Extended A/N: For once, I have a little something to explain. On the Broken Compass Forum, we're all partial to taking part in challenging each other to write more. This piece was written with one of those challenges in mind. My "competitor" is the wonderful FreedomoftheSeas. I am not being humble when I say her story will kick the ass of this one. Check it out on the Broken Compass or on her profile page. :)

The challenge was this: Jack Sparrow and his equally roguish father both bed the same wench. Said wench must be an OC. This OC makes a brief appearance in "La Vida" and I thought she'd make a proper tart for this smut fic challenge.

It was her neck that did it.

Were she not blessed with such a slender and graceful specimen she would not have entranced so many men in her time. But, as it turned out, she was indeed, and, like most women with a defining feature, flaunted it like the little Irish tart she was.

Vivian O'Brady, defiantly called merely Viv by all she knew beyond five minutes, was affectionate from the age of two and on her back by the age of thirteen.

Most of her freckled and tanned under a summer sun, but her neck stayed as pale as the half-moon undersides of her breasts. Folks used to joke that it was because Viv O'Brady never craned her neck up or down; she only pleasured a lucky few of certain height.

Viv's equally monosyllabically nicknamed mother, "Red Meg Donahue," was the only fiercely Catholic woman unconcerned (and slightly proud) of a common slut as a daughter in all of Ireland, which has a fair share of fiercely Catholic mothers with sluts for spawn. She had no problem with Viv's ubiquitous nature as long as the girl did not accept so much as a penny for her services.

"The day my girl becomes a whore," Meg would often say gravely, "Is the day I leave my husband for the Lord Jesus Christ and no other."

All this amounts to fair importance, for when talk of pirates carried across the waters with the sort of fearful excitement one would rightly expect, the talk that carried back to the pirates was just as intriguing.

For the first time in ages, neither a wedding ring nor a brothel claimed the best fuck in town.

Captains Edward Teach and Teague had bonded over similarity of name and of aim in life. Both sought humbly to find as many lovely girls as possible and perhaps do a speck or two of pirating on the side.

Ireland, a sweet island paradise found where most least expected it—under a rain cloud and grass—was known for a few things, but the captains found the women the most desirable of them all.

The captains, being of good humor, took a stroll on one of the many docks, approaching an old man with one eye squinted shut and a bottle of something strong in his vise-like grip.

"Good sir," asked an Edward, the shorter and squatter of the two, "Where can we find a decent lass?"

The man, who was accustomed to the sort of crude request, countered, "Depends on what sort you want, there, Captain. The best tits are on Charity Hare, but I have to say I'm partial to Mary Bryan myself—could probably suck both your cocks at the same time—"

"Ah," interjected Edward Teague, who was remarkably taller than his comrade. "But we be aiming for the best."

The man eyed them in a comfortingly Irish manner. "Then you best get down to Red Meg's," he said with a sly grin. "And ask for Viv."

The Edwards, who had fair pirating experience under their belts (though that was not all), were reasonably expecting Meg to run a respectable whorehouse. But when they were greeted with a cheerful little cottage, they nearly trembled with excitement.

"A real country lass!" Teach nearly shouted, an excitable fellow.

"Aye," drawled his comrade Teague. "But I doubt any country lassie worth half our while won't want to suck anyone's cock, let alone two."

"Hm," Edward mused, agreeing, "Perhaps we best go one at a time."

Teague nodded, removing his hat. "Would you mind if I took the first honors, my old friend?"

Captain Teach, gracious as could be, clasped his hand about the shoulder of Edward. "Of course, mate," he said. "Means she'll remember me best anyhow."

"Only if you outperform," Teague said in lieu of thanks.

As Edward worked his way up the dirt path leading to the merry-looking house, a girl of no more than twenty ran into view. She paused, cocking her head at him. He caught a glimpse of that wonderful neck and knew she must be the Vivian of the man's description.

