Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Stede has this memory.

It’s an old one, carved deeply into the creases of his brain. Despite it happening so long ago, Stede knows it’s there to stay.

The memory is of Alma, on her very first day of school. 

God, they’d taken so many photos, him and Mary. Their Big Girl, going off to Big Girl School. Grinning a wonky, gap-toothed smile for the camera, dressed up in her pristine new school uniform, her long hair woven into two perfectly symmetrical Dutch braids, each one fastened with a silky blue bow. 

Picking her up from school, well.

That had been a very different story.

One bow hanging onto the ends of her hair for dear life. The other missing entirely. Also, a sock. She’d been missing a sock, but her little black school shoe was still present and accounted for; how does one misplace a bloody sock? The starched white shirt she’d been wearing under her pinafore, that was gone too. Replaced with a T-shirt from the lost property, three sizes too big, after what Alma’s teacher had called a ‘Creativity Incident’. 

(Stede gets it. Those tend to be on the messy side.)

Oh, and also, upon closer inspection: one pocket of her pinafore had contained a live (and probably rather stupefied) snail. The other had contained some sand, four slightly squished strawberries, and a fistful of dry cheerios (none of which had been packed in Alma’s lunchbox. Especially not the snail).

Stede had never laughed harder. She’d been picture-perfect when leaving the house, and not six hours later genuinely looked like a tiny drunk, stumbling home from the club with a vague expression and a book bag full of regrets.

The memory comes up again now, close to a full decade later. 

It reappears because of another drunk. 

Not a tiny one. But one who is…equally disheveled. Equally vague.

And one who Stede feels an equal amount of overwhelming, sweeping affection for.

The keys have been jingling in the lock for a truly comical amount of time, accompanied by irritable muttering and a clumsy jabbing sound that suggests the keyhole is being continuously missed. Stede listens from the couch, his face splitting into a slow grin over the muffled fuckin’--fuckyou–nah, thazfuckin’--ohmyfuckinGOD, gethfuck IN, the whole tirade punctuated with clink and clatter and stabstabstab.

Stede finally takes pity, rising from the couch with a forbearing smile to unlock the door.

He’s met almost immediately with a stumbling mess of poorly-rendered limbs and unintelligible vowels and a wild scribble of graphite hair. His arms fling out on instinct to catch the dense man-weight that’s shovelled into his chest, and neither Stede nor his assailant fall down, but it’s a pretty close call. Stede goes ‘woah, woah, woah–’, giggling as he does his best to help four legs find their footing. Easier said, when two of four legs are choosing to be very uncooperative about the whole thing.

Only when Stede is certain there’s no risk of injury to either party, he leans back to properly take in the loosely bundled chaos he’s holding in his arms.

This is where that memory comes into it. 

Edward Teach is an absolute fucking knockout any day of the week. This is an objective fact. But five hours ago, when he’d headed out for the evening, his ordinary levels of Scorching Hot had been dialled up so high that Stede was genuinely concerned just looking at him might flame-grill his last remaining brain cells.

He’d looked good. Disgustingly, infuriatingly good. Good enough that Stede had maybe started drooling a little, and he’s not about to disclose which body part (or parts) that drooling had been associated with. 

Stede had hovered in the doorway as Ed had finished prettying himself up, absolutely unwilling and unable to tear his eyes off him. He’d practically had to lean against the door frame for support, his mouth tingling and his gaze raking over him, hands twitching with the need to grab a handful of his ass in those jeans.

“Eyeliner looks ugly,” Ed had murmured, eyeing his own reflection with a critical tilt of his head.

Stede had laughed out loud.

“Is the ugly in the room with us?”

The eyeliner in question was this smoky, smudged-out plum colour that was absolutely working for Ed, making his eyes look fierce and bright. Pair that with the completely sheer cropped shirt, the leather jacket, and the tumbling faux-hawk braid; tiny purple gems clipped into it, catching the light, and god, he looked like…

Like a really sexy açaí bowl. The kind all the other açaí bowls would be too intimidated to approach at their little açaí bowl parties.

“I take it you and Fang decided to paint the town red, then?” Stede had asked. Suddenly craving an açaí bowl. Or a blowjob. Maybe just. Vaguely craving. Just a little nondescript, Saturday night yearning. It’s a man’s right to yearn, if he wants to.

“That’s the problem,” Ed had huffed, readjusting the bubbles of his braid. “There’s no plan. Might stay in. I’m trying to, like. Dress for any eventuality, y’know?”

Stede had nodded dimly. He’d mostly just been staring at the reflection of Ed’s nipples in the mirror. He’s very familiar with those nipples, but it hadn’t made them seem any less miraculous, at the time.

