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Stede and Ed are not having sex.
And one might wonder why you might have to say something like that unless you are, indeed, having sex with your co-captain, but being that, though Stede has adapted to the culture of piracy remarkably well, he is a landlubber by birth, he still feels the need to record things for the audience of the land locked masses.
And the things Stede and Ed do together, to the uninformed landlubber, do strongly resemble sex in many ways.
But!
Stede is educated, and fully initiated to the culture, as it were, and he knows that what him and Ed share together is not, in fact, sex, but mutual stress relief between two co-captains necessitated by the fact they are the only two individuals on the ship with a rank of equal status, and that to engage in stress relief like this with any other staff member would create a massive conflict of interest. Not that the interest— It's purely professional, if one would even say there was interest at all, which, really, there isn't, because, again, they're not having sex, so mutual interest is not a requirement.
Certainly, Ed made it very clear from the beginning that it was not a matter of mutual interest. In fact, he'd come about it so casually and circuitously that it was possible that he never really intended to bring it up in the first place, so latent was the need. But of course, it was Stede who prodded and wheedled, as he tended to do, and Stede can only be grateful that Ed is a patient man, and never outwardly expresses the frustration Stede certainly instills in him.
It was only that they were sitting close on the chaise so that they might share a little wind-down of a nightcap, and Ed seemed unusually tense, and, as co-captains, Stede considered Ed's well being to be a paramount responsibility, and so he had asked, "What's troubling you, Ed?"
And Ed has insisted, "Nothing, I'm fine," but as the evening wound on, and Stede scooted closer to top off Ed's glass, and admittedly, did not retreat to re-grant him his space, because he found it easier to hear Ed's rumbling storytelling at a closer reach, Ed's apparent agitation only increased.
And that was just not on! Especially not on Stede's ship— well, their ship, perhaps, but Stede felt that since he commissioned the thing and brought on most of the crew, he was still entitled to insist on a few things, and one of those things was that they talked it through as a crew! Or, as two! Co-captains! Because, sort of instinctively, he knew that whatever was troubling Ed was none of, as a random example, Lucius' business! But, he digressed, and cleared his throat to address the matter as delicately as possible.
"Ed, come on, out with it!"
"With what," Ed said, less like a question and more like a deflection directed into his glass of brandy, as if the little echo chamber of liquid and his beard would somehow protect him from Stede's inquiry.
"Ed, something is clearly troubling you, and you know the rhyme, we talk it through—"
"As a two, yeah, yeah, I know, aawwrrgh, it's—" and then he scrubbed his palm across his face, dragged his fingertips through his beard, and sagged back against the couch. "Just feeling a bit. Y'know." And then he gestured with his hand, a clenching and unclenching motion, which Stede could not, in fact, interpret.
"I don't," Stede had said. "But I'm sure if you explained in a little bit more detail I could brainstorm up some ways to help."
Ed sighed, shook his head, stared up at the ceiling, but he did continue. "Wound up," he elaborated.
"Oh yes!" and Stede could help with this! Normally it was his children, too wound up and driving Mary crazy while she was trying to do— whatever it was that she did— and then Stede would take them out of doors and run them in circles playing tag, or, on rainy days, use up all of their energy building elaborate forts and then by the time they were finished he could read them off to sleep. But perhaps, for an adult who was also the dread pirate Blackbeard, another tack… "I suppose it has been a fair moment since we've had a decent raid. Should we chat with Buttons in the morning, get something on the agenda?"
Ed had quirked a brow at him. "Our last raid was six days ago, do we not have anyone in our sights— Nah, never mind, not what I meant anyways."
"Oh, right, of course. Well, I could check the birthday calendar, we could probably bump Frenchie's up since he's not actually sure when he was born, just have to make sure it doesn't mess with any of his placements, we could get in an excuse for some music and dancing, some food and drink?"
Ed sighed. "Nah, I'm not talking about— wait, we have a birthday calendar? You do birthday parties for crew?"
"Well, of course. Crew, any consultants contracted for longer than a one month basis, partners, and dependents. You just missed Olivia's party before you officially joined us, though don't tell Buttons, but you didn't miss much. Very difficult to make a cake that's both appetizing to seagulls and people and since it was her special day, her preferences won out." Stede wrinkled his nose at the memory and Ed's face curled up to match.
Then Ed's face slackened and he sagged even further into the couch, and then he mumbled something into his brandy that sounded suspiciously like only making it worse, but Stede had long ago decided not to respond to complaints unless they were delivered at full volume, because really, why should he care about something not said with one's full chest? And also, it saved a lot of time, simply pretending he didn't hear.
And then Ed did continue at full volume, which just proved the case! "Nah, I mean, a birthday party sounds fun, I guess, if you wanted, but don't go out of your way. Not really what I was talking about anyways."
At which point Stede decided to allow himself to get a little annoyed, because really! "Well, I still don't know what you are talking about, Edward! You're doing a very poor job at the talking part of talking it through. I mean really, how am I supposed to help—"
"Pretty sure you don't wanna help with this one, mate."
"If you don't— Well how am I supposed to know!"
Ed sighed, scrubbed his face with his palms once more. "Look," he said. "It's been awhile since we've been in port, right?"
"Right?" Stede agreed, not seeing where this was going.
"And there are certain things you can only do, at least, when you're captain, and you're not trying to— god, how would you put this— right, if you're trying to avoid 'Conflicts of Interest'," and there he actually did the air quotes. "Things you can only really do in friendly ports."
"Ah," Stede said, finally understanding. "You've been wanting to visit a bathhouse."
"No— I mean, wait, yes? What the fuck do you know about bath houses—"
"Well, Ed, of course I'm no stranger to aquatic based relaxation! And you should have said! Since you're officially co-captain, you are entitled to all the captain's privileges, which includes a biweekly hot bath!"
Ed groaned. "No, Stede. Different kind of frustration. Usually can only work it out with another person? Naked? Touching? You know?"
"Um, well."
"Getting your rocks off, doing the nasty, you know, orgasms."
"Oh," Stede said. It was only, for some reason, sounds had started going fuzzy somewhere around 'naked touching', and he needed just a moment to bring his faculties back to snuff.
Ed took his silence as dismissal, leaned forward to top off his brandy. "Told you you couldn't help," he said.
"Well," Stede said, for some unknown reason, because what on earth was he realistically going to follow that up with that somehow contradicted Ed's very reasonable statement that Stede could not help with any of that, but then what he did follow up with was the even more insane notion that, "I don't see why not."
Ed froze.
Stede also froze.
It was a stupid thing he had said, for so so many reasons, not the least of which there is no universe in which Ed would want such a thing from him, and anyways, even if he did, what exactly, practically, did Stede think he'd be doing to help? He'd received reviews about his physical performance in the past, and they were not flattering. And Ed, Ed who was Blackbeard, oh, Stede couldn't possibly do anything to impress—
"What do you mean," Ed said, perfectly level, perfectly calm, betraying nothing, not interest (as if) nor disgust.
"Well," Stede began again, hoping his brain would fill in with something again, though hopefully this time much more helpful. "If I were, perhaps, experiencing the same frustrations—" why did he say that, he wasn't, of course he wasn't— "I don't see why the two of us, being of an equal status, couldn't. Relieve that frustration together." Logically sound, sure, if only you were to suspend the disbelief that Ed would ever want Stede's clumsy, unpracticed hands anywhere near his perfect skin, touching his beautiful body—
"Yes," Ed said. Softly, so softly Stede had to assume he was fabricating it in his own hallucinatory death throes, since he had apparently achieved, finally, such great heights of stupidity that his brain was spontaneously shutting down in one final act of mercy.
"Pardon?" Stede said automatically.
"Stress relief?" Ed clarified, the syllables coming out, laying down very deliberately and neatly between them.
"Yes," Stede said, because why not keep digging? "One co-captain to another. Just. Just taking care of mutual needs."
"Right. Like our skill swap thingy. Just looking out for each other," Ed said, though there was still a hint of a question in it.
