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The rum burns hot on its way down his throat. Ed wishes that it worked the other way around: that he could breathe out fire, like a dragon, and burn this whole sorry fucking excuse for a tavern to the ground. Burn Nassau, too, while he’s at it—burn his whole sorry fucking excuse for a life and as much of this buggered world as the flames can reach. Better a dragon than a kraken, after all: given the choice, who wouldn’t pick fire and flight?
Instead, he tosses back the rest of the drink and stares glumly at the array of hearts and dicks and initials scratched into the worn, pitted wood of the table. The only thing this hovel's got going for it is the quiet—the high-spirited prefer a place with music, and the raucous want company. He just wants to be left alone to sulk in a corner, and dim corners are about all this place has to offer. Eventually the barmaid saunters over to refill his glass. She’s not a timid thing, that one—you don’t stay timid long working in these parts—but she knows better than to pester a man with his reputation. Maybe she’s looking for the chance to earn a few extra coins tonight, but he’s not interested. He scowls until she takes her pretty dimpled face and her slow-rolling hips on to the next poor sod who’s drinking themselves halfway to death at One-Eyed Annie’s tonight.
He knows should get back to the Revenge. He’s been ashore two nights already, and the burden of everything he’s avoiding weighs heavier and heavier, like the keel itself pressing down atop his aching shoulders. But for the first time in his life, there’s no longing left in him. Oh, he’s tried to find the thrill in it again, these past few months, to put on a good show: Blackbeard’s back in the game, with a better flag and a worse temper. But it turns out there’s no savor in reaving and pillaging for him, not any more: just a hollow, mechanical feeling.
Also, he’s increasingly convinced Jim is plotting to murder him. Which, fair enough; he’s probably earned it. And it’s not a bad way to go. It has the virtue of tradition, it does—getting knifed by a young up-and-comer eager to take their place at the helm. He’d risen from the ranks in much the same fashion, back in the day, even if it hadn’t been his own hand on the hilt of the blade.
Better Jim than Izzy, he thinks, surveying the insipid piss-colored liquid in his glass as if the answer to his problems might be found there. He doesn’t know what to do about Izzy—he can’t bring himself to kill the bastard, but he can’t forgive him, either. The toe had seemed like an optimal way of splitting the difference. Effective, anyway. If there’s a truism in his profession, it’s that fear is a better bet than love. A man fears you, you both know where you stand. Love, though, love’s a right fucker. Steals your footing out from under you, leaves you dizzy and useless as a green-arsed cabin boy on his first day at sea. But he doesn’t want to be thinking about this tonight. That’s why he’s drinking.
The barmaid returns. Before he can tell her to fuck off, she slips a folded piece of paper across the table.
“Fella waiting outside for ye,” she says, with a wink, and saunters off again.
He unfolds the paper, though he’s in no state to read a message—even sober, letters have always played tricks on him. Maybe the sender knows that, because there's nothing but a crude scrawl of his flag: the skeleton, the spear, the bleeding heart. He reaches for the candle stub jammed into the table and holds the paper over the flame until it's ash, his fingertips singed as black as his jaw. Ed stands, tossing back the last of the rum, drops a few coppers on the table, and walks out into the stinking Nassau night.
It’s dark, low-hanging clouds crowding out most of the moonlight, and the light from the taper outside the tavern door doesn’t shine far. He hears a scuffling in the dust nearby, stray dogs barking down the alley, but there’s no one else in sight.
“Captain!” The hiss comes from the shadows of the first alley on the left, but he doesn’t reach for any of the assorted weapons he’s carrying.
“Fang,” he growls, raising his fist in exasperation. “I’m gonna shove this buggering glove down your fuckin’ throat, man! What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”
“Sorry, Captain, but there’s someone who wants to meet you—said it’s about a possible job. Big one! Rich man’s boat from the south, ripe for the taking. It’s some fella who knew Calico Jack—I’ve seen 'em together before. I swear it on poor Spike’s soul in doggy heaven.” Fang shoots a mournful glance skyward, hand over his heart. “He said he won’t talk to no one else but you. He’s waiting upstairs at Nursey’s Inn, second room on the right. Says he’ll be there ’til midnight.”
Ed shakes his head. “Fuckin’ amateurs. I’ll go deal with it. Now get your goddamn ass back on ship watch before I cut one of your balls off,” he threatens. Fang scuttles back into the shadows with a fading “Aye, aye!”
He lingers for a few moments, dawdles in the alley to see if anyone here’s witless enough to try and rob him while he takes a long piss against One-Eyed Annie’s back wall. Then he lets his addled feet carry him to the inn on Bay Street, up the stairs and to the second door on the right.
