Archive of Our Own ^beta

1715

Ed spots a head of golden blond curls and an accompanying set of shapely, silk-wrapped calves weaving their way across the tavern.

It’s not late, but Ed is three drinks in and the room is crowded for whatever reason—some sort of festival, a parade. Something land-faring folks do to keep themselves moving, when the air stales and the dry ground cracks beneath their feet. It’s long ended now, the streets littered with sunset-colored paper confetti and the public houses packed with people unwilling to tread home just yet.

The person—his own height or nearly so—is a white man, surely of an age with Ed himself. He smiles pleasantly at fellow patrons as he weaves through the press of wool- and linen-clad bodies. He looks soft in his demeanor, and in his hands, like he’s never worked a day in his life. He’s an unblemished sort, a protected aristocrat. His smiles are easy, unguarded, almost gentle. The coiffed golden curls of his hair beg to be fucked with.

Ed immediately wants to know what it would feel like to have those thick fingers wrapped around his cock.

The man carries four tankards of ale, two gripped in each hand, toward a table of raucous men—naval officers and obsequious friends, from the looks of them. They scarcely notice his arrival but snatch the ales as he perches on the end of the crowded booth. He looks so discordant against the backdrop of pigs; he wears a dark green silk waistcoat and bronze breeches over a cream linen shirt, standard fare really, but Ed notices the way the candlelight reflects delicate embroidery in the waistcoat, lovely brass buttons on the cuffs of his breeches just above his knees. His suit is handsome and oddly pretty, like him.

Ed doesn’t know what Curls is doing with those entitled dickfucks.

He decides to stop caring, because men like Curls are rarely worth his time.

The front door bangs open, letting amber light and merry voices spill in from the street. Someone beyond the tavern walls picks at the strings of a lute.

He pulls out his small leather-bound journal and a graphite stylus, the latter taken off a French vessel many moons ago. He likes to write down snippets of conversations, unusual words and phrases he catches, the little harmony the lutist plays before the door slams closed again with a warm gust of wind. He sketches the shape of a monstrous wave he remembers from a dream, stark as it falls apart at its apex.

Tucked into a corner with a candle and a lantern before him, Ed follows his wandering thoughts as he likes to do on occasion. He tunes out the raised voices, the laughter, the endless scraping of chair legs along pinewood floors. He thinks about golden light in mossy meadows, fragmented memories from a fragmented childhood. He ponders the salinity of a moonless night, how a sinuous voice can drag a man back from the depths of despair with nary a song, the way seafoam seems to congeal around his feet when he walks along a shore. He wonders if glorious mermaids live and die beneath the waves, unbeknownst to the realms of men.

He considers that the ocean is a desert, on its surface.

“Are you alone?”

The voice jars Ed from his thoughts so sharply that he reaches for the gun on his belt, makes his chair leg scrape over the floor as he moves. He relaxes marginally when he looks up into the face of the golden-haired man with legs Ed wanted to bite.

“Who’s asking, Curls?” he asks, cool as the sea in summer.

“Why, I am,” the man says with a beaming smile.

Ed sits back to observe the aristocrat he’s named Curls in his head. Curls holds two new tankards near his broad chest. He’s even lovelier up close, his kind face creased with laugh lines, a scatter of tawny freckles running down his throat into the starched collar of his shirt. His brown—no, hazel—eyes are friendly, open. He has sharp sideburns framing his ears, and while his golden blond hair is more wavy in the front it ends in tight coils at the nape of his neck. He wears two rings, one with a red stone and one tiger’s eye. The embroidery on his waistcoat actually sparkles, a delicate web of vines and hibiscus flowers picked out in gold thread. He must have a matching coat somewhere, Ed thinks, a bit sad he can’t inspect it too.

“I’m not not alone,” Ed eventually replies.

“Does that mean I may join you?”

Oh. Well then.

He closes his journal and stretches his neck, sighing at the pop and crack. Then he puts his chin in his palm, strumming his fingers on his cheek as he considers the request. The man doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny, the flare of drama. His smile widens, eyeteeth glinting in the light. Ed likes that. He likes that a lot.

“Are you often in the mode of offering ale to men who are up to no good?” says Ed, arching an eyebrow. He gestures toward the table of officers on the opposite side of the room.

Curls laughs, an honest, bell-like sound that suffuses Ed with warmth. It’s all he can hear for a moment despite the cacophony of voices around them.

“Actually it’s an intriguing tincture of tea and brandy, but the barmaid only had these cups!” Curls stretches out one hand to offer it to Ed, then pulls back just as Ed reaches to take it. A playful smirk tugs at the corner of his thin pink lips, and Ed feels his cock twitch in his trousers. Curls leans down to whisper, “Are you dangerous, sir?”

“Might be,” Ed hedges, accepting the tankard when Curls offers it again. Their fingertips brush in the exchange. “Want to find out?”

Curls scans Ed’s face and his clothes for nearly a minute. His gaze seems remarkably nonjudgmental, simply curious. Ed wears a slate blue linen shirt, open at the throat, and a simple pair of trousers tucked into his leather boots. His black frock coat hangs off the back of the chair. An old woman in the marketplace had plaited his long hair behind his head and woven a teal ribbon through the braid. Three gold rings glint on his fingers. Curls’ eyes linger on the rampant hawk tattoo and the gold chain dangling just below Ed’s brown collar bones, and on the inked snake that slithers over the back of his hand. His silence should be unnerving, but it’s actually weirdly hot. Ed wills himself not to squirm, staring right back into the clever eyes set within Curls’ remarkably kind face, but then—

“I’ll take my chances tonight.”

Ed’s heart hammers as the handsome man sits beside him. His heeled shoe bumps against Ed’s boot before it retreats. It’s sad, but this might be the most (non-violent) excitement he’s had in ages, maybe ever. There’s a charged moment where they just look at each other, then the cacophony of the room reaches Ed’s ears again as laughter erupts near the bar. He touches his tankard to Curls’, nodding in thanks.

“Cheers.”

“To new experiences.”

Oh, fuck. Is he saying that on purpose? Are we already there?

Ed takes a cautious sip of the gifted concoction. It’s warm—almost hot—and under the brandy sit notes of black tea, citrus, and honey. It’s good, strange, a bit like this man, but not as sweet as he would like. Curls raises a pretentious eyebrow at him, waiting for a judgment; Ed decides not to make this too easy for him. He just shrugs.

“What?” Curls demands, with faux outrage. “Surely you have something to say.”

Oh, he’s a bit mouthy, this one. Maybe not so soft after all. Ed bites back a grin.

“Not what I was expecting, but thanks, mate.”

“Anything else?” Curls prompts after a beat.

“Could use more sugar.”

Curls huffs, and it’s the most adorable thing Ed has ever witnessed from a middle-aged human in his life. Ed would fucking swoon if he weren’t a very imposing, very scary pirate. This man is fucking fascinating. Ed watches Curls relax, shoulders curving in as he leans toward his drink. He shoots Ed a mischievous glance then nods toward Ed’s journal on the table.