"Yes, exactly," Stede confirmed, as sure as he knew how to be, needing to reassure Ed that, of course, obviously, he was not asking for— not even implying anything else.
"Cool," Ed said, and before he had a chance to process that sentiment, Ed was placing his glass on the coffee table, scooting through the scant space between them, and cupping his leather clad palm against Stede's jaw.
"Oh," Stede said, eloquently, and then, squeaking a bit, like an idiot, "Now?"
"You got anything else going? You got moonbathing with Buttons? You got a night watch? You gotta get started on step one of fifteen of your nighttime skincare thing? You're real fucking busy?" And he said it all, said it with that quirk of his brow, that warm smile, the way Stede had come to understand was not teasing in the way he was used to, cruel and disparaging, but instead something almost fond, a shared joke between two conspirators, and suddenly his nerves were gone. His nerves were gone and he was smiling. It was just Ed, after all, just a new adventure with Ed, and when has Stede ever not enjoyed an adventure with Ed?
"No," he said, shaking his head, shaking out the smallest laugh, and then—
Stede has to try very hard to recollect what happened next, especially in any kind of plain terms accessible to a layperson. He finds himself rather more compelled to start quoting poetry, or reading from the thesaurus results for "exultant", or, though he cannot carry a tune in a bucket, simply tipping his head back and breaking into wordless, exuberant song.
Because what happened is Ed tipped in, and kissed him.
And, sure, there was a brief moment of confusion, because in his experience, kissing really didn't do much in one direction or another to aide the release of an orgasm, and actually, if he's really being strictly honest, isn't really sure where Ed's affinity for shared orgasms comes from in the first place, since the discomfort associated with coupling with another person usually far outweighs the efficacy of the release, but! Ed is, of course, far more worldly than Stede in all the most exciting areas, and so Stede resolves very quickly to defer to his expertise. Perhaps pirates have tips and tricks for making the whole experience more pleasurable that stuffy land folk aren't privy to, and Stede will use his last remaining sense to simply shut up, and stick along for the ride.
And for once his instincts were completely correct. It was a bet that quickly paid off. Ed introduced him in rapid succession to things that took the kissing, which already by nature of Ed being so different from anyone he'd kissed before— the scratch of his beard, the heady masculine scent of him, the buttery soft brush of leather against Stede's cheek— was truly transcendent— god, his lips were just so soft, moving against Stede's in perfect concert, and Stede could feel the gentlest flutter of Ed's long, delicate lashes against his cheek, and— What was it that Stede was saying? Oh yes, the way Ed took such a beautiful experience and elevated it.
Because apparently pirate kissing meant things like tongues, teasing first at lips and then against each other, and Ed grabbing Stede's hands, placing one deliberately at his hip where the softest bit of skin peeked between his trousers and his t-shirt, and placing the other up to his hair, pushing and prodding without for a moment breaking their kiss, until Stede got the hint and threaded his fingers through the liquid silk of his hair.
And then the second Stede started to maybe a little bit get used to any of that, Ed swung a leg across Stede and climbed fully into his lap, and then Stede realized he didn't know anything at all.
Which was fine, actually, because he didn't need to know anything, apparently, for Ed to keep kissing him, or for Ed to grind down into Stede and for Stede to feel the truly enlightening experience of Ed's weight bearing down against him and rocking into some really very tantalizing friction, he didn't need to know anything at all to follow his instincts. His instincts to keep kissing Ed, and to stroke his fingers through Ed's hair, and to tease the hand at his hip up, up, up until it was trailing over his belly up to his ribs and—
"Wait," Ed had broke away to say. Stede waited. It took every ounce of strength he had, but he did wait. "There's something you should know," Ed had said, and privately, Stede had disagreed because not knowing shit had been working out quite well so far, but he wisely did not say. "Equipment wise, I'm not. Not the same as other men. Kinda another reason it's been awhile."
"Oh sure, very understandable," Stede said, understanding nothing, but, as said, having made plenty of peace with that.
"So that's not a problem?" Ed had said, and in retrospect, it's possible that in the moment he sounded shy, but Stede was too busy ferreting his hand back up Ed's shirt and assuring him that nothing about him could ever be a problem to register it at the time.
And this, of course, was another mark of reassurance that they were not actually having sex. Because, as Stede finally figured out after frantic kissing and furious grinding turned into Ed pulling at his clothes until both of them had jettisoned their shirts and unbuttoned their fall fronts, which turned into Ed's hand— Ed's hand— wrapping around Stede's cock and stroking, which turned into Ed begging for Stede to touch me, c'mon mate, please touch me, and then Stede had complied, of course, reaching into Ed's pants expecting to find perhaps a small cock, or a soft cock, or a weird cock, and in a way, yes, finding that, but more specifically finding that what Ed had is a very wet, very warm, very responsive cunt.
And Stede had had sex with persons (a person) in possession of a cunt previously, and he knew that if he did not put his cock inside of it, it wasn't really sex.
And he hadn't. No, that night, all— "all" he says, though he will brook no dismissal of the truly life changing all that it was— he had done was press his fingers down, in, work them against the tensing and clenching muscle, pressing and stroking until Ed's hand on his cock had faltered, and then pressing that much more insistently in, and then he had stretched his thumb up to pet over Ed's perfect little cock, faster and faster until the connection between their lips began to fray and split, until Ed was just panting into his mouth, gasping out ragged please, please, pleas, and then the tight around his fingers bore down, fluttered, a rapid flash in tandem with the frantic movement of Ed's lashes, and then a groan wrought deep from his belly, and Stede could only imagine that he must have come, because what else could explain such a beautiful sight?
And then Ed had sagged against his chest, had nuzzled in and idly kissed at Stede's neck while he caught his breath, and since this was not sex and therefore there was no call to be a gentleman, Stede had taken up his cock in his own hand and stroked himself off to the rasp of Ed's beard against his neck.
So, only hand stuff. And some kissing. But definitively not sex.
And besides, if it had been sex, Ed would have avoided his eye before resignedly rolling over to fall asleep as far from Stede as one could possibly be while still sharing a bed. But he didn't do any of that. No, once he had gotten his breath back under control, which took no small amount of time (Wow! Stede did that!) he had tipped back with a grin splitting his face, had looked Stede directly in his eye, clapped a hand on Stede's shoulder, said, "Nice, mate," in a way that sounded shockingly sincere, and then rolled off of Stede's lap to button his trousers back up.
And then there had been some pleasant chatter, a bit of gentle teasing about the mess on Stede's belly before Ed had gotten up and came back with a warm rag, a bit of tossing back and forth about the possibility of another birthday party, and a very genuine goodnight before Ed had settled in to sleep on the couch, just as he always had.
Obviously not sex.
And it continued to not be sex. Just grinding over the clothes, and hands below clothes, and kissing, oh god, so much kissing, but only kissing when they were having— when they were relieving stress.
Which was how Ed continued to characterize it, which Stede tried not to internalize along with his paranoia that there was something about this arrangement he specifically was doing wrong and if he was not careful, Ed was bound to find out, but it was only that Stede wondered why Ed felt the need to put a point on it— Up for a bit of stress relief? said with a waggle of an eyebrow, Man, feeling pretty relaxed now, said after their. Activities. Were complete.
But anyways, all of that aside, things continued to follow a pattern, fairly regularly, time after time, repeated in enough of a volume that it was not so much a pattern as it was a rule.
Until about a week later, when they were in the auxiliary wardrobe, and Stede couldn't remember why they had originally gone in, but the ultimate outcome was that they were now picking out for one another the most elaborate and discordant outfits they could, and giggling themselves into stitches when they tried them on.
And then Stede had forgotten to turn away when Ed began to change into the next outfit, and then there Ed was, belly, ribs, chest completely bare, adorned only in his black ink, the scars at his belly, and two jagged half moons under the slight mounds of his pecs. And then lower down, a thick trail of dark hair leading to where Ed was clad only in Stede's own trousers. Suddenly Stede began to feel very rapidly and acutely stressed out. Unrelated, assuredly. Though side effects of the stress seemed to include, among other things, staring baldly and impolitely at Ed's bare chest, at the drape of Stede's personally selected purple mulberry silk over his legs.