This could be it, he thinks, standing outside the threshold. There might be an adventure waiting in that room, but more likely there’ll be the point of a blade. May as well find out. His heart beats a little faster, despite his essential lack of interest in the outcome. He knows what to do when faced with a sharp object.
Ed shoves the door open, and the room’s too dim to see clearly at first, but he senses the attacker before he sees them—a silhouette turning to his right, backlit and blank-featured.
He’s got his knife out before they’ve completed the three steps they need to be on him. Aims for the heart, a vicious low thrust, but there’s too much drink in him, and the stranger blocks his blow just in time.
A strong hand squeezes his wrist, twisting it, and the knife goes clattering to the floor.
“Oh, Edward,” the silhouette says, turning to face him. The light from the candlestick on the bedstand behind him catches his features, and Ed’s vision goes blurry with shock.
For a brief soaring moment, all he can think is: I knew it. I fucking knew it. His intuition had been right after all, when he’d first heard the bizarre tale of death and disfiguration that Izzy'd got out of a Barbadian whore making passage to Antigua two months ago, and seen the shape of a fuckery sketched in the blank spaces between those flamboyantly grotesque details. Some part of him had clung to it—that certainty that Stede Bonnet lived—because alive, Stede could be hated, rather than mourned.
He barely even notices Stede kicking the fallen knife under the bed with an unexpected nimbleness that suggests the man’s learned a thing or two about combat lately. Ed’s too busy stepping back, turning, automatically gaining the defensive ground as he grapples for his holster and draws his gun, leveling it square. He may be drunk, but his aim is true.
“It’s Blackbeard,” he snarls, the room coming back into focus. He forces himself to look up, just to prove that he can face this head-on.
Stede looks different. Gone are the lace cuffs and silk brocade waistcoats—he feels an absurd pang of loss at that change. In their place are simple linen and broadcloth, high-quality but well-worn. His skin is ruddy, the complexion of a man who’s spent a good deal of time in the sun and sea wind of late, and his hair is longer, curling loose over his ears and at the nape of his neck. Something about his demeanor is different, too—there’s an ease to his bearing. A quiet certainty in his face where he’d always seemed unsure of himself before.
He says, “Ed, I’m so sorry,” and that makes it worse, because his voice is the one thing that hasn’t changed at all.
“Fuck you.” Ed cocks the hammer. It’s an effective way to punctuate the sentence.
“Won’t you at least hear me out?” Stede says, lifting his hands to show he’s unarmed. Ed doesn’t reply, but he seems to take the silence as permission.
“That night, I—I was going to come with you. But Chauncey found me first. Marched me into the jungle at gunpoint and said—he said quite a lot of things, but one of them was that I’d ruined you. Just like everything else I’d ever touched." He looks away for a beat, swallowing. “And it was terribly foolish of me, but I made the error of believing him.”
He scoffs. “You thought some play-acting pissant with a fancy accent could destroy Blackbeard? I’m a damn sight harder to finish off than that.”
“So I’ve heard,” Stede says, his manner subdued. “You’ve left quite the trail of destruction in your wake. I’ll admit it made you easier to follow after being delayed by the necessity of rescuing my crew and borrowing another ship.”
“Why come at all?” Ed spits. Passive aggression may be all the rage among Stede’s set, but he’ll stick to the regular kind, thanks. “I heard you’d scurried back to Barbados with your tail between your legs. Fancy mansion not to your liking any longer? Your wife’s twat too dry to keep your dick wet?”
That wins him a brief grimace and a disapproving, “That's no way to speak of a lady, Ed.”
But then Stede sighs, regretful. “You’re not the only one I ran away from like a coward, in the night. I couldn’t come with you without facing up to that first. I wanted to be better, to mend something for once, not ruin it.” He swallows, like his mouth’s a little too dry. “But I realized—it’s not only that I wasn’t happy there, it’s that they really were better off without me. Mary has a lover. She paints things—wonderful things. She’s happy. And the children, they’re well. They know I’m not dead, that I didn’t abandon them. This time, when I left, I did it right.”
“By staging your death with a leopard and a pianoforte?” The scorn tastes like acid in his mouth; it feels like Izzy’s tongue has stolen the place of his own.
Stede’s face brightens. “It was quite the fuckery. I’d never have pulled it off without your example, and Mary’s help.” He sobers. “I’d intended to find you before you got word of the matter, but I’m glad you saw through my ruse. Because I realized—I don’t want you to be better off without me.”
“And why do you think a man like me’d be interested in hearing about some rich fuck’s journey of self-discovery?” he snarls, desperate to shore himself up against this tide of confession. It’s hard to mind his footing, with the way they’re tracking and circling one another, the possible path of a bullet stretched between them like bright string.