“I hope I’m not imposing on your villainy this fine evening.”

“Villainy?” Ed places a hand on his chest in mock offense. Curls’ lips twitch. “How dare you! That’s a baseless accusation.”

“Well, I didn’t want to be rude and call it depravity.”

“Maybe you should have, Curls,” Ed says, pitching his voice lower.

The man’s eyes widen, but Ed doesn’t miss the way his pupils flare. He takes a deep gulp from his tankard, visibly shaking himself. Ed smirks.

“‘Curls,’ really?” the man sniffs, flustered and trying to regain some ground. He gestures at Ed’s beard, at the flyaway hairs framing his face. “You have quite the impressive mane yourself.”

Ed strokes his thick, silver-and-grey-streaked beard, letting his fingers snag in the curls.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They regard each other genially. Ed is baffled by a rich man requesting to sit with him—he’s dressed for this sort of room, a mixture of classes meeting together over ale and a hot meal, but still he stands out, an obvious stranger. A brown man with a sharp bearing, a flintlock at his hip, and strange coins from distant lands in his pocket usually engenders a wide berth.

Maybe this aristocrat wants to play with fire.

Maybe he’s an idiot.

Maybe he’s something else entirely.

“Stede,” says Curls, extending his hand. “My name.”

“Ed,” says Ed. Curls’ hand is warm, smooth, sure. The handshake lasts longer than it should.

“Short for Edgar, Edmund, or Edwin?”

Ed barks a laugh. “None of the above, mate.”

“Ah, then Theodore!”

“Dickfuck, you’re a menace.”

“A polite one. Delighted to meet you, Edward,” says Curls with a small, smug smile.

It’s in this moment that Ed knows he will fuck this man, no matter what happens from here. Desire coils in his belly, hot and dark like the heat death of the universe. Nothing will stop him from having this man—in a bed, against a wall, knees knocking against a floor, whatever he can get. He submits himself to the inevitable.

They’re still looking at each other, a comforting mirth infusing Ed’s blood as he wonders who this man is and who he might turn into under his hands. He takes a long sip of his drink, not breaking eye contact as he does.

“Steed like a horse?”

“As if I haven’t heard that before.” Curls rolls his eyes, his golden hair glinting in the candlelight just like his embroidered clothes.

“And are you hung like one?”

This gives the other man pause, as Ed hoped it would. The man’s pupils dilate unwittingly again. His fingers strum on the tabletop. His lips part without a sound, but Ed knows—he knows—that they have come to a tacit agreement in this interaction, because Curls doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t try to make some excuse that Ed can align himself with into more neutral territory. It isn’t one-sided, it never was, but now they both know. The golden-haired man brings his tankard to his mouth, eyes never leaving Ed’s.

“I suppose it’s just a matter of scale,” Ed says into the silent, charged space between them.

Curls—Stede—snorts, then coughs and nearly gags on his drink. Ed thumps him on the back, relishing in the strong, broad shoulders underneath the frilly detailed waistcoat that speaks of more wealth than Ed has salted away in various corners of the Caribbean. He lets his hand linger between Stede’s shoulder blades before retreating to cover his closed notebook, fingers restless on his stylus.

“You’ve got quite a sharp tongue,” says Stede.

“You’re equally well-armed in this battle of wits, mate,” Ed replies with a wolfish grin, thoughts distracted by where he might put his tongue.

Stede brightens measurably. “Shakespeare! Gosh, that’s my favorite of the comedies.”

“Someone tried to recruit me to play Benedict once, but I was—uh—busy. Not really the acting type, anyway. I like a bit of fuckery, though.”

“I’m sure you can do anything, Ed.”

Stede’s smile washes over Ed. He’s so different from most people Ed encounters. Everyone he knows are either assholes or lost—and few can afford the sort of kindness Stede gives freely, as if it’s nothing. Stede’s a walking marquee for many privileges, but there’s something about him that gives Ed pause. Ed knows even if he had refused Stede’s company, the man would have still handed over his weird little drink and bid him well, no strings attached. He’s brave and polite and unexpectedly fun.

Ed plans to strip him bare, turn him inside out like the clocks his old bosun fancied. He’ll chase the freckles that dapple Stede’s skin wherever they go, skim his hands up the backs of his strong calves and sink his finger into the meat of pale thighs. He’ll make this buttoned-up man scream, if he can.

What will Stede do to him in turn?

Ed had no expectations when he walked into the tavern earlier. He just wanted an escape from the grind, sleep in a bed on land maybe. His ship is tucked into a secluded cove up the coast, guarded heavily, with the crew under strict orders not to cause havoc this close to the English navy. (Barbados is a strange place, a haven for pirates because its colonizers believe no pirate would dare enter their waters. They remain blissfully ignorant to their peril.) Ed had kept himself purposefully away from the crew members granted shore leave for the night; they’re off at a brothel near the edge of town. Instead he ventured right into the heart of the bustling town aflame with its festivity, because he likes to remind himself that Blackbeard belongs anywhere he wants to be. Even if no one here fucking knows who he is. And right now, he wants to be right here—with Stede—in the slippery hours of night when anything seems possible.

He realizes he hasn’t said anything for at least a minute when Stede nods at Ed’s journal on the table.

“I saw you writing—before I came over. Or drawing, perhaps? Might I ask what you’re doing?”

Ed hesitates, and watches with interest as Stede’s face turns a fetching shade of pink. He wonders if that blush extends down his neck and chest when he’s getting fucked. Ed lets out a long breath before he cuts off Stede from an apologetic ramble he hasn’t followed.

“Ideas.”

“—and I really shouldn’t have presumed… Oh. Ideas? Really?”

“Yeah.” Ed shrugs noncommittally. He points at his temple, clucks his tongue. “Can’t keep it all locked up in here, you know?”

“That’s—that’s marvelous, Ed. No, truly,” Stede says as Ed tucks his writing paraphernalia into a small leather satchel. He seems almost sad. “You needn’t put it away. I apologize for causing any offense.”

“Nah. You didn’t. No worries.” Ed finds himself distracted with how the tips of Stede’s ears look pink even in the amber light of the room. He sips from the tankard, letting the drink warm his insides. He clears his throat. “I just want to focus on my new friend here.”

Stede looks around them curiously, then freezes. The blush increases notably when he realizes Ed means him. Ed chuckles outright again. The handsome aristocrat is apparently more shy than Ed initially clocked; drinks and the fanfare of the day must have loosened his tongue. Ed sincerely hopes so, anyway.

“You seem all right, Stede,” teases Ed, gently. He bumps Stede’s leg under the table with his knee, then nods toward the door. “What were you doing with those arseholes?”

Stede takes another long drink, more controlled this time. He glances at the officers departing the tavern, chortling loudly and lewdly. They can’t see Stede in the shadowed corner, though a few cast their deadened eyes around before following their companions. Warm streetlight pours once more through the door, which the men leave carelessly ajar. At the edge of his senses, absorbed in this gentleman’s strange allure, Ed can hear the ponderous strumming of lute strings again.