And then, since Ed notices everything, sharp eyed as he is, he notices Stede staring, and steps closer. Stede braces to be told off, to be castigated for his lack of manners, his blatant rudeness, and begins to apologize, to head the remonstrance off at the pass. Only Ed says nothing, simply steps closer, closer still, and then tips in, and then—
And then Ed is kissing him.
And how attentive Ed is, how considerate, to see so easily how the stress was already beginning to build in Stede's body, and step in so quickly to soothe it. In the moment, Stede can only return the gesture, to kiss back, with as much attention and enthusiasm as he always holds for Ed, but he resolves that moving forward he will keeps his eyes peeled for opportunities to care for Ed in the same way.
And normally the rules dictate a bit of warm-up kissing, and then clothes shucked, or at least unbuttoned, and then frantic mutual touching, and then release, and then it is over. Which is to say, it's fairly efficient. Which is not a complaint! And why would it be! Leave it to Ed to have determined the most streamlined way to achieve any end, mutual physical relief included.
But today, today Ed seems to be taking his time. Lips moving slow, syrupy, humming little sounds of contentment, breaking contact only to place his lips in new and innovative places, places Stede would never have considered, but oh! Ed kisses just the corner of his mouth, the apple of his cheek, the hinge of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the lid of his eye, even the tip of his nose! And normally, Stede would have to oppose any foreign contact with his face given that it always left him unsettled from the phantom sensation, trying to blink and wriggle the feeling away without anyone noticing, but this!
This is—
Well, the pounding beat of stress in his chest, the heat and the fizzing and the altogether too much of it, that's not really going away; if anything, one might say it was only intensifying. And yet, his nervous system feels overwhelmingly insistent that Ed not stop, that Stede do everything in his power to encourage him to continue.
Incredibly counterintuitive; he'll have to make a note to check his medical texts for reference at a later moment not now possibly not even any time today because as he had previously mentioned: Ed.
Ed sipping at his lips, making the same sort of satisfied murmurs he makes when he enjoys an exceptional brandy or a sweet treat, not that Stede would presume to draw a comparison between himself and a decadent confectionary, it's just similar, coincidentally, and Stede can't help but notice with Ed pressed so close. So close, and his lips attentive, and his hands tracing, and he's not tugging at clothes, it's almost. Exploratory.
Deft fingertips worrying over Stede's buttons, teasing along necklines, hands grasping palmfuls of silk clad flesh and gently squeezing, dragging up to twine in Stede's hair, not to tug him into place, but simply to caress.
Stede doesn't understand, not at any level of depth, but the surface is clear and reflective: Ed, an unassailable expert, is very patiently, if not explicitly, instructing Stede on how better to make use of their shared time. Stede, of course, will comply.
So he matches Ed's pacing, matches the thorough exploration of Ed's hands. Since Ed seems directed by nothing more than his own whims, Stede assumes that he can do the same, and indulge in touching Ed where he's been curious to touch and until this moment resisted. Ed kisses him and he gently places his hands over Ed's ribs, feels the warm, the soft, the breathing heat of him. Arcs out his thumbs to find the silvery curves of the scars under his chest, traces them, touch just delicate enough to feel the tender texture of them, long healed though they are. Kisses Ed back and dips one hand down to cup the curve of his hip, to skate back around over the mottling of scars where Ed's been so many times stabbed.
He fancies that, with the careful pad of his thumb, he can feel the mark he himself left on Ed, imagines that it is warmer, more tender, more pronounced than all the other scarred bumps and ridges. Eyes closed and given completely over to the feeling, Ed kissing him, touching him, he doubts that he actually can, but still, it sends something pleased and pawing through his gut, to imagine his hand staking claim in the same place as his steel.
"Fuck," Ed pulls back to breathe across Stede's lips. "Fuck, you keep doing that I'm gonna ruin these fancy britches of yours."
"Take them off," Stede says, an automatic thing, not quite comprehending the connection between Stede's touch and ruined trousers, but not caring, because he certainly can't stop touching Ed like this.
Ed kisses him, the edges of it smearing up against his exhalation, fuck yeah, and then kisses him again and again, making no move to do anything with the trousers in question. But then one of his hands departs from its resting place in Stede's hair— oh, agony— only to grab after one of Stede's and direct his touch to— over the hairy curve of his belly, down to the buttons of his fall front— oh, joy, oh joy! Ed is going to let him.
Stede will not be wasting the opportunity. Skeptics might say, oh, it's just taking off some pants, there's no need for fuss, but Stede would point out, correctly, that such attitudes are reflective of an embarrassing lack of imagination. For example, with his hand already at the waist of Ed's pants— Stede's pants that Ed is wearing— it makes a very convenient handhold with which to pull Ed's hips flush against his own. And then, because hips against hips make poor spaces within which to wrangle buttons, he can sneak that very hand around to the delicate small of Ed's back to start with the laces instead, and that's fiddly work, it is, and brings with it many opportunities to stroke his fingers over that soft skin, that downy fuzz of hair, and his experiment is well worth it, note that for his detractors, because.
Because the sounds Ed makes, those pleased little hums pitching lower and deeper, and then, when Stede delivers a particularly teasing touch, skipping high and earnest, and Ed can barely kiss him anymore, so expert is Stede's distraction, and what that means is that Stede can kiss Ed. His sweet cheek, his furrowed brow, his slackened mouth.
But perhaps Stede has dilly dallied a bit much, because eventually Ed's hands tighten against him, and the whine of his voice sharpens into a warning, "Stede, come on, would you please—"
Well, it's not like it's some great burden to take off Ed's trousers, that was, of course the plan. He breaks away from his play to ply at Ed's buttons, though he does not halt his kissing, because that would be unconscionable, and soon the waist of his trousers is fully free and sagging. But Ed had said trousers off, and so Stede lowers himself to the ground, taking the opportunity to kiss as he goes— clavicle, pecs, ribcage, belly, belly, belly— until the fiddly little buttons under Ed's knees are within reach.
"Oh holy shit," Ed says.
Stede looks up at him, hoping to identify the source of Ed's exclamation. Seeing nothing, he blinks up at him and simply enjoys the view. It really does seem that Stede has frittered away a bit too much time on the scenic route, because Ed is flushed with exertion and disheveled from distress. Stede finds it— Hm. Compelling.
"Oh, fucking, shit," Ed repeats.
Stede does not keep him waiting any longer, pops free those last buttons, carefully slides the silk, and Ed's smalls with it, down his body, until he is bare. Well, mostly bare. He leaves behind the fine white stockings, gartered above Ed's knees by pale lavender ribbons. Again, there's just something about it, the thin weave of it, Ed's dark tattoos subtly hinting through, a promise, kept for when the moment is right. It's compelling.
Ed steps back, his body thudding softly against the wall. Smart of him, to brace against the wall, to take the pressure off his knee. Stede scoots forward on his knees, no choice but to follow, and he begins to look up from where his gaze has been running over Ed's calves, intending to watch his face for clues, that he is on the right track, that Ed is comfortable, but he is stopped. Stopped by the realization that here on his knees, his face sits exactly equal with Ed's cock. Ed's cock peeking ever so slightly from the bush of black curls that frames it, frames it and furls out to the sides, fuzzing over, up, down, across his belly, over his thighs. And some of that hair, unlike the rest of it, curling up like a cloud, is slicked down with wet. Some of it, being, specifically, that closest to the split of his cunt.
He hadn't taken note of it the first time— to be fair, there was a lot going on!— but over the course of their activities, Stede can't help but notice that Ed gets, really, exceptionally wet. He hasn't said anything, either, because it feels impolite to point out a difference in someone's body. God forbid, what if it's a symptom of a medical condition! But it's another one of those things, those unique-to-Ed, exceptional little things that compel him, draw him in closer, faster, eager.