Stede stills. He takes a deep breath, like he’s steadying himself. “Maybe because I realized I’m in love with you.”
Ed saw the ammunition on a sinking ship explode once—after it had already burnt and gone under the waves. First there was a muffled, rumbling outburst, then a fountain of light, like the sea punching a bright fist at the sky. That’s approximately what happens somewhere in the vicinity of his breastbone. It hurts.
“Do you hear me, Ed? I love you.” Stede’s voice is insistent, a foghorn cutting through the gloom. He shakes his head, trying to clear his ears, but it’s like the sound just keeps going.
He only realizes he’s stumbling backwards, retreating, when the backs of his knees hit the side of the bed and he sits abruptly without meaning to—legs too unsteady to keep him upright, and the gun wavering in his shaking hand.
Stede keeps on coming, until he’s standing right there, close enough to touch, the muzzle mere inches from his belly. Gut-shot’s a bad way to die. The agony can last hours, or days.
Ed forces the words out. “I killed Lucius.”
“No, you didn’t,” Stede says, calm as a windless day. A desperate bolt of relief goes through Ed. If it’s a lie, it’s one he’d very much like to be true—he’d regretted that sin more than most.
Stede explains slowly, like he’s speaking to a madman or a child. “Frenchie fished him out of the water and hid him in the hold. I had a number of secret passages built in, as you may recall. You might have found him if you’d made more of an effort to explore, but from what I understand, you barely left my cabin.” A guilty shadow flickers across his face.
Ed thinks of the weeks in the cabin: the dim warmth of the pillow fort, the whisper of a silk robe around his wrists and ankles, the rank smell of his unwashed body clashing with the lingering scent of Stede’s perfumes. The maddening, oppressive presence of his belongings, haunting Ed at every turn. Inescapable.
Stede collects himself and continues. “Anyway, Frenchie got word to one of my crew when you passed through St. John’s last month. They both jumped ship the day before yesterday, as soon as you came into port. Lucius is currently enjoying an extended reunion with Black Pete, who’s whittled him two new fingers. Quite decorative ones, I must say. He’s still very put out with you, and Ed, it will be up to you to mend that rift yourself. But he’s alive, so you’ll have the opportunity. If you want it.”
He’s shaking his head, balking like a mule. How could he dare hope to succeed? Silk’s too delicate for easy mending, particularly in hands as rough as his own. Every stab of the needle just frays it further.
“I stranded your crew,” he says. “Left them to starve and die.”
“Mercifully, I found them before Mr. Buttons managed to sink those teeth of his into anything meatier than a coconut.” Stede grimaces, a little shudder going through him as if he’s contemplating what might have otherwise occurred. “I rowed them ashore, two by two, like Noah in reverse. They’re fine, though Wee John hasn’t forgotten about the talent show, I’m afraid, and nor will he forgive anytime soon. The rest are coming around, though.”
“I threw away all your books.” It’s the final defense he can muster, and his voice cracks on the last word.
Stede’s eyes are sad, but his voice is very gentle. “I’ll simply have to acquire more. Starting with all the ones I’ve been thinking how much I’d like to read to you.”
Something in him crumbles, then, the last of his fortifications washing away like a sandcastle meeting the tide. Stede’s hand closes on the barrel of the gun, wrenching it away. It goes thumping to the floor—this time nothing explodes—and then he’s disarmed at last, empty-handed.
Ed pitches forward, hull staved in, doubling over like he’s the one who’s been gut-shot. Stede’s there, catching him, holding on tight as the awful howling thing that’s been trying to crawl out of his throat finally breaks free into the air. He can’t breathe, can’t see for the salt stinging his eyes, can’t hear anything but the wretched sounds he’s making. He’d wept in his cabin—in Stede’s cabin—but not like this. This feels more like a hurricane, like something you don’t sail into with the hope of escaping to daylight again.
All through it, Stede holds him close: arms locked around his heaving shoulders, and that beautiful, mannered voice burbling like a spring, low and urgent. “Ed,” he says, “Edward, I’m so sorry, my dear. It’s all going to be all right now; you’re all right, Ed. I came back. I’m here.”
Eventually, the desperate heaving stops; his breath returns to him, along with the better part of his senses—like a ship coming into harbor after a terrible squall, battered but whole. He’s curled up on the bed now, boots and all, with no memory of how he got there. Stede’s there, too, shoulder underneath Ed’s aching head and limbs wrapped around him as if he’s trying to be both pillow and blanket at once.
Ed’s too exhausted to speak or think, and possibly still quite drunk, so he doesn’t try to say anything yet. He just floats: temporarily untethered from time and space, adrift. It’s like lying in the sun on the beach as a boy, the sand soft against his cheek and the sound of the surf pounding through his skull—the world gone loose from its moorings, and him along with it. Stede’s heartbeat is loud and reassuring beneath his ear, and Stede’s hand is stroking through his hair, unaccountably tender.