Ed had turned then, giving Stede a proper, full-frontal view of what Ed called ‘The Entire Fit’. Stede had seen The Entire Fit, and had Fit it Entirely into the very small, very empty space in the forefront of his brain, and he’d thought about other things that Fit Entirely in very small, very empty spaces.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Ed had asked, eyes hopeful, pleading. “Won’t be any fun without you.”

“I promised Mary I’d take the kids to a movie,” Stede said, moving forward to fold apologetic arms around Ed’s waist. “Besides, you’ve not had a good long catch up with Fang in ages; not without me third-wheeling the two of you.”

Ed had frowned, opened his mouth; probably to insist that Fang is actually the third wheel. Stede had cut him off with a kiss; a far too chaste one, but if Stede had kissed Ed the way he’d actually wanted to in that moment, he wouldn’t be getting out the door until the following morning at best. 

“Go,” Stede had murmured, with fond insistence. “Have fun. Be safe. Call me if you need a lift home. I don’t care how late it is, okay?”

Well. Ed seems to have followed all of Stede’s advice. He’s home safe, for a start.

And he’s definitely had fun.

He's still gorgeous, which honestly feels like a plot hole. Admittedly, he's definitely leaning into a Raccoon That's Been Peeled Out Of The Dumpster Behind The Sephora kind-of vibe. His hair is an absolute disaster. He’s clearly tried to undo it; perhaps the tight pull of the strands had started giving him an achy scalp? But he’s only managed to free about half of it, the rest still clinging to itself messily, encased in a halo of staticky frizz. That lovely sheer shirt has a stain splashed across it in an incomprehensible shade of deep pink, and Stede’s isn’t sure but he thinks he might be missing an earring. The dusky purple lining Ed’s right eye is, oddly enough, absolutely immaculate. On the left, however, it’s smeared halfway across his temple and almost down to his cheekbone. 

Ed sleeps on his left. He’s clearly taken a little nap at some point. This is, Stede instantly decides, the most endearing thing in the entire world.

“Shhh,” Ed says, though who he’s shushing, Stede has no idea. His head lolls helplessly, and he lurches forward into Stede’s arms like a sack of sexy, drunk potatoes. “Shhhhhh, s’late.”

“It is,” Stede agrees, amused. “You're way past curfew, young man.”

Ed snorts. “Sorry, Mum,” he teases, then immediately begins to snicker about it. “Nah, that's fuckin’ wrong, hey?”

“Horrifically wrong,” Stede confirms, grinning despite himself. He lets Ed flop woozily against him, shoulders his weight. “Did you have a good time?”

“Mm. We stayed in. Fang made old fashioneds.”

“You hate old fashioneds.”

“Made old fashioneds for him,” Ed clarifies, his voice slack against Stede’s neck. “For me, he made. Uhh. This thing with, like. Birthday cake vodka?”

“Sounds yummy. What were the other ingredients?” 

Ed loosens himself from the embrace, teetering backwards to squint at Stede. 

“What other ingredients?” he slurs.

Stede tsks in mild disapproval, but he’s powerless to stop the besotted giggle that hops through his chest about it. He brushes a few madcap strands of hair out of Ed’s face, then attempts to swipe at least a little of the eyeliner off his cheekbone. His eyes are bloodshot and bleary, his cheeks warm and flushed, and now that he’s mentioned it Stede does notice that he smells, rather cloyingly, of birthday cake. He tries to stand on his own two feet, bracing himself with flat palms pressed against Stede’s chest for a moment before letting his arms drop. Unfortunately, this lasts for a grand total of four seconds, and Ed promptly begins to stagger and sway, feet moving in a lumbering approximation of a baby giraffe on an ice rink.

“Okay,” Stede says quickly, hooking one of Ed’s arms over his shoulders and guiding him to sit on the couch. “Okay, come on. It’s sitting time, I think. Sitting, and a drink.”

“Yeah,” Ed agrees happily. “Yeah, les’do that.”

“Of water.”

Ed pouts. 

(Also, as Stede heads into the kitchen to fill a glass, he swears he hears Ed ‘boo’ him faintly; a morose, almost ghostly booooo. He’s lucky he’s so fucking loveable.)

When he returns, the lackluster response to water has waned, and so has Ed. He’s gone from sitting to slumping in less than a minute, his legs zig-zagging all over the place and his chin drooped against his chest. His eyes warm when they land on Stede. It happens more slowly than usual; all his responses a little delayed. But it still happens, and with no less intensity than any other day. That same adoring flare of heat, the same sweet scrunches in the corners.