And right now, the draw is right there, right in front of his face, and he has no interest in resisting. It's really a natural progression; Stede has kissed down the whole of Ed's body, and this is well within the bounds of where Stede has previously been permitted to touch, and so it is both logic and instinct that tips him in to kiss Ed here.
First to each hip, to the tops of one thigh, and then the other, and then in, careful, sweet, on the bud of his cock.
"Stede," he hears, and then a soft thud, but it does not sound like an admonishment, and Stede feels fiercely that it would be only some fresh kind of hell or hale that would tear him away from his current task, so he does not stop. Continues on, kissing him here the way he would kiss Ed's face: gentle, firm, first with the warmth of his lips, then with the heat of his tongue.
"Fuck, Stede," Ed repeats, a kind of thready that says his agitation is beginning to ease into pleasure, and Stede thrills at the fruits of his— admittedly, usually awful— instincts.
Thrills, also, at the sensations as he continues to explore. He traces his tongue over the well worn paths his fingers have previously forged, dipping down, in, and there is something so fascinating about it, the texture of him, yes, skin and fat and hair and muscle pressing under the reach of his tongue, but more than that, the taste of him. It is something, so strange and briny and living, and it quickly becomes addictive, this fount of slick and salt secreted between Ed's legs, and Stede dives in for another taste, another, just one more.
Ed is endlessly indulgent, or else Stede has serendipitously stumbled upon something that pleases Ed in the same motion that it indulges his own peculiarities, because he does not pull him away, does not call for a stop. In fact, Ed brings his hands down to Stede's hair, winds his fingers in, the way he does when they kiss! And with his grip, he pulls Stede's face closer, keeps them matched as his hips begin to fidget and falter, and then! As Stede's tongue begins to delve deeper, he hitches one thigh up over Stede's shoulder! Innovative, an incredible way to bring even more of their bodies into contact, and very thoughtful of him to step in when Stede himself finds himself curiously incapable of any other thought except for this hot, wet, softest part of him.
Against Ed's iron grip, he gently pushes back, dragging his tongue from him, not to deprive him, not that he could ever be so cruel, but instead to replace it with the more precise press of two fingers, freeing him up to tease again at the spongy head of Ed's cock. And there's something in it, the shape, the feel of it, that makes it feel predestined to be drawn further into his mouth, a perfect little morsel. He does, dragging his tongue against the underside as he seals his lips around the head, seals, and then, directed by some strange notion, sucks.
Another thump, disconcertingly loud, against the wall. Ed's voice, fractured and thin, "Shitting fucking fuck."
"Ed," he says, pulling back. "Is everything alright?"
Ed's response is practically a growl, "No," and it sinks shame, panic, mortification through Stede like ice.
"Oh god, I'm sorry, it was a stupid idea, I only have stupid ideas—"
"No," Ed says, again, and then tugs his grip at Stede's hair, a sharp little pinch that frissons down his spine, through the rest of his body. "Not alright that you stopped."
"Oh," Stede says, stalled out but an inch from the very object of his fascination.
"Keep going?" Ed asks, and this, it is softer, pitchier, and dare Stede levy such an accusation— "Please? Stede, please?"
Needier.
Ed. Needy for something Stede can give him, enthusiastically give him, his touch.
Stede is incontrovertibly a fool, but this type of fool, today at least, he will not be.
Stede does as he is bade. Gentle, easing back in, but working to return Ed to that pitch, that rocking rhythm of heat and clenching muscles and warbling cries of, oh, Stede's name, his, falling across Ed's perfect lips, perfect, picture perfect pleasure.
He matches the pace Ed had set at the beginning, the ambling, and the slow, and the indulgent, not without end in sight, no. In fact, Stede has, over the past week, gotten quite good at it, detecting the sounds, the movements, the exact temperature and pitch of Ed's impending orgasm, and now, he uses every bit of data he has collected, all the knowledge he has of how and where and what Ed likes, to guide him, ever so slowly, ever so softly, right up, up, up to the very slightest edge. Fingers pressing here when lips suck there, that rhythm, that heat, that touch, that touch, that delicious, that delectable, that destination to which Stede can't help but take him.
And there Ed goes, legs shaking, muscles clenching, voice swearing, the whole way, yes, how he goes.
Oh yes.
"Oh, fuck, Stede, yes."
He goes.
Goes and goes, throes of it through his whole body, and Stede only doesn't wish he could see it because instead he can feel it, the way the heat of it sparks from his core into a molten storm that washes across his every limb, fills up his chest until his lungs burst with it, a wordless cry, a warble that swells and swells and dies, the sagging retreat of it until Ed's leg drops from Stede's shoulder, his fingers slip from his hair, his body falls, boneless, against the wall.
Stede catches him, best he can from the floor, hands bracing his hips as Ed sags, body drags, down, until he crumples fully, folded up, all trembling, all shivering limbs. Stede would worry, immediately and acutely, that there was something wrong, for Ed to be so overcome, but close like this he can once again see Ed's face, and the shape of it—
At peace.
Wrinkles washed from his brow, mouth slackened into the smallest, loosest smile, eyes sparkling and fresh.
Ed's chest, still bare, always beautiful, heaves with his breathing, one, and two, and slower to three, a subtle four, until the pace is even, and then Ed reaches out his hand. His eyes have slid mostly shut, and so Stede cannot guess at his target until he goes to say, a bit of a blur over it, one syllable slurring slightly into the next, "C'mere, and I'll take care of you."
It's then that Stede remembers that he is, in fact, in possession of a penis, a penis that tends to react very favorably to Ed's touch. (Or really, just as often, Stede's touch of Ed, but. You know.) He peers down to check in on it, expecting straining, slightly stained, silk.
Instead he sees no tent in the fall front, and a stain a large leap away from slight.
"Oh," he says. That's never happened before.
"Shit," Ed says, his eyes having finally slid back open. "Fuck, mate, that's right flattering."
"Oh," Stede says again. "You're welcome, then." He doesn't know why he says that, it's just that where previously everything in his head was ringing clear as a bell, suddenly that pure sound has begun to echo, to distort, and he doesn't know what to do with the feeling.
"Gonna clean up," Ed says, and levers himself to stand. Stede looks up at him, blinking, slow and stupid. "You need a hand?" Ed asks, and offers one.
Stede only shakes his head. Ed is moving to leave, and that's good, because the noise is only clanging louder, and this has happened before, the noise, and the way it shatters against his brain, and Ed doesn't need to see.
"Suit yourself," Ed says, and then he is gone.
Ed is gone, and Stede remains, and he is here with his thoughts, the struggling little runts that they are, paddling futilely against the tide of noise in his head, the cruel flood of it. It was so good, it was so so good, it was so good, and he made Ed feels so good, and the making of Ed to feel good made him feel so good, so good that he came in his pants.
He—
He likes this.
The things him and Ed do together. He doesn't just like them because it brings him pleasure to take care of his co-captain, he might even dare to say, his friend, it is not just the spirit of selfless care taking moving within him, and the mutualism of granting Ed space to feel the same. He likes them because he likes them. Likes Ed's body, likes being able to take pleasure from it, likes the furtive joys he's been stealing, unbeknownst even to himself, from Ed's touch and his taste and his skin.
Oh god.
Oh god, what a horrible, grubby, ruinous—
What is he going to do?
The problem is he doesn't actually do anything.
Well, as a matter of fact, he does a lot. A lot of things to and about Ed's person that involve a great deal of insidious, barely contained desire, and exactly zero respectable things like telling Ed about said desire, apologizing profusely, and throwing himself into the ocean to save Ed the trouble.
It's just that he is weak, and a coward, and so pathetically needy, and Ed is endlessly indulgent. No, of course, it makes plenty of sense, the frequency with which Ed seeks out Stede's assistance with his release. He's Blackbeard, a mantle he's already explained hangs heavy, and now he's learning a new crew, a new routine, and Stede can only imagine the sort of mental pressure he's under. What paltry relief Stede can bring, there's no surprise that Ed would avail himself of it as often as is reasonable.
