Chapter Text
“Co-captain?”
The pleasing ring of their voices sounding in synchrony echoes in Stede’s head as he tips the last slosh of brandy from his glass, savoring the tinge of sweet citrus. Warmth pools in his belly and radiates from his skin—a long day in the sun has turned into a muggy night, and even the reliable cross-breeze through the open windows of the cabin isn’t doing much. They’ve both shed their jackets, Ed down to his purple t-shirt and Stede in a sleeveless undershirt—blessedly open at the neck and chest—and they’ve settled comfortably on opposite ends of the sofa, conversation flowing as easily as drink.
When Stede looks up from his empty glass with a satisfied hum, he catches Ed watching him.
“Another?” Ed asks, raising an eyebrow. Stede shouldn’t, not if he wants to greet the following morning with gusto, but he still isn’t ready for this day with Ed to end. The warmth isn’t just the weather, it’s their camaraderie, the apparent mutual delight in their companionship, filling Stede with ten times the heat of a summer’s day. It’s quite the unusual thing for Stede to find such effortless amity with another person, and it’s not just any person, but Blackbeard, scourge of the seven seas, smiling enticingly at Stede as he reaches for his glass.
“Perhaps one more won’t hurt,” Stede says.
“That’s the spirit,” Ed says. He snatches Stede’s glass from his hand, and for a moment their fingers graze, just a bump, a brush—but Stede notices, echoes of raspy callouses lingering beneath where they’ve touched. Stede clenches his empty hand.
Ed is easy with touch. Casual. Almost careless, in the sense that it seems so natural for him—unconsciously reaching for others at seemingly every opportunity without a moment’s hesitation. Stede will never admit it to anyone—can barely admit it to himself—but he keeps a tidy mental record of every time Ed has touched him, an anthology he’s come to tend like a garden every night before he falls asleep, replaying each moment, focused on permanently etching the memory of sensation into the archives of his mind. A shoulder pat here. A tap of the knee there. The tight squeeze of Ed’s arms after their lighthouse victory. Ed’s forehead resting on his hand in the bathtub—
Stede’s thoughts are interrupted by Ed’s pained groan as he moves to standing. Ed walks both their glasses back to the decanter with a pronounced limp.
“You alright there?” Stede asks.
“Yeah, it’s just my fucking knee. Nothing new, just sometimes gets a bit spicy when I’ve been on it all day.” He refills their glasses and wobbles as he returns, passing Stede his glass over the back of the couch. “Not much to be done but drink till I pass out, so we’re right on track.”
Stede is about to comment on what seems like distinctly unhealthy pain management tactics, but then Ed sits back down.
Closer.
Much closer.
Like, right beside Stede. Not touching, but more than close enough to reach. Stede can feel the heat of his body.
“Just one of those things about pirate life,” Ed continues, sipping his brandy. “The slow process of every body part deciding to say, ‘Actually, fuck you!’ until eventually your limbs and organs and spine team up and mutiny and you die. Kinda makes getting hung or gutted look like the easy way out.”
Stede’s mind drifts easily into all of the unpleasant ways to perish, and his thoughts may have gotten lost there, except for Ed’s touch suddenly grounding him in the present. A shoulder touch, one of the double pat variety, except—except this time instead of retreating after the second tap—
Ed’s hand lingers on Stede’s bare shoulder, resting there.
“Didn’t mean to freak you out,” Ed says.
“No, no, I—not at all,” Stede says, trying desperately to breathe normally, to not reveal how much of his focus is dedicated to Ed’s hand, the balmy damp of his palm cupped perfectly to fit snug around the peak of Stede’s shoulder, the curling paths of his rough fingers broken by the cool slivers of his rings.
Stede clears his throat. “I was only thinking there may be more than one medicine for a sore knee. No need to rely on drink and drink alone.”
“Is that so?” Ed says.
“Well, sure,” Stede starts, but then all language processing halts, because Ed’s thumb begins to trace small, feather-light circles on Stede’s skin, the tiniest of motions, and yet the sensation screams within him at nearly the volume of being pinned to the mast, except this isn’t pain, it’s—
He’s got to get a hold of himself. Ed is simply like this with everyone. As is so often the case, it’s Stede who is the odd one out, so unaccustomed to the casual intimacies of pirate life.
