Archive of Our Own

A car door slams.

"You think being in the same room as me twice a week is trying?" Ed’s voice carries through the closed front door, and Stede winces. "How the fuck do you think it makes me feel when my own fucking husband—"

"I’m trying to keep the fucking lights on, Ed." Izzy interrupts. He's not shouting, but his voice is ironclad, frayed at the edges like it’s been worn down all day. There's a jingle of keys, and the door bursts open. "I’m trying to keep this fucking house from falling down around our fucking ears!"

Stede flinches. So does Isobel, though she doesn’t say anything—just pulls the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands and keeps her eyes on the picture book in her lap. She doesn’t like being read to, only likes the pictures, and he flips a page. She prefers quiet. Not complete silence, thankfully. She still likes when Stede hums, or talks about his day, or tells her a story. He has an endless supply of them.

The front door slams, and the sound echoes through the empty house. The walls shake with the force of it.

"It's not about the hours." Ed is saying, following Izzy into the foyer. His voice is rough, a little ragged, and he's not shouting either, but his tone is biting. "You're never here! Even when you're home, you're not."

"Because I am running the company that you were more than happy to let crash and burn before I stepped up and saved it!" Izzy snaps. His shoes clatter across the tile as he moves. Izzy is toe-to-toe with him now, and his voice is cold as steel, hard and unforgiving. "Or did you forget?"

"I didn't forget." Ed spits. "And I'm grateful, believe me, I'm fucking grateful. But Jesus, Iz, sometimes it feels like I have a roommate who's barely home. Not a fucking husband."

"Oh, fuck you, Eddie." Izzy's laugh is sharp.

Stede moves quickly, then. Noise-cancelling headphones, soft and oversized, slipped gently over Isobel's ears. He taps the button on the side until white noise kicks in.

“There we go.” He murmurs, and she nods, solemn. Her fingers curl around his wrist for a second, squeezing tightly before letting go. Stede brushes her hair back from her face, smiles at her, and waits for her to smile back. She does, after a moment.

Izzy appears in the doorway. He’s still fuming, face sharp and set—but when he sees Stede crouched in front of Isobel, brushing her hair back with careful fingers, something in his expression shifts. Just slightly. Softens.

"Don't worry about us, Mr. Hands." Stede's eyes are wide, guileless, and Izzy feels something twist inside him. He's a kid—barely nineteen, the after-school sitter Ed hired when Izzy’s schedule got out of control—saving up enough money to move out of his father's house and into a little apartment in the city. And he's here, forced to bear witness to two grown men's ugly marriage. It's not his fault, and Izzy is the adult, and yet—he can't help but want to apologize. "I'll take her up and get her squared away in a few."

Izzy doesn’t answer right away.

He just stands there for a second too long, jaw tight, fists still clenched at his sides like he hasn’t figured out where to put all the anger that’s still rolling through him in waves. It should be easy—say “thank you,” turn around, keep fighting with Ed until one of them runs out of things to scream at the other. But something in Stede’s tone stops him. The soft certainty of it. The way he says Mr. Hands like he’s tasting the name on his tongue—like he’s not supposed to want it, but does anyway.

It's been a long time since anyone said anything to him like that. A long time since anyone tried.

"Okay." Izzy says eventually, his voice quieter than before but no less hoarse. “Thanks.” He disappears up the stairs, taking the argument with him, and Stede can hear Ed shouting something about how he's tired of playing second fiddle to the company that they built together, and the sound of their bedroom door slamming.

Stede sits there for a moment, waiting for the ringing in his ears to die down. Then, he presses his palm flat to Isobel’s knee and gives it a little pat before standing.

“Alright, kid." He murmurs, and she watches him through her lashes, quiet as ever beneath the gentle hum of white noise. “Time for bed.” She doesn’t argue. She rarely does, not with him.

There’s a kind of unspoken contract between them, forged in the quiet hours spent sitting on her bedroom floor listening to her parents fight, and reinforced every day since. Isobel lets Stede carry her upstairs and wrap her in her blankets—two of them because she gets cold, and a third folded near her pillow in case she wakes up in the wee hours and needs an extra layer.