Stede passes him the glass, and Ed dutifully drains the whole thing in one breath. Stede makes himself comfy right next to him, correctly predicting that Ed will want two immediate things the moment he’s done: to palm the glass off to the nearest set of hands, and to collapse into Stede’s arms. It takes a second of juggling to manage both at once, but Stede manages to keep his hands steady, settling Ed against him as smoothly as possible.

“How’d you get home?” he murmurs, attempting to pick a bobby pin out of Ed’s tangled curls as he sags into Stede’s side. “Was expecting you to call me for a pick up.”

“Uber. You were at your movie. Kids. Didn’t wanna ruin your night.”

“Edward,” Stede chides gently. “You could never. You know that. Also, it’s one in the morning, darling. How long do you think movies are?”

“Fuuuuck,” Ed groans groggily. “One. M’sorry. You waited up. Didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I didn’t. I chose to. Besides which, I think I’ve been conditioned to need you next to me to be able to fall asleep. Can barely fathom the thought of doing it alone.”

Ed makes a soft, crooning noise at this, nuzzling into Stede neck with wordless affection.

“Shuddup,” Ed suggests vaguely. “Feel guilty as it is, without you being all cute at me. Oh - did you get Fang’s apology text? Fang was gonna send you an apology text. For sending me home ten sheets to the wind.”

“The idiom is three sheets to the wind, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Ed agrees absently. “But I’m fuckin'...sheeted.”

Stede fishes his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. He does, in fact, have a message from Fang.

It reads: ssssjsdfhfdff877

“Hey, so,” Ed pipes up; animated by a sudden thought. Well, animated at about three frames per second; each movement lagging and slovenly. His speech is no better; mostly vowels and grit, the remaining consonants trying sluggishly to inflate into the right shapes. “Hey. So. I’m a guy. ”

“You are a guy,” Stede says indulgently, as though this is an excellent observation.

“No, shh,” Ed slurs. He’s pushing himself off of Stede to properly look him in the eye, as though Ed Being A Guy is both a matter of utmost importance and something Stede has neglected to recognise for the entire duration of their relationship. “Shhhhhlisten. I talked to Fang about you.”

This piques Stede’s interest.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause usually you’re there. With me. So I never get to talk about you. But tonight I talked to Fang about you. And the fact that I’m a guy. I’m…I’m a…a whoooole guy.”

Stede is no closer to understanding what Ed is talking about, but he’s definitely intrigued. Ed doesn’t drink particularly often, and so it’s been a hot minute since they’ve done any drunk philosophy. Stede enjoys drunk philosophy. 

“A whole guy?” he teases. “Well, I should certainly hope so! Happy to take inventory for you, though, if you need. Make sure you’re not missing any parts.”

This, of course, quickly becomes A Bit that derails Ed’s entire train of thought. Stede makes a big show of counting all of Ed’s limbs and fingers, aiming for the ticklish spots until Ed goes all floppy and giggly about it. The whole thing gives Stede the perfect excuse to help Ed get his boots off (gotta check for ten toes, of course), though Ed seems to care a lot less about having ten toes than he does about his balls, which he demands Stede also count to make sure there’s two. 

Stede reaches down obligingly, his fingers hovering over denim. “One,” he says, fighting hard to keep his voice very serious, his expression grave. “Two...” He hesitates. “Three?” Ed’s eyebrows shoot up, alarm dawning in his glassy, vacant eyes. “Four– wait, five, six? ” He pulls his hand back as if stunned. “Seven?! ”

“Nooooo,” Ed whines, pitching forward into Stede’s arms. He pats himself down clumsily with one hand, as though trying to put his own mind at ease.  “Not seven, don’t want seven. Say I have two.” 

Then, a follow up thought; one that comes drizzling out before Stede has the chance to respond: “Wait—would y’still love me if I had seven balls?”

Stede hums, as if seriously considering it. “Depends. Are they all in the usual ball location, bunched up together like grapes, or are they scattered all over your body? Or is it a third, even worse thing?”

Ed squints, weighing his options. “Hmm. The grapes one,” he decides. “Three on each side.” 

He hesitates, doing some mental math so slowly that Stede swears he can see the counters being moved from one side of Ed's brain to the other.

“S’only six,” he announces. “Seventh one’s on my face.”

“Oh, awful!” Stede chirps. “Hate that!”

Ed’s starting to slip from where he’s made himself a human ramp against Stede’s chest. Stede gathers him up in both arms, hoisting him back upwards with a grunt of effort. Normally, manhandling Ed is pretty do-able, but not when Ed’s making little to no attempt to manage his own weight. On the contrary, it almost seems as though he’s actively trying to make himself heavier, goading gravity itself; c’mon, fucker - do your worst.

