Chapter Text
It’s “doesn’t mean a thing,” that gets Ed into trouble.
Or, well, technically it was “if you were to show me the ways of an aristocrat,” that kicked off the trouble, but it’s not as if Ed planned it out like this. Sure, there’d been the whole bit where he’d have to pass for landed gentry if he was going to murder Stede and steal his identity and all, but he hadn’t really expected that they’d start enjoying it.
Leastways, he’d figured he’d enjoy it. At least the parts of it where he got to wear fancy shit and bed down in Stede’s absurd cabin and generally live like a king with Stede footing the bill, because he pays everyone on this mental ship and Ed’s evidently a consultant now.
Hadn’t known the word consultant before, but it sounds fancy as fuck, so Ed liked it immediately.
Mostly that bit would have been okay if it wasn’t for the other part.
Probably.
Maybe.
What Ed hadn’t reckoned on was that it’d work both ways ‘round. Teaching Stede how to be marginally less pathetic as a pirate makes all of the shit that’s been boring Ed to tears actually feel fun again.
And Stede? Stede takes to his side of the deal like a duck to water. Hell, like a fish to water.
He’s all the time dropping little tidbits about some etiquette nonsense, or turning up with a ribbon to replace the shitty scrap of cloth Ed’s been tying his hair up with forever, or making sure he gets an extra helping of marmalade at teatime (honestly, Ed’s served under homicidal lunatics and somehow this is the craziest ship he’s ever been on), and this—this is the part Ed’s an idiot for not planning for.
Because, turns out, Ed likes that.
Not just the stuff parts, but the being pampered parts. The bits where Stede’s going out of his way to do things for Ed just because they’re nice and he thinks Ed would like them. The part where it means he’s thinking about Ed, and not in a don’t-fuck-up-or-Blackbeard-will-run-you-through kind of way.
Which is what makes “doesn’t mean a thing,” a goddamn problem.
Because, turns out, it means a fucking lot.
***
Ed’s not, strictly speaking, trying to get at anything when he brings it up the first time.
Truth told, he mostly says it out of surprise—he’s found those particular urges as lackluster for the last good while as everything else. So he’s struck, a bit, by the curious, tentative flutter of something when Stede holds out a fork to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world to feed a grown man cake. Not so much an urge as a whim; a prickle of interest poking its head up to check the coast is clear.
Also, he figures it’s as likely as anything to make Stede blush, because he is a genuine madman who is fascinated by the practicalities for removing the gold from a corpse’s teeth but once gasped, out loud, when the stabby one with the hat said “cocksucker.”
Making Stede blush has become one of Ed’s favorite pastimes.
“If you ever need me to clear out for a bit,” Ed jerks his thumb at the door, raises his eyebrows and lets Stede fill in the blanks, just to see how far that will get him.
Not that far, it appears, based on the tiny furrow that digs a path across Stede’s forehead.
They’re loafing around the captain’s cabin, Stede’s fancy-ass table transformed into some kind of fairyland of sugar by towers of… pastry things. There’s biscuits in there. And a frankly questionable amount of custard. They’d ‘liberated’ them from some kind of pleasure vessel off of Guadeloupe, because apparently all rich people are fucking loons who just sail around with ships packed full of ballrooms, and chandeliers, and shit.
Actually explains a lot about Stede, now that he thinks of it.
Anyways, they’ve got a load of rainbow-hued confections, which Stede is insisting on walking him through one by one as some kind of palate training exercise. Ed’s still not entirely sure what his palate is or how this is training it, but he’s not fucking complaining, now is he?
This gentleman thing has its perks.
“You know, if you need to do a little jolly rogering . Some slap and tickle,” he continues. Fuck, he’s underestimated how hard this’ll be to get through with a straight face. He stifles the grin that wants to riot across his face with a finger-swipe of custard. “Get your ass licked. Whatever you’re into.”
Ed’s got his own fork (four of them, actually, which are each for something or other he stopped paying attention to once the words developed French accents) laid out on the table in front of him, but it’s easier to lean across and steal another bite directly off Stede’s, seeing as Stede’s sitting there staring at him like a lobster just crawled out of his ear anyway.
This one’s some kind of crunchy-soft layered thing with raspberries. Kinda great. Who knew there were so many kinds of sweets?
Ed shrugs as casually as he can and mumbles around his mouthful, “I reckon you have an arrangement.”
He reckons no such thing.
First blush from the rumors of the so-called Gentleman Pirate, Ed had figured Stede for the kind of rich fucker who’d bend any subordinate who struck his fancy over the nearest surface and leave them to pick up the pieces after—same as any number of noble navy men Ed’s had bleeding out on the end of a sword.
Took about three minutes on Stede’s ship to realize that wasn’t the case. If nothing else, his crew didn’t immediately take the opportunity of him being stabbed-slash-hanged to mutiny, and if Ed didn’t know anything else about him, that would have been enough to keep him interested.
Of course, now he’s been onboard for the better part of a fortnight, he’s pretty well mapped out the lay of things.
Or, rather, the not-laying of things.
If he’d been taking bets when he first agreed to their ‘cultural exchange’, he’d have made Stede for the quietly wanking himself into oblivion type instead, but after sleeping on his snooty-pants chaise lounge for all this time, Ed’s putting money down on Stede being the just ignore it until it goes away sort.
Ed’s spent most of his life on pirate ships, surrounded by a bunch of guys with no space or privacy; he’s seen just about every iteration of the things men can get up to, by themselves or together.
Then again, he’s never seen anything like Stede, has he?
Like how he goes all pink in the cheek and stutters, “An ar- arrangement?”
See, there it is again. Buried under how fucking hilarious it is to watch Stede come over flustered, that something , like a lizard flicking its tongue to scent the air.
It’s kind of thrilling, just to feel a feeling without having to work at it at all.
“Sure.” He stretches across Stede to nab one of those bizarre, shiny, biscuit-sandwich things with the cream in the middle. On the way back his arm brushes haphazardly against Stede’s hand, a whole inexplicable cascade of goosebumps breaking out in its wake. “Coming from a marriage bed and all, you must be used to some touch on the regular. Don’t want to get backed up.”
The bashful expression plastered across Stede’s face sidles up to something skeptical. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”
Just as Ed takes a bite of the biscuit—a gentle crunch, then a sort of soft chewiness, then more crunch from the weird green nuts in the filling—Stede fans a hand at him, instantly preoccupied.
“Wait, no, try the macaron with the malmsey,” he insists, grasping the most absurdly thimble-sized cut-crystal glass ever to exist with two fingers and holding it out just in front of Ed’s lips.
And, again, Ed absolutely could take it for himself, but, well, he’s holding the biscuit, isn’t he? Far easier just to lean into it and let Stede carefully tip a small spill of liquid into his mouth.
