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“Well, this is embarrassing,” John Silver declared, and Flint could find no reason to argue that particular point. “For you more than for myself, I imagine,” Flint’s quartermaster continued. “For me, being hanged from the same gibbet as the infamous Captain Flint is like being crowned by an unexpected wreath of glory. Whereas for you,” he smirked, “I don’t suppose you’re feeling quite as sentimental about it.”

“Shut up,” Flint groaned, letting his forehead collide with the beam in between the two men. The beam to which they had both been rather unceremoniously chained. “Do you ever stop talking just so you can hear yourself?”

“Well, how would that work?”

“I don’t care. Try, to see if you can figure it out.”

“If you don’t like the sound of my voice…”

“I can’t hear myself think with your constant chat-back.” Flint kicked at the beam and some wooden chips shook from above them like a tiny celestial fuck you on top of their current predicament.

God damn Hornigold, the treacherous piece of shit! And that pisslicker Dufresne, the devil take him! It wasn’t bad enough to be hogtied and handed over to the bloody redcoats, it had to be as a packaged deal with Silver? With Silver, of all people. The one man on his crew who doesn’t shut up! But also the one man on his crew who may have had enough brain matter left to actually mount a rescue. Come to think of it, that was probably part of this downright Mephistophelean plot.

“No one on the crew knows where we are,” Silver was muttering to himself, despite what Flint thought was a pretty damn clear order to shut his ever-spewing trap. “By the time they realize we’re gone, we’re going to be sea-bound for Mother England.”

“Why did they have to chain us up facing each other?” Flint groaned, and hit his head on the beam again. Some more debris came down, flitting upon them like snow flurries. Some of it landed in Silver’s long tresses and he attempted to shake the transgressors loose, tossing his mane like an irritated stallion.

Flint snorted. “Don’t worry, Mr. Silver, I’m sure you will still look very pretty for the judge.”

Ignoring the snide remark, Silver’s gaze was fixed upon the ceiling, whence the debris had fallen. “You know something? I don’t believe this shack they’ve got us chained up in is very structurally sound.” He craned his neck to the side of the beam trying to catch Flint’s eye. “I mean, every time you’ve hit it, it’s shaken something loose. Perhaps you should try to hit it harder, hm?”

“And what are you, an invalid?” Flint snarked and immediately bit his lip. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

A powerful impact shook the beam from Silver’s side, followed by a strangled cry of “Fuck!”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I shouldn’t kick wooden beams with the peg leg,” Silver replied, panting at the pain that radiated up from his stump all the way into his lower back. “Although I’m flattered that you don’t think of me as an invalid, Captain. Truly.”

“If you’re gonna use it to bring down this shit shack,” Flint said, suddenly illuminated by a spark of hope, “at least take it off your leg first.”

“Oh, that’s clever. Bring down the whole house on top of a cripple who can’t run?”

“I could carry you,” Flint shrugged, his own manacles making Silver’s jangle in unison. “You said it yourself: no one is coming for us. Breaking this beam might be our best chance of escape.”


It became more of a circus act than Flint had anticipated. First, Flint had to crouch all the way to the ground to even allow enough slack in the chains for Silver to take the would-be axe off his stump. And then, between having to prop up the beam while Silver swung his boot at it like some demented woodsman and actually trying to untangle their Gordian knot of chains before the roof came down upon them, he nearly forgot that - yes actually - he kind of did need to carry Silver out of there too. Even though the man managed to reattach his handy walking implement by some combination of acquired skill and dumb luck. And even if he had wanted to leave Silver behind, not that he would, but the fact of the matter remained - they were still chained to each other. Only now, they didn’t have the privacy afforded by having a beam in between their faces.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

There was no time to be looking at each other the way Silver was looking at him, all deceptive puppy-dog eyes full of gratitude. They weren’t in the clear yet.

“Come on, lean on me,” Flint’s arm awkwardly propped itself into Silver’s chest. There was no way of doing this comfortably or gracefully, shackled and chained to each other face-to-face as they were.

“I admit we did not think this part of the plan through,” Silver pointed out, putting as much of his weight on Flint as he felt he could while still preserving a shred of dignity.

Under cover of night, the chaos that resulted from the destruction of their temporary prison had thrown what few redcoats there were at the camp into confusion.

