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Stede is jealous.
He shouldn’t be, by all rights. He shouldn’t care. He should, really, be pleased by Jack’s arrival: another seasoned pirate to learn from! A friend of Ed’s! The skills and expertise he represents would surely be an excellent opportunity for one to study.
If one wanted to study the art of being an unbelievable fucking tosser, one couldn’t ask for a better teacher.
Stede flops down on his settee with an exasperated sigh. He doesn’t want to be around Jack. Frankly he doesn’t really even want to be around Ed right now because this - this absolute -
Well, to borrow a word from Izzy’s redoubtable vocabulary - this absolute twat of a pirate has turned Ed into some sort of posturing, drunken, immature zombie.
So now he’s hiding in his cabin. On his own ship. Away from the person who, if he’s honest? He wants to spend all his time around.
Even when he’s acting like some bizarre caricature of himself.
“I could kick Jack off,” he says aloud. Just for the hell of it. Not that anyone would agree with his plan. They’re all mesmerized by Jack and Ed, Ed and Jack, the wonder twins, the perfect piratical partners - but then everyone would know the truth.
Stede’s petty. And jealous. And small.
“Shit,” he moans and throws his arm across his face.
He lays there, feeling sorry for himself, for what feels like hours but maybe is only minutes. The sun sinks below the horizon and the waves lap placidly against the hull of the ship. The sounds of evening drift into the cabin: dinner, and some music, and some heavy footfalls and laughter and laughter and more laughter.
No one comes looking for him. No one misses him at all, it seems.
In fact it’s not until all the sounds stop that Stede feels a prickle at the back of his neck, and flings himself up off the settee, and decides to go take charge. Something is wrong. Maybe they need him.
Maybe they don’t.
He leaves the cabin anyway.
No one notices him, and that’s. Well. That’s fine. The scene is neatly laid before him like some grotesque tableau: Buttons is keening. The crew is silent. And Jack is talking, wheedling, gesticulating. Ed is quiet, his arms folded, a sentry in the shadows. He lets Stede walk right past him.
Buttons holds a broken little body in his hands.
And Jack is still talking, some absolute rot undoubtedly, but Stede’s jealousy and hurt are pushed down deep at the sight of the limp white neck and all he feels is anger, white hot, flaring up from his belly and into his throat, bilious, threatening to choke him. The voice that breaks from his white lips doesn’t sound like his own, sounds like what he imagines a pirate captain would sound like. Somehow.
“Get off my ship.”
It feels so good. It feels so strange.
“Now,” he adds, for the pure pleasure of hearing that voice coming from some deep part of himself.
Jack splutters, and dissembles, and sulks and then finally he goes to the rails, tosses his meager belongings down into the dinghy. And then he turns to Ed, and Ed, bodily, turns to Jack as if a thread between the two men is tugged taught and Ed can’t refuse, resist.
“Blackie? I saved your life, man.”
Stede can’t move. He says something. He doesn’t know what. It sounds like please. It sounds like a breaking heart.
Ed looks at Stede. His eyes are so dark and wide in his face, his beautiful haunted face. His eyes are empty, or maybe they’re full; there are words in his eyes that Stede doesn’t understand.
“This is who I am. Can you see me now? You were always gonna realize what I am.”
I’ve always seen you, he wants to say. Since I opened my eyes and you were there, dark and brooding and soft and real, so real, so fucking real the realest thing Stede has ever known -
“Take care, mate.”
To his relief, no one else goes with Jack and Ed.
To his crushing disbelief, Ed hops over the side of the ship.
He’s gone.
He’s gone.
How can he be gone? He was right there. He was just right there.
Maybe Stede staggers. Maybe strong, gentle hands catch his elbows, his waist. Maybe someone is speaking low in his ear. Maybe someone helps him to his bunk, spreads a blanket over his lap, maybe someone softly closes the door.
Nothing is real to Stede anymore. Nothing is happening. Everything is happening.
Where will they go? It’s dark. It’s so dark, it’s so late, where can they go at this hour?