“But would you?” Ed presses, eyes big and wet and beseeching, and just a little pathetic. “Would y’still love me?”

“I absolutely would, yes,” Stede vows, as solemnly as he’s able. He cradles Ed’s jaw in his hands, kisses him softly. He tastes chemical and sweet.

“I can’t get it surgically removed,” Ed warns. “It’s, like. Connected to my brain. Can’t get rid of it.”

“You’d better not,” says Stede. “Can’t possibly be a whole guy if you go trying to lop bits off, can you?”

“Wait, okay,” Ed says abruptly, eyes lighting up; fuzzy like halogen bulbs on their last legs. “So. The ‘whole guy’ thing.”

“Go on. Tell me.”

Ed heaves himself upright with a groan, visibly trying to blink himself back to a state of alertness. 

“Okay, right,” he says, sounding bedraggled but determined. “Listen. With other people, I gotta…I mean, like. Before. Before you, with other people?”

Stede nods in understanding, though Ed has yet to make a single point.

“Yeah. Yeah, so. Before you, I had to be the…the tough guy. Or, like. The scary guy. The smart guy. Had to be all sorts of a guy. Even the bits of a guy that aren’t really me as a guy, right?”

Stede nods again. Slower, this time, because real understanding is beginning to take shape. 

A gentle warmth rolls over in the bed of his heart. God, too warm. It’s flipping its pillow to try and find the cool side. 

“But with you,” Ed goes on, control over the endings of words steadily sliding from his grasp. “With you, s’different. Don’t have to be the smart guy. I can be fuckin’ stupid–”

“You’re never stupid–” Stede intervenes, because if there’s something he simply can’t abide by, it’s a falsehood. Especially a really ridiculous one.

“Or soft,” Ed continues, like Stede hasn’t spoken at all. “Can be soft.”

And yes, okay. 

Ed is soft. He’s soft like bruises in overripe fruit, soft like smoke unwinding itself into the air, soft like well-worn leather molding itself to a familiar body. 

He’s soft, and he’s spent so many years trying not to be.

“With you,” Ed says, and there’s a softness in that, too. “With you, I can be bad at things. Or good at them. Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re good at lots of things,” Stede says, taking one of Ed’s hands and flipping it over to run a doting caress across his palm.

“Yep. I’m good at…at knives.”

“That’s…not exactly a verb, sweetheart.”

“Negotiating. That’s a verb.”

“It is.”

“Strategising. Good at that, too. Also claw machines. Fuckin’...whizz-bang at a claw machine.”

(He really is, actually. Stede’s halfway convinced that the beginning of the apocalyptic machine uprising will be solely the cause of Edward Teach. The claw games at their local arcade will be the first to gain sentience, just so they can take off running when they see him walk through the doors.)

(But Ed is once again getting off track.)

“You’re good at telling stories,” Stede chimes in, light and coaxing. “Why don’t you tell me the one about the Whole Guy?”

Ed blinks lethargically, each eyelid moving at an entirely different frequency. 

“Oh yeah,” he says distantly, like Stede’s just dredged up a decades-old memory. “That guy.” He jabs a thumb at his chest, grinning dopily. “Thas me.”

He rolls his sweetly rumpled head to one side, his skull dangling from his neck by a few loose threads, at an angle that cannot possibly be comfortable. Stede reaches for him, trying to prop him upright. It’s an entirely fruitless endeavour, and he’s sliding sideways again not a moment later. Still grinning away.

“Listen,” he garbles. “Listen.”

“Listening attentively, darling,” Stede promises. He doesn’t like the look of that slump. “I’ll be listening from the kitchen. You need more water.”

It’s not a lie. The kitchen is within listening distance from the couch, and Ed really does need more water, if he’s wanting any chance at not feeling absolutely revolting tomorrow. Stede grabs his empty glass, hauling himself up to refill it.

He manages only one step away from the couch when his progress is halted. Ed’s reached out and grabbed his hand, tangling their fingers together and tugging him back. 

“I’m trying to say,” Ed tells him, “that you…you like all my parts. I’m. I’m a whole guy with you. I can just…be a complete whole.”

To Stede’s credit: this does not make him instantly burst into tears.

However, trying to hold his tears at bay for the few brief moments he manages it does feel rather like standing in the path of an avalanche with a polite smile and a stop sign.

A complete whole. Ed feels like a complete whole.

There’s something inside of Stede that’s peeling, splitting, lifting away. It’s the membrane encasing his heart; like that layer of skin inside of an eggshell, the final layer of defense. 

It doesn’t make any sense, that Ed is still able to make him feel like this. Tell that to the weak, bleeding cells of his heart, though; to the needling sting of his eyes.