"Viv, is it?" he said calmly.

Viv nodded brightly.

"Well, then Vivian, what say you to our taking a stroll down by the docks?" Edward said this with the air of proposing they sit down to tea. "And once we're there, why not enjoy some fare in a tavern? Or perhaps an inn, as I am naught but a traveler in these parts."

Vivian, seeing his logical progression of thought, swished her hips, inching closer to Teague. "And once we're in an inn, why shouldn't I pop up to see your lodgings?"

Edward's relaxed eyes seemed to agree. "And I doubt you'll be able to properly judge the lodgings without having tested the quality of the sheets."

Vivian laughed, a rough sound, from deep in the throat.

Edward Teague smiled, and while it almost looked unnatural on his craggy face (already, at no more than thirty-seven), Vivian smiled back. Teague noted her lovely neck yet again and imagined the rest of her must have equally smooth skin; the soft flesh of her lower back, the silky texture between her thighs.

He played the scenario of what they would do upon arriving at the tavern. Soft whispers would murmur down her collarbone into her cleavage (which would have the odd smell of fresh flour), her breasts heaving slightly as he massaged the meat of her strong Irish shoulders, mapped in freckles.

As Teague's arm slid over the same shoulders he was undressing with his mind, he considered who would emerge on top as they ground their sweaty groins together, gasping, lips only meeting for brief snippets and the occasional mumbled cruse accompanying it. Would he grab fistfuls of the bed sheets or slap his calloused hands about her slick form?

"Enticing prospects, Captain Teague," Viv said wickedly, entwining their hands, green eyes a-twinkle. Jarred from his thoughts of debauchery, Edward swept a kiss that thrilled her entire body. Working his fingers into her hair, the captain put his plans into action.

Jack Sparrow, it must be noted, was only thirteen at the time of said encounter, all scarred elbows and crooked teeth that would later be knocked out and replaced. It becomes meaningful, as the fair Vivian and the two Edwards would again share a night ten years later, when Jack was at a far savvier twenty-three. It is safe to say that by that time he had taken the helm of a great many ships—and a great many women—and proven himself skillful at navigating all forms of stormy weather.

Skilled though he was, his father, ornery with age still had a bit of intrepidition at presenting his son as the treasure he'd amassed in the years since Teach and he had last shared a dinner aboard the mighty Queen Anne's Revenge.

"Mrs. Captain Edward Teach?" Edward Teague asked with a slight lilt of incredulity. He twirled a fork in his elegant fingers, silver catching the low candlelight. His old friend had become quite the rouge in the last ten years, earning fortunes beyond those of the average buccaneer, a whip-smart protégée, and a snappy nickname in "Blackbeard."

But even Captain Teague, rarely ruffled—unless, of course, when dealing with matters of the Code—had to wonder how he'd managed to make an honest woman of Viv O'Brady. Still stunning at thirty, the exquisite necklace she wore did nothing to cover the bright bruises on her neck. They looked not to be from a smack, or a thrown candlestick, but rather the purposeful sort of bruise placed by a man who is almost too affectionate of fucking his wife and letting his dinner company know it.

Teague looked with a sharp eye—negligence was a hard trait to forgive, even in a friend. When given a priceless treasure, it was that man's responsibility to look after it. And Viv's neck, as he measured it, was far more of a treasure than a candlestick or a fine meal.

Jack, meanwhile, for as the son of the guest he had been permitted to dine alongside Captain and Missus Blackbeard, focused on the hostess's lovely wrists. Age be damned, they were still narrow and childlike, and he wondered what they would look like tied to a bedpost as he tickled her stomach with lips and heavy breath, pleasuring her far better than the stout and likely unimaginative Teach.

Viv watched the father and the son watch her, though she kept her attention on her husband. She noted Jack's frequent lickings of lips, and how the fork that had been twirling in Edward's fingers moments before had mysteriously vanished.

