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Stede is no stranger to the wanderings of the mind after dark. He did, after all, briefly raise children. While children are notorious for seeing more than there is in the shadows, their fears can be easily put to rest by the glow of a candle or a playful silhouette cast against the wall.
Edward's mind wanders farther, however, than Stede fancied the imagination capable. In his quarters — their quarters — Edward holds Stede curiously tight and tucks his mouth against Stede's ear shyly as he speaks, as if frightened by his own warm, urgent words.
"Slow down," Stede says softly, finding a bare strip of flesh at Edward's back and rubbing his thumb there. He doesn't wish to stop him, but he can't quite decipher the rush of Edward's hoarse musing.
"What if the kraken keeps playthings?" Edward whispers, enunciating with great care.
Stede shifts their bodies in the bed, allowing Edward to slot more efficiently against his hip. Edward has been pleasing or tormenting himself for the better half of an hour. Oftentimes it's impossible to tell the difference.
"Under the surface?" Stede asks carefully.
"Not to drown them." Edward sounds frustrated. There's a sound he makes, ever so often, that Stede can feel at the base of his spine. He makes it now, and they both shudder, as if cresting the same stubborn wave. "Not to hurt them."
"If not hurt them, then what?" Stede coaxes.
"Fill them." Edward is panting now. It sounds pained. "Fill them up."
"Ah," Stede exhales, giving himself a moment to consider the implications of this. His body is several steps ahead, and when Edward wriggles with particular force, he nearly loses all consideration whatsoever. "Who is the kraken, then?"
It is a step too far. Edward shakes his head mulishly, lips brushing back and forth over Stede's ear.
"It's only a story," he mumbles.
If there is one thing Stede Bonnet cannot abide by, it is shame. His heart gives a lurch, and he longs for candlelight to chase away the shadows that follow Edward down to these private places.
"Tell me," Stede says, maneuvering them as best he can now that Edward has ceased his wriggling and become heavy. He palms Edward's rear, digs his fingers into the tight muscle enough to make the strength of his hands known. It earns him a surprised hiss. "Would you have me fill you?"
"You're not a kraken," Edward says a bit sulkily. But his hips are moving once more.
"No, but I could learn to be, for you." He has learned a great many things, both for and thanks to Edward Teach. "I could make you my plaything."
The moon is fat over the water tonight, and it casts a milky glow through the window. Edward's hair is spun silver. He takes Stede's breath away as he lifts his face, a wildness returned to his eyes. "I have an idea," he says.
Stede laughs very softly, overcome with fondness. "I would like to hear it."
Edward shakes his head, gaze alight with mischief. "Later," he says. "When I'm ready. You can't rush a good plan."
"Naturally." There is only so much Stede can endure in one night. He draws Edward's hand between his legs, fits those calloused fingers around his prick in as polite a request as he can manage.
Edward is delightfully skilled. Cradled by the sea and in his dear friend's arms, Stede forgets the story of the kraken's plaything.
So it is a great surprise, a week later, when Edward emerges from a bath dripping and starkly nude, exclaiming, "Alright, let's do this."
Stede looks up from an engrossing volume on the migratory habits of pelagic birds. "Pardon?" He closes the book involuntarily, all of his attention monopolized by the sight of one crystalline drop of water forming at the well-formed tip of Edward's equally well-formed prick. "I—what are we meant to be doing?"
"I had to get the timing right," Edward says, pulling on a short summer robe embroidered with begonias. He sits on the edge of the settee, thighs spread wantonly, skin dampening the velvet.
Stede does not feel nearly as relaxed as Edward looks. "For?" he prompts, trying to recall whether or not he committed himself to an engagement he's forgotten. He certainly hopes not. Rudeness is not acceptable.
Also, Edward has fine, dusky balls. The water was clearly heated. The gentle rounds are limp and soft, dearly in need of tender drying and perhaps fondling. Or some light suckling.
"What?" Stede asks.
"I said I've already made the bed with oilcloth. No sense in delaying."
Stede's question is a long, drawn out sound. "Oilcloth…?"
"To keep the grease off the bed," Edward says impatiently, idly rubbing a towel across his belly.