He reads her a few pages of something boring until her eyelids flutter. Turns her bedroom lights off, but leaves the bathroom light on and the door cracked. She doesn’t like the dark.

Downstairs, the air has shifted. Quieter, heavier. The kind of quiet that clings to skin. Stede pads quietly to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, more out of habit than anything else, and sets about reheating the pasta he'd cooked earlier that evening. He looks up as the microwave dings, and Izzy is standing in the doorway.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” He says, voice still graveled, but softer now. Raw around the edges.

“I know.” Stede doesn’t turn around. He opens the microwave, takes out the pasta, stirring it with a fork, and the steam rises in a cloud, warm and fragrant. Izzy watches him move, all careful efficiency. The way his hands look, wrapped around the handle of the fork. He looks like he belongs here, like he lives here. “But I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“She go down okay?”

“She did.” Stede finally looks over his shoulder, catching his eye. “Probably would have stabbed me in the throat if I tried to read her another story, though, so I figured it was best not to push my luck." That earns him the faintest flicker of a smile. Or maybe it’s just the lighting. “I can stay, if you want. Come earlier, leave later.” The words come out more earnest than he means them to, but he doesn’t take them back. “Evenings. Weekends. Whatever you need, Sir.”

Izzy huffs something halfway between a laugh and a groan, dragging a hand through his hair. This kid. This stupid, pretty kid is going to get him in trouble. He knows it.

“It’s not your job to keep this house from falling apart, Bonnet.” He mutters, stepping further into the kitchen like the walls are nudging him forward, like the pull toward Stede is something physical, something inevitable.

“No,” Stede says, and when he turns fully, the low kitchen light catches on the curve of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose, the quiet worry stitched into the furrow of his brow. “But I want to help. You’re always so...”

He hesitates, and Izzy waits for it, the rest of the sentence, the accusation or the sympathy or the too-soft pity that people tend to mistake for kindness.

Stede doesn’t give him any of that.

“You’re always so tightly wound.” He finishes instead, gentle and unwavering. “Like you haven't stopped to breathe in years." Izzy doesn't say anything. Just stands there, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, staring at Stede. Stede stares back, his eyes wide, his mouth pink, his hair gold.

Izzy swallows like it’s a hard thing, like he has to work through it. His tongue darts out, quick, over his bottom lip, and he glances away for a beat, just long enough to pretend he isn’t trying to ground himself. He doesn’t say it—he won’t say it—but Christ, this kid is dangerous. Not because he’s too young or too soft or too pretty, though he is all of those things, but because he cares. About Isobel. About him. And that means something.

Izzy can't afford to let it mean something.

“I'm not trying to make things uncomfortable,” Stede takes a step forward, slow and unassuming, still somehow managing to look like he’s just moving for the sake of it, like he’s not closing distance—but Izzy feels it. Feels the shift in the air, the way it curls tighter between them. “I just thought maybe you could use the help. And honestly…I could use the hours.”

"Yeah?" Izzy raises an eyebrow and Stede's head dips in a jerky nod.

“I’m saving. For top surgery. That’s part of why I took the job.” He looks embarrassed, almost, and Izzy can see the flush creeping into his cheeks, the way his throat moves when he swallows. "But...it's not why I stayed."

The words hang in the air between them, warm and unhurried, more honest than anything that’s been said in this kitchen in months. And Izzy—Izzy fucking Hands, who’s spent years learning to choke down want like it’s poison—feels something slip in his chest, something small and sharp and dangerous. The air between them shifts again, becomes impossibly heavier, and Izzy can't seem to catch his breath.

It's wrong, he knows it's wrong, and the last shreds of decency buried deep down somewhere in the darkest recesses of his brain are screaming at him, telling him to walk away, or to call him a cab, or to tell him to pack his shit and get out—but it's so quiet. And the rest of the world is so fucking loud. And he's so tired.

"So," Stede's voice is softer, now. Softer and lower and so careful. "Do you want me to stay?"

Yes, is what Izzy wants to say. Yes, he wants Stede to stay. Wants him to stay here, with the quiet and the calm, with the softness that seems to cling to him like a shadow. He wants him to stay so bad it hurts.