“Just hold the wine on your tongue for a moment, let the flavor roll through your mouth as you swallow.”
Sweetness floods his taste buds, fruity where the biscuit—pardon, macaron —was nutty, but then it sort of changes, somehow, as he sits with it, turning from raisins into honey into… something slightly bitter? Just a hint salty? Like licking marmalade off of his own sea-stained fingertips.
Fucking fascinating.
“Mm, that’s nice.”
Ed hasn’t blushed in… He’s not sure he’s ever blushed. But he can imagine what it would feel like, with Stede preening at him with that amused smile that’s too fucking nice to be patronizing, even though it sort of is anyway.
To chase it away, Ed snatches up the glass and slugs back the rest of the paltry offering. The burn of alcohol tingles faintly at the sides of his tongue—nothing on the rum he’d usually be downing at this point in the evening, but pleasant, a little heady.
“And it is how it works,” he maintains, hot-chested and fidgety all of a sudden. It scours the underside of his skin, just in case he’d forgotten that feelings aren’t all sunshine and fine sailing. Makes him want to make Stede feel the same just to even things out. “It’s not healthy, that—backed up ones always crack up first, mate, mark my words.”
Somehow putting Stede on the back foot again mellows the sensation to something bearable. Makes it okay to fill up the thimble-glass from the bottle on the table and pass it back to Stede like commiserations.
“It just doesn’t seem… appropriate,” Stede settles on at last, sipping at his malmsey. Eyes all for his fingers nervously folding and refolding the crisp linen napkin next to his plate. “I’m very fond of the crew of course, but not. Like that. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, or get their feelings hurt.”
Sometimes Ed thinks Stede might be lying about where he comes from. Like maybe he’s really some kind of prince from an underwater mermaid world, or he just fell out of the sky one day or something. Surely it would take more than just some money and breeding to make a person worry about something like hurting a pirate’s feelings. Ed is a fucking pirate, and it’s never once crossed his mind.
“No feelings involved, man,” Ed says, instead of interrogating Stede about what Atlantis is like or demanding to see if his toes are webbed. Probably not good decorum, that. “Just two guys, getting what they need.”
Or three, or ten, but he’s got a feeling Stede might faint dead away if he started explaining that. He already looks like he’s not getting enough air.
“Doesn’t mean a thing.”
***
The wind is mild tonight, the air filled with the crisp-cool tang that means fine sailing on the horizon. Nothing but the rush of water against the hull and the occasional flap of a sail, the sky above an unbroken diamond-glitter of stars.
It’s the kind of night that makes Ed think, every now and then, that the sea might love them back.
He and Stede are laid out on the quarterdeck, a bottle of rum sat between them, because they’re pirating tonight.
Semi-pirating, anyway. Ed had started out trying to teach Stede how to navigate by the stars, but now he’s mostly making up increasingly wild constellations to see if Stede can tell the difference between the real ones and the fakes.
Surprisingly, he mostly can. Ed’s not about to rely on him to chart a course anywhere—he’s actually pretty sure Buttons is the only reason the Revenge has only run aground the once—but it’s still better than he’d have guessed.
“And there, next to Andromeda, that’s the blobfish.”
Stede pauses, thumb pressing firmly into the meat of Ed’s palm. He’s been rubbing in some kind of woodsy-smelling balm for a while now, fussing over the spots where the skin has cracked. Ed doesn’t really have much feeling in the pads of his hands anymore, calluses laid over more calluses, but the pressure of Stede’s fingers working at the muscles underneath is nice.
“The Blob Fish,” Stede enunciates, that little twinkle of a smile at the very corner of his mouth that makes Ed want to be ridiculous, for some reason.
“Yeah, but all one word. Blobfish.”
That smile spreads like a spark to oilcloth.
Stede takes a hand off of Ed’s to trace a vague shape against the sky. To his credit, he is at least close to Andromeda.
“It’s the blobby one, I presume.”
“Exactly. Same no matter which side of the equator you’re on, that one.”
On the other hand, he’s also stopped massaging Ed’s hand, which is less than ideal. Ed flexes his fingers pointedly, gratified when Stede gets back to it without even seeming to notice his own reaction.
“Oh, the equator! That’s always sounded exciting. Is it true you can balance an egg on its end on the equator?”
Rich people, Ed has come to discover, have some weird fucking ideas.
“Why would you balance an egg on its end?”
Stede’s fanciful look crumples into a thoughtful little scrunch.
“Don’t know. Just to prove you could, I suppose. Decent party trick.”
“Sounds like a shit party.”
Stede’s thumb finds a spot dead in the middle of Ed’s palm that makes his fingers curl in, a sudden shot of achy pleasure that shoots up the length of Ed's arm and knocks a fragile gasp out of his mouth.
Fuck. Hands. Who knew?
Ed’s still partly coming to grips with that realization, but maybe mostly deciding if Stede would be weird about it if he moaned a bit, when Stede up and asks, “When did you decide to become a pirate?”
There’s an image in Ed’s head of a wharf, and the rain, and his father stumbling drunk ahead, but Ed’s gotten pretty good shoving that thought overboard over the years.
“Dunno that I decided,” he admits instead. “Just kinda did it. Not a lot of options, I guess.” It does bring up a far more interesting question, though. “What about you?”
“Oh. Hmm. The first time, I suppose I was seven?” Stede laughs at himself. It might be odd that in the little bit of time they’ve known each other Ed can already tell it’s not a funny kind of laugh. “My mother had passed, and my father… We were incompatible in a number of ways. I liked to imagine sailing away and just, never coming back. Adventures on the high seas, and all that. And then, well. Life, I suppose.”
“Funny thing about options,” Stede adds, quiet over the night breeze. “The ones you get and the ones you don’t.”
Ed turns his head to take in the side of Stede’s face. Staring up at the sky, his eyes glisten like calm seas in the moonlight. Bottomless and dark.
It’s strange to think about; Stede, with his money, and his frippery, and his relentless sunniness. With all the money he could ever wish for, the power to do anything he wanted. Enough of both to run away from a family that fills his fever dreams with dread, and decide to become the Gentleman Pirate instead.
Hell, Ed can’t exactly blame him. Ed’s decided to become the Gentleman Pirate too, hasn’t he? He’s just coming at it the bloody way.
That wharf, and the rain, and the stumbling drunk are in his head again.
The rum in his gut surges, threatening a reappearance.
Ed breathes through it. Swallows back copper-flavored spit.
“Did alright for yourself, far as I can see,” he says, rather than any of the other shit that’s clogging up his throat.
The emptiness recedes into the fathoms of Stede’s eyes slightly. He tips his head, the curl of his mouth painfully soft as he looks into Ed’s traitorous face.
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
His fingers, which had stalled for a moment on Ed’s hand, start working again, scrubbing away the phantom scrape of rope against his palms.