“Nooo,” Ed laments, soft and plaintive and with enough vowels that he vaguely resembles a passing ambulance. “No, you’re crying. Duncry, wozwrong?”

The fingers intertwined with Stede’s pull tight, squeezing, and Stede sniffles, casting damp eyes up to the ceiling and blinking furiously in an attempt to redistribute his tears evenly and prevent them from falling.

“Nothing, love,” Stede insists, though the break in his voice strongly suggests otherwise. “Nothing, I’m–”

He makes the grievous error of glancing back down to the couch, hoping to reassure Ed with a look.

Ed is gazing up at him, his own eyes rounded and distressed. And despite the film of cloudy inebriation, there’s just…so much fervent, unbridled adoration there.

“Oh, darling,” Stede whispers. “I just love you, that’s all. God, I love you, love you so badly that it–”

“What? No,” Ed argues, his face pulling into a scrunch. “Y’don’t love me badly; you do a bang-up job of it, babe. Love me so fuckin’ good, Stede, s’why I’m a complete whole, weren’t you listening–? ”

A teary giggle putters its way out of Stede’s mouth. There’s a grumpy little criss-cross between Ed’s eyebrows; a sour-lemon pull to his lips that suggests Stede ought to be feeling thoroughly rebuked.

“I– that’s not quite what I–”

“Love me better than fuckin’ anyone. I sure as shit don’t do a very good job of it, thasfuhfuckinsure.”

“Edward, I mean that I– I’m just. I’m a little overcome, that’s all,” Stede says, as pacifyingly as he’s able with such a jelly-wobble of feelings in his voice. “I’m just… god, Ed. It means everything to me that you see yourself as a complete whole—because that’s what you are to me. You’re…entire. Boundless. You fill up every empty space I never knew was there. You’re my completeness, you–”

Ed is trying so hard to keep up, bless his heart. He’s blinking each blink like he’s trying to crush concrete blocks between his lashes. Between those blinks, the drooping of his eyelids and the slackening of his mouth suggest that it’s maybe not the time for Stede to go waxing poetic. All a bit beyond Ed, at the moment. Best to keep it simple.

“I love you,” Stede breathes, and the water mission is abandoned, and he’s sinking back into place at Ed’s side. The glass is back on the coffee table or the floor or shattered into a million pieces; one of those, doesn’t matter. “I love you very, very much, Edward.”

And Ed’s breathing is slow-flowing, and his head is clearly swimming, and his grip on the world right now is tenuous at best.

He kisses Stede anyway.

It’s a gentle one; a kiss dipped in sugar and painted in pastels. It almost reminds Stede of their first; the careful slant of Ed’s mouth, the dainty flutter of his eyelashes against Stede’s cheek, the heart-aching affection in every shift and breath. There’s a sleepiness to it; Ed sinks into Stede’s mouth in a way that feels a little too top-heavy, and Stede cradles his face to stop him from collapsing right into Stede and breaking his nose. He kisses Ed back, smiling against his barely-parted lips, savouring the moment; almost innocent, almost…

No.

Not innocent. 

Really not innocent.

Stede feels the exact moment a switch is flipped, though he couldn’t say what on earth has triggered such a thing. Maybe it’s Stede’s fingers curving against Ed’s cheek, or the way he’s smiled into the kiss, or maybe it’s not something Stede has done at all. 

Whatever it is that’s prompted it, the fact of the matter is that Ed’s tongue is now very much in Stede’s mouth.

His lips are a maltose-sweet drag, slow and fluid, his own hands fighting the weight of the surrounding air to reach up and sink luxuriously into Stede’s hair. He moans into Stede; a low, bruising moan that immediately makes Stede hyper-aware of every sparking pixel of his own skin. He wraps his arms around Ed’s waist to try to stabilise him, because he’s started going all lopsided again, but Ed just takes the embrace as an invitation. He swings one leg over Stede’s lap (his knee jabs so close that Stede has a brief, terrifying vision of his pants housing nothing more than fond memories), and he hauls himself closer, then closer, then closer. 

Then up.

Then on. 

“Oop, okay!” Stede squeaks, chuckling breathily as Ed gets himself situated on his lap, but Ed's relentless mouth suggests that this is no laughing matter. He kisses Stede desperately, moaning hungrily, and Stede does his best to hold onto Ed so he doesn’t topple backwards and onto the floor. 

Easier said than done, when Ed’s being so intentionally distracting. 

And when he tastes like birthday cake.

“Hey,” Ed rumbles, low and gravelly against Stede’s mouth. “Heyyyy.”

“Mm?” 