Stede throws himself out of the bunk, nearly falls, banging his knees and his hands and not caring, not feeling it. He hitches himself into the deep lip of the windowsill.
Maybe the crew decides he needs looking after. Maybe it’s just Olu being the reliable man Stede knows him to be. But Stede’s been at the window for minutes, or hours, or years when the door opens again and Olu slips inside.
“Reckon I can stay with you tonight, Captain?”
Stede makes a noncommittal noise, waves loosely at the settee, fumbles in the dark for his spyglass. He wraps the fuchsia robe tight about himself like armor, like a mother’s arms. Olu stands for a long moment, sighs, and sits softly on the worn velvet cushions. “Goodnight, Captain.”
Stede remains, tense and alert, on the windowsill. He can’t move. A gargoyle, cursed to watch.
The dinghy makes it to shore, anyway. He sees the two of them stand, tipping erratically, and then spill over the side. They’re probably laughing. He can’t hear it but he can imagine it: Jack’s braying guffaw. Ed’s own manic, loud, answering cackle. Not the quiet giggle Stede knows. Not the gentle rumble from his chest.
The laughter that excitement causes in Ed. The sound that Stede can’t draw from him, apparently. He did once. When they were a lighthouse, together.
But he’s not exciting. And he’s not unpredictable. And he’s not rugged or handsome or an immoderate drinker. He’s not anything that Jack is. Not anything that Ed, apparently, thinks of himself as.
The two men on the beach collapse in the sand. A bottle glitters in the moonlight. How close together are they sitting? Are Ed’s legs thrown over Jack’s lap? Does Ed lean into him? How close? Is there any space left between them at all? Was there ever any space for Stede?
There must have been. He remembers Ed’s hands on his clothes. He remembers the slide of the sword through Ed’s gut, resistance and then a glide of silk, pulling Ed’s warm body against his own. The touch of the red silk square in Stede’s fingers, starting to catch on the calluses he’s growing. Like a real pirate would have. The touch of Ed’s beard under his hand, so soft, so shockingly soft, how can it be so soft? What other parts of him are soft?
The two bodies are closer and closer until they’re just one dark blob.
The night passes. Or it doesn’t. He’s frozen in himself, the moon arches overhead or it doesn’t and it slowly melts into the sun. Why not? Why wouldn’t the sky go all fucked? Everything else is fucked. Nothing is the way it should be. So why not?
Maybe he is talking to himself.
Eventually one of them disentangles themselves, staggers to the water, stumbling over wet stones at the edge of the land. He fumbles with his leathers. He’s facing the ship, he’s probably relieving himself, Stede’s face flushes with the knowledge that Ed is exposed and the only thing between them is the water and the graying light of dawn.
And fucking Jack. Can’t forget about him.
Ed adjusts himself, and he stretches his arms out wide and falls back, lets the beach catch him. He is gazing up at the fading stars, maybe. Or at nothing. Stede worries he will vomit and choke on it, drowning in a puddle of sick like a neglected dog. But then eventually Ed must fall asleep, rolls over, face down in the powdery white sand.
Olu doesn’t sleep so much as toss and turn and mumble platitudes and well-meaning advice to Stede at semi-regular intervals through the unending night but his voice grows more and more distant, more and more resentful, tired and then sullen and then gentle.
All of a sudden it’s as bright as if the sun is fully up but that can’t possibly be true. Ed’s face-down in the sand still but eventually his head lifts up, slowly, achingly. He yells something to Jack who is somewhere, who cares. Sadly Jack wanders back into view, unfortunately still breathing. The two slump below a palm. Jack hands over a bottle, gesturing, the amber liquid sloshing in the light. Stede is amazed there’s anything left. But Jack’s probably always got a bottle handy.
“Ugh. They’re already drinking.” He purses his lips. His voice is sharp and disapproving. “And he’s got sand all through his beard.”
Olu says what he’s been saying since he came in to find Stede at his perch: “You gotta take your mind off them for a bit.”
“They’re the furthest thing from my mind,” he says absently. He adjusts the spyglass. He’ll have a ring, a bruise, around his eye. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Who could possibly think him more ridiculous-looking than he already is? Always is?