Izzy doesn't say any of that. Instead, he swallows. Hard. And takes another step forward.

"You should get your shoes, kid." His voice sounds like it belongs to someone else—someone who isn’t afraid. Someone who doesn't think, over and over, about the way the kid's fingers look wrapped around the handle of a fork.

"Right," Stede breathes, and Izzy can't tear his eyes away from the line of his throat. "Are you taking me home? Or will Mr. Teach?"

"Mr. Teach is otherwise engaged."

"Ah." There's a pause, the faintest hesitation. "You'll drive me, then?" Izzy nods. Stede's eyes are dark, pupils blown, and his chest is rising and falling fast and shallow, and his fingers twitch like he's stopping himself from reaching out, and Izzy thinks he should say something, anything.

"Go on." Izzy manages. "Shoes."

"Okay." Stede takes a step back. Izzy takes one forward, following, and they stand there for a second, staring, before Stede finally turns and moves through the hallway. Izzy stays rooted in place, listening to the sound of his footsteps as they echo off the walls.

He'll drive him home, he tells himself. Get him in a car, drop him off, go the fuck to bed. Try not to think about how close the kid's fingers were to his.

That's the plan. That's the fucking plan.

Except when they leave Izzy and Ed's posh fucking neighborhood, Izzy doesn't head in the direction of Stede's posh fucking neighborhood. He keeps driving, further and further out, down one road, then another, and Stede doesn't say anything—just looks out the window and watches the houses pass.

It's late, and the neighborhood is mostly quiet, save for the occasional dog barking or car rumbling past, the hum of distant sirens and the occasional blare of a horn. After a moment, he breaks the silence.

“You missed the turn to my place,” It's not accusing, just observant. His voice is soft, a little uncertain. “Unless this is a scenic detour.”

“It’s not,” Izzy mutters.

They drive another five minutes before he finally pulls into a narrow side street, quiet and residential, lined with old trees and newer condos. The car idles for a second in front of a building that looks recently refurbished—clean brick, matte black balconies, soft golden light leaking through the lobby windows.

Stede glances up at the building as Izzy turns the engine off.

“You know, I looked at this place once.” His voice is casual, almost absent, like he’s speaking to the window. Izzy’s hands tense slightly on the wheel. He doesn’t look over.  Stede keeps going, still soft. “Last year, I think. December? It was too expensive, though. And too far from the bus line.” He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “But I remember the light in the lobby. I thought it looked like a hotel.”

Izzy still doesn’t speak. Just stares out the windshield like something’s caught in his throat.

He hadn’t meant to bring Stede here. Not really. It wasn’t a plan. Just muscle memory—the instinct to go somewhere quiet, somewhere that didn’t echo with shouting or silence or Ed’s bitter fucking sighs. 

He gets out of the car before he can talk himself out of this. The slam of the door feels louder than it should.

Stede follows a beat later, trailing behind as Izzy unlocks the building and leads him up a flight of stairs to the second floor.

“There’s an elevator,” Izzy says, glancing back at him. “But it’s slow as shit and makes this horrible groaning sound halfway up. Figured we’d take the stairs just this once.”

“Sure,” Stede replies easily, one hand trailing lightly along the painted wall as they ascend. “That makes sense. Adds to the overall ambiance.” Izzy huffs a quiet sound that might be a laugh.

The hallway upstairs is clean and quiet, with warm sconces casting yellow light across the floor. He unlocks the apartment with a quick flick of the key.

“It’s not much yet,” Izzy mutters as he pushes open the door and flicks a light on, “but it’s a good layout. Morning light in the front windows, decent insulation. Should stay cool in the summer.”

Stede steps inside, eyes drifting across the space—bare floorboards, just a few boxes, a mattress covered in bedsheets that don't quite match. It smells faintly like new paint and whatever cleaner the property manager used before turnover.

“Park’s just around the corner,” Izzy continues, like he’s running through a list in his head. “Heard there’s some kind of communal playdate thing most Saturdays. Lot of kids Isobel’s age in the area, apparently.” He clears his throat, pacing to the window. “Café across the street does real tea,” Izzy adds. “Loose leaf, even. Not just bags dunked in boiled tap water.”