"Sorry." Stede blinks. "What is happening?"
Edward slaps Stede's thigh jovially, making him jump. "You're going to put your fist in me, like you said you would."
"In what part of you?" Stede asks, ears ringing faintly. It wouldn't be the first time he agreed to something without comprehending what he'd agreed to.
Edward laughs as he kisses him on the mouth once, firm and fond. "Right then. On my back or front?"
Stede feels slightly feverish with clarity.
Though it pains him to consider fatherhood in this precise moment, Stede cannot help but recall that parenting was his first experience with feigning absolute confidence. With children, you must pretend as if you are certain in all things, regardless of how uncertain life itself may be. Stede has carried this lesson with him, and it has generally served him well. So he responds briskly, and somewhat hoarsely, "On your back. Nonverbal communication is better facilitated face to face, don't you think?"
Edward is now holding two small jars. "The globby one or the silky one? They're both whale derived. I think. Picked it up in Barataria Bay. Said it could make a granny's cunt feel like a jellyfish. Not the stinging kind. I hope. Probably should have clarified."
"I see." Stede swallows hard. "Well that is certainly an endorsement."
"Which is it?"
"Let's keep both at hand. No pun intended."
"Improvising. Good. I like the way you think," Edward says. He tucks the jars onto the beside table and climbs onto the thin mattress. The bed is, in fact, thoughtfully waterproofed with oilcloth cut to size. "I unloaded the barrel, if you know what I mean, and scrubbed until I felt like a newborn babe. Do we need anything else?"
"I suppose not," Stede says, draping his coat over the back of a chair and dizzily rolling up his sleeves.
When Edward sinks onto his elbows, ass high, the robe slides down his back, revealing the constellation of scars at his flank, more than one inflicted by Stede. Stede loses his balance briefly, upended by the sight of this beautiful, baffling man.
"Grease me up, and then I'll turn over. It's easier to get all the nooks and crannies that way."
"I defer to your experience," Stede manages.
Edward snorts. "Experience? I've never done this. You're the only one I'd trust not to rip out my entrails while they had the opportunity."
It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to Stede. He approaches the bed woozily. "You paint a vivid picture."
It is one thing to embark on something new to him. He's always game to try one of Edward's fanciful notions. But a thoroughly and mutually uncharted route must be embarked upon with caution. "You're certain it won't injure you?" Stede asks, settling himself on the bed behind Edward.
"Well, it won't kill me."
"But it might hurt?" Stede asks carefully, without judgment. He has learned that Edward sometimes requires discomfort alongside pleasure. It brings him great satisfaction to inflict it. More than he imagined possible.
"I hope so," Edward chuckles. After that husky sound dies down, his breathing can be heard, ragged and eager. He is no longer looking over his shoulder at Stede.
"You've been thinking about this for days, haven't you," Stede murmurs, letting Edward feel his hand along the outside of his thigh, the touch anchoring him to the task at hand.
Edward shivers. "No. Do you think I laze about all day thinking of butt stuff?"
"Yes." Stede uses all five fingertips to trace a slow path along Edward's ass, making his skin prickle with gooseflesh. He lets his dry thumb rest against Edward's most private place — a place he's come to grow quite fond of. "I think you spend a great deal of time thinking about what you'd like me to do with you."
"Well you're wrong. Get on with it." Edward groans.
"I will get on with it in good time," Stede says, testing the considerable tension of Edward's body. They've made good use of one another enough times that he knows what a body is capable of, that it can accommodate fingers and more.
Stede also knows that Edward has made his body accommodate far more than it should.
But a hand. Surely that is intolerable. "Ed," he murmurs, feeling the prickle of his confidence diminishing. Along with that uncomfortable sensation comes a more uncomfortable thought: what if he is not enough?
What if he will never be what Edward needs?
"You can't hurt me," Edward says absurdly, nudging his thighs further apart.
Stede can. He has. He will. The trick is hurting him the right way. "Is that a challenge?" he asks, biting the meaty round of Edward's rear.
"Stede, don't make me recount the sundry objects I've had rammed up my ass," Edward says, rocking his hips back. "I'm not delicate."