“Do you think he’s better looking than me?” And there, it’s out there now, floating in the air like a mist you can’t sail through. Or you can, but you shouldn’t.
Olu makes a noncommittal noise.
“He’s got nice hair,” Stede continues, twisting the knife further. He does. Wavy and soft brown, like ash or the wood of a ship’s deck. Darker than Stede’s. Different from Stede’s.
“You’ve got nice hair,” Olu offers.
Stede doesn’t hear him. “But his mustache is weird.” It is, right? It’s weird? Like some ridiculous cowboy. Some charlatan selling snake oil at a market stall. Like a villain in a children’s story.
The door opens. “Hello,” someone says brightly. The returned greeting from Olu is full of the night, sleepy, defeated. “Don’t you look awful.” It’s not a question but a simple statement of fact. And maybe it’s a fact about Olu. But maybe it’s a fact about Stede.
“I slept here last night,” Olu replies, stressing the word slept generously.
“Mmm.” The banter goes on behind him. It’s meaningless noise, like the cry of gulls or the moan of the wind through the sails. Just background. Barely a distraction.“Has this been going on all night?”
“All night. No breaks.”
Look at Jack eating seaweed, Stede thinks. What an idiot. He laughs but there’s no humor in it. “That won’t mix well with the booze, mark my words.”
He’s an atrocious dancer.
Someone’s feet, quiet and sure, approach him. Someone lifts himself up beside Stede with a grunt.
“Morning, Captain.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Mmm,” he says again, and some part of Stede registers that it’s Lucius. A Lucius-shaped body presses against his knees. The voice that’s probably Lucius says something else.
“I can’t hear you,” Stede admonishes, and then soft but strong hands are around the spyglass, and they’re wrestling it out of Stede’s white knuckles. “No. No!”
The glass is gone so Stede curls his hands around his eyes, a rictus from holding the bloody telescope so long that maybe his hands are permanently like this now, two claws, good for nothing but watching, waiting, hoping, hurting. Those soft hands, no calluses, the strange smooth drag of the wooden finger - they hold Stede’s hands, they’re warm, they’re strong.
“Long night?” Lucius says, his eyes full of something soft.
“I don’t know,” he hears the words drop from his mouth but they don’t mean anything, anything at all. Or everything. Because he doesn’t know, nothing makes sense, this isn’t how today was meant to go. This isn’t how their life is meant to go.
“All right,” Lucius replies, easily, voice gentle. “And do we think this is more of a spat or a rupture with Blackbeard?”
A heavy thud as his head hits the windowpane. “I think it’s done.” And Lucius is soothing him, reassuring him, rubbing his knee and patting it, and Stede knows he’s being taken care of, being looked after. It’s a strange feeling. It feels warm. It feels like what a family feels like.
But he wants it from Ed. Only from Ed.
Apparently Ed never cared.
That can’t be true.
It must be true.
But the care from Olu, the care from Lucius - they care for him. He needs them. They need him too.
He has to be the captain they need. That’s his job. That’s his purpose now. He can do it. He has to do it. He’s got to do it. And when Lucius comes back, he’s weak and he’s hollow inside but his face has rearranged itself into something like a normal face, instead of the soul-crushing agony inside of his chest.
“Lucius,” he says, “will you help me get dressed, please?”
***
He rallies the crew, he gives a pep talk, he offers condolences for Karl. It’s what they expect, it’s what he has to give. They’ll be casting off soon. Four of the crew are at the wheel, hauling up the anchor. Maybe Ed’s watching. Olu will not return the spyglass, so Stede has no choice but to focus on the crew. He tells them about Blackbeard leaving. They’re hurt. Ed means something to all of them, not just Stede. And he’s selfish but he’s willing to share with these people, this family. So it hurts a little less, to know they’ll miss him too. Even if he was never real. Even if this was all some feverish interlude from his life.
“Sometimes sea captains…drift apart.”
He’s brave for as long as he can manage and then he retreats back to the cabin, collapses face-down on his bunk, listens to the men command the ship and take care of him, take him away from this awful nightmare that won’t end even in the daylight.