He dares to look up at Ed, and instantly realizes his terrible mistake, because Ed is staring at him, gazing really, with what is both shockingly and unmistakably fondness. Ed smiles, raises his eyebrows, and Stede realizes he’s waiting for Stede to continue speaking, but Stede’s ability to speak is currently being compromised by the depths of Ed’s beautiful brown eyes, and—
And then Ed takes his hand away. As casually as he’d put it there, switching his brandy glass from one hand to the other so he can scratch at an itch on his leg. Stede’s shoulder burns with absence.
“I could give you a massage,” Stede blurts. As the words leave his mouth, he knows he’s had too much to drink. A hit of self-loathing spikes up in his chest.
“For real?” Ed says. His grin is kind of goofy, but his voice is full of genuine interest, which clears some of the loathing clouds.
“We’re co-captains now,” Stede says. “I’d consider your physical wellness part of my responsibilities.”
Ed considers this for a moment. “Well then, fuck yeah,” he says. He takes a swig of his drink, then sets it down on the table, groaning again as he moves to stand.
Before Stede even realizes what’s happening, Ed takes off his brace and strips off his leathers.
He is wearing nothing underneath.
Stede shoots to his feet.
“I’ve got some, some salve somewhere. I—right,” Stede says, trying to look anywhere but Ed’s bare arse. “Maybe a modesty robe?”
“Oh, that red one if you’ve got it,” Ed says. “Soft like a goddamn baby’s bottom.”
“Of course,” Stede says, relieved for the excuse to turn and distract himself. He takes deep, calming breaths as he searches for the salve—he’s got one with peppermint and cinnamon that does wonders when he wrenches his back—and tries to tell himself it’s perfectly acceptable to rub the aching knee of a good friend. It is, indeed, a service he is more than happy to provide. Absolutely no ulterior motive beyond the easing of Ed’s pain. It’s medicinal.
Stede returns and passes the robe to Ed with averted eyes. Ed wraps himself and sits back on the sofa. Stede sits just off center, and Ed immediately stretches out his bare leg across Stede’s lap, the red patterned fabric of the robe pooling at his groin but leaving most of his thigh exposed, dark hair and brown skin and lines of black ink stretched taught over strong muscle. Ed leans back and relaxes, the full warm weight of his leg settling across Stede’s thighs, pinning him.
“Thanks, mate,” Ed says, picking up his glass again.
“It’s nothing,” Stede says, managing to keep his voice steady. He takes a glob of salve from the jar and warms it between his palms, trying desperately to ignore how a simple human leg can be so extraordinarily overwhelming.
At first, he rests his hands on either side of Ed’s knee, setting them down feather-light, easing into pressure as slowly as he can. Ed doesn’t flinch or moan or give any reaction at all, but touch is nothing new for Ed. Perhaps the massage is a rarity, but friendly caress is a staple in Ed’s bodily repertoire. Meanwhile, the tickle of Ed’s wiry leg hair and heat radiating from firm muscle under Stede’s hands has him in a full-body tingle, dizzy with more than drink.
Stede focuses, rubs gently, spreading the balm across Ed’s lovely skin, over the knobs of his kneecap and into the muggy, tender pit beneath it. He has a solid textbook knowledge of anatomy, and in theory should have no trouble figuring out what to do, but in practice he has never given a massage before and is having quite a bit of trouble with any kind of coherent thought beyond the frustration of being rendered mentally incapacitated by a knee in his lap.
Still, he forges onward, beginning to flex his fingers with a little more pressure. This does get a small groan out of Ed, though Stede cannot tell if it’s pleasure or pain. His hands dart back from Ed’s skin.
“No, no,” Ed says. Then his hand is on Stede’s, pressing it back into his flesh. “It’s good.”
Stede resumes, encouraged. Ed’s hand retracts.
“Could go harder, even,” Ed says, his voice gruff and low.
Stede catches his eyes, and there’s something there, something Stede can’t quite place, except that it brings about the instant and unfortunate realization that Stede is well on his way to a full erection mere inches from where Ed’s leg pins him to the sofa.
“Alright,” Stede says softly, and wrenches his gaze away. Focus, focus. Medicinal.
Stede lays his hands back strategically this time, so he can press his thumbs into the meat of Ed’s quadriceps just above the joint. Ed whimpers, barely above a breath. Stede glances at him, but his eyes are shut now.
“Harder,” Ed says.
Stede takes a long, shaky breath and resolves that if he’s going to do this, he should at least try a little oomph. He wraps his hands around the base of Ed’s thigh, swallowing for a moment as Ed flexes minutely—might as well have been a throb in Stede’s grasp—and then Stede squeezes, fingers tight and loose and tight again as he takes his thumbs and digs two parallel lines running along either side of the ridge of Ed’s thigh.