Stede smiles faintly at that and Izzy looks away, jaw working. He hadn’t meant to say that part.

He just…knows Stede likes tea. Knows he hums when he makes it. That he always adds honey, never sugar. That he runs the mug under hot water first so it stays warm longer.

“And the grocery store’s walkable,” He continues after he's composed himself. He knows he's basically just talking like he has to fill the air with something. “The primary school too. Self contained, I think that fucking realtor called it. Everything's nearby. It's a safe area. Good mix of families. Feels…” He hesitates. “Quiet.”

Stede lets out a small hum of agreement and turns a slow circle in the room, taking it in. His hands are folded behind his back, expression thoughtful, like he’s weighing a dozen unseen factors.

“It’s nice,” he says eventually. “A lot nicer than the places I looked at when I thought I’d need to move.”

Izzy leans a shoulder against the wall near the kitchen. “Yeah?”

“I mean," he snorts a bit to himself, "obviously out of my price range right now, but I get it. If you’re thinking of showing it to someone else. Or maybe using it for a rental, or—”

“I’m not renting it out.”

“It’s for you?” Stede asks, blinking, head tilting slightly. He'd always thought the Teaches would be together forever. It doesn’t compute—can’t compute—that they’re not. That Izzy, steady and sharp and responsible, would be the one to leave. “You signed a lease?”

“Two weeks ago,” Izzy says. He doesn’t sound proud of it. Just tired. “Started looking after that fight outside the big Tesco. You remember the one.”

“I remember,” Stede murmurs. The one where Ed threw their groceries to the ground and screamed so loud it startled the greeter inside the store. “Isobel cried and she never cries.”

“I know,” Izzy mutters. “I know.”

They lapse into silence. Stede walks a slow, thoughtful circle of the room, toes the edge of the mattress with the tip of his shoe.

“She’d like it here,” he says, after a beat. “The park. The light. The space.”

“She would.” Izzy agrees. It slips out a little too fast, too certain, like he’s already imagined it a dozen different ways. Stede nods slowly. Doesn’t look at him. “Feels like the kind of place where she could…grow.”

“Have friends over, maybe,” Stede offers, brushing his fingertips along the edge of the window frame.

“Maybe,” Izzy echoes.

The air is still. Dense. The quiet feels like something alive between them.

“You meant it, right?” Izzy asks, voice low. “What you said earlier. About wanting more hours.”

“I did,” Stede says, surprised by the question. “Of course I did.”

“Then this—” Izzy gestures around them. “This could be that. The more hours. Morning drop-offs. Dinners. Bedtime. Weekends, sometimes, if that’s...if that’s not too much.” He says it carefully, like he’s laying cards on a table he’s never played at before.

“This is a big step up from ‘after school...’” Stede says lightly, but not teasing.

“You asked,” Izzy says, and his voice is almost gentle. “I’m offering.”

Stede doesn’t answer right away. He looks around the room again—at the half-open boxes, the way the light spills across the empty floorboards, the way Izzy hasn’t stopped watching him. Something inside him clicks into place.

“She’d be happy here.” He says again, quietly.

“Yeah,” Izzy agrees. “And she’d be safer. And calmer. And I—I’d have help.”

Stede looks back at him. “You’d let me do that?”

“You already do that,” Izzy says. “This just means I wouldn’t have to keep pretending it’s temporary.”

"Do I get a drawer?" He asks, and Izzy huffs a little laugh, shaking his head.

"Kid, you'll get a whole fucking dresser. And a bedroom, if you want one."

“You know, you could’ve just said,” Stede murmurs, looking up at him, “that you didn’t want to do this alone.”

Izzy freezes. His breath catches in his throat like it’s been punched out of him, like Stede’s words hit somewhere deeper than they had any right to.

“I didn’t want to assume,” Izzy says eventually. It comes out hoarse, almost rough. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You didn’t.” Stede says. “You brought me here, didn't you?"

"I did." Izzy doesn't look away. He doesn't blink. His chest feels tight, and the room feels warmer, and he knows—he fucking knows he's reaching a line that he shouldn't cross. That he can't.