What doesn't make sense is the reciprocity of that care. Stede's fine. Besides the deep, churning guilt that plagues his every waking and many of his sleeping moments over the perverse pleasure he's taking from what should really be a very practical, super casual arrangement between two co-captains, what the hell does he have to be stressed about? As he said, he's fine.
And yet.
And yet.
Not only does Ed— initiate, he's. Well, apparently he was taking notes during their little auxiliary wardrobe escapade, because the very next time they came together, Ed took Stede's cock in his mouth! Which honestly Stede thought was very ambitious of him considering the discrepancy in size, but he didn't have time to think much more than that and certainly not to say anything, because he came nearly instantly. And before he could apologize for his mortifying rudeness, Ed levered back to his feet and attached his lips to Stede's, kissing his own taste into his mouth while Ed touched himself to completion. Didn't even let Stede take his turn, which, again, he would have said something about, except that the force of the orgasm combined with the taste of himself on Ed's lips was so thoroughly distracting that he never had the chance.
But still, Stede says nothing. And the guilt festers, and the shame boils, and he says absolutely nothing, taking and taking and lying as he takes.
It is only when he discovers that Ed can come multiple times in a row that there comes a bit of relief, though it remains as sick and twisted as any relief Stede takes in him.
(Would that that was enough to stop him.)
They are kissing on the couch—
Well, allow Stede to clarify, because kissing doesn't feel like it really captures the—
Ed is perched in his lap and their lips are connected only enough to give passage for Stede to swallow down Ed's entire tongue, and when he releases his tongue, Ed comes back for his due in teeth tugging at lips until they plump and sting and then he kisses the ache away, only to plunge right back into Stede's mouth all over again. And because Ed is wearing Stede's bird robe— wearing only his bird robe— Stede can feel the press of him grinding where Stede is very hard— so hard, possibly medically concerning how hard he is, but they've been having— been relieving stress so frequently that Stede really hasn't had much time for research— and even through his nightshirt, it's wet and hot and— god— god—
And then Ed's face screws up, his mouth falls slack, he whines out Stede's name, he's come.
And Stede tries to mask his disappointment, it would hardly be polite, but he had really wanted his hands, his mouth, really any part of him, if he thought Ed might like it he'd settle for an elbow, on Ed's perfect cock, his beautiful cunt. Only Ed doesn't stop, keeps grinding down, murmurs against Stede's lips, "Keep going, feels so good, bet you can make me come again."
Stede can. Make Ed. Come again.
"I can?" he asks, just to make sure he's not hearing things.
"Yeah, babe," Ed huffs, grinds hips. "When I'm really worked up like this, I can usually get two, maybe three or four."
Maybe three or four.
Stede feels like the clouds are parting. Like maybe his guardian angel hasn't fully abandoned him. Since it is clearly apparent that Stede is incapable of doing the decent thing and calling this whole affair off, at the very least, he can atone by making sure Ed gets from this as much as Stede does. He can make him come again. And again. And again.
He wants to start immediately.
"How, Ed? How do you want— how should I—"
"Start," Ed says, and tugs at Stede's nightshirt with a look of disgust. "By taking this stupid fucking thing off. Feel like I'm trying fuck you through a mainsail."
Which is just a hyperbolic expression of course; Stede is not literally wearing a mainsail, they are not literally fucking. But no matter, Stede gets his meaning, and places his hands on Ed's hips, tracing his hands up under the drape of the robe to gently lift Ed from his lap just enough to drag his nightshirt free. Up and over his head and tossed to the ground like so much refuse, and essentially, it is. If it's between Ed and what Ed wants, it's disposable.
"Fuuuuck yeah," Ed sighs, and then lowers his hips back down, and
So
He
Oh.
"— that feel?" Stede hears, maybe, eventually.
"Good," he says instinctively, because, again, churning nausea of guilt notwithstanding, everything with Ed feels good. The thing is, though, the thing that he is feeling right now, good is sort of such a massive understatement that it doesn't even belong in the same dictionary as what Stede is currently feeling, because in very plain terms, what he is feeling is Ed's— wet, hot— cunt, sliding directly along the length of his cock.
You can imagine the difficulty he's having right now doing or saying or feeling anything except wow wow wow.
Ed giggles, a pleased little thing, not mocking at all. "Yeah," he agrees, and then he hitches his hips, and then he moans.
Stede can feel Ed's little cock sliding up, pressing against the head of his own, and then he's moaning too.
Ed never fails to bolster his reputation as an innovator. Fingers on cocks and then mouths on cocks and now cocks on cocks. Truly there is no end to the dazzling ways two men can relieve stress together. Stede has no idea what he'll come up with next and he can't wait to find out.
After he makes Ed come. Two or three more times.
He reaches one hand up to tangle through Ed's hair, to pull him in closer to kiss. (He's found Ed likes this, this gentle bit of manhandling.) Then he tucks his other hand up under his robe, anchors it firm against Ed's hip, and drags his rhythm until it rocks deeper and faster against his cock. (He's found Ed especially likes this, this not-so gentle bit of manhandling.)
Ed whines into his mouth and he drinks it down like victory. Not nearly as sweet as Ed's orgasm, but he'll take a battle as he wages the war. Though it's not war between them, not really, despite the rough edges Ed seems to enjoy. No, Stede can only be careful, even as he plays at brutality, can only hold Ed so tight that he feels it, not so tight that he might bruise, can only command him enough that the obligation to choose falls away, not the opportunity.
And it is good, oh, it is good between them, as Stede guides Ed's hips, as they kiss, as they touch, as the heat of it builds until Ed is trembling through a second orgasm above him, and tipping Stede rapidly towards his first. But Ed had said maybe four, and Stede did not set out to disappoint, so, loathe as he is to suggest it, he urges Ed up, just enough, up, that he can ferret his fingers in between them and give Ed something to really bear down against.
"Fucking hell, babe, give a guy a minute," Ed says, hitching his hips like he has no actual interest in being given anything except more of Stede's fingers, and so, of course, Stede obliges. Fingers, inside, and thumb, outside, working together, and Stede detests efficiency in any area where luxury will suffice and this is no different, but he's hungry for it now, hungry to see two tip into three tip into four tip into— if Ed might indulge him, a shot at the title, a break in the record— five, six, seven, keep him on his tongue and fingers and cock until he simply can't stand any more—
And Stede can hardly stand it.
Ed is so beautiful. The way strands of his hair shake free of his nighttime braid. The way his face twists and falls. The way his chest heaves. The sound of his voice, breaking under the brunt of the pleasure.
He can't stand it, and he intends to give Ed more, as much as he can, and so he reaches his free hand for his own cock, less for the pleasure, and more to get the thing out of the way, all the better to focus on his mission. He strokes himself and Ed in tandem, taking Ed's pleasure and twining it selfishly with his own, braiding them tighter and tighter and faster and tighter until Ed is coming and so is he, they, the both of them are coming together.
Stede usually watches Ed's face, but in this moment he is hypnotized instead by the sight of his spend, splattering and streaking the black hair of Ed's cunt, his belly, his thighs.
He is struck dumb. So rarely do they come at the same time, and so never is Stede's own release stained across Ed's body. It's wrong. It's filthy. It's perverse.
So of course, Stede being all those things himself, he loves it. Has the sick urge to reach up, trace his fingers through the mess, smear it deeper into Ed's skin, chanting all the way mine, mine, mine. It is an untruth so twisted away from reality that not even Ed's endless patience would bear it, and yet he indulges in the fantasy, just for a moment, just for a beautiful moment.
And then Ed is shuffling back (of course) and reaching for Stede's nightshirt to wipe away the mess (of course) and then moving to stand, to walk away from Stede (of course).
"Wait," Stede says, feeble even to his own ears, backed up by no legitimate sentiment that might stay Ed's retreat.