“Yeah,” Ed says, followed by a noise that sounds like a little giggle. “Fuck, just like that.”
It shouldn’t be possible to be any warmer, and yet a fresh flood of heat washes over Stede with the praise. He does everything in his power to narrow his entire consciousness to two things: breathing with ordinary rhythm and depth, and giving Ed the best massage he possibly can. A tremendous challenge, considering the way he is awash with inappropriate arousal from head to toe (and in particular the groin region)—but like all challenges, it is one he must rise to face.
After a minute or so of fierce mental wrangling and compartmentalizing, he blessedly finds himself lost in it. The world falls away until nothing is left but Ed’s skin and muscle and bone beneath his hands, the sharp, spicy-cool scent of the balm, and the intoxicating sounds he is quickly learning how to pull from Ed’s mouth with just the right amount of pressure.
He finds himself so lost in chasing those sounds, in fact, that he moves further down Ed’s leg without second thought, rolling and clenching and rubbing the meat of his calf, and it’s only of note when he begins on Ed’s foot because of the cascade of slurred encouragement that pours from Ed’s mouth, sweeter and more potent than the brandy.
There is a moment, as he finishes with tendons and toes and his hands wander back up Ed’s ankle, when he realizes he doesn’t want to stop. If given the opportunity, he might sit here rubbing Ed’s leg indefinitely, even though the weight of it is beginning to cut off his circulation. He returns to his ministrations on Ed’s knee, not wanting to invite a natural end to the touching but still waiting for Ed to sit up and pull away. He doesn’t. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed—he might be mistaken for asleep except for the swift rate of his breath and his continued soft groans of response.
Stede doesn’t intend to continue his journey up Ed’s leg. He doesn’t even think about it, and yet, there he is, hands inching above the knee, grasping into the flesh there. He’s about midway up Ed’s thigh, fingers digging deep circles into the inner muscle, when Ed lets out a gasping moan that Stede’s hazy mind registers as distinctly one of pleasure and—
A shock of awareness slams into Stede—of what he’s doing, and who he’s doing it with, and where they are, and the state of his lap, and how close he is to Ed’s lap, and how the only thing between him and Ed’s naked manhood is the bunched fabric from the red robe draped inches from his fingertips. Heat twists from pleasure to shame, and a tornado of overwhelm whips through him.
Stede yanks his hands back like he’s been scalded, clutches them at his chest.
“Hey, wha—” Ed mumbles. He blinks and sits up slightly, like he’s coming out of a trance. “You alright, mate?”
“Hand cramp,” Stede quickly lies.
Ed huffs a laugh. “Not surprised, you were really going at it. Fucking fantastic.” He pushes himself upright, leg sliding back across Stede’s lap, perilously close to grazing Stede’s arousal. “Here, let me, uh, let me return the favor.”
Ed tightens the robe around himself and slides to sit beside Stede, reaching for his hands. Stede has a second of sheer panic, because he cannot leap to standing without the chance of revealing his indecent state, but if Ed takes his hands, there’s no telling what Stede’s body might do in response.
“It’s really quite alright,” Stede squeaks, and in an uncoordinated flurry of motion, flees to the end of the sofa and pulls his legs up, arms hugging around his shins, knees tucked under his chin. He instantly realizes the absurdity of the childlike pose and attempts to play it off by casually putting one arm on the back of the sofa. “It’s fine, everything is fine.”
Ed stares at him from where he’s frozen on the center of the sofa, beautiful brown eyes wide and baffled. Then, he cocks his head and squints.
“Kinda seems like maybe everything isn’t fine,” he says.
Stede swallows. “How’s your leg, then?” he says.
Ed pauses. “Incredible,” he says earnestly.
“Delighted to hear it,” Stede says. “Well, I think now that my co-captainly duties are fulfilled, perhaps it is time for us to retire for the evening.”
Something that looks an awful lot like disappointment flits across Ed’s face, and Stede flounders with what to do with that.
“Has been a long day, I guess,” Ed says with a sigh. “Well, thanks. Seriously.”
“Anytime,” Stede says without really thinking.
Ed brightens at this.
And leans over to put his hand on Stede’s knee.
Stede flinches. His whole body jolts with it.