Soon enough the sniffling and throat-clearing get bloody annoying, and he pulls himself together sufficiently to run the back of a hand across his drippy nose.
“Sorry about all the crying,” he mumbles into the general vicinity of Stede’s shoulder.
“I cry all the time,” Stede reminds him, which is true. He brushes a thumb over Ed’s cheek. “You never made fun of me for it.” Stede pulls an embroidered lawn handkerchief from his pocket. Ed can’t help smiling a little at that—so, the man’s not given up all his fine things after all.
He reaches to take it, but Stede says, “Darling, let me,” and then all he can do is close his eyes and surrender, because has anyone ever called him that and meant it, before?
Ed feels him reach across the bed; he must dip the cloth in the water on the bedside table, because when it returns, it’s cool and damp, soothing on his inflamed skin. Stede wipes away the tear-tracks on his cheeks, the snot streaming from his nose, and patiently cleans the kohl from his eyes and forehead and half-grown beard.
“There you are,” Stede says softly, and Ed opens his eyes to see the cloth smudged black in Stede’s hand, the fond adoration on his face.
And then Stede kisses him—a little clumsy, still unpracticed, but certain and sure.
Ed’s heart is pounding like a drum, loud in the space between their bodies. Kissing Stede the first time, back on that beach, had seemed like something entirely new—shy and tentative in a way he’d never felt even back when he was young and green. This isn’t that, but it also feels new to him: like they’re exploring unfamiliar terrain, side by side, searching for some kind of treasure.
Their lips part, and he exhales. Stede pulls back to survey him, and Ed finds his tongue again. He’s suddenly aware of all the buckles and straps biting uncomfortably into his skin, a week’s worth of sweat and grime trapped under his leathers.
“Look at me, man. I’m a mess,” he protests, although he’s not only talking about hygiene. Stede just smiles at him, gentle, although his eyes are serious.
“I’ve seen you look better, it’s true. But surely that can be remedied. Should I call for a bath?”
Ed can’t really smell himself, what with his nose all stuffy from the tears, but he knows he must stink to high heaven and beyond, so he just nods dumbly.
Stede leans in and brushes a kiss to his forehead. “Back in a jiffy,” he promises, so Ed lets himself slump back onto the pillows, face-down. He’s distantly aware of echoing footsteps and Stede’s low voice in counterpoint to a woman’s, and then a considerable amount of splashing, before everything goes quiet again.
Suddenly Stede’s there, pulling his boots off one after the other like a bloody valet—a little crackle goes through him at that image, one that he’ll have to revisit when he’s sober—and helping him upright. Ed wavers a little once he’s on his feet, but lets himself be guided into the accompanying closet-sized room, where a copper tub stands half-filled with steaming water.
He stands, mute, as Stede starts unfastening buckles and laces on his jacket, undressing him with surprising dexterity for a man who couldn’t tie a goddamned bowline last time Ed was in his company. After Stede pushes the jacket off his shoulders, he reaches for Ed’s hands, one by one, and peels the gloves off so slowly that Ed feels his breath hitch. It feels like a gesture of courtship, almost unbearable in its intimacy. He takes over after that, needing a measure of distance, and finishes the job himself, stripping away the sweat-clammy shirt and shucking off his trousers.
Ed steps into the bath and lowers himself into the hot, scented water, closing his eyes, and the low groan he makes when he settles reverberates around the close walls. He’s newly aware of every aching bone in his body, but the water feels good. It eases the part of himself that’s still sorrowing, sobering him up and leaving him steadier with every passing minute.
He opens his eyes after a while to find Stede watching him. Stede’s cheeks are flushed, and his gaze skitters from one place to the next like a flock of nervous seabirds. But then he settles, and meets Ed’s eyes, and then he just looks: frank and open. Surveying Ed’s tired, scarred body like it’s the most fascinating sight in the world. The water doesn’t hide much—there’s perfumed oil in it, something pleasantly flowery, but no bubbles. Ed waits, and lets him look his fill.
“Calico Jack asked if you— if I— if the two of us were, er, buggering,” Stede says abruptly, getting the last word out with some difficulty. Ed raises a mental finger in the general direction of Jack’s waterlogged corpse; that bastard never could resist an opportunity to stir up trouble.
“What did you tell him?” Ed asks. He can’t help it, he’s desperately curious to know the answer.
Stede gives an odd little shrug, and then as if he’s made a decision of some kind, he sits, abruptly, and settles cross-legged on the floorboards next to the tub.