Ed arches a brow at him in question, hovering over Stede's lap, the taunting in between of leaving and staying.
"Just," Stede tries. "I thought," he starts. "We might try for four?"
Ed looks at him for a beat before he laughs, a wrung out, mirthful thing. "Nah, babe," he says. "I can't do four. You already fucked my brains out."
Hyperbole, of course, as Ed often does. He still has his brains. They still haven't fucked.
And yet it is little consolation.
Ed still stands.
Still walks away.
Still sleeps on the couch, separate from Stede, even as Stede suspects that the ache in his chest could only be filled with Ed tucked against it.
Still wakes in the morning to co-captain, as casual and collected as he ever was.
Of course, of course, of course.
He can't stop. He knows that, has made as much peace with it as he ever can, the same peace he's always made in the face of his failures. It will tear and gnaw away at him, but eventually the pain will dull, will numb just enough that he can put on his face, his layers of silk and cotton and colorful armor to push on through another day.
He has to do something, though, can't live split raw the way he felt the last time they came together. Because that raw feeling, it keeps threatening to burrow deeper, keeps crying out every time he brushes against it in the wrong moment, he can feel it throbbing with a whispered chant, compelling him to look deeper, look deeper, ask answers of the feeling instead of swallowing it with medicine, drowning out the symptoms.
So he retreats.
The next time he sees that look in Ed's eyes, that itch that he offers, with a lazy nod of his head, to let Stede scratch, he acquiesces, oh, of course, would never leave Ed untended. But he makes no motion to remove his own clothes, makes no demands of Ed's touch with his own. Focuses only on Ed, the things he knows Ed to like best, gives him them one after the other, wastes no moment on indulging his own sick fascination with Ed's body. It is thorough, but it is quick, and when Ed comes, he begins to reach for Stede's clothes, for his body, and so Stede dips in and coaxes him into another. And when this does not appear to sate Ed, one more. And one more. And finally, Ed tips his had back, sags his body fully against the couch, laughing in that worn-raw way he does after he comes, and he says, "Alright, alright, I yield."
Stede is relieved. Can stand, untouched, unexposed, and retreat.
To walk away from Ed after a moment like this does not ache any better than to watch Ed walk away, but at least it aches different.
And it is that different ache in which he finds his solace.
It would be strange, given the nature of their arrangement, if Stede remained entirely untouched, and he knows this, but still, he has honed the skills with which to deflect only but the most insistent of Ed's touches. Focuses so thoroughly on Ed that he can rarely get further than a rushed handjob, certainly no more of his mouth on Stede, no more of that intoxicating slide of them cock to cock, belly to belly, mouth to mouth, breath smearing into shared breath. And it aches, oh god, it aches.
He has no right to it, but he misses Ed's touch, misses the closeness, misses him the way the great poets miss a lover, pining and soliloquizing, only, of course, in the echoing chamber of his heart. But Ed is not his lover, and he doesn't want him for one. Stede may be a dreamer, he may be fanciful, but even he knows better than to ask for the truly impossible.
No, he wasted his only spark of luck on coming away to sea, and then the very last of it guttered out when Ed happened into his life and somehow had not yet left.
But at least there's a purpose in the ache.
Stede can take care of Ed, physically, and can protect him, spiritually, from the contaminant rot the lives in Stede and threatens at every moment to seep up, out, eking through his skin to taint everything it touches.
The longer it goes on, the clearer the truth of that becomes.
If Stede weren't rotten to the core, he never would have suggested this, would have instead made route for port, as Ed was surely angling for. Suggestion levied, he would have never followed through with it, would have remained content with the already undeserved bounty of Ed's simple friendship. Having followed through with it, would have never allowed it to go as far as he had, would have heeded the glaring warning of his own twisted feelings. Warnings unheeded, in deep, knotted up in the desirous obsession he holds for Ed, would have called the whole thing off.
"Protect him." Ha, even in his own head he's telling lies.
If he cared about protecting Ed, if he really cared, he wouldn't let Ed anywhere near him.
But he's selfish, he's selfish, and he's a coward, and he hasn't the strength to tell Ed no.
He can dodge questions, and he does, what can I do for you, when are you gonna take this off, what about you, what about you, babe, what about you glanced off the sides of his determination to see to Ed, though that too is selfish, selfish, selfish.
But those yes or no questions, those direct requests, he caves every time, folding at the knees like a zealous penitent.
"Can I touch you?"
Yes.
"Will you touch me?"
Yes.
"Kiss me."
Yes, yes, always yes.
"Take me to bed."
And this, this, of all things, he should say no. He should draw a line in the sand, too pathetically little, too monumentally late, but at least this, he should say no.
But it has been a long week. One raid, planned, and then the very next day, another, not planned, but not avoidable. And then food poisoning amongst everyone in the crew except Ed and including Stede. And then a much needed laundry day to recuperate from the food poisoning. And then a rocking storm that forced everyone indoors, crowding below so fully that Stede was ushering overflow into his own cabin. Stress upon stress upon stress and no chance for relief.
And finally, today, they have gotten it, the time and the space and the crew assigned off to their tasks for the first time in days and Ed is in rare form, is a kind of desperate, a kind of needy where it roils off him in waves. Stede can practically taste it in the air, the humid cloud of Ed's want, and then Ed wastes no time making sure Stede tastes it, very literally, on his lips. The well of patience Ed draws from to deal with Stede in all his awkward, all his fumbling, today it is boiled dry.
Ed is tugging and tearing and biting and demanding, and he says take me to bed, and it is a question in only the slightest of ways, but regardless of the technicalities, Stede simply cannot say no.
He takes Ed to bed.
To his bed.
And then they, he and Ed, are in his bed together.
And they are kissing, and Stede is touching, and Ed is touching back, and Stede takes off Ed's clothes: the bulky jacket, the thin t-shirt, the stubborn trousers, the smalls, and Ed is still desperate, still tugging, and Stede doesn't want to push him to tear, so he helps Ed take off his clothes as well, even as every cell in his body, every tiny remaining shred of his conscience is screaming no, no, no.
"Yes," Ed says when he is bare. "Fuck yes." As though he has been given a prize. But it is only Stede here; he must be mistaken.
But still Ed kisses him, still Ed tugs him closer, still Ed demands, Stede's touch, in all the ways Stede has already and will willingly give him, and Stede lets himself lost in it. He is so far down the path already that to choose a new destination would not be to retreat to the start but to forcibly forge a better route, and so what is it? A few more stumbling steps closer to ruin for both of them. A final taste of bliss on the back of damage that already cannot be undone.
So Stede touches him, allows their bodies to touch, loves it, loves the pleasure and the thrill and the warmth of it, not a burning heat, but a cozy hum, a blanket against a blizzard of a day.
And then Ed yanks off the blanket.
"Fuck me," he says, a desperate cadence shaped so carefully that Stede instantly understands it to be not an exclamation, but a demand, and
So
He
Oh.
Picture this. You're the richest, most impressive, most fearsome etc etc blah blah pirate of all time. Blackbeard. You can have anything you want. Except that the one thing you want is the only person on the planet more insane than you, and he's perfect and beautiful and untouchable and you literally beg him to stab you and he's still not interested. So you give up on ever actually getting any of that, except, maybe, you keep dropping hints because the fortress of self control you have around him is, shall we say, structurally unsound. And so he asks you what's wrong and you kinda dance around telling him you're fucked off because you share a big-but-not-that-big cabin with the hottest man you can never fuck and then he offers to fuck you about it. As co-captains. Professionally.
So, self control being shattered, scattered, and buried under the dirt, as mentioned, you do it. And you do a great fucking job keeping it casual for like, a very respectable amount of time. But then he actually puts his cock on your cunt and then makes you see god about it, and suddenly he doesn't want shit to do with you anymore. Except, very crucially, while telegraphing LOUDLY that he wants fuck nothing to do with you, he keeps making you see god more frequently than Saint Teresa of Ávila— fuck off, he doesn't care about that shit, but it doesn't mean he doesn't remember. Anyways, this is some kind of sick, insane torture that not even you would order. Like, feed them their own toes and be done with it, right? And because you're honestly too sexy for death by torture, you get it in your head that your last ditch attempt to get his attention back will be to give him the one thing you've been avoiding.