Stede sighs as the pigs disappear from view and a new patron shuts the door behind them. He turns back to Ed, bearing tight with a steely sort of embarrassment. His eyes—chestnut brown, flecked with green and gold—look slightly unfocused, like he’s thinking of something long past but not especially kind.

“Do you ever misremember your past in order to reassure yourself that you’re still worth something in the present?”

Ed stares at him. Stede shifts, takes another sip of his tea-infused brandy. He looks down at his hands, which are wrapped tightly around his cup.

“I’m afraid it’s an unfortunate personality trait of mine.”

Ed is a man who rarely possesses fine things for long, but when he has the opportunity he takes them. The man before him is extraordinary, a conundrum, something delicate and brittle despite his moxie. Ed has recently found himself wanting softer things, wanting to be softer, even when his life requires the opposite. The two of them, here, meeting by accident in this tavern, feel like an inevitable collision. For a moment, Ed sees a vision of Stede wearing his leathers and of himself in Stede’s silk suit, standing beside each other on the prow of an unfamiliar ship. Ed inhales through his nose to calm his nerves.

“We all do, mate… but I think it takes a special kind of person to admit it out loud,” he replies.

Stede shoots him an indecipherable look, suspicious as all get out, but after a moment his shoulders relax. His eyes soften.

“Did you enjoy the festival?” he queries politely, trying to pull them both back to more even ground.

“Nah, didn’t see it. I just got here. Dunno what all the fuss is about.” He leers at Stede, leaning into his space. “Tell me about it?”

“Oh!” Stede thrums in a way that Ed reads as excitement, layered and complicated, like Stede doesn’t know how to react to Ed’s interest. It just makes him more attractive. “It’s wonderful. It’s a mythical celebration, really, deriving from a story about…”

Ed watches more than listens to the animated man. Their knees press together under the table, a searing point of tangible connection. Stede wants him, Ed wants him more. He drinks the peculiar but delicious concoction as Stede gestures wildly with his hands to describe floats and the pyrotechnics and the—

“Do you have a room here?” Ed interrupts, eventually. He would feel bad, but it brings Stede to a stuttering, adorable halt.

“...Oh! Oh, I, well. No.” Stede swallows. Ed watches the movement of his pale freckled throat in the amber light with open interest, despite the sharp disappointment growing in his chest. “But… I have an apartment down the street.”

Ed perks up. Stede looks flustered in the flickering light, maybe from drink or maybe from something else. Ed slides his fingers over Stede’s knuckles, to make sure they are both truly on the same page, that he hasn’t misunderstood this interaction. Stede shivers, eyes darting down to their hands, then looks back at Ed. Nervousness radiates from the man, but his eyes remain dark and keen. Ed lowers his voice when he speaks, eyes drifting down to Stede’s mouth.

“You live alone?”

“Y-yes.”

“I’d like to see it.”

Stede drains his tankard. Ed does the same. Around then the room has quieted somewhat, fewer revelers as midnight approaches but merriment remains high. No one is looking at them; no one cares about two men dancing on the edge of a cliff. Stede lifts his fingers under Ed’s hand, their skin shifting against each other. The electric bolt that the simple, barely-there movement sends through Ed nearly has him out of his chair, to cast Stede upon the pitted tabletop and take him right there. He manages to stay still as stone.

“Yes, that sounds nice,” says Stede.

Nice. The nobleman thinks bedding a brigand sounds “nice.”

Ed wants to laugh. Hard and loud and maybe forever. He can’t keep a lascivious smile from his mouth as arousal coils through his belly. He stands abruptly and pulls on his frock coat, not bothering with the buttons. Stede looks up at him, swallows hard, then stands too. He retrieves his jacket from somewhere in the tavern, and when he joins Ed at the door the jacket is as magical as Ed had imagined. It glints in the light around them, gold licking along the lengths of gilded thread that trickle over the shoulders and at the cuffs; Ed itches to touch the fine fabric.

They step out into the road, Ed following Stede. Glittery confetti—the colors of a wild sunset—litters the cobblestones. Despite the late hour, revelers dot the street, awash in moon- and lamp-light. Stede’s hair almost glows. He’s so close Ed could kiss him right there, but he doesn’t. After a moment of hesitation, like his mind is whirring in similar fashion, Stede links elbows with Ed.

“Is this all right?”

“I’d be offended if you weren’t a gentleman,” Ed replies, earning himself a blush and a radiant smile that makes his blood feel like fire.

This person is Ed’s new favorite thing.

The lute player Ed heard over the course of the evening is perched on a barrel just outside the tavern. He’s a scrawny man with a head of tight dark curls and light brown skin similar to Ed’s; his fingers strum along the taut strings of his instrument. A large white man with stars tattooed on his temple lounges nearby the lutist on a pile of filled sacks.

“Penny for a song?” the tattooed man asks with an Irish lilt.

“Far too little,” says Stede, dropping more gold than Ed expects into a woolen bag on the ground.

“Aye, Frenchie, the gentleman knows when he’s heard a terrific tune.”

“Just a little lullaby, John,” replies the man called Frenchie, a wistful tone in his voice.

“A merry melody,” Stede agrees amiably.

Ed tosses his own coin toward the bag. “You French, mate?”

“Yeah, nah,” says Frenchie, sparing Ed a glance before he closes his eyes. He sways on the barrel, picking a soft tune along the strings. “Maybe.”

Ed snorts. Both buskers are drunk, half-asleep where they sit. Stede bids the men goodnight, then leads Ed down the lane. Ed hums as they walk. Stede ducks his head, grinning as he listens. He pulls Ed closer to him, their legs brushing and causing them to stall and reorganize themselves in the middle of the road, but neither of them mind. They turn down a quiet, empty street. Their steps slow just past the corona of a streetlamp.

Stark shadows fall across Stede’s face, his smile shy and coy all at once. Ed yanks the man to him, their chests colliding. Stede is solid, warm. Ed lets his mouth wander up the exposed bit of neck above Stede’s high white collar. Golden curls brush his mustache, tangle a bit in his dark beard. Stede gasps, his hands spasming on the back of Ed’s jacket like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Ed runs his hands up the solid torso in front of him, pressing into where he guesses pert nipples are. Too much fabric in the way, surely, but Stede still moans. Ed feels drunk on him, on the length of him hardening against his thigh. He traces the shell of Stede’s ear with his tongue, then draws away.

Stede’s cheeks have turned the color of a ripe peach under the attention. Neither of them seem able to draw a full breath. Energy crackles between them. Stede’s eyes drop to Ed’s mouth before meeting his eyes again. Ed stares back, daring, maybe begging a little—he’s sold on this man, on this night, will do anything to find out what he tastes like, how his hair feels when he sinks his fingers into it. After a moment Stede takes his arm again, clears his throat. Ed finds he likes the rumble of his voice, wondering what he can do to extract more noises like that from him. He lets Stede guide them down the road again.