“I said we weren’t. But not that I wanted to. I’m not sure if I quite understood what I wanted, at least in those terms. Not then. But I wanted you anyway.” He pauses, then goes on, a little quieter. “I’m afraid I’m rather— that is to say, I’m quite without experience in such matters.”
Ed feels an overwhelming urge to say something helpful and reassuring, only he can’t figure out what exactly that thing might be. So he just says, instead, “It’s not that complicated, mate. Or it doesn’t have to be, anyway. Buggering’s good fun if you take your time with it, but so’s plenty of other things. Kissing. Or just—touching that feels good. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” Although he hopes, quite fervently, that Stede wants to do things. Quite a lot of things, in fact.
“May I?” Stede asks, lifting a hand, and Ed nods, not quite sure what he’s saying yes to—it seems unlikely Stede will simply reach in and grab hold of his cock where it’s bobbing in the bathwater, but then this is Stede, after all. Ed’s witnessed him do any number of deeply reckless and improbable things.
Whatever he’s been expecting, though, it’s not the brush of fingertips along his forearm as Stede begins to trace the lines of his tattoos, careful and intent, like he’s making a study of the subject. The way Lucius does, when he’s drawing someone—Ed’s throat tightens again with relief and shame.
The moment stretches on for a minor eternity: Stede slowly mapping out the serpent and the dagger, the scattered stars and crosses, then the mermaid on his bicep and the inked lines around his shoulder, before bravely venturing on to the unexplored territory of his chest. Ed feels his nipples tighten as Stede’s fingers drift into the sparse patch of graying hair. He leans back, head lolling against the tub’s rim, and reaches up to press a dripping hand to Stede’s jaw, and when Stede turns his head to kiss his palm it’s like St. Elmo’s fire going through his veins. All of the hair on his arms stands straight, and suddenly he doesn’t feel particularly tired any more, or even that drunk. At least not the kind of drunk you get on cheap foul rum.
“Reckon you could join me in here,” Ed offers, even though the tub’s really not big enough for two. He’s feeling both too-hot and rather shivery, all at once.
“I’ve had my bath already, I’m afraid,” Stede replies, “and I think the water’s getting cold.” He pauses, takes a slow breath. “But I believe the bed’s quite comfortable. If you’d like to join me there.” His expression is something extraordinary: eagerness, and nerves, and yes, desire, written plainly across those genial features. It would be funny as fuck if it weren’t also a crossbow bolt fired straight through Ed’s heart.
Ed doesn’t need an engraved invitation on thick fancy paper, not for this. He stands, the water streaming off his body, and Stede goes delightfully pink, which is about the point when Ed starts to realize just how much fun he’s going to have flustering this man. He’s going to make a sport of it, he thinks. Give himself performance targets and award bonuses for exceeding them.
Stede clears his throat and reaches for a linen towel folded over the door handle, handing it to Ed, his blush deepening at the brush of their fingers.
“I’ll wait—in there,” Stede says, stepping back through the door to the bedroom. Ed doesn’t waste time, he just gives himself a perfunctory toweling-off and follows.
Stede’s standing by the bed, looking like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. Ed figures that’s one problem he can solve. He approaches slowly, until Stede’s within reach, and then he sets a hand to the laces at Stede’s collar, slowly drawing them open.
“You helped undress me,” Ed tells him. “Fair’s fair.”
Stede nods and stammers something incoherent, but when Ed reaches for the hem of his shirt and tugs it out of his trousers, he sighs with something that sounds more like relief than surrender, slumping slightly, like he’s ice cream going soft in the sunshine. It’s beautiful to watch.
Ed pulls the shirt off and reacquaints himself with the broad expanse of Stede’s chest, all the more appealing now that he’s not pallid with fever and inconveniently perforated—though to tell the truth, Ed hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the man even then. He’s a little leaner than Ed remembers, testament to a few months of harder living, but still soft in the belly, and pale enough that his flush has stained him from his cheeks down to his tits.
Stede bites his lip and raises his open hands, a mirror of the gesture he’d made a short eternity ago as Ed had fumbled for his gun. Now, Ed fumbles with the buttons of Stede’s breeches, an altogether more enjoyable pursuit. He gets them open and Stede pitches in, shoving them down and off, kicking his feet free of his shoes, and then they’re finally both bare. He’s got lovely calves—Ed had admired them displayed in fine white stockings, but he likes them even better this way, and he thinks he’ll like them best of all when they’re locked tight around the backs of his thighs. But not just yet.
“Kiss me,” Ed says, somewhere between an order and a plea, and Stede complies.
His eyes are wide, pupils dark and huge in the dimness, but they flutter closed when their lips meet, and he makes a soft sweet sound that sends heat ricocheting through Ed’s body all the way down to his toes. He’s aroused, now, the receding tide of the rum no barrier against this: the proximate warmth of Stede’s body and the faint smell of that flowery soap rising from his skin.