(It's not like you're scared. Blackbeard doesn't get scared. It's just that Blackbeard also doesn't have a cunt, and especially not a cunt that cocks go inside of so that the wielders of said cocks can start spreading rumors about how they got a baby on the infamous Blackbeard and then very swiftly be divested of their ability to ever get a baby on anyone again.)
But then, because god hates you— probably didn't think it was very impressive that you memorized all those saints since you never followed their example even once, tough fucking crowd, that guy is— you get hit over the face by hell week and so you can't even have your regular sad-sack sex with the guy, let alone your hail Mary sad-sack sex, and by the time you finally can, it's less about wanting to save your nonexistent relationship and more about how desperately you need to get your dick wet.
But! A light breaks through the clouds! He seems into it! He's letting you touch him! He's taking off his clothes! His big— okay, honestly below average, but comparatively speaking— beautiful cock is touching yours! This is going great! You pop the question! The thing we've all! Been! Waiting! For!
And then he has a panic attack so massive and instantaneous you worry for a second that it's actually a brain aneurysm or something and you killed the love of your life with your poisonous pussy.
That would all be crazy as fuck, right?
Happened to his good friend him.
Is currently happening, actually, and the thing is, Ed's not really good at panic attacks. Has had plenty of them himself, but like, he does the sick cat thing. Finds a hole to crawl in and die so that when he eventually stops howling and crying and hyperventilating and doesn't die no one saw it happen and he can get back to it, keep it pushing. But he doesn't want that for Stede, doesn't want to leave him alone, would double-break his fucking heart to walk away with Stede's eyes so unfocused and full of terror, with his breath sawing in and out, teeth catching on raw, aching sobs.
He wants to reach out, wants to soothe him with his touch, but also, far as he can tell it was touch, or the threat of it, that set him off, and the second it started, Stede launched himself away from Ed and curled back into the furthest corner of the bed nook. So touching, probably none of that, for now.
"Stede," his says, drops his voice low and soft, as gentle as he knows how to be. First things first, anyways. "You're safe, babe—" a louder sob. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
Stede shakes his head violently.
'Kay, need to get even more basic with it.
"I'm just gonna sit here and breathe, okay? Just sit here and breathe, and you don't have to do anything but listen." And then he breathes, deep and slow and deliberate, gusty enough that if Stede weren't choking on his own breaths he'd be able to hear it, but big enough that maybe he can at least see it through that sheen of tears. He does that for awhile, waits til he sees a little focus sharpen back into Stede's eyes, til Stede's breathing sounds a little less Ed-after-a-hit-of-Mary's-ditch-weed and a little more random-mugger-running-into-Ed-in-a-dark-alley-after-a-night-smoking-said-ditch-weed. So not, like, great, but probably not actually gonna die.
And then Ed adds in a little more, nothing Stede actually has to focus on, but something to bring him back into the room. Looks at the curtains, tells him, "You know, man, always liked these curtains. Gold and lacy, and what, they don't actually keep any light out, if anyone came in while you had your tackle out they'd totally still see, but they're pretty. They're pretty, just to have something fancy and nice where you sleep. Love how you do that." And that seems to be working, drawing Stede in. He's still heaving breaths, still looks haunted behind the eyes, but he's here. So Ed keeps going, picks up one of Stede's decorative little pillows, starts fiddling with one of the tassels.
"Like this. Can't sleep on a pillow like this. Guess you could prop it up under your back if you're reading in bed," he allows. "Huh. Yeah. But it's pretty too, right. Love this color. This blue. That blue's expensive as fuck, you know? Indigo, right, you loot a ship carrying indigo, big payday for you and the boys both. If you can fence it, anyways, which I can, obvs, got this connect in Port au Prince. But anyways." He looks a little closer, looks for something else to keep them both in the room, and— "Wait, holy shit, have you seen the stitching on this thing? Silvery thread but it's not even just a stitch, it's like— like— a braid in a stitch—?"
"It's—" and Ed flips up his gaze to see Stede swallow around the stuck syllable, try again. (Stede's always been a brave son of a bitch.) It's ragged, muffled, but it comes out. "It's a stem stitch."
"Thanks," Ed says, doesn't wanna push him, not if he's not ready. And he must not be, cause there's silence, more of their breathing, Stede's, steadier now, but still thready, Ed pacing his, for both their sakes. Now that the heat of the moment's gone, his brain and body are catching up to the fact that he tried to have sex with the love of his life and said love had a massive fucking panic attack and also he's still here with his dick out and probably still wet all over the sheets. Yikes.
He sits in it (the feeling and the wet spot) and tries not to squirm about it, cause like, shit's sucks, but it's sucking a lot harder for Stede right now, and he just. He needs to be sure Stede's okay. That's a nonnegotiable. Whole ship sinking, world on fire, nightmare scenario where Ed gets caught in a raid and somehow he's 15 again and somehow he's naked and somehow somehow the enemy captain is fucking Hornigold or some shit, and he'd still make sure Stede got out with his head above water. The rest can come later.
So, yeah, he can wait, and he does, until Stede is ready to break the silence himself.
"Sorry," he says, that's what he fucking says, and not even like he means it, not with his chest, it's a losing horse before it even breaks the gates, quiet and feeble and sad.
"What?" Ed scoffs, can't help himself.
"I'm—" Stede starts, and Ed is not letting him splinter himself on another apology.
"No, shut up, you have nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I should be apologizing, fucking, I dunno, springing that on you, it's not what you want, that's cool, we can forget about it."
Something shutters behind Stede's eyes, and he looks down at his knees where they're hugged against his chest, doesn't say anything for a moment that's probably nothing, but weighs on Ed like a millennium.
"I don't understand," he finally says.
"Don't understand what, babe?" he says, and winces. The babe thing— yeah, that was probably a mistake to begin with, but it'd slipped out the first time and then he just couldn't stop himself, and now, now, fuck it's probably so much worse—
"That. I don't understand— why you call me that. Why you're here. Why you would want to have sex with me."
Fuuuuck.
Yeah, all great questions, but with Stede's position on the related matters still up in the air, Ed takes the safe route and answers the easy one. "Well, mostly I wanna have sex with you cause having sex with you's fun and it feels good."
"Well— Wait. What do you mean? We haven't actually had sex—"
They haven't—
They—
The—
What?
Ed checks Stede's face, carefully, scrutinizes every detail, just to make sure this isn't some sort of hidden-papes situation where they pull a prank on a famous guy and then spread gossip about it for money, just to make sure he's not fucking joking. And, god, okay, insane, Stede's poker face is so bad he can't bluff his way through a round of go-fish, and he is definitely not fucking around right now.
Still, Ed can't keep the incredulity out of his voice when he tells him, "We've been having sex, depending on how loose you wanna hang that definition, from like three to six weeks."
Stede screws up his face in indignation. "We have not. We've been. It's. It's mutual stress relief! Between two co-captains! As you do!"
Man, Ed is not gonna yell at him this fresh off a panic attack. He's not. "First of all, babe—" and fuck it, he's earned that one— "There is no as you do, because we made up co-captains from scratch. No one else does that." Stede looks, oddly, pleased about that. "And, B, sure, mutual stress relief, whatever, but, like, by having sex."
"Well, that doesn't make any sense. Sex isn't relaxing."
Oh. Oh Stede. You poor, sad, compulsorily straight, sad little baby bird.
Ed decides to start from the beginning. Birds and the ABCs.
"Stede, you know how on land they do things the same way forever and ever?"
"Yes…?"
"Even if it's the boringest most annoying way to possibly do a thing?"
"Oh, absolutely—" and Ed can see him gearing up to go off, and any other time he'd be totally down to listen, but this is crucial, so he cuts him off.