And then Stede moves closer, and the floorboards creak beneath his shoes, and the line gets thinner, and Izzy feels it like a knife in his gut, twisting and turning and making him feel sick and lightheaded.

Not because it’s wrong—but because it is. It’s staggeringly, obviously, unforgivably wrong. He’s forty eight. Stede’s nineteen. He's married. Stede's practically a kid.

And yet—he doesn’t stop.

“Do you want me here?” Stede asks, voice barely more than a breath. There’s no accusation in it, no challenge. Just the question.

Izzy doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

Stede nods slowly, gaze locked on him. He takes another step. They’re toe to toe now.

“For the hours?” he asks, quieter this time. “Or something else?”

Izzy’s lips twitch, almost involuntarily. “For everything.”

Stede reaches up, gentle and deliberate, fingers curling in the collar of Izzy’s shirt like he’s testing the fabric before he lets himself hold on. And Izzy—God, Izzy stands still like a man waiting for a verdict. Like if he moves wrong, it’ll all vanish. Like he’s too afraid to breathe in case he wakes up and finds out it was a dream.

“You didn’t scare me off,” Stede says again, steady and soft. “You just didn’t ask.”

Izzy exhales through his nose, a quiet, trembling sound. “I’m asking now.”

“Good,” Stede murmurs.

And then he kisses him.

Stede kisses like someone who hasn’t done it much. Like he’s still learning the shape of another person’s mouth, still figuring out how to move and breathe and want all at once. His lips part too early, his nose bumps Izzy’s, and when he huffs a nervous laugh, Izzy feels it all the way through his chest.

But he doesn’t pull away.

He lets Stede find the rhythm, lets him settle into it, lets his fingers tighten slightly where they’re still clutched in the collar of his shirt like he’s holding on for balance.

When they finally part, Stede’s eyes are wide, and his mouth is pink, and his face is flushed and Izzy stares at him like he can see his future written in the flush.

He could. He thinks he could.

"Well," Stede's voice is a little too high. A little breathless. "That was..."

Izzy lifts a hand, slow and careful, brushing his fingers along the curve of Stede’s cheek. “You alright?”

“Yes,” Stede says. “Yes, of course. Just...nervous.”

“You don’t have to be,” Izzy murmurs. “Not with me.”

“That’s kind of why I am, though,” Stede says, and his voice shakes just enough to make Izzy’s heart twist.

Izzy’s thumb stills against his jaw. “You ever done this before?”

Stede shakes his head. “Not like this.”

There’s no shame in it. No apology. Just honesty.

Izzy steps back first—gives him room, breath, the option to stop before this goes further than it already has. “We don’t have to.”

“I know.” Stede says.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know.” And then quieter: “I want you, Mr. Hands.”

Izzy doesn't even bother trying to suppress the groan that pulls from his throat at the sound of his name falling from those soft, parted lips. He wants him, he said, like it's not a goddamn sin, like it's not fucking wrong. Like he knows what he's doing.

Like he wants this just as badly as Izzy does.

“Christ,” Izzy mutters, low and wrecked. He’s still standing a foot away, but his hands are already shaking with the effort of not closing the distance. “You really don’t have a clue what you’re asking for, do you?”

“I do,” Stede breathes. “I just don’t exactly...know how it’s supposed to go.” Izzy’s eyes flutter shut like he’s in pain. When he opens them again, Stede is still there—beautiful and dangerous, all golden skin and unbrushed hair and flushed cheeks, pupils wide, fingers twitching like he’s itching to be touched.

He looks like temptation dressed up in innocence. Like a fucking gift.

“You don’t need to know how it’s supposed to go,” Izzy says, voice like gravel soaked in honey. “That’s my job.” Stede’s breath catches. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but nothing comes out.

Izzy steps forward slowly—slow enough to let him move if he wants to. He doesn’t. He just watches as Izzy closes the space between them, one step at a time, until they’re nearly chest to chest again. Stede tips his chin up slightly, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“Alright?” Izzy murmurs, the backs of his fingers grazing the side of Stede’s jaw. Soft. Patient. Reverent.