No amount of territorial behavior would keep her from enjoying the company of whatever man she had a thirst for, and on this particular night she was thirsting for Jack Sparrow, much like a man decides that he wants a certain variety of wine.

Vivian rose from the table gracefully, slipping Jack half of a look, far more than he needed. His only concern was if he would have time to find a scarf to tie her wrists to the bedposts or not.

Grazing a kiss on her husband's cheek, she left, a suggestive wave of hip prompting both father and son to shift in their chairs; one nostalgic, the other impatient.

A moment of silence descended upon the table. "You've amassed quite a fortune, my friend," Teague said carefully, trying not to think of Vivian's face slack with ecstasy as he cupped her hips and thrust his. "And a pirate lord, so you must have gathered your fair share of wisdom as well."

Blackbeard, whose name was not without reason, seemed to disappear under it. His mouth was merely a place for a sigh to escape. "You've you own fair share of treasure, Captain."

Jack, noting the change in mood, cheerily rose. "Off to find some more rum," he said jauntily, never minding that the table overflowed with wine.

"You've a son." Captain Teach seemed to hold it against the other Edward.

Teague sighed as well. "Aye, I have a son. Might as well be a bastard to hear him tell it. Won't even take my surname; though I suppose it may be a blessing." He took a sip of wine. "Bloody brat anyhow."

The stouter Edward examined his guest. Any similarities that they might have once noticed were gone. Even their names sounded different now, the sharpness of "Teach" and the passiveness of "Teague." No longer were they compliments. Instead they found themselves at odds, having shared a woman too much for any friendship to mend.

Perhaps the root of the problem was Vivian herself, as she was no object. There had been wenches before her, and certainly ones after, but none quite as important. Uneducated she might be, but the words she lost to pillows and lovers' ears made up poetry that was enough to send any man's eyes rolling into the back of his head, humming and tingling with the thought of her naked form dancing in the dark.

As Jack he tried to keep his moans and other guttural noises to himself as he and Viv got to know each other a little more thoroughly, she made herself a bouquet for him.

One moment, the blush stained high on her cheeks made her a primrose, though the next she was licking at his ear the way a tiger lily might. And when she smiled, red hair thrown back like a curtain of embers down her back, he saw a sunflower. He could see her beauty but tasted the verse, though it may have just been sweat and saliva.

Jack kissed each place where Edward had pinched too hard; his firm lips a salve on the marks that did not hurt until he sweetened them so. His knuckles grazed her nipples on the way to her face, where they soothed her eyes closed and felt her cheeks collapse on themselves as she drew shuddering breaths. The sheet between them was too heavy, so Viv tossed it to the floor, wedging herself between the mattress and his thigh.

"Jack…" She lazily traced a pattern on her own bed, afraid to look at him lest she lose the image of his father in her mind. "After a point all of it feels like feathers, all men the same touches with blunt fingers and little groans of satisfaction… As though I were no longer there." Her head eased down onto his chest, and the rest of her words were lost to it, as Jack was more concerned with the second wind that was coming into his sails as he thumbed her tiny wrists and buried his face in her pillow of hair.

"I have had both father and son," Vivian murmured. "Been a whore, refused to crane my neck and been ripped from countless dresses for men to lose me in their own heat."

Sitting across from his old friend, Teague seemed to hear Viv's words better than his foolish son, who was losing her as she spoke. He looked at his friend, who, drunk and pensive looked almost pathetically small in his chair and pitied him, for he did not know what he had. Edward Teague's eyes drifted shut as he reflected on his one night with Vivian, on the pointless bits of music he had hummed in her ear and the bits of poetry she had whispered back as they invaded each other's bodies in the oppressively hot room he had rented.

Comforted by the same thoughts, Viv awoke from her musing, swinging a long leg over Jack and lowering her face an inch from his. "You have some things you could stand to learn, son of Edward Teague," she said, and she proceeded to teach him all the poetry she knew.