"Like dinner service. On land it's fiddly forks and passive aggression. On the Revenge it's as much spice as Roach can get away with and dick jokes. One is obviously better, but they're both technically dinner. Right?"
"…. Right."
"So, then, if sex on land, in an arranged marriage, with some random lady— no disrespect to what's her face— your dickhead dad picked out for you, sucks chuds…"
Ed can see the light spark behind his eyes in real time.
"Oh. Oh my god. We've been having sex. I've been having sex with you. You've been having sex with me."
"Yep," Ed says, smiling. His guy, he always gets there eventually.
"On purpose?" Stede says, and Ed does not like that expression—
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh god," Stede says, squeezing himself back into the corner of the bed nook, horror across his face. "Oh god, it's worse than I thought."
Oof. Fucking hell. The hits just do not stop coming today. Where does Ed even go from here? Like, he loves Stede and all, but there are really only so many times he can get hit with brutal fucking evidence that Stede wants nothing to do with him before he starts acting crazy. And that's the thing, Stede is kinda being an asshole here, which is not really his style. Sure, he's often a bitch, but that's different, and it's also very rarely directed at Ed, and the rare times it is, it usually makes Ed squirmy in a not entirely unsexy way. This is decidedly unsexy.
He figures at the very least it's time to put his dick away. "Right, okay," he says, for his own benefit apparently, since Stede still appears to be lost in the horror nexus of realizing he's been fucking Ed. Jesus fuck. He stands, finds Stede's robe, the floral one he loves so much, and then he figures Stede might appreciate a robe too, but he's still sore at him, so he intentionally grabs the one Stede doesn't like as much, the shimmery orange one he always complains makes him look "too pink".
(Ed disagrees, thinks he looks like a beautiful, sparkly, sweet little goldfish, but fuck off with all of that because he's still pissed.)
He heads back to the bed nook, tosses the robe to the bed, no big deal, he doesn't give a fuck, and settles back into the opposite corner from Stede.
And then they just sit in silence, and this sucks, because silences with Stede are usually nice, like, oh, thank god, I don't have to come up with anything to say, he doesn't expect anything from me, we can just sit together and be. This isn't that. There's a million things that need to be said, and Ed doesn't want to say any of them, especially because, honestly, most of them should be coming from Stede.
Stede, who's just sitting there, pinch faced and tight lipped and hugging his knees, not even moving to put on the robe.
Eventually Ed can't take it anymore, feels like the longer he stews, the more pissed he gets, cause like, fuck Stede anyways, this was all his idea, how is it suddenly Ed's fault he had no idea what he was doing, how come Ed has to be the one to get his heart broken, and eventually he bites out, "You gonna get dressed or what?"
Stede blinks, rapid, like he's just remembered Ed is even here. Great.
"Yes, sorry," he says absentmindedly, and pulls on his robe robotically.
"Yeah, whatever," Ed says, tugs his own robe tighter.
"No," Stede says, and then takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, visibly steels himself, before finally looking Ed in the face. "I'm sorry, Ed."
"Yeah, cool, I guess," Ed says, and if it's kinda pouty, yes it is, he's earned it. But on the other hand, this is Stede who's speaking, aka Stede slightly-more-insane-than-originally-calculated-and-since-the-baseline-was-already-so-high-hold-onto-your-nuts Bonnet, he decides to get clarification. "For what, though, exactly?"
Stede gives a little grimace, like he's trying, and failing, to put on a brave face. "Where do I start?"
Feels like a rhetorical question, so Ed leaves him to it.
"I'm sorry for. I never should have. I tricked you into this—"
"What—"
"And then I was manipulating and lying to you—"
"The fuck are—"
"And now you were going to let me— let me—" and this part he whispers— "make love to you, and, and it's all my fault."
Here's the thing. Ed's been. Uhhhh. Ed's had some sex that was not strictly kosher, vis a vis the other party involved and what they did or did not do or say to Ed in the lead up to the event. Whatever, he doesn't need to dwell on it, the point is, he knows what that shit looks like, and this is not that. Like, none of those people would ever refer to sticking their dick in him as making love. Or care so much about what he liked. Or give so much room for him to back out or change his mind. Sure, the bar is in the basement, but Stede's up in the penthouse, especially for what was supposed to be some casual hookups.
"Stede," he says, slow, deliberate. "I wanted to. All of it. I wanted it. I—" and, yikes, this is a bit too close to the truth, but Stede still doesn't seem to be getting it, so, fuck it— "I want you."
Unbelievably, bafflingly, Stede says it again, "I'm sorry."
Ed feels like he's going insane here and the only cure is to take all his guts, yank them out, spread them all over the table, pin and label them, and hope for the fucking best.
But this is Stede.
So he does it.
Best he knows how.
"Stede," he tries again. Reaches for his hand, stiff at first, but slowly warming into the shape of Ed's own. "These past couple months, they're the most fun I've had in ages, years, maybe ever. And all of it, not just the sex, but hanging out, learning new things, being part of the crew. You, Stede, it's you. You gave me a chance to just… Be happy."
The fear, the terror, the— Ed can see it now— the shame in Stede's eyes, it's finally starting to soften, to fall away.
"C'mere," Ed says, and pulls him closer.
"Oh," Stede says, and he goes.
And then Ed does something he really hasn't done before, not with Stede, not with anyone, not sure if he's even getting it right, but needing, needing desperately to try. He pulls Stede close, tips them down on their sides, urges Stede to roll and shuffle so that he can carefully, slowly, press his body along the line of his back, wrap his arm around him, and hold him.
For a moment, they just breathe, adjusting, pacing until their rhythm matches, an inhale bolstering an inhale, an exhale coaxing its companion free.
"This okay?" Ed asks.
"Yes," Stede says. "Perfect," he says. And then brave, brave Stede, he does.
Tucks his own arm up so that their hands can twine together, folded and settled against the beat of Stede's heart.
And then they lay like that, close, warm, cozy, for a dozen breaths, a hundred, enough that Ed can hear it in Stede's breath, his heartbeat, that the heart in his chest is not beating a retreat, but another perfect rhythm to match his own.
Poetic, maybe he should be a poet, he could, he can do anything, but maybe that's just how Stede makes him feel, makes him feel when it's just the two of them, no pretense, no bullshit, no baggage, just them and their breathing and the beating of their hearts.
He likes it either way.
He wakes hours later, hot, sweaty, hair a mess, and robe kicked almost entirely free from his body. Stede is in a similar state, because Stede is there, shifted in the night, Ed himself tipped on his back, and Stede on his belly with his face buried in Ed's armpit and his heavy thigh kicked up over Ed's legs.
Ed sighs, a murmuring, pleasant thing, feels good in his chest, and reaches out to trace the fall of Stede's unruly waves with a fingertip. If asked about it, he'd be brushing the hair from Stede's face because he knows how much Stede hates the tickle of it, but more than that, he wants to. Wants as many tender little touches as he can give, now that they're allowed.
He's touched Stede a lot over the last few weeks, but there was always an ache in his joints, a strain in the muscles, all the effort of touching him without feeling him.
He doesn't have to hold back now, can feel his fill.
In his skin, his body, swelling up his chest.
So he does.
And then Stede snuffles, blinks himself awake, lolls his head up like a ruffled little puppy, and looks at Ed, looks at him so soft, so tender.
"I'm sorry," Stede says again, and Ed lets him, feels like, finally, Stede understands what he's apologizing for. "I was a dick."
And, a little bit, he was, but more than that, "Life's a dick."
Stede reaches out with his hand, settles it warm and solid on Ed's chest, like he just needs that, one more point of contact. "I love you," he tells Ed, tells him like he's realizing it now for the first time. And then a second time, more sure, "I love you."
Ed traces that lock of hair, tucks it gently behind his ear.
"I know that. I do."
Cause the thing is, it's Stede. Once he digs down underneath all the misconceptions and the fears and the fucked up things other people have put in him, Ed knows him.
He does.