There’s renewed chatter on deck. They’re as glad as Stede is to be getting out of here, to be leaving this miserable cove, to put Blackbeard behind them all.
Stede feels like he should cry, now. He could do it. He could allow himself the luxury of a long, vicious sob right here in this bunk and no one would know. But his eyes are dry, even though his throat’s thick. If he cries it will all come out, all those feelings, all that - whatever it is that he feels for Ed - it will be spent on his satin sheets and then what will be left?
Because he can’t leave Ed. He will carry him forever inside of him, if he has to, if he isn’t standing beside him. He can’t let it all out. Selfish, and greedy, and childish. That’s what he is. But he’s going to keep all of Ed he can.
The door of the cabin opens, and closes. Who cares. Doesn’t matter. They’ve all seen him at his worst already. They’ve seen him humiliated, abandoned, dumped. How could this be worse?
“Mate,” says an impossible voice. Stede jerks off the bed as if stung by a thousand wasps. With a gasp, he pushes himself up to his knees, stares wide-eyed at the person who cannot possibly be standing, dripping sea water, on his fine Persian carpets.
“You came back,” he says softly, his voice hitching, and damn it that is not at all what he means to say. He means to say “how dare you,” or “fuck off”, or “go away”, or “you made your choice”. He means to say, “get off my ship”. He means to say “Ed.” He means to say “I love you”.
“Never left,” Ed replies with a crooked smile. And he winks, and it’s kind of half-hearted, but it’s for Stede and Stede’s stomach clenches.
Stede starts a little, makes a little strangled noise, wanting to go to him but suddenly afraid to move, afraid to break the spell that has Ed standing here, squarely, in his cabin.
“Can I borrow some clothes?” Ed asks, holding his arms wide, gesturing to himself. “I’m kind of…wet.”
“Oh,” Stede swallows. “Of course. I’m sorry. Take whatever you like.”
As if Ed hasn’t already taken all of him.
He manages to get his feet under him, stands up, wobbling a little. The ship is underway. He doesn’t fall, thank merciful Christ, he couldn’t bear to fall in front of Ed.
It gets worse, though, because Ed does not - like a sensible person, like a person with an ounce of pity for Stede’s bruised heart - retreat to the auxiliary wardrobe to leaf through the clothing. Instead he strips off his leathers right there, dropping them in a mushy black pile on the fine carpet. He pulls off his boots, one at a time, and wriggles out of the leather breeches clinging to his thighs. And Stede thanks God again that he stood up, because from his vantage point Ed is shielded by the low back of the settee.
Barely. Stede can see the cluster of scars on the left side of his stomach, the dip of his hip bones, the fleshy swell of his flanks.
Stede blushes, looks at the floor. He hears Ed pad to the bookshelf, hears the door open, sweet Christ, and when he dares to look up Ed is gone, rummaging through Stede’s wardrobe. Stede exhales like he’s taken a punch to the gut. Ed is faster than he thought someone with a bum knee could be, and he comes back out, clad in only soft satin breeches in a warm wine-red, fuck it looks so good against his dark skin, and he’s got a balled-up shirt in his hands.
“I’m sore as shit,” Ed says.
“Yes,” Stede manages. “Probably from sleeping on a beach.”
Ed smiles at the venom in Stede’s voice. “Probably."
And, frustratingly, Stede feels himself softening. “You’re too old to sleep on a beach.”
“That’s the fuckin’ truth,” Ed laughs. A soft laugh. A real laugh. From Edward, not Blackbeard. “My back is screaming at me. My knee ain’t much happier.”
“Would you like,” Stede begins, but his mouth goes dry. He swallows. “Would you like me to give you, ah, a massage?”
Ed stares at him.
“Just - you know,” Stede says hurriedly. “So your muscles don't seize up. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt, up on deck. In front of the crew. If you’re - if you’re staying.”
“Right,” Ed says slowly. “And I’m staying, so. So er - yeah. That’d be cool.”
“Great,” Stede says.