“I could file these for you, if you’d like,” he offers in a tone about twelve shades lighter, swirling the pad of a finger over one of Ed’s bitten-short nails. “Be less likely to catch on things.”
Besides a bit of varnish, Ed’s never paid much attention to his fingernails, so long as they weren’t falling off.
Stede’s are nice though. Neat and tidy.
Would probably leave nice, precise scratch marks all down your back if you fucked him right.
Which is a real out of nowhere thought to be having. Shit.
That little bit of something , interest or whatever it is, prowls around the column of Ed’s spine.
“Yeah, that’d be nice, I guess.” Ed says hastily, taking back his hand to grab another swill of rum and not for any other reason.
Well, that went south fucking quickly.
***
Ed doesn’t really intend to do anything about it. Honestly.
If nothing else, it feels worse, somehow, to plan to kill someone after you’ve fucked them.
But then, the fucking French happen.
Or, more to the point, Stede happens to the fucking French.
Ed’s still not entirely sure how it all came about, but what’s very obvious is that it was brilliant. Savage. Fucking hands down one of the most insane things Ed’s ever borne witness to and its-
It’s for Ed .
And then, fucking then , top it off like a seventh spoon of sugar, Stede tucks Ed’s tatty old piece of red silk into his pocket like it’s got real value, tells him he wears fine things well, and every single feeling that’s passed Ed by in the last couple of bleak years roars into him all at once.
If Ed doesn’t do something about it he’s going to shake right out of his skin.
The wooden door of Stede’s cabin clatters into the wall hard enough to bounce right back at him, forcing Ed to put up a hand to hold onto it before he can slam it closed behind him.
Stede’s standing next to one of the arm chairs, book in hand, all startled deer eyes; not in any way reaching for a weapon (not that he’s wearing one) like any reasonable pirate, because he is not a reasonable pirate. He’s fucking barmy, is what he is, and apparently it’s catching because Ed clearly burned away all claims of good sense under the fucking moonlight.
“Ed, is everything alright?” Stede asks, sweetly concerned. At some point in the five minutes since they said goodnight, he’s stripped off the ridiculous wig, gold hair matted with sweat and wilder than Ed’s seen it since he sat by Stede’s sick bed. Except for the undone cravat hanging loose around his neck, the rest of his outfit is still pristine, and the juxtaposition makes that irritating something hook into Ed’s gut like a fish on a line.
“Yeah. ‘S Great. Fucking dandy.” Is Ed’s voice always this high? “So listen. I was thinking. About that thing we talked about.”
“The uniforms?” Stede’s face brightens. “Because I really do think it would look nice.”
Warming to the subject without so much as a by your leave from Ed, he settles down in the chair, book ignored on his knee, as if Ed’s not on the verge of bursting into flame here. “Of course everyone could add a bit of their own flair, but maybe a nice coordinated color scheme? It would support a sense of group unity, and we wouldn’t run into any awkward confusion about who’s on which side in the middle of a raid!”
“No.” Too loud. Far too loud. Stede’s back to looking startled again. Fuck shitting fucking shit.
Ed takes a deep breath, tries to reel himself back in. He’s Blackbeard, for fuck’s sake. He can sack a ship just by turning up, he can sure as hell proposition one amiable aristocrat.
“The, uh. The arrangement.”
Stede’s expression doesn’t fall so much as it just stops existing.
“Oh.” On the plus side, Stede’s voice is now also embarrassingly high.
“And I was thinking, you and me, we’ve already got a kind of arrangement, right?” Ed’s cool, he can be cool. He can take a couple of swaggery steps—very different in these poncy, click-clack shoes—and lean his hip all casual-like against the arm of the sofa. “So it really wouldn’t be much trouble to add one more bit onto it, yeah?”
“Oh,” Stede says again. His eyes mosquito-flit from Ed’s face, to the arms crossed over his chest, to the stockings hugging his legs, and back. “You mean?”
It occurs to him suddenly that, all done up like this, and given Stede’s mildly disheveled state, Ed actually looks more the gentleman than Stede. The thought lets him pull a little bit of Jeff on over his coat, roll his wrist. Pretend there’s not a lightning storm going on in his chest.
“Sure, if you want. No skin off my back either way.”
Tawny in the lamp light, Stede’s tongue darts across his bottom lip. The something gives another insistent yank in a vicinity that is rapidly approaching Ed’s cock.
“Just two blokes, getting something they need,” Stede recites like a man feeling for traps, head tipped thoughtfully. “Like you said.”
“Exactly that.”
“Well,” Stede prevaricates. His trimmed nails tap at the cover of the book dandling on his knee. Ed manfully does not chew off his own fingers. “I suppose we could give it a try, just to see.”
Air floods his lungs like surfacing from underwater, icy heat rushing after that drips and spatters against every knob and joint. He tries to remember the last time he wanted anything with this intensity and comes up blank.
“Yeah. Good.” He can feel himself nodding stupidly, as he stands here, stupidly, and Stede sits in his chair, stupidly, and they both remain extremely very stupidly not touching.
Oh, fuck off.
“I’ll go first.”
Ed hasn’t knelt for anybody in an age. Going by the stunned expression on Stede’s face as he folds down in front of his chair, though, that might still be more recently than anyone’s done it for Stede.
The carpet prickles against his knees through the soft fabric of his breeches and stockings. The position makes his bad knee twinge, especially after hours without the brace, but the dumbstruck look on Stede’s face more than makes up for it. Like he might be somewhere close to as knocked for a loop as Ed still feels with a scrap of red silk burning like a ruddy ember through his breast pocket and right into his heart.
It’s a good look on Stede.
Cupping his hands over those velvet-clad knees—Stede carefully sets the book aside on the table—Ed pushes them apart and wedges himself into the new space between. He hasn’t got a clue what the upper crust get up to together, but if it’s dull enough to warrant the rough gulp of air Stede swallows when Ed presses a hand over his crotch, then they’re wasting their fucking time.
Underneath his palm, Stede’s still mostly soft—enough so to acid etch the insides of Ed’s veins before the responsive, thickening twitch against his fingers eases the panic a bit.
“Sometimes it, uh, takes a while to get going.” Stede tells a spot on the far wall apologetically. “Maybe we should just circle back to that, play a hand of cards, or-” Loses whatever else he meant to say when Ed starts popping the buttons at his fall-front.
Stiff enough to loll free when Ed finally gets all the catches undone, and fuck, even here he’s fucking genteel. All perfumey-soapy smell, wrapped up neat as a pin in the white fabric of his shirt. He looks smooth, fucking pretty in a way a man’s junk definitely isn’t meant to be, and it’s not even a choice at all when Ed leans in just to see what that silk would feel like against his tongue.