Wedged between a bookseller and a draper, both dark and shuttered for the night, is a nondescript door. Their shoes scuff against the stone threshold. Ed presses close, struggling not to tear into this man out in the open. Stede lets go of Ed’s arm to dig an iron key out of his jacket. He pauses after he slides the key into the lock, looking back at Ed almost defensively.

“I don’t normally do this.”

“But sometimes?”

“Sometimes.”

His eyes search Ed’s face for a moment, finds whatever he needs there, then unlocks the door. Ed follows him in, bolting the door behind them.

It’s a small, two story building. A narrow wooden staircase lit by a single sconce leads to another floor. Hooks for numerous fine coats and hats dot the wall to his right, and a hall parallel to the stairs leads toward the back of the building. Despite the shadows, Ed can glimpse the differences in their lives even if their riches might compare. It’s not a flat, at least not the way Ed envisioned, but maybe to a man of Stede’s wealth the luxurious space is quaint.

“I—I have a house inland,” Stede hurries to explain, gesturing around the dim entryway. He speaks in a hushed voice, as if they might disturb someone. “I stay here when I have business or I don’t want to disturb anyone at—”

“Two houses,” Ed muses, dragging his fingertips over filigreed wallpaper. “You’re a fancy man, aren’t you?”

“Well, I never thought about it like that.”

Ed shrugs off his coat, unceremoniously dropping it on the floor. But before he can reach for Stede to shove the fancy jacket off his shoulders, Stede crouches to retrieve Ed’s coat, hands fluttering. Fascinated, Ed watches him pick it up and hang the thing with something bordering on reverence.

“It’s kinder to store fine things properly,” Stede explains, his posh voice soft around the edges.

“You’re a lunatic,” Ed mutters, but he helps Stede out of his jacket and carefully hangs it on a hook beside his own coat—a nice piece to be sure when he stole it off the back of a merchant six months ago, but it pales in comparison to the array of posh clothing on display. He smooths his hand over the tailored shoulder of Stede’s green evening jacket, letting his fingertips catch on the gold embroidery.

When he turns back to Stede, the man is staring at him with pupils blown dark, his lips parted. It sends a sharp spike of heat into Ed’s pelvis, his cock twitching in his pants. He sways closer to Stede without entirely meaning to. Stede stands near the stair, his hand gripping the pommel of the banister like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His other hand rests on the collar of his waistcoat, deft fingers undoing the top buttons. Ed’s eyes follow the movement until he drags them up to meet Stede’s.

A long moment stretches between them. Ed feels almost wrong-footed, like he’s lost his grip on the situation. Blackbeard at the mercy of a gentleman. Stede arches an eyebrow at him, still working down the buttons of his waistcoat with one hand. Ed’s mouth runs dry.

“Are you dangerous. Ed?”

“Not to you. Not tonight.”

Stede crosses the short distance between them first, surprising Ed. His mouth is warm, dry. It’s barely anything, more a press of lips than anything deeper. But Ed snakes his hand underneath Stede’s waistcoat, fingers pressing into the small of his back through the linen shirt. He palms Stede’s ass, digs his nails in to really feel the meat of it. Stede's mouth drops open on a gasp. Ed drags him closer, licks into his mouth, tastes tea and brandy. Stede melts into him. Ed’s going to get lost in this man. Their hands scrabble at each other's clothes, Ed managing to undo several buttons and Stede yanking Ed’s shirt from his trousers. Ed nips at Stede’s jaw, nuzzling his nose into an impossibly soft sideburn that smells of orris. A hand slides up his chest, fingers dipping into his beard. Stede grips his chin and pulls him back into a filthy kiss. Ed makes an embarrassing sound, kisses him back with teeth and tongue.

“Upstairs,” Stede pants against his mouth.

Ed follows Stede up the stairs and down a short hallway to a door left ajar. A few more ornate sconces line the corridor, lit by some now-absent servant. The upper half of the walls are covered in paper almost the color of Stede’s hair, and oil paintings depicting seascapes dot the walls at regular intervals. Ed notes the absence of family portraits, nothing suggesting that anyone but Stede spends time here. He’s surely married, a man of such wealth couldn’t not be; it doesn’t matter.

Stede pushes through the open door into a small but posh bedroom, Ed hot on his heels. He grabs Stede by the elbow, kicking the door closed behind them. Ed's back on him in a second. The man kisses him somewhat inexpertly, tentative, but the moan he lets out as Ed rocks his hips against him is pure need. Stede tangles fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, mindful of the braid, and pulls.

Definitely not so soft after all, Ed thinks, heat and want pooling in his belly.

He yanks at the silken collar around Stede’s neck as he bites down on a kissed-plush lower lip. Ed’s cock aches in his trousers and he can feel the answering arousal rubbing against him in the fall front of Stede’s breeches. He’s big, hot, urgent. If Ed were a different kind of pirate, he’d tie his conquest to his bunk and never let him go.

Stede breaks the kiss. He kicks off his shoes, and Ed takes this as his cue to undress as well. He loosens his belt. He drops it on the floor as Stede drapes his waistcoat and jabot collar over the top of a nearby writing desk. Stede doesn’t say anything about the gun, or the knife, attached to the belt, but he looks at them. Ed pulls his shirt over his head.

There’s barely any light in this room either, just a few candles on side tables that Stede pauses to light, but it’s enough to get a glimpse of slender pale thighs between the long shirt hem and knee-high stockings. Stede folds his breeches carefully, all the while watching Ed take off his boots, knee brace, and trousers. He seems to forget his task while he takes Ed in. Ed preens, just a little, shaking his head so his braid falls over his bare shoulder. He’s gone soft around the middle, not a young man anymore, but he knows he still looks good. Stede seems to like what he sees; his cock jumps in his shirt, liquid pooling where the tip strains against the fabric. He licks his lips as his eyes slide over Ed from stern to stem to toe, lingering at his waist before landing on his face.

Ed crooks a finger at him. Stede obeys, and then they’re kissing again—sweetly, too sweetly for a fuck-and-run, but Ed finds he doesn’t care. Not with Stede’s surprisingly strong hands around his leaking cock, not with his arm looped around Stede’s waist, not with their toes brushing on the carpet floor.

“Is this really how you treat a gentleman?” Stede pouts, pulling back. His smile is saliva-slick, red. “No words, just kissing? You see, I rather like to talk it through—”

Ed spins him around, then shoves Stede face first into the teal filigreed wallpaper of the bedroom. Stede whimpers as the textured paper scrapes his cheek. Ed grinds his hips hard into Stede’s ass, mouth against his ear.

“I like to talk, when it feels right.” Ed drags the hand not holding Stede’s face against the wall up his side, rucking up the shirt. He drags his nails along Stede’s broad rib cage, relishing in how he shivers. “And you feel so good,” he growls into Stede’s ear. “How do you want me, Mr. Gentleman? Do you want me on my knees for you? You want me to fuck you? Want to fuck me?”

Stede makes a strangled noise, arching his back. His ass jolts Ed’s cock. “All of the above?”

“Gotta choose, man,” groans Ed, rocking his hips forward again, “or else this is going to be over very soon.”

“The l-latter—the one where I fuck you.”