Stede nods. “Yeah.”

“You’ll tell me if I do something wrong?”

“You won’t.”

“That’s not how this works,” Izzy says, a touch of sternness in his voice now. “You will tell me. Out loud.”

“I will,” Stede breathes. “Promise.”

Izzy nods once—just barely—and leans in. Kisses him again. Slower, deeper this time. Less first-time spark and more open flame. Stede sighs against him, melting into it like he’s been waiting for this exact heat, this exact weight.

Izzy slides a hand into his hair, tilts his head to change the angle, and Stede fucking moans at that, the sound spilling out between them and sending a jolt of something electric and unfamiliar racing down Izzy's spine. He's wanted this for so long, wanted him for so long. He didn't think he'd ever actually have him.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. He can feel Stede's heartbeat pounding through his clothes, his skin, his blood. He can feel his own pulse hammering in his chest.

“Lie back,” Izzy says, voice rough now, almost unrecognizable to himself.

Stede does. No hesitation.

He shrugs off his jumper and shimmies out of his trousers with an awkwardness that only makes Izzy ache harder for him. He’s all flushed skin and soft lines, gold in the low light, thighs trembling where he presses them together like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now that he’s bare.

Izzy sinks to his knees beside the bed. Places a hand gently on the inside of one thigh. Doesn’t move. Just looks.

Stede swallows. “You’re staring.”

“I know.”

There's a beat, a second where Stede could still back out. Izzy waits.

“I’ve never had anyone…” Stede’s voice catches. He tries again. “I’ve never had anyone look at me like that.”

Izzy looks up. “Like what?”

“Like I’m something they want.”

Izzy exhales slowly, thumb stroking over warm, shaking skin. “You are.”

The words hang there. Sink deep. Make Stede shift, hips lifting like a question.

Izzy answers by leaning in and kissing the crease of his thigh. Then the other. Then lower still, his breath ghosting over slick heat before his mouth ever touches.

Stede makes a sound—high, startled, half-embarrassed—and Izzy hums at the taste of him, slow and savoring.

“You’re so wet already,” he murmurs. “Fucking Christ.”

He licks into him like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything. Slow and open-mouthed and obscene, holding Stede steady when his legs try to close, his hands scrabbling for something to grip. The blanket, Izzy’s shoulder, the air—it doesn’t matter.

“Oh—goodness, Mr. Hands—”

Izzy groans against him. The name. The way it sounds wrecked and reverent all at once.

“Hold still for me,” he mutters, voice sticky with want, “you’re doing so fucking good.”

He slides a hand under Stede’s thigh, spreads him wider, and licks up again, tongue flat and firm, just to hear the noise it pulls from him. Then he sucks, gently, slow circles, until Stede is gasping, hips twitching, thighs shaking with every breath.

“Please—” Stede whines, breathless and wrecked. “I don’t—oh God, I don’t think I can—”

“You can,” Izzy murmurs. “You will.”

And he doesn’t stop until Stede falls apart, body tensing, spine curling off the mattress as the first orgasm he's ever been given crashes through him. He keens, desperate and high and beautiful, and Izzy rides it out, tongue working, one hand braced against his hip.

He’s trembling all over when it’s done, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths, thighs twitching under Izzy’s palms.

Izzy licks him through the aftershocks, gentle now, reverent. One last kiss to the inside of his knee. Then he pulls back, rests his forehead against Stede’s thigh and just breathes.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice low, hoarse.

“Yes,” Stede says, breathless and a little stunned. “I wasn't sure for a minute there, but—yes. Still here. That was... intense."

Izzy chuckles, chest vibrating against him. He sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Stede props himself up on one elbow, blinking down at him. Hair a mess, skin flushed, still pink between the legs.

“How do I…” he starts, then trails off. His eyes flick down to the bulge straining in Izzy’s trousers. “Can I make you feel like that too?”

Izzy stills, staring up at him, trying not to groan outright.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Stede interrupts, eager, guileless. “You were so good to me. I want to do something for you.”

Izzy exhales through his nose. Tries to calm the throb in his cock. Fails spectacularly.