“Are you sure-”
Stede’s voice peters out on a long squeak of a sound, almost enough to drown out the grate of his heels against the rug. His cock seconds that motion, tapping a spit-damp demand against Ed’s lips.
“Fuck.”
In the firelight, his eyes are glittering black, hot inside like molten glass. Watching, enthralled in a way that makes Ed’s stomach flip over and beg.
“Yeah?” He lets his teeth drag against the curve of the head; half threat, half promise, slip-sliding against silk, just to see what it’ll do to Stede.
The answer is ‘make him jerk like a stuck pig.’
Despite the full octave sprint his voice goes off on, his hands are clutching politely, white-knuckled, at the arms of the chair. Ed can’t fucking wait to find out what it’ll take to make him forget his manners.
Stede’s breathing like a bellows, big mouthfuls of air that come back as cracked shards of sound as Ed licks over him again and again, spit soaking the cloth translucent so he can appreciate the deep flush of the hot skin beneath.
By now, anybody else Ed’s ever had his mouth on would be nagging at him to get down to it and suck, but Stede’s just serving up more of those broken whimpers, squirming like his body’s desperate to do something and totally in the dark as to what that might be. It fills Ed with that same sugar-tinged delight that Stede’s been fattening him on practically since they met, so Ed just takes his time and enjoys the smooth-harsh rasp against his tongue, the muted salt tang as Stede starts leaking his own mess into the mix.
Ed shuffles closer, knocking against Stede’s feet as he tries to bury his whole face in the warm spread of Stede’s legs. Winds up finally getting Stede’s hand on his shoulder, except instead of pulling him closer, he’s pushing away with a, “Wait, wait,” like a brick to the head.
Confusingly, Stede leans sideways over the arm of the chair the second Ed gives him room, nearly falls out of it, fumbling at the couch with his outstretched hand before coming back with a dainty little pillow.
They’re too fucking close for it to be anything other than stilted and awkward when he bends to set it between his feet in front of Ed, waiting for the long second it takes for Ed’s brain to kick in and lift up his knees for Stede to scoot it underneath.
“No sense being uncomfortable,” he says, entirely too sheepishly for a man whose spit-covered cock is standing up from the open front of his breeches.
For a man who could buy and sell Ed and everybody else on this ship a dozen times over.
And he’s worried about Ed being uncomfortable.
Change of plan, Ed needs that prick choking off his air supply immediately.
Shoving Stede back against the chair, Ed yanks at the band of his breeches, tugs the shirt out of the way and receives a yelp for his troubles. Has all of about two seconds to take in the blood-dark shape of Stede’s cock—thick, uncut, quite handsome—before he’s got his mouth so full of it he can hardly breathe.
That, at least, seems to be mutual.
Above him, Stede wheezes, thighs tightening around Ed’s ribs. Gets that hand back on Ed, but not pushing away this time; this time just petting at him, maddeningly light over his shoulders, the stiff collar of his coat.
He should have got naked before he did this. Should have gotten them both naked, except then he wouldn’t have the rasp of velvet against his palms and the kiss of silk against his cheek, both of which are, frankly, doing things for him.
Immediately, it becomes obvious that it’s been far too long since Ed did this for him to be any fucking good at it. He’s drooling all over the place, the sounds of Stede’s helpless little moans subsumed by the nasty slurp of Ed trying to get some decent suction around the shaft, playing his tongue around that extra bit of skin at the tip that always seems to drive guys who have it wild.
His first attempt at taking more has his throat closing up, whole body rebelling to the point he has to pull back and just pant for a second. It also garners him Stede’s fingers on his skin, gathering up the tail of his fancy updo to let cool air slither across the back of his neck.
A thumb rubs at the shell of his ear, a totally unwarranted shiver tumbling down Ed’s spine in its wake, splashing down in his pelvis where his own neglected dick is leaking against the inside of his nice, borrowed clothes.
Stede’s clothes. Getting his filth all over Stede’s fine things, and fuck, fuck, it’s so good.
Stede’s not pressing at all, but with his hand on Ed’s hair, Ed can pretend he is. Pretend it’s Stede shoving him down instead of his own hectic need that makes him choke a second time, swallow around it and keep right on going. Like how Stede had told Ed to stand down at the party and he just… had. Let all of the tired, worn-thin instincts to scrabble for control fall and just let Stede take care of it.
Stede’s so fucking good at taking care of things. Even stupid, useless, pointless things like poetry books and snail forks. Even cheap, monstrous, broken things, like Ed.
There’s a high-pitched whistle in his head, like a fierce wind whipping past his ears, and it’s drowning out everything else. Nothing but the breath heaving into his lungs every time he pulls up, the slide of slick flesh across his tongue, the rough bump as the head of Stede’s prick hits the back of his throat, almost too much, everything too much, and also not nearly enough.
Stede’s knee knocks his ribs again, almost certainly an accident since he’s babbling apologies the second it happens, but all it does is give Ed something new to hold onto. Glides a hand up to wedge under Stede’s ass and pull him closer, back down to palm at the taut muscle of his calf through his stocking.
Well-turned calves , he’d said earlier, when he’d helped Ed fasten the garters on his own, and Ed still has no fucking idea what that means, but that image of Stede on his knees, sliding silk over Ed’s skin is almost definitely part of the reason his jaw is starting to ache around the spread of Stede’s cock right now, so Ed’s got to say he’s a fan.
“Ed,” Stede pleads, sweet as a fucking hand around Ed’s prick, then “Ed,” more urgently, pushing at his shoulder again.
Fuck his fucking manners.
Ed’s warmed up enough now, fucking primed for the air-stealing push as he forces himself down further, until he’s got his nose buried in bronze curls and Stede’s at-long-last snarling fingers careless in his hair, holding him still for it while Stede throbs against his tongue and moans loud enough to wake the dead.
He coughs when Stede lets him up, chases the thick, lingering taste of come as the softening weight of Stede slips from between his lips.
When he sits back, Stede looks wrecked. Breeches halfway down his thighs, cock listing against the checkered front of his waistcoat; sweating and wild eyed, like a far more pleasant version of the first time Ed laid eyes on him.
Vicious, tingling fulfillment surges through him, twines with the hard ache of his cock like a knotted line. He starts to go for his own buttons and winds up tangled when he forgets to let go of Stede’s leg first. Except then he’s got Stede’s froufrou little shoe in his lap and a well-turned calf in his hand and that buzzing in his head more potent than rum straight from the barrel; Stede above him, melting into what’s probably the nicest chair Ed’s ever been in the same room as.
All at once it seems like a hell of an idea.
The sole of Stede’s shoe feels strange when he rocks against it, unforgiving against the bulge of his cock, skidding over the fabric of his breeches. Satin laces crush softly under his hand as he holds it in place, works his hips against the rigid pressure. Not exactly good, except for how fucking filthy it is. Getting himself off with the grimiest, most ignoble part of Stede he can get, because that’s as good as he deserves.