Ed releases Stede, grabbing his hand to turn him around. “Thank fuck, because you have been driving me spare all night and I really—want—your—dick—inside—me.”

He punctuates his last words with small, insistent shoves into Stede’s chest, pushing him toward the bed against the far wall. Together they wrestle Stede out of his long shirt, and then they’re naked together aside from the silk stockings slipping down Stede’s knees.

“Shit, look at you.”

The backs of Stede’s knees hit the bed. He moves to cross his arms over his chest but Ed prises them away to look. Stede has a light dusting of blond hair with a touch of silver, and those tawny freckles, decorating him from his pale shoulders to the crease of his thighs. His nipples are small and dusky pink. The hair trails down a smooth, malleable stomach, down to a nest of ginger curls, his cock thick and rosy. Ed gets a hand around him just as he dips his head to suck a nipple into his mouth. Stede nearly buckles.

Ed has always enjoyed this, if he’s honest with himself. Suckling, biting, licking, worshipping at sensitive spots on a lover’s body, finding out what makes them break wide open. Apparently he gets it in one, because Stede cries out and grips Ed’s head but pulls him closer. There’s never enough time, never enough trust, on the ship or in the Republic to do this, but tonight is different. So he takes his time exploring Stede’s nipples, enjoying the way they pebble under his tongue, sucks and kisses them, bites the hardened nubs when he senses Stede coming back to himself. He makes little desperate sounds as Ed works over his chest, fingers hard on his hips to keep him in place. Stede’s thumbs dig into his shoulders, their cocks brushing and smearing each other’s skin with the beading pearls of their arousal.

Alcohol and arousal burn in his belly. Normally Ed would speed this up, but there’s a devastating man in his arms and a feather soft bed behind him and time seems to stretch. It occurs, briefly, to him that he hasn’t been fully naked with another person like this in years. It’s weird, disarming; it spurs him on, attacking Stede’s nipples like he’s fucking starving. Eventually Stede’s fingers curl into his hair and yank him off. He smirks at what he’s done, dragging the pads of his fingers over the puckered flesh.

“Sorry, mate, your tits are fucking distracting.”

Stede huffs, batting him away. “I’m supposed to be fucking you?”

“Is that a question or an order?”

Stede’s eyebrows knit together. “Edward,” he scolds. The voice he uses is a poor attempt at imperious, but it’s still fucking hot and Ed’s heart beats a bit faster.

“One condition. Stockings stay on.”

The corners of Stede’s lovely mouth twitch. “Oh, really?”

Ed hums. “Under different circumstances, I’d ask to come all over your calves. Have you seen yourself?” He pivots Stede by the hips, turning him so he can inspect the slight swell of ass and legs legs legs.

“Peace! I will stop your mouth,” Stede says gravely. Ed has that line written down in an old notebook stored somewhere at the bottom of his trunk. His heart does a little flip over this weird, little thread between them, trying not to make more ado of this than is possible. Stede brushes his thumb over Ed’s lower lip, settles his hand almost fondly on his shoulder as he looks at Ed. “Do you always make your lovers laugh?”

Never. At least, not anymore. Maybe the older woman he took to seeing in the brothel during his twenties, the boy down the lane when he was fifteen. No one laughs at Blackbeard these days.

“Yep,” Ed lies.

Stede tugs him down onto the bed. 

It becomes clear that the sometimes Stede mentioned is rarely—quick furtive acts done in alleys and not beds, not with time to spare. Ed doesn’t mind because it’s the same for him, if more often over the course of his life. He lets few people into his cabin, and even fewer near his bunk. He doesn’t know what it takes for Stede to let someone into his house, why Ed, but he’ll take it. He opens himself with a slippery oil Stede produces from a bedside table, spreading his legs wide to give Stede a good show.

“I love a good fuckery,” he says with a sly smile, just before he grazes the sensitive nub inside him, Stede’s eyes rapt on the slide of two fingers into his hole.

Stede runs his hand up Ed’s thigh, fingers dancing up the shaft of his cock. Ed shivers under the onslaught of sensation, of what he hopes will come. He rolls his hips, fucking himself into Stede’s hand.

“All the books in the world could not prepare me for this,” says Stede, his voice wavering even while he shifts closer.

Ed’s breath hitches as Stede hovers over him, his grip tightening and loosening with a randomness likely to drive him mad. “And why’s that, mate?”

Stede swallows thickly before he answers, “Because you’re the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”

If Ed’s words get stuck in his throat, that’s between him and the atua. Stede breaks the thundering silence.

“I’d like to fuck you now.”

There’s some manhandling, elbows into stomachs, breathless laughter between hungry kisses. Stede has to take off the stockings because he keeps slipping on the bed and Ed is selfish—he wants to get railed. He puts his mouth on Stede, coaxes him back to full mast, and then he’s on his front with the spongy head of Stede’s lovely cock pressing inside. He grips Stede’s bedding—fine, plush, velvety—and whines through the mix of burn-pleasure as Stede bottoms out.

The man is plastered to Ed’s back, pinning him to the bed. Ed groans. He won’t last long, not with Stede splitting him open in the most delicious way and grinding into him with tiny rolls of his hips like he’s barely holding on too. Warm breath ghosts his ear and he turns his head. The kiss is more teeth than tongue and it leaves them both a bit shattered.

“Talk to me,” Stede growls, fingernails digging half-moons into Ed’s bicep. He lets out an aborted sound, like he can’t believe what he said. “Let me hear you. Please.”

Ed nods, half-wild with the need for Stede to move. “Yep. Yep. Yeah. Okay.”

Stede is a force to be reckoned with. He’s tentative but strong. His first thrusts leave Ed needing more, aching while Stede adjusts himself, and then he’s done for—caught in the tidal wave of white-hot lust that surges between them. He's babbling long before the words make any sense to his brain, praise mixed with dark moans and curses and pleas to deities unknown. For all his talk of talking it through, Stede is mostly a mess of guttural noises that make Ed’s mind liquefy. He manages to shift onto his hands and knees, meets Stede thrust for thrust, his head hanging between his shoulders. He spares a thought for how loud they are, the slap of skin together and the sounds spilling out of their throats. It’s a good thing Stede lives between a draper and a bookseller, because they’re closed up for the weekend and—

He shakes his head to get himself back in order, tossing his mussed braid over his shoulder. He’s sweaty and panting, he’s a right fucking mess and he does not care. Stede has a grip on his hips, angled just right to send him over the edge.

“Ed, gods above, you’re so—”

“Ah, hnngh, fuck, right there—yeah, yeah, oh, Neptune’s bloody tits, do not stop or I’ll—”

Ed’s been leaking this whole time but he hasn’t bothered to touch himself, too overwhelmed. He cries out when Stede finds his cock and makes a tight fist around him. He comes when Stede leans over, covering his back again, and thumbs the head of his cock with just the right amount of pressure. His release cascades through him in waves. Stede keeps thrusting, once, twice, three times before he bites Ed’s shoulder and shouts his orgasm into Ed’s skin.

His mind, rarely quiet, goes blissfully blank.