“You ever sucked someone off before?”

Stede shakes his head. “No. But I’ve thought about it. A lot.”

Izzy does groan then, because of course he fucking has.

He stands, shrugging out of his coat and tossing it over the top of one of the boxes. His vest follows. His belt. Then he strips down with none of the self-consciousness Stede had—older, leaner, scarred. His cock is flushed, thick, already leaking at the tip, and Stede’s eyes go wide as he sits up, legs folded beneath him.

Izzy kneels on the mattress again, settling back against the wall so Stede can move between his knees.

“You don’t have to take all of it,” he says. “Just use your hand too. Keep your teeth off me. Breathe through your nose. And..." He's going to hell. He's going to fucking hell. "If you can, keep your eyes on me. Let me see you."

Stede shivers. Swallows. Nods.

He leans down, presses a shy kiss to the tip first. Then another. Then flattens his tongue and gives a long, uncertain lick from base to crown that makes Izzy’s eyes slam shut.

“Fuck,” Izzy mutters, “just like that—good, you’re doing so fucking good—”

He opens his eyes again when he feels the warmth of Stede’s mouth wrap around him, slow and careful, lips plush, wet and trembling, and when he looks up—Christ, when he looks up—

Those innocent eyes, so eager, so trusting, so wide with please tell me I’m doing it right—

Izzy nearly comes on the fucking spot.

“Stop,” he grits out, hand flying to Stede’s shoulder.

Stede pulls off immediately, startled, mouth slick and pink, looking up at him like he’s done something wrong.

“Izzy? Was that—did I—?”

“No,” Izzy breathes, dragging a hand down his face, eyes squeezed shut. “No, you were perfect. Too perfect. If you’d kept looking at me like that, I’d’ve fucking embarrassed myself.”

“Oh,” Stede says, cheeks going red, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You liked it.”

Izzy laughs—wrecked and fond and half out of his mind. He brushes his thumb along Stede's lower lip.

"More than I've liked anything in a very long time," he murmurs. "Come here." Stede goes willingly, climbing into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like they haven’t just crossed the point of no return.

Izzy kisses him. Deep and open-mouthed, his tongue licking into Stede's mouth to taste himself on the younger man's tongue. Stede shudders against him, hips rocking like he doesn't know how to stop them.

“You want it like this?” Izzy asks, voice wrecked and reverent. “Want to sit on it, kid?”

Stede nods so fast it’s almost desperate.

"Yes, please." Innocent and breathless, and Izzy has to shut his eyes for a moment to get a grip on himself.

"Jesus." Izzy groans, presses his face into the crook of Stede’s neck, breathing him in like he’s trying to memorize the scent. “You’re gonna kill me, kid,” he mutters. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“Izzy,” Stede says, all breath and bare want. “Please.”

That please —soft and wrecked and so fucking trusting—goes straight to Izzy’s gut. He pulls back just enough to reach between them, lining himself up, the thick head of his cock sliding through slick heat. Stede’s thighs twitch where they’re bracketing Izzy’s hips, muscles taut, breath coming shallow and fast. He rises onto his knees and starts to sink down.

And fuck—it’s torture.

Inch by inch, like he’s taking it on faith.

His cunt stretches around the head of Izzy’s cock, and he lets out this high, punched-out little gasp that Izzy feels in his spine.

“Oh my God,” Stede breathes.

“Yeah,” Izzy grits out, hands gripping his hips but not forcing—never forcing—just grounding. “That’s it. You’re doin’ so fucking good.”

Stede lowers himself further, the stretch slow and unbearable, his jaw going slack, eyes fluttering half-shut. Izzy watches the way his throat works as he swallows. Watches the way his brows pinch and his hips tremble and how he keeps going, determined, desperate, greedy for it.

And then, finally, he sinks all the way down, fully seated on Izzy's lap, thighs trembling, cunt fluttering around the stretch of him.

"Jesus," Izzy swears. "Christ, you're fucking tight."

Stede makes a high, helpless sound at that, hips twitching in his grip. He lifts himself experimentally, sinks back down, and the feeling makes his eyes roll back.