Better than he deserves.
He said he was going to kill this man. Who has filled Ed’s days with daft, beautiful bullshit; who gave him sweets, and taught him the nonsense rules of the gentry, and gave him the clothes off his back, just because Ed asked for it.
And what has Ed given him in return? Swordplay and stars and a few lessons in how to scare the shit out of people. Lies, and a mediocre blow job, and, in about ten more seconds, a completely ruined pair of expensive purple breeches.
Soft fingers touch at his temple and Ed jolts hard with the realization that he’s closed his eyes.
Not closed now, though. Now, looking up into Stede’s concerned, slightly bemused face as Ed grinds punishingly hard against his foot, dropping a forlorn whine he can’t swallow back into the space between them.
Those fingers brush away a strand of hair stuck to Ed’s lips, trace down his neck to land squarely on the makeshift red handkerchief he’d tucked there not even an hour ago, like Ed was something worthwhile.
That something claws his insides to wet ribbons as the pressure in his gut breaks and he comes in shaky, blinding pulses inside his trousers.
Next thing he’s aware of, he’s huffing unsteady breaths against Stede’s thigh. He’s not sure how long he’s been doing it, but obviously more than the usual couple of seconds it takes him to recover, because he can feel where Stede has gently unpicked the pins and combs and shit that had been keeping his hair up and is now tenderly sorting through it with his fingers.
It’s tempting to just stay here like this, see how long Stede’ll keep it up, except Stede apparently realizes Ed’s back in the land of the living somehow, because he pauses, resting his hand on top of Ed’s head.
“Well, that was novel,” he says lightly. “I’m afraid I haven’t held up my end of the bargain.”
That might be the most hilarious thing Ed’s ever heard. If he could get out more than an elderly wheeze he’s not sure he’d ever be able to stop laughing.
“Nah,” he croaks out, “’M good.”
Pure willpower, he peels himself off of Stede’s lap and sits back. Tries to stifle a wince when his knee protests—with limited success, considering the next thing out of Stede’s mouth is, “Nonsense. Let’s get out of these things and I’ll see to that knee.”
Which is about the time that Ed becomes aware of the very specific state he’s in. In Stede’s clothes.
“I, um.”
Stede, who has a secret wardrobe filled with autumn vibes and summer linen, he loves his clothes so much. Fuck.
“I might have messed these up.”
He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Stede’s not the type to hit, not even really the type to yell, but Ed can feel his own shoulders pulling tight anyway, braced for something leagues different from the dismissive hand Stede flips at him, barely looking up from tucking himself away to say, “Don’t give it another thought.”
Put back together, he looks hardly the worse for wear. Untouched, save for the strawberry flush still staining his face and the sweat damp curlicues of his hair. Ed’s hands clench with the abrupt urge to drag him down to the floor and pull him apart.
Instead he just sits with his knees on his little pillow as Stede scoots back his chair and stands. Stares at the hand Stede holds out until Stede leans down and starts ineffectually manhandling him to his feet again.
The drag of come-wet silk over his sensitive cock is a fucking experience. One that helps drown out the sharp ache from unbending his knee. That makes the mundane heat of Stede jostling against him seems exotic, and exciting, and what the fuck is wrong with Ed? Getting off together was supposed to make this better, not worse.
He lets Stede guide him over the chaise that’s not actually his no matter how proprietary Ed feels about it, relaxes back as Stede pats him on the arm.
“I’ll get you a nice clean nightshirt and a dressing gown, you’ll feel much better.”
Ed’s giving some serious consideration to falling asleep right now and bugger the clean up, so he’s not entirely sure how he could feel much better. But if anyone could pull it off, it’d probably be Stede.
***
The crows nest has always been one of Ed’s favorite spots. When he was young and nimble, scrambling up and down became his job on Hornigold’s ship, because he was faster and better at it than most of the others. The climb is slower now than it used to be, but he still loves the view; how, if he looks out at the right angle, he can imagine he’s a bird on the breeze.
It’s as close to private as it gets on a ship, outside of a captain’s cabin, and perched next to Stede—who made it a full quarter of the way up on his own power this time before having to be rescued by the pulley system—it feels like they’re the only two people in the world.
Of course, the crew’s bustling about below, their voices weathered to a faint hum by the wind and the waves, but nobody’s paying them any particular mind beyond Izzy, who Ed can feel glaring daggers at them without even having to look down.
That’s a problem he’s going to have to deal with sooner rather than later.
He’d fucking love to know how.
Stede’s jumpier than usual this morning, which on anybody else would make Ed assume he’d picked up on Izzy’s looming air of hostility; but it’s Stede, who is either the most painfully oblivious man alive, or the most relentlessly optimistic, so Ed’s guessing not.
Option one down, that means he’s jumpy because of the other thing, and that could be all kinds of bad news for Ed’s general care and comfort. Only he also can’t seem to keep his eyes off of Ed’s mouth.
Which is, frankly, just plain flattering.
Also suggests that Stede’s either gone so long without a decent blow that he’s forgotten what one feels like or, impossibly, madly, that he’d never had one at all. And that can’t be true, because Stede’s… Stede. He’s rich, and he’s hilarious, and he’s maybe the nicest person Ed has met, ever. By rights, people should be lined up to have a turn on their knees for him. So it’s definitely the former—even if that’s also bizarre—and not the latter, and Ed’s insides can go ahead and stop writhing over the thought of it any time now.
Fucking hell.
Over the side of the platform, their feet bump together, swaying back and forth with the motion of the ship. Stede’s neatly buckled pink shoes next to Ed’s battered old boots.
Ed could shove him over the edge right now with no one the wiser. Nobody would even be surprised that Stede fell—more that he hasn’t before now.
Pink shoes. What kind of fucking pirate wears pink shoes?
Could Ed pull off pink shoes?
“Do you miss it?” he asks. If Stede’s put off by the sudden change in topic he doesn’t show it. “The stuff, I mean. The good life and all.”
Stede stares off into the horizon for long enough Ed’s sure he’s not going to answer, but then suddenly he sighs out the longest breath Ed’s ever heard and dredges up, “There are certain conveniences I wouldn’t mind having back, but, on the whole?” His shoulder lifts, a sideways glance slipping over the ridge of it to meet Ed’s. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”
A smile stretches gamely across his mouth, but his eyes don’t seem to get the message.
“It’s funny, you know. When I first designed the ship, I thought of it as a present for my family. Now I look at her and I’m not sure that’s what I really meant at all.” His manicured hands brush thoughtfully along the railing, the salt-cured boards beneath them. “There’s hardly any space for Mary’s things in the wardrobes, and the children’s rooms would have been far too small.”