Ed responds with another long kiss, his mouth a lazy, melted swirl on Stede’s own. He cards his fingers through Stede’s curls, with perhaps a tad less finesse than he ordinarily would. Still feels ear-tinglingly good, though. Still makes Stede patently aware of the rich mix of chemicals in his blood; the way Ed’s kiss can so easily reduce him to nothing more than endorphins and reflexes, with cognition so barely-there it’s like the flavour in a fucking La Croix.

And that fizzling cognition goes dead-air altogether when Ed scoots further forward, pressing himself flush against Stede. He slants his hips at a very intentional angle, one meant to deliver a very pointed message.

Ed’s all softness right now, is the thing; his dark, soft eyes and his tousled, soft hair and his slouchy-soft limbs and his utterly gorgeous soft lips.

It all provides a stark contrast to his erection. Extremely fucking hard, extremely fucking warm, extremely fucking pressed-firmly-against-Stede. Spelling it out in full-body braille.

“Heyyyyyy,” Ed says again; cheeky now, flirtatious. “Hey, you could…complete in my hole. If you wanna.”

Stede laughs. He can’t help it.

“You’re very drunk, darling,” he murmurs, smoothing a few straggly bits of hair out of Ed’s face with one palm. One strand is obstinately stuck in the scruff of Ed’s beard, and Stede has to pick it out.

“Yeah,” Ed agrees, smiling dazedly. “But you could. You still could.”

“Not tonight, love,” Stede says. He wraps his fingers around the back of Ed’s neck, tilts him forward into another kiss.

“But you wanna,” Ed mumbles into his mouth. 

There’s something both teasing and accusatory about his tone; like he’s triumphant in having caught Stede out in some elaborate lie. 

He’s right, is the tricky part here. Stede very much does wanna. In his defense, he’s got Ed straddling him, writhing around in his lap, kissing him like he’s trying to smuggle his breath out of the country. He’d like to see anyone get through that without rocking a semi.

“Little bit,” Stede admits, feeling his cheeks heat. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to. You’re wasted, sweetheart.”

Ed frowns, pushing his bottom lip out in a way that makes all the crinkles of Stede’s brain fucking throb. He’s not going to make this easy, is he? 

“But I’d let you,” he protests churlishly. “S’the bigfuckindeal? ”

“The big fucking deal,” Stede tells him patiently, “is that you can barely say the words ‘big fucking deal’, love. You’re not in a state for sex tonight. C’mon, up. You need a water refill.”

Ed does shift off of Stede’s lap as requested, but he ensures Stede knows that he’s very displeased about it. Practically flings himself to the other side of the couch, flopping dramatically over the armrest like a squid that’s just delivered his dying soliloquy.

Stede tuts fondly, grabbing Ed’s glass to finally get him his water top-up. He feels Ed’s eyes tailing him sullenly to the kitchen, and he tries to stifle a smirk about it.

“Don’t want more water,” Ed grouses, his face smushed into the couch. “Want you. Want you to come over here and get your bits out and make me feel like a complete whole.”

“‘Get your bits out’,” Stede intones, with dry amusement. “You have such a way with words, my love.”

He refills the glass, keeping an ear out for Ed the entire time. He can hear him shuffling around on the couch, either struggling to get comfortable or trying to coordinate himself into a suitably alluring position in hopes of changing Stede’s mind. 

Stede plops a few ice cubes into the glass, then thinks fuck it and adds a little wedge of lime too, hoping a bit of sensory enrichment might encourage Ed to actually drink the damn thing.

He’s not going to change his mind. 

The wanting is of absolutely no consequence, as far as Stede’s concerned. When it comes to the subject of Edward Teach, Stede is wanting just about every minute of every day, at the most inappropriate times, during the most objectionable circumstances. During many of these aforementioned times and circumstances, they’ve actually gone through with it. Stede had never experienced, as Ed so affectionately calls it, a ‘Slut Phase’ in his youth, but he’s definitely doing his best to make up for it now. They’re both having more orgasms than hot meals these days.

But this? This is both a time and a circumstance that’s Too Objectionable, and the wanting is just going to have to bloody wait until tomorrow.

Stede might want, and he might want badly enough that his skin feels tight and his bones feel hot and his salivary glands feel cartoonishly overactive. But what Stede wants far more is for Ed to be clear-eyed, present, sure. Anything less would be wrong, and it’s not a line he’s ever willing to blur. 

So no. Not tonight. Not with Ed’s blood moving honey-slow, his mind all foggy with ethanol. Stede knows the likelihood of Ed regretting the sex in the morning is extraordinarily slim. But it’s not zero, which is simply not good enough.

He heads back into the living room and plonks the glass on the coffee table. Then thinks better of it, and puts it directly in Ed’s hand, wrapping his fingers around it, which are as loose and malleable as fresh clay.

