-mad with desire, Henry took Johnny's nipple into his mouth and gently sucked.
He'd never done this before, never done anything like this, but with Johnny's hands guiding him, he knew what to do. After a while, he moved to the other nipple, licking and laving and suckling at it, while Johnny sighed and shifted below him. He murmured words occasionally, good lad and yes like that, spurring Henry on.
Henry eventually became aware that his prick was hard, straining against his breeches. He was splayed right up against Johnny, side-on to him, and Johnny could surely feel his cockstand pressing into his leg. But Johnny hadn't said anything, so maybe—Henry shivered with the thrill of the thought—maybe Johnny liked it. Henry scraped his teeth gently over Johnny's nipple, his hips moving helplessly against Johnny's broad thigh.
Johnny swore, and he grabbed one of Henry's hands and guided it between his legs, pressing it against his own cockstand, which was thick and full and impressive. "See what you do to me?" Johnny groaned. "You've been driving me to Bedlam. So fucking pretty and biddable." He pulled Henry's head up, so that Henry could look him in the eyes. "You ever sucked a man's prick before?"
Henry shook his head. He hadn't. He hadn't even really thought of such a thing. He'd looked at men, admired them—hard not to, surrounded by them all the time on a ship—but he hadn't let himself think of what he might do with one. Not until now.
"But you want to," Johnny rasped. His face was flushed, and his eyes were dark, and he was looking at Henry like he was a fish ready to be spit and roasted.
"Not—not just a man's," Henry managed, because it was so important for Johnny to understand this. "Only yours."
Johnny's face did something complicated, and then Henry found himself pulled tight against Johnny's bare chest, Johnny's hard prick pressing against Henry's hip, and Johnny's tongue pushing into Henry's mouth. Henry made a terrified little noise, because he'd never imagined—dared to imagine—but then he gave over to it and let Johnny have his way. Johnny's mouth was salty too, just like the rest of him, and Henry thought wildly of opening his mouth and letting the whole sea flow into it.
Johnny bit at Henry's lip when he pulled away, and Henry hoped it would leave a mark. Something he could touch in days to come to remember this by. "Go on, sweet Henry," Johnny was saying, and hearing his own name from Johnny's lips sent a bolt of lightning straight down Henry's spine.
Johnny undid his breeches and set free his magnificent prick, thick and bold, rising from a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair. Henry stared wide-eyed, frozen by the magnitude of his wanting, a trembling fawn hearing the onrush of the forest fire.
"So fucking eager," Johnny breathed, but it didn't sound bad, the way he said it. It sounded like he was witnessing a holy miracle. "Take what you want, if you want it so badly."
Henry didn't need to be asked twice. He licked and mouthed at Johnny's prick the same way he'd licked and mouthed his belly and chest, reveling in the way it jerked and stiffened under his attentions. The skin was hot, salty, musky. Henry licked all the way down to Johnny's bollocks, mouthing gently at those as well, while Johnny swore under his breath. After a while, clear fluid began to leak from Johnny's cockhead, and Henry lapped at it, swirling his tongue around the head, before finally suckling that entire fat, swollen head into his mouth.
"Fuck," Johnny groaned. "Do that again, do it—yes—"
Henry did it again. He sucked and licked and worked himself further and further down Johnny's cock, until his eyes watered with the strain. Johnny swore and tugged at his hair and thrust his hips up. Because he was going to come, Henry realized with trembling wonder. Henry was going to make Johnny come. He whimpered around the cock lodged in his mouth and flicked his tongue at the head, doing everything that he'd learned Johnny liked.
The pressure of Johnny's hand on the back of his head increased, and Johnny shoved his hips up, fucking his cock into Henry's mouth. Henry choked on it a little, but it was all right; he liked it. He wanted it. He was making noises too, just like Johnny's; moaning and sobbing around Johnny's cock.
Henry groaned, his back arching. "You're gonna make me—I'm gonna—down your fucking throat—fuck—" and then hot, salty warmth flooded Henry's mouth. He swallowed it down, whimpering like a dog. His hips bucked as shivering pleasure swept over him, and his vision went black as the night sea.
Henry woke up cradled in Johnny's arms, together with him on the eucalyptus leaves, and it was such a nice feeling that for a moment he thought that maybe he was dead, because surely nothing on God's earth could feel this good. He nuzzled his head against Johnny's broad chest, listening to the slow thumping of his heart. Johnny made a pleased rumbling noise, tugging Henry in more closely.
Henry felt loose and soft and like he could say anything. "You boarded our ship to kill us," he said. It had been on his mind.
"Nay," Johnny said. "I boarded your ship to loot it."
Henry considered this. "But you do kill people."
"I do," Johnny agreed. "Those who fight back."
"Is that why you didn't kill me?" Henry asked, soft and quiet, muffled against Johnny's warm skin.
"On the ship? Aye. Here on the island..." He paused, stroking Henry's hair. "I considered it. Didn't need some prick of a British officer harassing me." Henry stiffened a little, and Johnny squeezed him. "But I couldn't countenance it. You hadn't done a thing against me. And besides," he said, curling his hand around Johnny's neck, "you was pretty as a picture, lying there on the beach. Pretty as a fucking picture."
Henry's cheeks warmed. His prick thickened where it was pressed up against Johnny's hip, and Johnny chuckled. "Eager young thing," he said.
Henry had one more thing to ask, the most important thing of all. "You won't make me go back, will you?" he asked. "If they come to rescue us. I don't want to go back," he said, raising his voice defiantly.
"To one of your British ships? Lad, I'd tie you to my mast to keep you from going if you wanted to." This image sent a twisting thrill down Henry's spine, and he shivered. "Ye'll change your name, and you'll not be a lieutenant any more."
"What will I be, then?" Henry asked.
Johnny, agile for a man of his size, rolled over in a flash and pinned Henry to the ground beneath him, braced over him on his elbows, teeth gleaming. "You'll be mine," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less. Finest loot I ever took."
And with that, Lieutenant Bosworth sank quietly beneath the waves without a trace. All that remained was Henry, bright and young and eager and most of all, wanted.
"Aye, Captain," he sighed dreamily, and he gave himself over to Johnny's plundering hands.