“The ship,” he stutters to a halt, swallows. Starts again so quiet Ed can only just make it out over the whip of the wind. “I think I made it for me. Selfishly. And I didn’t even realize it.”
Ed’s seen men confess to murder with less guilt. It’s another weird-edged piece to the puzzle of Stede Bonnet, all of these bits that don’t belong together that Stede’s somehow got jammed into him anyway.
Nobles don’t worry about being selfish, because having the world handed to them on a platter’s the only state of affairs they know. Pirates don’t worry about being selfish because they’re getting by the only way they can. Both sides of that coin have generally committed worse crimes than that before breakfast anyway, so there’s not much sense in worrying about it. But Stede worries about it. A noble, and a pirate, and some other fucking thing entirely that Ed hasn’t got a name for besides just Stede.
If he spent a hundred years watching, Ed wonders, would he understand him then?
None of which are useful thoughts for the moment, when Stede obviously feels bad, which for some reason makes Ed feel bad.
He’s going to have to work on that one.
In the meantime, Ed says, “Taking what you want’s the pirate way. No point apologizing. Doesn’t change anything.”
It doesn't get him the full twinkle of a genuine smile, but warmth seems to creep closer to Stede’s eyes, waiting in ambush.
“Ironically, I think I might be rather a better man as a pirate,” he admits softly. “More honest, at any rate.”
Ed knocks a shoulder against him, slants a grin when he says, “Traded your passive aggression for massive aggression.”
And there’s the real smile, banked at the edges like Stede’s trying not to be pleased with himself and failing badly.
“I don’t know about all of that. There’s a French ship that would probably disagree with you.”
Sharp and sudden, the memory sinks into him, all of those jackasses who’d laughed Ed out of the room turning on each other like a pack of wild dogs because Stede made it so. Heat prickles in its wake, rage and shame making harsh bedfellows with gratitude and the heavy tang of come on his tongue.
“You do know they’re all dead, right, mate?”
Anybody else, it would be the exact wrong thing to say—who the fuck wants to think about a bunch of people they got killed right after saying how shitty they feel just for being a little selfish?—but then Stede’s not really like anybody else.
“Oh, I’m sure most of them could swim.” He flaps a hand at Ed, the same way he had when he’d told him not to worry about coming all over a suit that was probably worth more than Ed’s life. Ed’s cock fattens up a little, fondly. “Who would go out on a pleasure cruise if they couldn’t swim?”
“Right. Sure.”
Could anyone actually be that oblivious on accident? Gotta be an act, right?
“And anyway,” Stede adds, “they started the fire themselves.”
Technically true. Ed’s gotten a long way in life on those kinds of technicalities.
“Plus they were dicks,” he feels compelled to point out.
This look comes over Stede’s face, like an angry puppy, if an angry puppy also made a deal with the devil. It’s a weird fucking look. Not ineffective though.
“They were terribly rude to you,” he hisses, as if that’s enough justification to have sent a bunch of idiots to a watery grave.
The something knocks so hard against the inside of Ed’s ribcage he thinks a bone must have cracked.
***
The weirdness gets weirder after the fuckery.
Ed wakes up at some vague hour the next afternoon—because he spent the night weeping like a child in Stede’s bathtub and the dawn hour watching Izzy try and only barely fail to murder Stede—with eyes that are sand-scoured, throat tight and tender.
Face mashed into the curve of Stede’s neck, his breath has made a humid, slick spot against his nose and cheek. Sort of gross, actually. He would move, except he’s pretty sure then he’d have to admit to being awake, and get out of bed, and go live the rest of his life, and honestly fuck it, he just lives here in the sweaty patch of Stede’s neck now.
Izzy’s gone. Fucked off to who knows where. Not just off executing some order of Ed’s, but actually fucking gone. Another layer of Blackbeard’s shell chipped away.
It should be terrifying. Fucking is . Being Blackbeard—and the worse thing that slithered into him long before he was Blackbeard—has kept Ed alive and relatively safe for a long time. ‘Course, it’s also the thing that made dying seem like a fun new idea. Maybe that’s the reason he can’t seem to summon up the proper fear for being so fucking laid bare just now.
Strangely, mostly what he feels is… relaxed. A warm, kind of weightless non-pain that he hasn’t felt in.
Fuck. Has he ever felt this?
Stede’s… Stede might be awake. Hard to tell for sure with the way he’s breathing, slow and even as the ocean beneath them, but his hand is moving a little, gentle circles of his fingertips through the hair at Ed’s temple. Petting him, really. So he can’t be too upset, then, about waking up under a blanket of admitted father-murder.
Probably wouldn’t have let Ed kip in his bed if he was going to be upset about it. Insisted, even, that Ed stay in his crazy feather bed, wrapped up in his nice dressing gown. Hand just the right kind of tight on the back of his neck. Calling him a good person, which he isn't, but also maybe isn’t exactly a lie, either—Stede, he’s coming to realize, has a slightly different standard than other people.
Might actually be one Ed could live up to. If he wanted. If he worked at it. Maybe.
“Edward?” Stede whispers, churchmouse quiet. Still close enough to Ed’s ear that he gets all the sleepy-throated husk from it, the faint rumble through the chest Ed’s plastered up against.
The squeamish, unsettled heat that’s been roiling around in his belly suddenly figures out exactly which direction it wants to go—straight south.
It’s fucked up. He’s fucking skinnned-raw, and it ought to make him defensively furious, because that’s what it’s always made him, his whole life. Only now. Now he feels… cozy. And safe. Kind of greedy; wants to wrap himself up in Stede just like the dressing gown and rub him all over Ed’s sore, ugly parts until they’re hidden again.
Feels hard as fucking nails, too. And there’s no way from how he’s pressed right up against Stede’s hip that Stede doesn’t know all about it.
He hums an answer into Stede’s skin since pretending to be asleep’s out the window. Presses closer to the soap and sweat scent of him, even though it makes it harder to breathe; even though Stede doesn’t seem to be trying to push him off.
“It’s getting a bit late. I should probably go up and check how things are going with the crew. A captain’s job is never done, and such.” He huffs a soft laugh, then hisses quietly, hand fluttering to his side. “Maybe get a change for this bandage too.”
Shifting enough to cast a look toward Stede’s hand doesn’t tell him much. He hasn’t bled through his nightshirt, so that’s good news. Ed’s stitches—not Roach’s because Roach is a smart enough man to hand over a needle when Ed tells him to—must be holding. Stede doesn’t feel feverish either, and Ed’s pretty sure from this position he’d be able to tell.
Another nice gut scar for the Gentleman Pirate.
For a nice guy, he seems to get stabbed a lot.
“You’re welcome to stay, though,” Stede carries on. “Have a nice, long lie-in.”