“Great,” Ed echoes. “Um. The couch?”
“I think,” Stede says, and swallows again. “The floor, erm. Would be better. Would let me - let me reach more.”
“All right.” Ed’s still staring at him, as if he’s never seen him before, and then he slowly lowers himself to a dry patch of carpet. He balls the shirt up and tucks it under his head. He looks tense, laying there, his bronze skin still damp from the sea.
Stede kneels beside him, cautious, and then he rests the palm of his hand lightly on the center of Ed’s back, between his shoulder blades, covering the tattoo there. Ed flinches a little but Stede can feel some of the tension leave his shoulders.
Stede used to do this for the children, especially Alma, when she had growing pains. No one had ever done it for him, when he had growing pains, but he remembers Alma’s little body relaxing under his hands, trusting, growing sleepy.
He never touched Mary like this.
He’s never touched anyone quite like this .
At first his hands are cautious, feather-light, until Ed says “Mate, that tickles,”; then he presses in harder, and Ed hisses as Stede digs his fingers deep into a knot below his scapula. His hands slip down Ed’s toffee-colored skin, sensitive fingers seeking out those tight spots, those places where his body holds stiff. And Ed groans, softens, under his hands.
It’s making Stede a little dizzy, actually.
“Can I -” he begins, and then without really asking, he straddles Ed’s hips, bracing his knees on either side of Ed’s thighs, trying to hold his weight off of him. He smooths his hands down the small of his back, hesitating before the swell of his hips, then drags them back up, up, to the tender skin of Ed’s neck. His muscles feel like ropes under Stede’s palms. He works his fingers into the cords and knots, and Ed grunts, and then he says “Fuck, Stede,” in a voice Stede has never heard before.
“I’m sorry,” Stede says automatically, freezing. “Did I hurt you?”
“N-no,” Ed rasps. “No, shit, it feels amazing, mate. Where’d you learn to do this?”
“Self taught,” Stede says cheekily, and is rewarded with a husky laugh that melts into a moan as Stede moves his hands higher, scratching lightly against Ed’s scalp, damp strands of Ed’s hair curling around his fingers. And maybe he pulls, just a little bit. Ed wriggles underneath him, the satin of their breeches sliding easily together.
And Stede may have not thought this through. Because now he’s sitting on Ed’s ass, and he’s achingly hard, and there’s no way he’s going to be able to hide it if Ed keeps squirming like that.
“Stay still,” Stede murmurs, disentangling his fingers from Ed’s long hair and running his hands down Ed’s back, strong and insistent, pushing him firmly into the floor. He hesitates a little when he reaches the waistband of the breeches, but he can’t help it.
He’s always been greedy.
Stede lets his hands roam over the tight curve of Ed’s ass, marveling at the shape of it, the way it seems to fit his hands exactly, how it’s so soft and so firm all at once. And maybe he’s never touched someone like this before but, surely, this is the most perfect ass in creation -
Ed makes a strangled noise and hitches his hips up, directly into Stede’s erection.
Both men freeze.
“Um,” Stede says, the most apologetic um ever uttered.
“Stede,” Ed growls into the carpet, “are - are you -“
“I’m sorry,” he says instantly, and pulls his hands away as if burnt. “I can - I can stop -“
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Ed replies, and he reaches back, his hands strong around Stede’s wrists, and claps both palms flat against his ass again. Stede’s hands flex involuntarily, digging into Ed’s flesh, and Ed wriggles again under Stede, grinding up and back against Stede’s cock.
Stede can’t help it. He ruts back. The sound Ed makes is unbelievable. So Stede does it again. And again.
“Stede,” Ed pants, and Stede leans in heavily, holds Ed’s hands behind his back, wrists pressing together. He bears him down and he grinds Ed into the floor, his cheek flush against the carpet, the shirt askew beneath him.
“Why did you leave?” Stede breathes against Ed’s ear, even as he feels Ed’s ass grinding against his satin-sheathed cock, so much, not enough.