The room is quiet except for Stede’s deep inhales, and the roaring of blood in Ed’s ears. It’s not clear how long they stay like that, this gentleman buried to the hilt in the Dread Pirate Blackbeard, but bodies are bodies after all.

He collapses onto his elbows when Stede pulls out. He’s surprised to find himself trembling. The bedding underneath him is a mess and his hole is full of Stede’s seed, so he rolls onto his side, clenching his muscles with a grunt. He looks up at Stede, who looks absolutely destroyed. His hair sticks out in all directions, his chest heaving with deep shuddering breaths. Ed’s not unaffected either. He’s fallen head-first into a volcano. He’s out to sea without an oar. The Matariki and all their celestial friends could come falling down and he wouldn’t notice. He grabs mindlessly at Stede’s hand, budging up so the man can stretch out beside him.

They both let out shaky breaths as Stede unplaits Ed’s ruined braid. Then he runs his fingers through Ed’s hair, petting softly like he’s some sort of useless contented housecat instead of a fearsome pirate. Ed will wonder, some days later, what happened to the teal ribbon threaded in his hair, but for now he’s sex-drunk and he buries his nose in the crease of Stede’s arm to center himself. Stede huffs.

“All right there, mate?”

“Quite.”

“Sober?”

“Very.”

“No regrets?”

“None.”

They clean themselves up in an adjoining room that holds a porcelain wash basin, linens, and an array of yummy-smelling soaps. Stede is quiet, his body taut with nerves. Ed says nothing. While Stede produces a new bed cover from somewhere, Ed starts looking for his clothes but doesn’t get very far, distracted by candlelit skin covered in freckles. Stede stares at some spot on the wall behind the bed frame, his golden curls a fetching, glorious mess. Ed crowds up behind the other naked man, the cool wet tip of his cock nestling between pale ass cheeks. Stede covers the arm he snakes around his waist with his hand. Their rings clink together. Ed waits.

“I’m sorry,” Stede says, voice hushed. He holds himself rigidly, not looking at Ed. “I’m—I’m a bit in shambles, actually. And. Well. Quite embarrassed.”

Ed drags his beard over Stede’s shoulder, presses his lips to the back of his flushed neck. “Yeah? Why?”

“I think…that’s the most stirring experience I’ve ever had. And I…you just… Well.”

Do you ever misremember your past in order to reassure yourself that you’re still worth something in the present?

Ed has mastered this, actually, not that he can ever tell anyone. But for a terrifying moment he considers asking whether Stede’s childhood was fractured like his, how long Stede has cradled hurts and who hurts him still. They’re from opposite, opposing worlds, but cruelty is unifying. He is someone Ed never intended to meet, paths serendipitously crossed for an evening. He isn’t asking Ed for anything, but Ed hears the naked vulnerability, the hope for affirmation, the insecurity that enjoying something means you’re weak. Pirates do this to each other all the time—men do this to each other. Ed thinks of Stede’s kind face gazing back at him in the tavern, offering a spot of brandied tea and a cautious smile, and he burns. He wants to cut down anyone who has ever stood in Stede’s way. This bizarre, snarky, endearing fucking man is worth so much more than he knows.

“Curls,” Ed says slowly, “you just blew out my back and I’m not going to walk straight for days. You quoted Shakespeare before sticking your dick in me, but you’re hung like a horse so I forgive you. And I’ll be thinking about your calves on my deathbed. Understand me?”

Stede swallows hard, then nods. Ed thinks he might be crying, and doesn’t know what to do about that. Outside his wheelhouse, people crying. Would send him over to Fang, if they were crewmates. But his mind is also awash with conflicting emotions, like a sloop caught between a lighthouse and a tempest, so they stand there for several minutes until their breaths even out. Ed moves to leave, to go back to finding his clothes, to break the spell of this night and maybe drink himself into oblivion before he returns to the sea, but Stede stops him.

“Don’t go.”

“Stede...”

“Where would you go? Do you have a room at the tavern?”

“Not yet, but—”

“Then just stay. Please.”

Stede doesn’t even have his eyes open, but his grip on Ed’s forearm remains firm. His mouth is pressed in a thin, worried line.

Ed stays.

The bedroom he wakes up in is ridiculous. Teal wallpaper, a crystal chandelier, piles of books and maps on the floor, lavender curtains embroidered with leaves not unlike Stede’s jacket downstairs. It’s after dawn, but not long, the room bathed in pearly light. The conquest he took home is asleep in his arms, drooling on an old scar above his right nipple, nose buried in Ed’s beard.

There are a few things Ed could do right now: leave, steal his stuff, kill him. He could even combine a couple of those, order nonspecific. He is a dangerous man, after all. (The boys wouldn’t mind more coin for the ship’s coffers, probably wouldn’t ask too many questions. Plus the soaps were nicer than Ivan stocked on the boat.)

Ed does none of those things. He tucks Stede closer to his chest, takes a long breath, settles into the cloud of pillows underneath them. In the quiet room, where the responsibilities to the outside world haven’t penetrated yet, he could almost imagine this was his life—surrounded in fine fabrics, rich scents, and walls painted like a cerulean sea. He tells himself to write this all down in his journal, so he doesn’t trick himself later into thinking it was all a dream, when Izzy’s up his ass about something or some Navy’s chasing him down or he’s sitting alone in the maintop wondering where he’s supposed to go.

Stede stirs slowly. Ed does what he didn’t do the night before: he sinks his fingers into Stede’s hair, allows himself to enjoy the texture, inhales the scent of it—sweat and soap and orris, woodsmoke. Stede blinks sleepily awake. He looks confused for a moment, nose scrunching in protest of the early hour, then he spies Ed. His eyes light up, and he blushes, and he threads fingers through Ed’s beard like a devoted husband might. Their legs and toes drag against each other, hands exploring but unhurried. 

It’s far too intense to be real. It’s too easy to get caught up in a fantasy, in this fantasy specifically—one where Blackbeard sheds his mantle, walks away from the sea, becomes someone else entirely.

Ed chalks it up to good sex and the fizzle of alcohol still in his veins. It’s a one night, one morning sort of deal. Fuck nasty, fuck nicely, see you in another life, good luck and all that. At least that’s what he will tell himself days and weeks later, when he can’t seem to extricate golden curls and sculpted calves from his dreams.

Stede trails his fingers over Ed’s face, brushing his lips and up the slope of his nose. The pads of his fingertips smooth wispy hair away from his forehead. Ed lets his eyes flutter closed under the gentle attention. He kisses Stede back when their lips touch. Sometime later, Ed finds himself a bit dizzy and blinking against the daylight streaming through the window.

“I’m glad we met, Edward,” Stede whispers, even though it’s just them. “You’re extraordinary.”

“You’re just saying that because we fucked our brains out, mate,” Ed says, kissing him soundly once more before getting up to piss.

When he comes back, Stede is still in bed, covers pushed down to his waist. He runs a hand over his chest and stomach, inspecting the marks left in the wake of their encounter. He blushes when he sees Ed watching, relaxing when Ed smirks at him and tugs lewdly on his cock.