Turning his face back into the shade of Stede’s neck, Ed mumbles, “S’alright.” His lips brush temptingly against skin as he does. It’s not doing much for his motivation to move. Or let Stede move. “I can go with you.”
Stede’s voice has a strained edge, but he’s still petting at Ed’s hair when he says, “Don’t be silly. You had an eventful evening, you could use the rest.”
Twelve hours ago, he told Stede he’s been planning to kill him practically since the day they met, and Stede’s worried he’s not getting enough sleep. There really is something wrong with this man.
Whatever it is, Ed hopes it can’t be fixed.
Trying a different tack, Ed drags the arm he’s got slung over Stede down his flank, skipping over the shape of the bandage to palm the soft give of a hip through his nightshirt.
“I could… help with that. Bit of pain relief.”
He’s close enough to feel Stede swallow before he rasps out,“Oh.”
Stede’s stone-still beneath him, torturously silent for a moment so long Ed’s mind starts frantically cycling through options. Gun to his head, he still couldn’t explain why the idea of Stede fucking off somewhere, anywhere except right here against Ed, feels so miserable, but Ed’d be willing to go to fucking lengths to see that he doesn’t.
“I thought- I wasn’t sure that you would still, er, be interested,” is what Stede haltingly comes out with. “In that arrangement.”
Stede’s got to be one of the most educated men Ed’s ever met, it’s beyond the fucking pale for him to be such a damned moron.
Grinding pointedly against Stede’s uninjured side, Ed takes the edge off the aimless energy jangling down his spine by scraping his teeth over Stede’s neck. “What do you think now?”
Ed’s in the wrong position to tell whether this is working for Stede or not, but the unsteady rise and fall of his breath sure sounds like a man who wants to get off, and Ed's never been above pressing an advantage.
Mouth a fond thought away from the curl of Stede’s ear, he bunches the fabric of Stede’s nightshirt up enough to get a hand on his bare thigh. Muscles jump against his fingers as he runs the backs of his knuckles up skin stretched thin, right to the juncture of his legs; the heavy heat of his balls nudged up against the side of Ed’s hand and not getting a single fucking thing more out of him until Stede finally hiccups, “Well, I suppose the crew could wait another few minutes.”
As a reward, he cups Stede’s sac up against the line of his prick—already most of the way to hard, tension Ed hadn’t even noticed tightening his shoulders unspooling like thread—and gives them a good fondle. Gets his lips around the tender bit of Stede’s earlobe too, just to see whether he’ll make different sounds for the flick of Ed’s tongue than the graze of his teeth.
Turns out, he will.
Last night, Stede had insisted on getting him down to his smallclothes before tucking him tidily into bed in the red dressing gown—leather is, evidently, not appropriate nightwear. Ed hadn’t thought anything about it at the time, about as useful as a wrung out dishrag. Now he’s thinking it’s brilliant, because it’s the work of seconds to get himself completely bare and attached to Stede’s side again.
There’s something addictively decadent to knowing everything touching him is something fine; silk, and whatever the fuck Stede’s sheets are made of, and Stede. Not at all what he’d had in mind back when he’d conscripted Stede into being his money man. So much better.
“Would you-” want to fuck me , is the insanity that almost flies out of his mouth. He hasn’t offered that up to anybody in… a long fucking time, suffice to say. And Stede’s been run through. Bad time all around, even if Ed did want it, which obviously he doesn’t.
Also, the way that something brushes catlike between his lungs. He hasn’t shed a tear in a fucking decade, hasn’t cried during sex in a hell of a lot longer than that—he’s not breaking both streaks in one 24 hour period, he’s just not.
In the time it took Ed to shuck his smalls and lose the dressing gown, Stede’s managed to gape open-mouthed, and not must else, as if Ed’s hard prick is the most stunning turn of events he could imagine. A hell of a lot more stunned, it should be noted, than he looked last night when Ed told him- Or when Izzy-
Anyway, point is, he’s still got his nightshirt hiked up, a tantalizing stripe of his nethers on display above one alabaster thigh, and Ed’s mind catches on it like a sail in a high wind.
“Would you let me fuck your thighs?”
That seems to jolt Stede out of his stupor, although not in any way that Ed could have predicted.
“Boarding school style?” Stede asks, looking far less flustered at the idea than he had when Ed got on his knees for him.
Obviously Stede picks up on the difference too, or maybe he just reads something in the shape of Ed’s eyebrows, because he’s fussily brushing his hair back with his fingers, sheepishly shrugging, “I went to boarding school—there’s a reason it’s called that.”
Unbidden, the image of a much younger Stede pops into his head; all pale and sweet and surrounded by a bunch of blue-blooded tossers who can’t wait to get a crack at him.
It’s gone almost as fast as it came.
Ed forces his fists to unclench.
He’s never given a shit about who else has had a go at his fucks, and he fucking well doesn’t now, either.
“You must have been popular,” he says, just to prove it. Pulls back to lift the other side of Stede’s shirt up and get a good look at the long spread of his legs, all ivory curves flecked with gold hair. Caresses along the inside of one just to watch it skitter and twitch under his hand. “With these.”
“Actually, I was rather skinny. And, well, myself .” He huffs a breathless laugh. Wheezes a little as he gingerly turns over onto his good side, nestling his face into the crook of his own arm. It doesn’t muffle it at all when he says, “Only did it a few times.”
Stede busies himself arranging the fall of his shirt to give Ed room, only the bottom curve of his arse exposed as he aligns his legs. Demure, sort of, for a really obscene version of the word.
“Enjoyed it, though,” he adds, just as Ed’s considering suggesting something else. Wondering if this is what it was like for him back then—all covered up, nobody looking at him, nobody touching him except where they needed to.
Well fuck right off with that.
“They were missing out, then.” If it comes out more like a growl than he meant, well, Stede’s probably too busy to notice as Ed starts starts forcibly removing him from the fucking nightgown.
He’s not very cooperative about it, mumbling all sorts of ‘ not necessary ’s and ‘ really ’s between a few tender gasps, but then the thing finally hits the floor and it’s just Ed and a couple of miles worth of lovely porcelain skin.
It’s actually slightly unfair that Stede is allowed to walk around looking like this under his clothes. Even with the bandage wrapped around his middle, he’s fucking edible. His rosy nipples and cinnamon freckles, the ore-glint of stubble on his jaw; supple, and luscious, and just really fucking yummy all over.
Of course, Stede looks embarrassed about the whole thing, one hand pressed to his own chest like he’s narrowly restraining the urge to cover himself, and that’s just not on, so instead of staring for a while like he’d kind of like to, Ed molds himself up against Stede’s back.
Not being looked at seems to help, because it only takes a minute or two of Ed mouth along his neck and his hands roving over him before Stede’s sighing happily again and pressing back into him. Giving Ed all kinds of ideas he’s got no place having. Not right now, at least.