"Oh God," he gasps, fingers curling into the meat of Izzy's shoulders.

"Yeah, come on," Izzy breathes, guiding him into a slow, steady rhythm, letting him find his balance, his confidence. "Just like that." Stede moves again—lifts and sinks, just a few inches, slow and shaky, his thighs trembling from the effort and from everything else. His cunt flutters around Izzy’s cock, impossibly hot, impossibly tight, slick and clenching and so fucking eager.

Izzy can barely breathe.

"You're doing so good," he murmurs, thumbs stroking up Stede’s sides. “Fuck, you’re takin’ it so well.”

Stede whines at the praise— actually whines—and buries his face in Izzy’s neck like he can’t stand to be seen while he’s falling apart. His hips stutter. His whole body’s gone flushed, from his chest to the tips of his ears.

“Feels so…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just pants against Izzy’s skin and rocks his hips again, cunt squeezing tight on the downstroke like it’s trying to pull Izzy even deeper.

Izzy swears, hips thrusting up involuntarily.

The angle changes and Stede cries out, his whole body jerking like he can't decide if it's too much or not enough. Izzy doesn't ask which. He just shifts slightly, and does it again, and Stede sobs out a moan against him, cunt clenching hard enough to make Izzy's head spin.

"Fuck," Izzy gasps, fingers digging into his hips. "There, sweetheart? Right there?"

"Yes," Stede sobs. "Yes, yes, please—"

Izzy does it again. Again. And Stede falls apart, shaking and moaning and clinging to him. He comes harder than he had the first time, and Izzy fucks him through it, hips thrusting up into him, pace savage, relentless.

He waits until the last wave of it has washed through him before flipping them over, pinning Stede to the mattress and spreading his thighs, holding him down and fucking him with a brutal, punishing pace that leaves them both gasping.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he rasps, one hand cupping the back of Stede's thigh, holding his leg up and open so he can get a better angle. "Fucking perfect."

Stede whimpers, fingers scrabbling against Izzy's shoulders, nails catching on old scars and fresh skin. "Please," he sobs, tears pooling in his eyes.

Izzy stills for a fraction of a second—not because he’s afraid, not because he regrets it, but because he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Stede beneath him, tear-streaked and split open, body trembling, begging for more like he needs it, wants it, craves it.

Like Izzy is giving him what no one else ever has.

Like Izzy is everything.

He groans and dips his head, mouth finding Stede's collarbone, biting and kissing and sucking, leaving bruises, claiming him, marking him, making sure the whole world will know who's been here, who's done this, who's made him fall apart like this.

"You can come again," Izzy murmurs against him, hips snapping, pace picking up again. "I've got you. I'll get you there, sweetheart."

"Can't," Stede whimpers. "Can't, can't, can't—"

"Yeah, you can," Izzy growls. "Be a good boy and come for me."

And Stede does.

Again.

His body spasms, back arching off the bed, cunt squeezing, his nails raking down Izzy's back hard enough to draw blood, and the pain of it—the bite of those soft, delicate hands, the sting of the cuts—

Izzy loses it.

Comes harder than he ever has, vision flashing white, and he presses his face against the crook of Stede's neck and rides it out, fucking him through it, every ragged breath a prayer.

They stay like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, bodies shaking, clinging to each other like the earth might open up and swallow them whole.

Izzy eases himself out carefully. Tries to catch his breath.

Stede lies there, blinking up at the ceiling.

Izzy reaches for the blanket. Tugs it up, tucking it gently around Stede's naked body, making sure he's covered, like it can somehow undo what's just happened.

"How do you feel?" he asks, quiet, tentative.

Stede smiles faintly.

"Well-fucked," he says, and Izzy snorts. He can’t help it. The laugh cracks through the quiet like it doesn’t belong, but it does—it’s real, and warm, and Stede’s still smiling up at him like he just won something.

“You’re a little shit,” Izzy mutters, brushing damp curls back from Stede’s forehead.

Stede catches his wrist.

"Stay," he murmurs. Soft, and gentle, and everything that Izzy isn't. Everything that he'll never deserve.

"As long as you want me," Izzy says. And it's the truth.