“Get to the gig,” Flint hissed and pointed to the longboat on the shore.

“After you, captain,” Silver smirked and allowed Flint to half-drag half-carry him into the waiting boat. His peg leg hit the bottom with probably too much noise.

“I’ll row.”

“I can row too,” Silver protested, trying to reach for the oars, but having his arms snapped back by the chain.

“Not facing backwards you can’t.”

Just then, several volleys were heard and a few bullets whizzed past their ears, dropping into the water around the two escapees.

“Lousy shots!” Flint railed into the darkness.

“Are you trying to let them know where to aim?”

“They’ll never hit us, ‘cept for some outrageous luck.”

“Somehow, I’m not very reassured.” Silver felt the chains yanking at his wrists with each stroke Flint pulled, and shifted closer to relieve some of that strain. “Do you know where you’re taking us?” he breathed out quietly, not so much so as not to alarm their pursuers (for he had to assume some kind of chase would be given) but because at such close quarters with Flint it had not felt right to use his outdoor voice.

Flint let the oars pause in the air, before lowering them into the water for another powerful stroke. Silver promptly fell over onto him. Into him. Right in between his arms and legs.

“Sorry, sorry,” Silver sputtered. He could swear Flint was holding his breath. “This is extremely undignified.” The water sloshed against the gig’s hull. The shouts of the English camp were too far away, and Flint’s breath ruffled Silver’s hair. Or it may have been the wind. “I really have to take a leak.”

“Is this how you always deal with tense situations, Silver? Making it more unbearable?”

“Is it so unbearable to think of me as having a bladder that needs to occasionally empty? We can’t all have the anatomy of a camel!”

Flint chortled under his breath. The small puff of air ruffled Silver’s curls again. “Get off me,” Flint suggested. “Get some pressure off your bladder.”

“I didn’t mean that you’re hung like a camel, mind you…”

“How is a camel hung?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never actually seen a camel!” Silver’s voice had reached the shrill pitch of panic.

“I’m going for that cove,” Flint pointed with an oar, pulling Silver along with him and once more tipping him into his own lap. “God damn it, Silver. Can’t you hang on to the bench?”

“With what hands?”

“Fair point.”


Even lying on the sand in the secluded cove, they had to stay close, unless they wanted to lie on their sides, but that would’ve meant facing each other again, and neither one of them particularly cared for that kind of awkwardness at the moment. They weren’t sure how long they had to catch their breath, but the night sky was dark and the stars foretold many more hours till dawn.

“We have to try to get these fucking shackles off,” Flint sighed. The entire right side of his body was flush against Silver’s. He never thought about it much before - how much taller he was than his quartermaster - until they had to match the location of each other’s elbows in that sand on account of the placement of their manacles.

“I meant what I said before, by the way.”

“About the camel?”

“No. I need to take a piss.”

“Well, can’t you just… roll over or something?”

“If I roll over, I will piss on you.”

Of all the things Flint has secretly fantasized about doing with this man (not that he’d admit to any of them), that particular act of depravity had definitely not been on the list. The entire situation had become so ridiculous that Flint’s whole body began to shake, and it took him a moment to realize it had been with laughter.

“Well I’m so happy that my inability to void my bladder with dignity is so amusing to you,” Silver huffed and tried to yank on the chains still binding them together.

“Come on, get up.” Flint was pulling Silver up to his feet, the laughter from one man transfering like a rabid contagion to the other.

“Oh god! No. Don’t make me laugh!” In vain, Silver tried to reach down to unbutton his breeches, the chains attached to his captain did not allow him to lower his hands quite as much as he would have liked. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Flint dropped down to his knees in front of Silver. “Don’t piss in my face. And don’t piss into the wind.” Silver’s hands could finally reach his own cock and he hastened to pull it out of his breeches, while Flint threatened “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will keelhaul you on principle.”

“So close you’re eyes if you can’t handle a little competition!”

Flint treated Silver to a withering look while the quartermaster tried to maneuver himself in such a way that he could urinate in relative peace, if not solitude.