In an effort to drive out the thought of Stede clutched wet around him, Ed spits noisily into his own hand to slick up his cock, slips into the humid space between Stede’s legs. Instantly, he can feel the muscles flex around him, Stede shifting to make things tighter for him as the head of his prick bumps against Stede’s balls.
It’s good. Better than Ed remembered it feeling. Between spit and sweat, there’s just enough slip to keep the friction on the right side of pleasure; smooth, hot skin and the faintest crinkle of hair. Stede, in his ear, making these contented little hums, hips wiggling fitfully in Ed’s iron grip like he’d getting as much out of it as Ed is.
He’s not. Ed knows he’s not. He’s been on the other side of this, and while it’s not bad by any means, it’s not the same as fucking your prick into something warm and wet, even when you don’t have a wound to avoid aggravating. He should have offered to use his mouth again, or his hand, or something. But all he seems to be able to do is take from Stede. Take, and take, and keep taking.
“Pretty thighs, pretty cock, pretty pink tits,” he says, looping the arm underneath him around to palm at Stede’s chest. Hooks his chin over Stede’s shoulder to watch the meager bit of flesh mound in his palm. “‘D like to fuck those too.”
Stede laughs again, still high-pitched but not ashamed-sounding now.
“I don’t know how satisfying you’d find the experience, but you’re welcome to try.”
Keep taking, and keep taking, and Stede just grants him more. It makes Ed feel like he’s losing his mind.
“I’d let you bugger me, if you wanted.”
Going by the gut-punched gasp Stede sucks in, the proposition comes as almost as much of a shock to him as it does to Ed. Like he’s only got one thought in him, and it can’t stop rattling to the surface. Fuck knows why.
There’d been a queen on the throne the last time Ed let anyone have him. When you’re Blackbeard, the Terror of the Seas, you don’t bend for anybody and nobody asks you to. You bend other people, and you take what you need, and you don’t worry if they like it, or what they think about you, or if you feel hollow and charred on the inside afterward, because that’s who you’re supposed to be.
So why in the mighty and powerful fuck is he licking, “I like it sometimes,” into the peaches and cream skin of Stede’s shoulder? Why is he huffing, “Bet I’d like it with you,” like it’s been pulled out of him with tenterhooks, like the rasp of Stede’s slick thighs has put him under some kind of spell? “Bet you’d take care of me.”
His nails score against Stede’s hip, and a hurt sound leaks from between Stede’s teeth. Because that’s what Ed does; he hurts things, and destroys them, and makes them vile. But Stede just arches back into him, a hand going to Ed’s hair as if to hold him closer. Gasps out, “Yes, anything you’d like.”
Those fingers tighten, pull until the ache in his scalp is honeyed and sharp. Filing off the edges of every rational fucking thought in Ed’s head until all he is is the slide of his prick through that tight, hot space, and the bitter-salt taste of sweat, and the spark-tension-thrill of almost-there, almost fucking there.
“Always fucking taking care of me.” He’s babbling, out of his fucking head, jittery want deadening every urge not directly connected to Stede and his cock. “Drive me fucking mad.” Stede’s thighs clamping tighter around him until it’s almost too hard to move, so close, so fucking close. “Oh fuck.”
“Yes, Edward, let me feel you.”
Stede’s arm jerks, reflexive, spiking the pull on Ed’s hair into real pain, and it’s the last push he needs to paint Stede’s thighs over white.
There’s clearly something about Stede that unhinges him, because yet again it seems to take a small eternity for Ed to shake off the dazed lassitude of his peak.
Progressively he becomes aware of the urgent heave of Stede’s back against his chest, the jiggle of Stede’s arm moving frantically, the familiar flesh-on-flesh sound.
Entirely out of his control, a groan catapults from the pit of Ed’s stomach as he cranes over Stede’s shoulder again, watching the dark, glossy head of Stede’s cock slip through his own fingers. They should be Ed’s fingers, he should be the one giving Stede something for a change, but he only gets as far as grabbing Stede’s wrist before Stede’s spurting off all over the sheets.
His thighs tense again as he does, the softening length of Ed’s prick still held loosely between them getting another blissful, painful clench out of it before all of the tension runs out of Stede’s body and he collapses backward slightly, letting Ed take his weight.
He’s even lovely like this, dewed with his own sweat and come in the light spilling in around the curtains. Pleasure-stunned and blush-cheeked and completely at ease.
With the contrast now, it’s obvious how rarely that’s true for Stede. Even when it seems like he’s flouncing his way through life, he’s always performing. Ed had thought becoming the Gentleman Pirate would let him slough the weight of Blackbeard, but he’s not sure Stede’s burden is really any easier. He just wears it different.
Last night, Ed had shown him the worst things that he is, and Stede had called him a good man, a friend. Ed had stood there and watched Izzy nearly kill him. Had thought Izzy had killed him, and still hadn’t done a fucking thing.
Some fucking friend.
All Ed’s managed is to make a mess of Stede.
But Ed can clean up a mess.
Stede grumbles quietly when Ed extricates himself, but goes along with it without complaint as Ed encourages him onto his back and settles himself between his legs. So much less unsure of himself than when Ed stripped the nightshirt off of him.
Something to think on for the future, there.
For now, Ed’s got other business to attend.
Stede lets out a shocked bleat at the first touch of Ed’s tongue to his inner thigh. Squirms like he’s going to tell Ed to stop, only he doesn’t. What he does instead is lift his head up to watch as Ed licks another clean stripe across his skin.
“Oh you- that’s filthy.”
His tone’s too reverent for there to have been much sting to it, but any there was is wiped away by the weak jerk of his dick.
Unable to resist, Ed presses a slow kiss to it, gets another kick of muscle and an oversensitive whine from Stede for his trouble.
“You’ve got no idea the places my mouth has been,” he says, burying the truth in it underneath a saucy smile as he sinks back down to suck his come off of Stede’s balls.
Even like this Stede’s the cleanest thing he’s ever gotten a taste of. And as long as he can keep him distracted from realizing how little Ed deserves that, he can buy himself time to learn to be better.
A better man, a better friend.
For Stede.
“Are you sure you’re not still trying to kill me?” Stede whispers, voice stretched taut, as Ed chases every bitter trace of himself until there’s nothing left behind but the flavor of his own spit.
Stede’s fingers are back in his hair by the time he finishes, scratching gently at his scalp in a way that would definitely have them heading for another round if Ed was ten years younger. As it is, he lets himself be led up to rest his head on Stede’s bare chest.
He’s got come in his beard, and the cracked-open feeling from before isn’t really any less sore, but he still feels more… just more than he has in so long, it’s like a whole new feeling altogether.
Stede leans over to press a lingering kiss to Ed’s forehead. If Ed had a soul, he’d swear the damned thing shivers.