“I’m no - good for you -” Ed pants, pressing back against Stede like a - well, like a whore, Stede thinks blankly, and it sends a lightning bolt straight to his balls. He drops his forehead against Ed’s shoulder, salty and warm, scrapes his teeth there. “You - you deserve better -”
“I think,” Stede grinds out, and he releases Ed’s hands, fumbling with the waistband of the breeches. “I think I’m - I’m old enough to know - know what I deserve,” he says against Ed’s skin. Ed lifts his hips again and Stede tugs the breeches down. He hears the seams rip. He doesn’t care. Ed’s bare ass leaves him speechless: paler than the skin of his back, trembling a little as Ed desperately rocks his hips into the floor, seeking friction, pressing up towards Stede. Stede pulls his own breeches down, enough to free his cock, throbbing from restriction. He drops back against Ed’s body and the two of them gasp at the dry, almost painful drag of their skin against each other.
How many nights, in the last few weeks, has he thought about Ed’s hips pinned under his own? How many nights has he spent, clenched in his own fist, pumping frantically, picturing the way Ed’s skin would feel under his hands? He spits into his palm, slicks himself, and then wedges his cock in the cleft of Ed’s ass, squeezing the flesh on either side, watching with a strange detachment as the rosy flush of his own desire slides against Ed’s dusky skin. Ed is burning up, Stede can feel it, can feel the flexing of Ed’s hole against the shaft of his cock as he slides over him again, and again, and -
“Stop,” Ed says breathlessly beneath him. It is almost a meaningless sound to Stede, so preoccupied with the indescribable vision of his cock between Ed’s asscheeks. But the second time Ed says it, it penetrates his hazy mind and he freezes in horror, taking in the whole scene - he’s pinning Ed down, fucking the cleft of his ass, holding the man against the floor of his cabin like some sort of -
“Oh my God,” Stede chokes, and he pulls away from Ed abruptly, rearing back on his knees in his haste to stop touching him. “Oh, my God, Ed, I’m so - I am so sorry, I didn’t mean - are you all right?”
Ed hasn’t moved from the floor, his breath coming fast, and his eyes are wide open. He turns, gingerly, onto his back.
“I need to see you,” he says, low, like a secret. Like a confession. “Stede, I need - I need to see you, love.”
Love.
And no one has ever called Stede that, he knows with certainty.
Haltingly, Stede scoots to his side, and gingerly lays down on the floor (the floor was, in hindsight, probably a mistake for two men in their mid-forties, especially one with a bad knee who just swam like a maniac to catch up with the ship). He puts his arm over Ed’s chest, pulls him to face him, and Ed comes willingly, curling into Stede, his face flushed and his eyes very dark.
Stede catches Ed’s chin in his hand - good Lord, how is his beard so soft - and closes the distance between them, kissing him softly.
Stede has never kissed like this.
Ed whimpers against Stede’s lips, and it dawns on him that maybe Ed’s never been kissed like this, either.
A shock jolts through Stede when Ed’s strong, scarred hand wraps around both of their cocks, holding them firmly together, steel wrapped in velvet and each sliding deliciously against the other. Ed pants against Stede’s open mouth, a sheen of sweat on his beautiful face, eyes never leaving Stede’s. Stede can’t help but peek between their bodies, where Ed’s hand moves almost languorously around them, the head of his cock leaking a little. It’s so much, Stede has to close his eyes.
“Fuck,” he says reverently.
“Mmph,” Ed agrees, his kisses sloppy and frantic. When Stede looks at his face again - that darling, open face - he sees the naked need writ plain there, the yearning Stede knows all too well.
“Do you know,” Stede murmurs, “how much you mean to me?”
“No,” Ed says bluntly. “I don’t mean anything to anyone. People like me - we don’t mean anything outside of - of what people can take from us -”
“Hush,” Stede admonishes him, his hand joining Ed’s on their cocks, matching his rhythm. “You don’t know anything. You think you’re this monster, but you’re not, Ed, you’re so good and generous and kind -”
“Stede,” Ed whines, hips snapping, driving their aching erections together with each movement. He twists his leg through Stede’s strong thighs, wrapping his calf around Stede’s, pulling him closer.