(Full disclosure: this alone is enough to spark a Whole Lot of Thoughts in Stede’s lewd and crude brain. He forces them down like snakes in a prank can of peanuts. They press tightly against the lid, desperate to burst free.)

“Drink,” Stede says, and Ed sulks for a fleeting moment before obediently raising the glass to his lips.

Ed has, in fact, attempted one of his Patented ‘Fuck Me’ poses in the time Stede’s been gone, but he’s clearly given up half way. His legs are outstretched in a way that makes them look irritatingly long, but they’re also sort of scattered apart, half dangling over the edge of the couch, giving him the overall appearance of a spider that’s lost the will to live. He sips his water, mumbles a vague mm without lifting his lips from the glass.

“S’got a taste. Green.”

Stede smiles.

“Lime juice. Little mocktail for you.”

“S’nice. Hey, I wanna snack in my hole.”

“In your hole?”

Ed rolls his eyes like Stede is being very crass and very juvenile.

“In my face hole,” he clarifies, indignant enough to make Stede laugh.

“The kids and I got pizza,” he says. “There’s a bit left over in the fridge. I could whack it in the air fryer for you? Or there’s that fancy bread you like, if you’d rather do marmalade toast?”

“Mm,” says Ed. “The second one. The marmalade. And then you fuck me.”

With an exceedingly patient sigh, Stede heads back into the kitchen.

“Drink your water,” he calls over his shoulder.

The half hour that follows goes, well. Exactly as Stede expects. Some of the qualities that he loves the most about Ed include his cleverness, his warmth, the heated thunder of his voice, the way he never backs down from a challenge. And Ed wields every single one of those qualities like weapons, chipping away at Stede’s armour piece by piece, whether he knows he’s doing it or not.

He knows. He absolutely knows. He has to know.

He prattles mindlessly while Stede makes him his toast, going “yeah, toast first. Marmalade. Make me all sweet for you. S’perfect. And then after that, you can…”

He pounces on the toast the moment the plate is in front of him, tearing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. And of course, that comes with plenty of lavish moans and licked lips and hums of delight. Deliberately provocative.

And Stede is maybe kind of losing it a little bit. He’s twitchy and agitated, and that semi he’s been cultivating over the past half-hour is quickly becoming a Complete Whole of its own.

Stede isn’t a saint. He’s a whole guy, just like Ed; one who went the vast majority of his adult life completely starved of anything even remotely resembling intimacy. And now there’s Ed, who he’s usually able to touch and taste and take, and right now he can’t do any of those things.

He can’t. That’s the key takeaway, here. He can’t.

Ed eases off a little post-toast, thank god. He’s getting a little sleepy, a little more pliant, melding with the couch like he’s trying to become one with the cushions. It becomes a bit of a mission, getting him up and into the bathroom, and they stagger together the whole way, one foot at a time. Stede parks him to sit on the rim of the bathtub so he can help him wash his face and brush his teeth and comb the tangles out of his hair. Ed protests through some of this, his head bobbing with the pull of sleep, but Stede insists, knowing that he’ll feel gratuitously worse in the morning if they skip it. He considers getting Ed into the shower too, but decides against it in the end. Stede would feel the need to stay, is the problem, just to keep an eye on him. And having Ed warm and wet and naked and still trying to wheedle his way into being fucked, well. 

Asking for trouble, that.

Getting Ed dressed for bed is trouble enough. He does manage the task himself, but not before giving Stede these big, helpless baby-eyes and asking for assistance, which he does not need. Stede tries to avoid direct eye-contact with Ed’s bare chest, his legs; all ink and flow and supple skin. Focuses on the sleep shorts and the threadbare t-shirt and getting Ed’s limbs yanked into them like his life bloody depends on it. 

And then they’re finally in bed, the house all locked up for the night, the lights all off and the moon muted beneath the curtains.

Under the cover of darkness, Ed pulls himself close, burrowing into Stede's side like the world's most adorable earthworm. He nuzzles into Stede's neck, his breath hot and lazy. Stede wraps his arms accommodatingly around him, kissing his forehead.

“Are you sure, ” Ed mumbles, his mouth grazing the bank of Stede's collarbone, “that I can't tempt you?”

God, he can, of course he fucking can. Stede is already well and truly tempted, completely drawn in by Ed’s warmth, his pliable limbs, the overall docility of him in this state. How easy would it be to just…fucking spread him open right now? For Stede to slip into all those heated, sparking places of Ed and just… take?  

But Ed already sounds half asleep. And Stede is not about to let his stupid fucking lizard brain run the show here.