Stede lifts a hand to cup the side of his face, stroking his short beard, and Ed opens his mouth so the kiss can deepen, tongues and teeth slowly coming into play. Ed seizes the opportunity to finally get his hands on Stede, roving over his chest and down his flanks, murmuring approval when Stede finally, finally touches him back—a little tentative at first, but then more confidently, pulling Ed close and grabbing his ass in a manner that makes it plain he’s been wanting to get a handful of that for some time.
He returns the favor—Stede’s arse is just lovely, a soft pillowy expanse with some real muscle beneath—and lets his mouth rove further for good measure, kissing Stede’s jaw and his neck, nipping carefully at the point where it meets his shoulder. He feels Stede’s cock brush against his hip, hardening like his own, and a thrill of victory surges through him at the evidence of Stede’s desire. He crowds closer, nudging Stede backwards step by step until he hits the bed and sits down on it.
Ed reaches for him, takes his face in both hands, and drinks in the sight of him open and yearning. It leaves him breathless.
“You came back,” he says, his voice rough and low, as tattered as his flag.
“I missed you,” Stede whispers. “Oh Ed, I missed you so much,” and before the last word’s even out of his mouth, Ed goes to his knees.
He doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling, but he knows what to do with a ready cock in his face. And it’s a lovely cock: well-sized, but not inconveniently so, and flushed pink (it’s always amused him just how colorful some white people are in their nether parts) at the tip where the foreskin is starting to draw back. Ed hasn’t got one of those, in keeping with his mum’s people’s way, but he’s generally found them rather fun to play with.
Ed shifts, squatting on his heels for a more convenient angle and to take the weight off his bad knee, not willing to pause the action to fetch a pillow. He spreads his palms over Stede’s trembling thighs to fix him in place and leans in, noting the way Stede’s cock twitches and swells at the touch of his breath.
Apparently Stede’s still catching up with the program here, because he says “Oh,” in a high-pitched breathy sort of voice, like he’s just figured out what Ed plans to do.
And there it is, at last. That upswell of delight that’s been missing when he plots an ambush and readies his men for a forced boarding. He wants to learn every inch of Stede’s body the way he studies a distant target through the spyglass, wants to seize hold of him and wreck him with pleasure.
He starts out simple, wraps a hand around the shaft and takes just the head in his mouth, but the way Stede reacts—an explosive exhalation, limbs all aflutter—you’d think he’d swallowed him right down like a whale drinking its catch. Ed puts his lips and tongue to good use: suckling and teasing, pushing back the foreskin and running his tongue along the leaking slit, savoring the little pearling beads of fluid there. But he’s always preferred a hands-on approach when it comes to demonstrating the practical skills of seamanship. So he makes sure to get his fingers slick with the spit he’s drooling, and sets them to work too—one hand stroking and gripping the base of Stede’s cock while the other reaches back to play with his balls a little, a finger straying behind them to experiment with some strategically applied pressure. That wins him a gratifying gasp.
Ed pulls off after a minute or so to offer some advice: “Touch me.”
Stede fumbles, but he gets the hang of it before long—fingers woven through Ed’s loose hair, kneading and clenching, sending little fizzy shocks of pleasure through his scalp—although once or twice he pulls so enthusiastically that Ed almost winces from the sting. Ed had figured, thanks to those cryptic bath-side allusions, that Stede’s never had his dick in another man’s mouth before, but now he’s starting to get the impression that this might just be the first time he’s had his dick in anyone’s mouth at all. That makes him a little sorry, for Stede’s sake, but also kindles a fierce possessive thrill at the thought of getting to be the first one to do this for him.
Stede turns out to be loud, which is an absolute fucking delight. Ed catalogs every whimper and gasp and moan, and makes a point of trying to win repeats of his favorites. He draws off now and then to give himself a break, nuzzling the soft skin at the join of Stede’s thigh and breathing in the heady scent of him there: skin and sweat and musk. Then he takes him in as deep as he can go, the blunt weight of him heavy on Ed’s tongue, down until his nose is brushing against the tickle of hair, and he works his throat, gulping and swallowing.
“Oh, Christ,” Stede groans. His thighs tense, taut like rope beneath Ed’s palms. In Ed’s experience it’s generally a good sign when a man’s taking the name of the Lord in vain in bed, so he keeps it going, even though his jaw is starting to twinge and his head’s gone a bit muzzy for lack of air. His own cock is stiffer than hardtack, aching between his legs, but he does his best to tune it out, resisting the temptation to reach down and take himself in hand.