“You are, my darling, you’ve been so good to me - taught me so much about this life - about myself,” Stede murmurs against Ed’s lips, punctuating his thoughts with kisses. Ed tips his head back, exposing the line of his throat, and Stede takes the hint, one hand in Ed’s hair, kissing against the frantic pulse in his neck, tasting the sweat of him, the tang of the sea. He tugs lightly, and Ed drops a broken sound from his throat. Stede likes that so much, he does it again.
“Seeing you under me,” Stede murmurs against his skin, “I couldn’t process how fucking beautiful you are, so trusting, so vulnerable - I was so lost when I thought you had left me, that I just - feeling you move underneath me, and you’re so alive, darling, I’m sorry that I lost control -”
“No,” Ed gasps, clinging close to Stede, letting him take over the pace. “No, that was - that was working for me.” Their foreheads rest together. “All of this is working for me. I told Jack - it’s you. No one else. There’s no one else for me.”
“Edward,” Stede murmurs, and then he’s coming undone, shaking apart in Ed’s arms, pumping erratically against Ed’s cock as his seed coats Ed’s belly, his own hands. He lies in the circle of those arms, trembling, breathing shallowly and trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.
He didn’t cry before, but now he does. He can’t help it. It’s too much.
“Hey, hey,” Ed croons, lifting his face to look directly at him, and it makes Stede cry harder, tears slipping down his cheeks as Ed kisses them away. “None of that. Please. I know it’s because of me, I can’t stand that it’s because of me. Please, Stede, don’t. I hate that I’ve made you feel so bad.”
“You haven’t,” Stede laughs hoarsely, attempting to scrub the tears away. “It’s not - Ed, my God, I’ve never felt so good before. It’s that - I just - I’m so afraid you’ll discover what a jealous little worm I am, and you’ll leave me again. How exciting your life was, before me. I can’t hold a candle to any of the adventures you must have had. But I’m so selfish, I can’t bear to think about you - about you leaving -” and he dissolves against Ed, hands in his hair, Ed’s lips on his cheeks, his eyelids, his lips.
“I swear,” Ed says, tipping his chin up and forcing Stede to meet his eyes. “I swear it, Stede. I will never leave you again. Never. Not unless you want me to.” He chuckles. “Maybe not even then. Hold a candle! Mate, you’ve never been a candle. You’re the whole fucking lighthouse.”
Stede sobs and laughs, all at once, and Ed keeps kissing him, and his tears do subside. But he’s not empty, not empty at all. What a fool, to think he could ever be empty, with Ed wrapped around him like this.
Gradually he realizes that Ed, as sweet as he’s being, is still pressing a fairly demanding erection against his hip. “Oh, God, Ed - I didn’t even - and you didn’t -”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ed says firmly. “Plenty of time for that later.”
“No, no,” Stede insists. “Absolutely not. There’s never enough time for you. Please. I - I want to,” he says, rather lamely. “I want to do that for you.”
“I’m not arguing with you, mate,” Ed grins. Stede sits up, pushing Ed gently back to the floor, and begins trailing his fingers over Ed’s soft stomach, feeling a lurch deep in his groin when he touches the tackiness of his own spend drying there, laying claim to Ed’s body. He traces the hip bones, the curves of him, the muscles of his thighs and then, with Ed’s face taking on a satisfied look of shock, settles between Ed’s bent knees. “Uh. Stede. Not that you don’t look fuckin’ incredible down there, but you don’t have to -”
“Yes,” Stede interrupts, “I rather think I do.” He dips his head to Ed’s cock, inhaling deeply the musky, salty scent of him; then, with only a little hesitation, he drags the flat of his tongue from root to head, grinning a little at the gasp he pulls from Ed’s throat.
“Shit,” Ed hisses. “I thought you hadn’t done anything like this before.”
“No,” Stede agrees. “I told you. Self-taught.” And he giggles against Ed’s cock, sending vibrations through the other man that curl Ed’s toes. Leisurely, Stede lathes Ed’s shaft with slow, tender sweeps, in time with the rolling of the ship beneath them. Ed squirms, and he swears, and his fists clench against Stede’s head, begging for more, for anything Stede will give him.