This entire scenario was unbearable. Being so close to Silver, being so close to Silver’s cursed cock. This wasn’t how Flint had imagined it would be if he should ever end up going to his knees for this perennial pain in his ass. There were times when, at night, he would allow himself a few moments of indulgence, to think what it might be like - to have Silver for a companion, to spend more time with him. Alone. But not like this, no, this was never part of the plan.

And to make things somehow even worse, Silver had been whistling. Some stupid ditty, not even a proper mariner’s song. God it’s like he really did hate the sea. He probably hated Flint too.

“Well, that was intimate,” Silver pronounced, tucking himself back and turning to face Flint again. “You may rise, Sir Knight.”

Flint looked up at the smirking bastard. If you were to ask him, he would never be able to explain what it was that did it. The boiling blood of their harried escape. The chafing of the chains. The way the stars reflected in the dark pools of Silver’s eyes. Fucking all of it. It was as if his own blood flow had reversed and suddenly came crashing back into his head, like Poseidon’s bull from the sea. He yanked at the chains and brought Silver crashing down into the sand. And into his arms.


For a few moments of sheer panic, Silver was certain Flint was going to use their shared shackles to strangle him to death. He even saw Gates’ face flash before his eyes, an ominous warning from the great beyond. So intense had been Flint’s gaze, and so powerful was the tug. And so helpless was Silver, especially once he collapsed chest to chest with the captain and found himself breathing rapidly practically into the other man’s mouth.

This wasn’t how he had pictured it happening. He had always imagined it would happen in the midst of battle. Himself striding in gloriously in the nick of time to save Flint’s life from some unnamed peril. To show him that he had been worth something. That he had been worth keeping.

In retrospect, that was a rather childish fantasy.

In reality, he felt Flint’s fingers intertwined with his own, trapped as they were in between their bodies. “You little asshole,” Flint hissed against his lips and Silver felt a tremor run through his entire body.

“Is this how you woo all your conquests?” Silver ventured, attempting in vain to swallow around the lump in his suddenly parched throat.

“I hate that I want you,” Flint growled, and that was all the prompting Silver had required to cover the captain’s mouth with his own.

Flint kissed like he did everything else, madly and with maniacal commitment. It appeared that once he had decided to permit himself this dalliance, all other cares went out the proverbial window. His tongue mounted a full scale assault against Silver’s mouth. His lips were hot and surprisingly soft against Silver’s own. This would normally be the time that Silver would want to grab the other man by the back of his head and press closer; he had to resort to digging his fingers into Flint’s shirt and sinking his teeth into his juicy, lower lip for emphasis. He was rewarded with a growl of encouragement, and Flint’s entire body toppled him over onto the sand.

A part of Silver’s brain itched for a remark that the captain could really take more care, but a more clever part of his brain was screaming Hallelujah. Silver welcomed the pain and discomfort in general, it was part of his process, but this - this being chained to a growly, cantankerous Flint, clearly in the afterglow of their escape - was something else entirely. He whined and bucked his hips up and into Flint’s, using his peg leg for as much leverage on the sand as he dared.

In the meantime, it appeared that Flint had figured out a way to bring them closer, by pulling their shackled arms over both their heads. Silver’s hands were pinned to the sand by Flint’s, while chains dangled dangerously close to his face. On top of him, the force of nature that was Captain Flint, moved like a wave, hips pressed flush against Silver’s, chest sliding against chest, his head ducked low to suffocate Silver with a ferocious kiss.

The frustration of the situation galled Silver, grew in the pit of his belly like a tumor. How could one person be so close yet so unattainable? Flint, however, not to be deterred, was using his teeth to rip open Silver’s shirt, their arms still useless, still holding on with clenched fingers to each other’s hands. Flint’s beard scratched over Silver’s neck, his collarbones, in counterpoint to his ravenous kisses. His hot mouth landed on a nipple, sending Silver bucking up into the furnace of Flint’s body heat, mad with lust and cursing the redcoats who had shackled them to the ninth circle of Hell. Flint’s tongue gave him no quarter, lapping and flicking against the tender nub, which was beginning to throb deliciously from the assault. Flint’s teeth pulled and his lips sucked on it like a ripe berry. Silver thought his brain was going to explode if that mouth went anywhere even remotely near his cock.