Stede babbles a bit more—just fragments and pleas, interspersed with occasional invocations of Ed or God or both. Ed finally takes pity on him, stops holding him down and lets him thrust freely, and then he’s reduced to mere incoherent syllables as he fucks into Ed’s mouth.
He doesn’t realize it’s a warning sign when Stede’s whimpers fade to near-silence, so it’s a bit of a surprise when all of a sudden his mouth is flooded with the salt-bitter explosion of come. He just barely manages to avoid choking or coughing, but he doesn’t really mind. He’s only sorry to have missed the signals, the chance to anticipate and savor it more fully. Also, he’s going to have to remember to explain that the polite thing to do is warn a man before you come down his throat.
He drags himself up and flops down on the bed next to Stede, who’s red-faced and panting and beautiful, eyes closed and mouth open, still coming down from it. Ed wants to kiss him more than anything, so he does, astonished that it’s all suddenly this simple. Stede startles, his eyes opening, and Ed belatedly considers that he’s probably not used to encountering his spunk on another man’s lips. But before he can draw back, Stede softens, aglow like a lantern, and pulls him in closer.
When their bodies are flush against one another Stede gasps, his eyes widening, and Ed realizes that his cock’s pressed right against the softness of Stede’s lower belly, just about where you’d run a man through if you didn’t really want to kill him. He’s about to shift away—he can be patient, and he knows how to bloody well get himself off if Stede’s not ready for that just yet. But Stede just gives him a delighted sweet smile.
“Oh, Ed,” he says, his face bright with wonder, and then he reaches between them and takes Ed in hand.
Ed’s holding his breath, he realizes, and it comes out in a gasp as Stede touches him, fingers skimming over his cock like he’s taking the lay of the land before closing around him more assuredly and starting to jerk him off.
The first time he’d touched Stede’s hands, he’d marveled at the softness of his palms—like silk, he’d thought. Now, Ed can feel all the places where calluses have begun to form, the familiar traces that oar and rope have left on the underside of each knuckle, over the ball of the hand. Brocade, he thinks, desperately, and then he doesn’t think any more; he just feels.
It’s absurdly simple, it’s just Stede’s hand moving on his cock, dry but for the sweat and the lingering damp of the bath and the come he’s already leaking, so there’s no logical reason for it to feel this good. He’s fucked a lot of men, and a fair number of women too, but he’s never felt this—this radiance, like every part of his body’s been lit up from the inside out, everything shining. Light on the water after a storm. Stede’s a little clumsy, but that makes it all the sweeter, and all the while through it he’s kissing Ed’s neck and jaw and ear, murmuring softly that he’s beautiful, that he’s beloved.
Ed doesn’t last more than a minute or so before he’s crying out and arching up into Stede’s grasp, undone, gasping and groaning as the molten joy surges through him and he comes all over his belly and Stede’s wrist.
“Oh,” Stede says reverently in the silence after, “oh, Ed, how wonderful,” and it’s all Ed can do not to start weeping again.
Still, he pulls himself together, props himself up on an elbow so he can get a good look at Stede’s face: eyes shining in the last glimmer of the guttering candle. A fine thing, the finest that’s ever fallen into his inked and blood-stained hands. He’ll keep this one, if he can. He reaches over and strokes Stede’s cheek, presses a thumb to his kiss-swollen lips.
“Pink’s a nice color on you,” Ed says, a little hoarse, and Stede flushes again.
“I suppose I must strike you as a blushing innocent,” he says, rueful.
“No,” says Ed, and then, contradicting himself, “And I like it. It’s gonna be a fuckin’ ball, showing you the ropes.”
Stede laughs at that, relieved and amused, and then he wraps both arms around Ed and pulls him close, kissing him like he’s still discovering all the different ways their mouths can fit together.
He falls asleep with Stede curled against him, snoring softly—Ed’s back nestled into the warm wide barrel of his chest, and Stede’s arm slung around his middle, their fingers entwined over the cratered scars at his hip.
***
Ed wakes with the creeping sensation that someone’s watching him, a wary instinct that’s immediately subsumed in a rush of tenderness when he opens his eyes to meet Stede’s. Morning sunlight shines through the window, setting Stede’s tousled curls alight, and he looks more content than Ed’s ever seen him—yawning and smiling across the pillow. It's a lovely sight to wake to.
Unfortunately, his head aches like it’s been smacked with an oar and he’s got to piss so badly his balls hurt. He rolls out of bed with a groan and makes haste for the chamberpot before he bursts.
When he trudges back to bed, Stede’s sitting up, the sheets falling to his waist. He looks deliciously rumpled, hair sticking up every which way, and thoroughly ravished—there’s a purpling mark sucked into his collarbone that Ed doesn’t even remember putting there. He’s still smiling, like he hasn’t thought better of his taste in ill-mannered bedmates, thank God.