Stede complies, letting himself take Ed in fully, gagging a little but always up for a challenge. His hands shift under Ed’s ass to support him, to engulf him, and it’s almost as if Ed’s fighting him, he’s trying so hard not to buck his hips into Stede’s throat. He pulls off, squeezing Ed’s ass lovingly, and says “You won’t hurt me, Edward.”
“Stede - fuck -” Ed manages as a reply. It’s enough.
Stroking his shaft with a loose hand, Stede gropes blindly on the settee behind him, grabs a cushion and pulls it towards them. He coaxes Ed’s hips up, slips the cushion underneath, pauses for a moment to admire the view. Then he lowers his head, spreads Ed’s cleft apart, and swirls the point of his tongue around Ed’s taut entrance.
Ed’s entire body goes stiff, and then his strong legs wrap tightly around Stede’s shoulders, pinning him against Ed’s body. Ed’s fingers twist through Stede’s curls and okay, yeah, he sees why Ed likes this. He can feel his hair catch on Ed’s rings as he works Ed open, as Ed twists beneath him, swearing and moaning loud enough that certainly the whole crew could hear them, should they be bothering to listen.
It would be hard not to guess what they’re up to, Stede thinks ruefully.
“Stede - love -” Ed pants, tugging lightly on Stede’s curls. “Please, can you - put your hand on me -”
Stede, always a gentleman, obliges. He wraps one hand around the base of Ed’s cock, pumping lazily, palm slippery with Ed’s precome. Ed’s thighs are shaking against Stede’s cheeks, his knees trembling where they’re hooked over Stede’s shoulders. His fingers dig into Ed’s flesh as he tongues him, curious and enthralled, wanting to see how deep he can work himself into Ed, perhaps they could be so tightly bound together there’s no space between them -
“Stede,” Ed says, his voice a warning, a prayer. “Oh, fuck, Stede, I’m gonna -”
“Good,” Stede replies, pulling away from Ed’s body for a moment. His hand tightens on Ed’s cock, increasing the friction, as he guides the head of him to his lips. “Good boy. Let go. I’ve got you.”
Stede’s name has never sounded more beautiful than when Ed shouts it as he comes.
Stede swallows him down, every drop, amazed at himself, at this moment, at Ed. His mind is blank of everything except the man beneath him, and he drains Ed as he feels Ed’s cock pulse against his tongue. When it’s over, when Ed’s thighs stop quivering, Stede extricates himself from the tangle of Ed’s limbs and draws himself up beside him, resting his head on Ed’s chest, sweat cooling in the humid air.
“Fuck,” Ed says, voice rusty. “That was - you were - fuck. I thought you were a gentleman.”
“I am!” Stede says, a little offended, but he sees that Ed is grinning.
“No gentleman sucks cock like that, mate,” he says, breathless, his eyes very warm. He presses a kiss to the top of Stede’s mussed curls, his beard tickling Stede’s forehead. Stede’s too comfortable, too heavy to move.
“I’m afraid your back is going to be even stiffer than before,” he offers after a moment, and feels Ed’s chest beneath his cheek as the other man chuckles.
“It’s worth it,” Ed assures him. “You’re worth it.”
“And you’ll stay?” Stede asks again, softly, almost timid. He thinks about Jack, about his green eyes, about his good head of hair. “Even though I’m not the most exciting person in the world?”
“Stede,” Ed says. “There’s nowhere I could go, and no one else I could be with, that would ever compensate me for being without you.”
A sharp rap on the door startles them both. “Uh, Captain -or, er - Captains?” Lucius calls, his voice a question. “You’re needed, um. On deck. You need to decide where we’re sailing next.” And they laugh together as they hear him hurrying away, muttering fondly.
“Back to work,” Ed looks at Stede. “So tell me, Captain Bonnet, where are we sailing next?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Stede says, leaning down to kiss Ed softly. “Anywhere. Everywhere. Wherever you want.”
“I want wherever you are,” Ed replies.