Ed finds his trousers and pulls them on. His knee feels okay enough to skip the brace today. He can carry it back to the ship. It’s early still but everyone’s expected back soon, Captain’s orders (that guy’s a dickfuck, Ed reckons). Izzy will throw a conniption if he’s late. Stede watches Ed with half-lidded eyes from the pile of pillows, naked and spent in his fussy, wonderfully comfortable bed. He looks pliant, loose.

“Must you go?”

“Ship won’t sail itself, mate.”

Stede inhales sharply as Ed reaches under the bed for his woolen stockings and one of his boots that somehow ended up under there. He sits on his arse, back against the wooden bed frame. He gets his socks back on before shaking out his shirt.

“You sail?” Stede asks, voice a bit strained. He clears his throat. “Are you—are you a captain?”

Ed glances over his shoulder, frowns at what he sees. Stede’s staring at the ceiling, hands clasped over his stomach, face carefully neutral, like he’s just schooled it into place. Ed decides to be honest. At least he’ll be out of here soon enough, if the man freaks.

“I’m a pirate,” he says as he pulls the shirt over his head. “And a captain.”

“Oh!” breathes Stede from above him. He meets Ed’s eyes, lips curling in a disarming smile. “Me, too. Actually.”

“No shit, man?” Ed chuckles while he tucks his shirt into his pants.

Stede hums an affirmative. “Well, I’d like to be. But I suppose one needs a ship, and a crew!”

“Yeah, kinda critical. Don’t forget all the rope and oranges you’ll need.”

“Oh, certainly not!” Stede tuts. “I’ve done my research, of course. I’m about halfway there on the funding, just need to sell one last acre!”

Ed laughs again. This man is a lunatic. The banter between them burns bright, like a spark about to catch flame. Stede rolls onto his side, watching as Ed tugs on his boots. He tucks a lock of hair behind Ed’s ear, fingers trailing over a gold hoop on the helix. It takes all Ed has not to shiver. Stede’s lips twitch.

“Ed’s not a terribly scary name for a pirate, is it? Do you have a nom de plume?”

A feather name. Fleeting, ephemeral. Like this encounter.

The festival was about a thunderbird or a raven, Ed recalls. He turns his head to meet Stede’s gaze. Stede kisses him, fingers sliding through loose silver tendrils until his fingernails scrape Ed’s scalp. Ed slips his tongue along Stede’s bottom lip. It’s slow, unhurried, almost familiar. Ed tries to breathe normally. Stede pulls away, only just, looking through his lashes at Ed. 

After a beat, Ed remembers the question. He nips at Stede’s nose then expands the distance between their faces, smirking.

“Guess.”

“Captain Kidd,” says Stede immediately, snapping his fingers like aha!

“Nope. Anyway, that fucker’s dead. Next.”

“Hornigold,” says Stede, pronouncing it horrifically like horny gold and making Ed’s lips twitch.

“Next.”

“Hmmm. Calico Jack.”

Ed chokes. “Try again.”

“How many chances do I get?” Stede demands, a small pout on his lips.

This man is ridiculous. I kind of love him.

“Until I’m done with my kit.”

Stede frowns, his eyebrows knitting together. Ed thinks about kissing the little furrow on his forehead. Stede studies him for so long that Ed looks away to lace his boots.

“Blackbeard.”

The word leaves Stede quietly, but firmly. Ed lets it hang in the air for a long moment before he shrugs one shoulder casually.

“Wow, mate, got it in four. I’m actually kinda impressed.”

“My god!” Stede exclaims, startling Ed. Stede waves his hand in front of his face as if fanning himself, eyes widened comically. “The Dread Pirate Blackbeard, you say? The terror of the seven seas? The fury from hell that sends men quaking in their boots? The Blackbeard?”

“You’ve heard of me?” Ed purrs, tying off his laces with a firm yank. He raises his eyebrows at the golden-haired, thoroughly fucked-looking man.

Stede giggles, covering his mouth when the sound escapes him unbidden. It’s so fucking charming Ed wants to take him back to bed and never leave.

“Oh, I’ve heard all about you,” Stede says from behind his knuckles. He lowers his voice: “You’re even more handsome than I thought you’d be.”

Oh my fucking shit. He’s not scared even a little bit. He thinks I’m joking. He’s such a brat. Fucking mental.

Ed scrambles to his knees and flings himself back onto the naked man lounging in bed. Stede yelps in surprise, then moans softly as Ed pins his hands above his head.

“Sure you’re not a pirate hunter, Stede? Did you mark me on account of the beard?” Ed rumbles into his ear, rubbing his bristles against Stede’s clean-shaven face. “It’s more grey than black, y’know.”

Stede squirms underneath him, making little breathy noises. He grinds his hips against Ed’s leg shamelessly, despite the scratchy cotton of Ed’s trousers. Ed can feel him growing hard again. He’s going to make this man come again. He wants to leave him in a puddle of his own spend. He wants to fuck Stede so hard he forgets both their names. He must have spoken some of these thoughts aloud because Stede whines at the back of his throat.

“You don’t have to,” he protests, back arching.

“Blackbeard’s reputation for plundering is at stake, man.”

“Oh, in that case, I should probably scream?” Stede’s eyes widen innocently, then he—a grown man—giggles again, despite being pinned under the most wanted pirate in the Caribbean. If only he knew the shape of things.

“You’re a menace,” Ed growls, scraping his teeth along the long cords of the man’s neck.

“You’re absolutely lovely,” Stede murmurs. He squeezes their interlaced fingers above his head before tilting his chin.

Ed captures his mouth in a long, filthy kiss. So much for Ed leaving anytime soon. Izzy’s going to be pissed and Ed can’t be arsed to care.

They’re not old men, per se, but they’re not exactly young either. The boots have to come off again, which is fucking annoying. They need food and water and Ed has to stretch out his knee after straddling Stede for so long.

Stede pulls on a pair of purple breeches before wrapping himself in some sort of teal banyan that puddles like water around his feet. He takes Ed downstairs to a small kitchen at the back of the quiet, narrow house. An absent servant has left “breakfast only for one, so sorry,” Stede tuts, and apologizes that he’s run out of marmalade. Ed nearly laughs himself silly because the table is covered in food. They can hear carts roll past in the street outside as they eat. Their knees bump under the table, just like the night before. Ed runs his stockinged foot up Stede’s bare calf.

They don’t talk.

It's probably better that way. Hearing two of his names on Stede’s lips is a lot.

The tea tastes like their first kiss.

When they return to the bedroom, Ed lets Stede undress him. He takes his damn time, inspecting the scattered tattoos meandering over Ed’s skin with naked curiosity. Before he can really explore Ed’s nipples, Ed flips him over to hide how much he’s shaking. He kisses him to quell the burning in his chest, but Stede’s heels slipping over his back only ignite him. He goes back to venerating Stede’s nipples. He can see them better in the sunlight streaming in from the window, all peach and puffy from the night before. He goes easy on them, kissing them and rolling them between his fingertips. He skates his hands down Stede’s sides, nibbles at his ribs. His stomach contracts when Ed nuzzles into his navel, his leaking cock caught in Ed’s beard. The whole time Stede’s hands rest on his head, thumbs brushing his ears. He glances up from time to time at Stede, who stares back at him with wide, heated eyes.