"You are," Stede argues, his mouth still close to Edward's skin. All it takes is a minute shift to kiss him square at his entrance, a place he has never dared to taste.
Edward yowls like a cat underfoot, smothering the sound with his fist. "Triton's inflamed ballsack, Stede — you can't do that."
"I can," Stede insists pleasantly, making a meal of it now that he's committed himself. Edward has done a commendable job in the bath. He tastes of clean skin and the delightful creases of his body, the places where Stede likes to sniff and snuffle and soothe himself when given the opportunity. He groans without intending to when he feels Edward begin to stroke himself.
Stede enjoys himself with both hands, involves his tongue and teeth, and only comes up for air when he grows dizzy from the sound of Edward whining through his teeth, fighting the inevitability of his release.
"You should finish," Stede says, wiping his mouth with the bath towel Edward left beside the bed. "It will relax you."
"I can't relax when you're licking my my fucking asshole," Edward shouts, coming. "Fuck!"
"There you are," Stede croons, giving Edward no time to recover before he uses a mix of the slick stuff and the globby stuff to ram two fingers into Edward's messy hole. "Hardly tight any more now, are you?"
Snarling and panting, Edward jerks away from him and flops onto his back, fully pouting. He draws his scarred knees up and smears his spend around his furry belly petulantly. "You said I needed to be on my back. So here I am."
"You're correct." Stede finds his way back inside where Edward is hot and soft, the way he imagines guts must feel when a man is violently relieved of them. Bodies are fascinating. "How are you?"
"Are we going to have a fucking conversation while you fingerbang me?" Edward asks, grouchy in the way he gets when he's come hard and he feels thoroughly flayed about it. It's a brief, endearingly raw mood that Stede has learned to live with.
Stede works a third finger in with ease and rotates his wrist, coating every bit of soft skin with the slick stuff. It's becoming harder to ignore the fact that a very large portion of his blood now resides in his groin. But he must carry on. No distractions.
"Fuck, fuck me!" Edward shouts.
"Ah, I see I've become proximate to your sweet spot," Stede says, delighted with himself. It took diligent practice, but he considers himself a bit of an expert now. A little rhythmic prodding rouses Edward's reddened prick once more.
"That's good," Edward mumbles, scrubbing his hand down his face, tugging his short beard. His other hand clumsily rolls his prick against his belly, tugs his balls. "Yeah, you're an evil bastard, aren't you. Fuck."
At the fourth finger, Edward grows quiet. His breathing deepens, and for a split second, his eyes get wild. Stede watches him calmly, throat bared ever so slightly. If he thought it appropriate to speak at that moment, he would say take what you need, my love, do what you need. But the violence dissipates as quickly as it surfaced, leaving a bright sheen of tears behind.
"I need more," Edward chokes softly, spreading his fingers over his face, over his eyes.
"Only if you look at me."
Edward's voice is small. "I can't."
"You can," Stede says, stroking Edward's hip gently with his free hand. "Try it. Show me."
"You are being very mean," Edward says. But he tries, tugging his hair instead of covering his face.
"I know." Stede smiles, so proud of him for being brave. "Take a deep breath now, and when you exhale, I'm going to push as far as my knuckles."
"I can take it," Edward grumbles. "Stop babying me."
"You'll do as I say." It's a firm order. There's a brief moment when Stede thinks perhaps he has taken the wrong approach, but Edward's chest rises and falls rapidly for only a moment. He shudders. And then he takes a good, deep breath, and lets his exhale release like a gust of wind.
Stede's hand rams deeper inside, all but his thumb gripped tight by Edward's body. Starting to sweat, he dabs more of the greasy stuff around his hand, around the stretched, shiny rim of Edward's hole. It makes a sweet, snapping sound, delightfully filthy. "That's good. Oh, you are lovely."
"Don't tease me," Edward gasps, starting to cover his face again, but stopping himself. Relief softens his features when he sees Stede's encouraging, proud nod.
"I would never tease you. Not maliciously. Not in any way you didn't want. I've got to pull out a bit to get my thumb in. There you are. Oh, you're wide open, aren't you. Pink as a pretty flower inside."
"I'm not a fucking flower."