And yet, judging by the way their arms had slipped and began to slide lower, dragged along by the current of Flint’s body, that was precisely what was about to happen.


“Oh god!” Silver whimpered, and Flint smirked with great complacency as he wrapped his mouth around his quartermaster’s cock.

Silver’s hips bucked forward, while Flint’s thumbs pressed into the grooves of his sharp hip bones to press him back down into the sand. The weight of Silver’s cock on his tongue was intoxicating, the way it stretched his lips, the way the velvety head slid in and hit the back of his throat. Fuck. He hadn’t realized how much he had needed to have another man in his mouth. He had missed this feeling, the heady power of it, the ability to undo someone only by the merest stroke of your tongue as it licked along the bulging vein on the underside of their cock. Silver’s eyes had rolled into the back of his head and his lips moved in most certainly a fervent prayer in praise of James Flint.

He took his time with Silver, driving him to the very brink and back, letting his lips travel up and down the entire length of his shaft. Now and then, letting his nose linger in the short, curly hair that sprung from the root, now and then, letting his tongue lave at the heavy balls, worshipping every crease, every inch, loving every moan that he pulled from Silver’s beautiful lips. Silver tasted of sweat and sea, but more than anything else, he tasted somehow familiar, he tasted his. Like he had already owned him in a previous life. Like this was meant to be. Flint’s own head reeled, and he swallowed Silver again to the hilt, his throat muscles working around the shaft as Silver shot a hot load down his eager gullet.


“Did you just suck my cock so I would let you take my leg off and use it as an axe again?”

Silver’s words came out in a lazy drawl. His face still bore the smile and shadow of afterglow, his eyelids were at half-mast and his arms were lax and thrown out in the direction of Flint. Not that he had any other alternative, mind you. But his hand lay in the sand, palm up and fingers splayed open. Welcoming, beckoning. A sliver of moonlight placed a furtive kiss right in the middle of his palm and for a moment Flint had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing.

When he remembered, he brought the iron pick down against the manacles again, with as much swing as the chains permitted.

“If you break that, you’ll have to carry me. You realize that, don’t you? Is that part of your Machiavellian scheme?”

“Perhaps, a better scheme would have been to have you suck my cock,” Flint grunted. “That way you might actually have been quiet for two bloody minutes.”

“Mmm,” Silver hummed agreeably. “Is that an order, Captain?”

“No,” Flint sighed, wiping his dripping brow and applying the peg leg to work again.

“Could it be? One might be very glad to carry out such an order, one might.”

“Your salaciousness is noted and taken under advisement. Now pull.”



They both pulled at the chains, muscles and veins straining against the exhausted mesh of their skin and bones. With a final, dying clang, the links broke apart, the tangle of chains came undone, and the two men flew in opposite directions, separated from each other at last.

“Now, give me back my leg, you barbarian,” Silver complained from the sand, while Flint staggered to his feet, shedding his manacles, and walked over to check on his companion.

His shirt was torn to bits by Flint’s teeth, his chest bare. Even in the moonlight, Flint could make out the dark bruises he had left as mementos over Silver’s neck and collarbones. He looked utterly debauched and his for the taking again. And this time, he would have full use of all his faculties.

“Not a chance,” Flint laughed and bent down to scoop the other man into his arms and lift him off the sand.


Their bodies were naked and sated and covered with a sheen of shared perspiration that made them glow like the seawater in the moonlight. Silver’s head was tucked into the groove of Flint’s neck, while the captain’s hand traveled languidly up and down his quartermaster’s flank, now tangling in his long curls, now sinking his fingers possessively into the pert globes of Silver’s ass. Tucked into his side, Silver was reduced to nothing more than soft purring while Flint peppered soft kisses along the side of his neck.

“Sleep now,” Flint whispered. “I’ll awaken you if we’re about to be recaptured.”

“My leg,” Silver muttered, barely able to keep his heavy lids from shutting and drifting into the arms of Morpheus.

“You can have it when you’re awake.”

“Mmm… won’t leave you… don’t worry,” Silver mouthed against the skin of Flint’s neck.

Flint waited a few more moments, until Silver’s breath had evened out and his body went completely lax in his arms, claimed by long overdue sleep. Then he pressed his lips to the other man’s earlobe and whispered, “Promise?”