He’s still kissing Stede’s freckled skin when he runs oil-slicked fingers behind his balls. Ed likes the way his breath catches as his fingertip eases past the furled muscle, leg hiked over Ed’s shoulder. The thick pink cock bobs in front of his face, so he makes some devotions there too before turning him onto his stomach. Ed mutters reassurances into his shoulder blades, licks at beads of sweat slipping down Stede’s back as he opens him.

“I’m ready,” Stede pants face down into his pillow, his ass and legs quivering.

“Just trying to figure out how I want you,” Ed says, petting the spot inside Stede so he can hear the sweet, broken sounds he makes again.

“I want to see you.”

It shouldn’t send a shiver up Ed’s spine. It shouldn’t feel momentous. Ed studiously puts those thoughts away in the deserted isle at the back of his mind, and takes his slick fingers out of Stede’s hole.

Stede, for all his enthusiasm, is still inexperienced. Ed feels it too, differently: like he shouldn’t be here, like he doesn’t deserve this. When Ed parts his long, freckled thighs, Stede’s hand closes around his wrist. If Ed weren’t pretending to be someone else in this room, he would break his arm. No one touches fucking Blackbeard like this. Stede looks up at him, green-brown eyes shining, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Ed shushes him, cups one cheek with his hand to kiss him. Stede makes a needy whimper, his cock twitching against his stomach. Ed lines himself up to Stede’s hole by feel alone. Stede puts his legs around Ed’s waist.

“Guess what I’m going to tell the boys when I get back to the boat,” Ed mutters against his lips. He presses the head of his slickened cock inside Stede, swallows the moan he earns. He shifts forward on his knees, sinking in further, letting Stede adjust to the stretch. “A rakish gentleman took me home and fucked me sideways. I barely made it out alive.”

A laugh bubbles up into Stede’s throat, hitched as Ed rocks his hips forward. His hands flutter then rest on Ed’s sides. “Won’t that ruin your—oh—r-reputation?”

“Nah.” Ed rests his forehead on Stede’s, focuses on regulating his breathing. He shifts them so one of Stede’s ankles hooks over his shoulder, not entirely folding him in half but not not doing that either. Stede inhales sharply. Ed grins, rolls his hips, gets another whimpering gasp. “See, I fought back, took that son of a biscuit eater to pieces. Nicked his fancy soaps and plundered his booty ‘til he begged for mercy.”

Stede’s laughing still when Ed starts fucking him in earnest. His arms slide up Ed’s back to wrap around his neck.

It doesn’t take long, not with the pent up energy growing since they woke earlier that morning, but Ed lasts long enough to make Stede talk. It’s a long stream of nonsense mostly; Ed loves it. Stede moans more and Ed and beautiful and oh please and fuckshitfuck and Ed thinks he’s drowning in this person and he doesn’t fucking care.

“Touch yourself,” he rasps.

Stede’s knuckles brush their stomachs as he gets a hold of himself. A desperate sound flows out of him. He clenches hard around Ed, come spurting between them. Ed pulls out to look at how the puffy furl of muscle quivers before he slams back in. Ed follows him over the apex in short order, his orgasm a sharp blade of pleasure, like the snap of a sail in the wind. He has enough presence of mind to piston his hips still, even as his erection flags, until Stede practically sobs from overstimulation. Then he licks the pearls of fluid from Stede’s broad chest, sucking pert nipples back into his mouth. Stede declares him wicked, clinging to him even as Ed slips out. They kiss languidly, Ed’s thumb pressed inside Stede to keep his spend from leaking. It’s obscene, and hot, and he wonders if this might all actually be some fever dream.

“Thank you,” Stede sighs later when they’re curled into each other, Ed stroking Stede’s hair and Stede’s hand on his belly. “For the plundering, I mean.”

Ed snorts. “My pleasure, mate.”

Finally, it is truly time to go. Ed actually manages to get fully dressed, straps on his brace, lets himself linger on the feeling of the fabric before he passes Stede his teal dressing gown.

“There aren’t pirates in Bridgetown,” Stede says quietly, tugging on the robe. It falls around his naked form like ocean waves.

Ed lifts his eyebrows. “Aren’t there?”

Stede glances at the knife and gun on Ed’s belt. “I suppose, when I first saw you in the tavern, I thought you were a poet.”

Something fragile ripples through Ed, which he immediately locks away. Instead, he puffs up his chest a little. “I can do anything.”

Stede dips his head, a lock of golden curl falling into his hazel eyes. His smile is shy, flimsy. “Of that I have no doubt, Edward.”

Ed nudges him with his shoulder. “You can do anything, too, mate.”

And so he leaves, one bar of lavender-scented soap tucked in his satchel and the ghost of silk on his fingertips from touching Stede’s arm when they said goodbye.

1717

Ed sits on the top of the Queen Anne’s Revenge mainmast, perched like a gloomy raven watching day shift into night. The riot of colors streaking across the sky does little to affect him these days, even when the first whetū of the evening wink into view.

His current journal lies closed beside him, the pages filled with nautical directions, the taste of the wind on sixteen different Thursdays, a rough sketch of an old woman in Basseterre, lyrics to the melancholy song Izzy doesn’t know Ed heard him singing. He’ll have to get a new journal soon enough, because this one will join all the others stuffed with thoughts and fantasies and mental equations at the bottom of his trunk.

Ed sighs, half-listening to a quarrel down below that will probably end in someone getting decked. Someone else can handle it, not his problem. His mind strays elsewhere. His first mate had snarled “stupid fookin Stede Bonnet” as he stomped out of Ed’s quarters that afternoon, gnashing his teeth over some fascinating new upstart, pissed off rather than fascinated. Izzy would probably prefer to die tied to an anchor than have a fucking imagination, to dream past the bulwarks and how much they can carry in the hold.

This new person, the gentleman in pirate garb, is the only thing breaking the monotony that has overshadowed Ed’s life for some time. He sounds fun. He sounds dangerous.

Ed can’t wait to meet him.

For some reason, his name rings a bell but he can’t place it. He’s probably been drinking too much, overstuffing his pipe. His mind has always been a whirlwind, but lately it’s felt like a whirlpool pulling him down. Everything has.

The waves sparkle pink and red in the dying sunlight. Ed frowns, a memory forming at the back of his mind. The aftermath of a festival in Barbados, glitter in the streets and the hair of festival goers. His cock hardens in his leathers as he thinks of pink nipples pebbling under his tongue. He remembers hot tea and brandy coursing down his throat, freckles in candlelight, sinuous legs and golden hair stuck out at all angles. It’s a good thing he lashed himself to the mast in case he fell asleep, because he nearly topples off the side when he pairs a kind face to a peculiar name.

“Fuck.”