Ed’s temporarily struck mute. For all Stede’s blushing inexperience last night, the shoe’s on the other foot now. He’s used to a quick fuck followed by an equally quick parting of ways—not sharing a bed all night long, cuddled close, or waking up and having to make conversation the next day. It’s unfamiliar, but it’s also exquisite.
“Good morning,” Stede says, proving that the manners of a gentleman apparently apply even when you’re gazing up at a naked pirate who’s recently sucked your cock. “I was thinking of calling for some tea.” Ed’s abused stomach gurgles, and Stede’s smile widens. “You still take it with seven sugars, correct?”
“And a dollop of milk,” Ed says, before his hungover brain catches up with the rest of him. “Oh, fuck me. I’ve got to get back to the ship, mate. Satan himself only knows what those fuckers have got up to by now.” He glances at the floor, unable to remember where exactly his clothes went.
“Ah. Funny you should mention that,” Stede says, looking rather shifty all of a sudden. “I believe you’ll find the matter can wait until after we’ve had a proper breakfast.”
The rusty gears in Ed’s head creak into motion, and he halts. “You’re the one who sent Fang, last night.” His eyes narrow. “Did you feed him that ridiculous story about hijacking a ship?”
“Well, yes,” Stede admits. “You see, we’ve staged a polite little mutiny.”
Ed blinks at him, feeling like a bird that’s flown into a windowpane, and Stede hastens to explain, looking simultaneously sheepish and quite delighted with himself. “Jim seized control of the Revenge last night with the help of my crew, although they’re all probably trying to persuade Oluwande to captain in my absence. He’s much less likely to stab a subordinate. We arranged it all weeks ago, via seagull messages—Mr. Buttons is truly a man of remarkable talents—so we just had to wait for the right opportunity.”
Ed feels rather dizzy, and he’s not sure he can keep blaming the rum. “If your crew have been taking over the Revenge, then what the fuck are you doing here? Aren’t you afraid they’ll just sail off without you?”
“I’ve continued to put my faith in honor among thieves,” Stede tells him. “Besides, I had my own part to play in the caper! It was Lucius who suggested that I endeavor to keep you occupied during the heist.” He blushes under Ed’s surly glare, but he looks smug. “It took me a day and a half to track you down,” he adds. “Do you know how many taverns there are in this town? Of course you chose the smelliest.”
“You buggering shitbird, you stole my ship?” Ed’s not sure whether to punch him or kiss him or shove him flat against the mattress and jerk him off until he screams. All of the above, maybe.
“You stole my ship,” Stede reminds him. “It’s hardly a breach of pirate etiquette to steal it back. I made them promise not to kill Izzy, although I imagine he’s tied up in a rather uncomfortable position right now.” He pauses. “Also we haven’t, yet. Buggered. Although I’m rather looking forward to trying that one next.”
“What makes you think you’ll get the chance?” Ed folds his arms, scowling.
“Well, I haven’t told you my side of the bargain.”
“Go on, then,” Ed says, still inclined to sulk a little.
Stede glances down at his hands in his lap, and then up again, meeting Ed’s eyes. “I’m no longer a gentleman. And I’m a poor excuse for a pirate captain, at least when I’m trying to do it alone.” He fiddles with the sheet where it’s puddled around his midsection. “Which means the position of co-captain is still open. Conditional upon an apology to Lucius and the crew, of course. I’ll leave it up to you to figure that out.”
Ed just stares at him. He doesn't think he could move if he tried. “And if I don’t feel like apologizing?” he manages to croak.
“Then I hand the ship over to Olu, and we sail under a flag of truce to the port of your choice. I left almost everything to Mary and the children, but I still have enough gold to buy our passage to China. Unless you’ve come up with a more promising destination. Wherever it is…I hope you’ll let me come too.”
Something funny’s happening in Ed’s chest. For a long moment it’s like he’s underwater, out of air, and then he breaks the surface, lungs aching as he pulls in a rough breath.
“You don’t have to decide right away,” Stede adds, watching him carefully, and Ed realizes just how anxious the set of his shoulders has become—that he’s worried Ed might say no. The absurdity of it makes him chuckle, and just like that, he can breathe and move and speak again.
“You’re the maddest fucker I’ve ever met,” he says, wonderingly. He realizes he’s grinning like a fool; sees the answering smile creep over Stede’s face like sunrise on the ocean. Ed climbs back onto the bed and crawls over until he’s sitting astride Stede’s lap, Stede’s thighs warm against his arse through the worn sheets.
“Save your gold, sweetheart,” he tells Stede. “You’ll need it for the books.”