It's easier than Stede expected to work his thumb in, but the broadest part of his hand, knuckles and all, meets resistance.
Edward is sobbing very quietly, his eyes closed. Stede will allow that.
"Easy, easy," he says, massaging that tight, swelling rim of flesh. He pets Edward's prick and balls and the shiny, hard mound of flesh above his hole. Edward is a hairy fellow, and Stede could spend hours stroking him, exploring the texture of those coarse black tufts. "I'm nearly there. Nearly there."
Stede breathes, and waits, and nudges, and Edward's body swallows him all at once, making space for his fingers to curl into a tight fist, buried in Edward's innards, in his body. Inside of him. Filling him.
"Well, that's remarkable," Stede says. He's wearing Edward like a bracelet, like a glove. "Should I move?"
"If you don't move, I will die, become a terrible ghost, and haunt you with the utmost creativity for the rest of your days on this miserable Earth," Edward says, growling between hiccuping breaths.
"I think you would be a lovely ghost," Stede muses.
But he is not cruel.
He moves his fist in tiny, careful increments, testing the give of Edward's body. He expects to meet some barrier, some logical stopping place, but Edward only gives and gives, as if he could take all of Stede, as if he could swallow him whole.
Suddenly, and without warning, Stede feels warm tears fall down his cheeks. He sniffles, quite embarrassed. Edward peeks one eye open at him, his face snotty and blotchy and transcendently beautiful.
"Are you crying?" Edward asks wondrously.
"What? No. Why would I be crying? I'm not the one being penetrated beyond all reason."
"I think you're crying."
With one hand occupied and the other messy with slick, Stede cannot wipe his nose. All he can do is tremble suspiciously. "You look… you feel…" He has lost his words. Lost himself. The room spins around them, and the ocean swells beneath them, and the world has stopped turning. There is only Edward shaking apart as if Stede holds his beating heart in his hand.
"Harder," Edward urges, rubbing himself raw. "Make me feel it."
Throat dry, Stede shifts his weight to put more muscle into the affair. He braces himself with a firm grip at Edward's hip and starts to punch his hand into the depth of Edward's body, pulling nearly out before ramming back in. It looks gory and beautiful all at once, and Edward lights up as if he's been set aflame. The sounds he makes cannot be swallowed back or smothered behind his hands. He shouts and twists, heels digging into the bed, fingers digging pink furrows across his chest. He works at his prick like he's killing something and comes, crying out senselessly, and it is all so very, very much.
Stede is sobbing, he finds, as he eventually pries himself free of Edward's twitching body.
Edward, on the other hand, is laughing with wet, mad joy. He pulls Stede down against the mess of his chest and holds him like he's rocking a child. "You're fine. Hush now, you strange, daft man. You're not the one with a sore bottom now, are you?"
"I feel drunk," Stede says helplessly, hoping he hasn't ruined this. He's still hard, somehow, but he can't make sense of his limbs. He can't stop crying.
"You look drunk as well." Edward finds the ache of his prick and rubs him over his soft trousers, making quick, expert work of him. "I'd blow you, but I'm afraid you'd have a psychotic break."
"Not an unfounded worry," Stede chatters, curling around Edward's arm and grinding into the sweet friction of his grip. Everything whites out for a while when he climaxes. Like what he imagines a snowstorm must be like.
"I've never seen snow, actually. I imagine it's inconvenient. But it must be lovely."
"Yes," Edward says into his hair, snorting. "It is lovely for a few minutes. Then it's wretched. You're not missing much."
"Floating," Stede observes, listening to Edward's heart. He's distantly aware that they will need to fill another bath, clean the mess, remake the bed, return to their duties. But all of those things feel very far away, and he is quite warm here. If not sticky.
Edward hums in agreement, agreeable and pliant. He plays with Stede's hair, and it feels very, very nice.
The boy in Stede is too close to the surface, and he asks, "Did I do well?"
"Do you think I was feigning all that howling and carrying on?"
"To be honest, I lost the plot there in the end. But it did seem quite sincere."
"You did very well," Edward says, gnawing at his ear, returning to that place where he can whisper truths. "You fill me up, Stede Bonnet."
Full as well, full to the brim, Stede doesn't hide his smile.