He doesn’t mean to. He’s so good, usually, at pretending, but everything is so much and his skin feels too tight and his treacherous cock is throbbing, and Ed’s hand is like a lightning bolt in a cornfield after a summer of drought. Everything is on fire.
“Okay, whoa,” Ed says, hand vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “Stede.”
Stede meets his eyes miserably, but finds only concerned warmth there.
“What’s going on?” Ed asks.
“It’s nothing,” Stede says.
Ed tips his head forward and raises his eyebrows, disbelieving.
“I feel like I crossed a line somewhere, but I don’t know where it is,” Ed says. He clears his throat. “I’d like to know.”
“It’s not—I don’t—” Stede fumbles, flustered, searching for some kind of plausible lie while the truth seethes and bubbles and rises up the back of his throat like stinging bile. “It’s only that sometimes—sometimes touch can just be—” He sighs, curling back in on himself. “A lot.”
Ed frowns. “Does it make you uncomfortable when I touch you? You should have said something, mate, I—”
“No!” Stede cries, startling them both with his volume. “No,” he repeats softer, because Ed never touching him again is one of the worst possible outcomes from this horrid scenario.
“Okay,” Ed says, a half-smile tugging at his lips. Stede finds sanctuary in that half-smile, like whatever is happening between them is more difficult to ruin than he thought.
“It’s just not been a common thing in my life,” Stede says softly. “Touch,” he clarifies. “I’m not acclimatized, is all.”
“Pretty fuckin great massage for someone not used to touch,” Ed says, then looks slightly like he regrets it, face softening.
Stede finds a smile for him. “Thanks,” he says. Ed smiles back.
“But it’s okay when I touch you?” Ed asks.
“Yes!” Stede says. “Although, perhaps not right at this very moment,” he amends, realizing he is still coiled like a compressed spring at the end of the sofa around his unrelenting arousal.
“Course,” Ed says, scoots back, puts his hands up. Relief twists with mourning at the distance.
Ed watches him for a long moment, something ticking behind his eyes. Stede averts his gaze, swallows.
“You know,” Ed says, “touch is pretty important to, what’d you call it, physical wellness.”
“What’d you mean?” Stede says.
“I mean, we’re animals, social creatures. Meant to rub up on each other every once and a while. It’s good for the body.”
“Suppose it’s just not a priority where I’m from,” Stede says, thinking of his mother, his father, Mary, and the distances they’d all shared.
Ed shakes his head. “What I mean is that if physical wellness falls under co-captain duties, I’m happy to help, you know, get you acclimatized.”
Stede laughs before he realizes Ed isn’t joking.
“Can’t get your sea legs without getting on a boat,” Ed says. “We could go slow. Build up your tolerance.”
“I—I don’t want to be a burden,” Stede says, because he can’t quite believe it, isn’t sure if he should even entertain saying yes.
“Course not,” Ed says. He reaches out to touch Stede, then stops himself. “Like you said—just like the massage. My responsibility as your co-captain.”
“Well, alright,” leaves Stede’s mouth before the overthinking hits. “If it’s good for the body, I mean.”
“Great!” Ed says, and Stede is surprised by how enthused he sounds. “I mean, cool. It’s no problem. Could start tomorrow night, even.”
“Ah, sure. Sounds like a plan.” Stede smiles at him, and he smiles back, and the moment stretches out.
“Right,” Ed says. “Bed. I’ll just—” He gathers the robe around him and stands.
Stede wants desperately to offer Ed the sofa to sleep on—ever since the night Ed insisted Stede run him through and Stede half-carried him back to the captain’s quarters to patch him up, Ed has slept on the sofa more often than not—but, mortifyingly, the problem of Stede’s erection remains. Ed seems to be leaving anyway, turning his back to tug on his leathers, then removing the red robe, draping it over the sofa. He turns to Stede.
“Hey, really, thanks again for uh—” He gestures at his leg. “Feels a million times better.”
“It was my pleasure,” Stede says, and quickly regrets. Ed smiles, though he seems a little distant.
“Well, night then,” Ed says, shuffling back and forth for a moment before holding up his hand in a little wave. Stede mimics the gesture, smiling as warmly as he can as Ed makes his way out and shuts the door behind him.
As soon as his footsteps fall away, Stede groans, stretches out, wrenches his pants open, and brings himself to an astounding orgasm with humiliatingly few strokes. As he gasps and pants through the aftermath, the full reality of what he’s agreed to sets in, filling Stede with a twisting, shameful terror—and yet, lurking beneath the panic runs a hot current of the most tantalizing thrill.