He kisses Ed’s forehead again.

“No, darling,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

He expects Ed to get a little surly about it; to grizzle and grumble and complain.

Instead, Ed gets very quiet. He inhales in slow motion, exhales even slower. 

Someone less familiar with the usual downbeats of Ed’s breathing might interpret this to mean he’s dozed off.

Stede knows he’s awake. Awake, and actively recalibrating. Stede rubs slow, absent-minded circles into the small of Ed’s back with his fingertips, waiting.

Ed shifts. He lifts his head, trying to look Stede in the eye.  His own eyes are dull, heavy-lidded.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t–” He hesitates, something unraveling in the pause. “Am I being a dick?”

Stede blinks.

“...No?”

“Because y’gotta tell me if I’m being a dick. Please.”

“You…Edward, why on earth do you think you’re–”

“You’re allowed to not wanna, Stede,” Ed stresses, seeming abruptly stricken. “You’re allowed to say no to me. Just because I want to, doesn’t mean that–that you…I don’t want you to feel…y’know?”

Oh. Oh, Ed.

He’s all over the place with the words themselves, but his meaning is clear. 

“You’re not being a dick at all, sweetheart,” Stede promises, with unequivocal certainty. He brushes his fingertips along Ed’s cheekbones, in the hollows beneath his eyes, hoping the touch might blend out some of the sudden tension in his face. “You’re asking for what you want. And believe me when I tell you that if I were able to magic you sober right now, my answer would be extraordinarily different.”

Ed’s face drops into something vaguely horrified. 

(So much for blending out that tension. Whoops.)

“D’you mean,” Ed says slowly, “that if I’d maybe skipped a couple of drinks. That I could be coming right now?”

And, well. The damage is already done. 

Which means Stede is allowed to have a little fun with it, he reckons. Tease him a bit. Is a relationship truly built to last if you don’t lovingly bully your partner every once in a while?

He offers Ed a casual smile.

“You’d probably already be on your third,” he says coolly.

Ed lets out a truly devastated whine. He grits his teeth through it, huffing an aggravated lungful of air out through his nose once he’s depleted all the noise in his throat.

Stede grins. Laughs as Ed shuffles himself grumpily back into Stede’s neck, flinging an arm around Stede’s waist and squeezing him as he seethes, practically writhing in agitation.

“Rude,” he mutters. “Rude and mean and horrible and…mean. Hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Stede chuckles.

“Course I fuckin’ don’t,” Ed agrees, sounding rather miffed about it. “Love you to fuckin’ death. Wanna fuckin’...eat you, love you so fuckin’ much.”

“Eat me?”

“Mm. Absorb you into my bloodstream. So our cells can all be boyfriends.”

“Oh, I like that. Human beings have an awful lot of cells. Would that count as polyamory, d’you reckon?”

Ed hums, considering. “Nah. S’just…molecular-level monogamy. M–moleculogamy.”

“Bit of a mouthful.”

“M’workshopping it, shut up.”

Ed shuffles again, shunting his body so he’s exactly parallel to Stede, pushing tightly against him. He’s moving slower now, sleep creeping up on him bit by bit. Stede will admit, he’s honestly surprised sleep hasn’t staked its claim on Ed already. Stede can count on one hand the occasions Ed’s been truly, properly intoxicated like this, and he’s ordinarily out like a light pretty quickly.

Clearly, this time around, something is bugging him just enough to keep him awake.

“Fuckin’...consent,” Ed mutters, shifting again, incapable of settling. 

“It’s an imbalance of power, Ed!” Stede protests. “You’re far too drunk to–”

“Mm, imbalance of power, love that. Hot.”

“Only hot when talked about. And you are not in a state to talk about it tonight.”

Ed sighs heavily, accepting defeat.

“‘Kay,” he grumbles. “But we’re gonna talk about it tomorrow. Want you to fuck me like this. Some other day.”

In all honesty, Stede doesn’t anticipate that this is a concept that will linger in the morning. Not once Ed wakes up feeling rotten. But Stede has been wrong before. And on the off-chance that this is one of those times, then. Fine. They can talk about it. 

Now, though, Ed finally seems on the cusp of sleep; his breathing growing deep and weighted, his speech losing traction.

Stede’s fingers return to Ed’s spine, slipping beneath his shirt to stroke soothingly along his back once more.

“Okay, darling,” he whispers. “Tomorrow.”

And that’s it.

It’s past two in the morning, and Ed is completely hammered. Tomorrow he’ll wake up miserable, and Stede will look after him, shower him in comfort and affection, and this whole conversation will be a lost memory. Stede’s starting to feel the effects of the late hour now, along with the heart-fluttering satisfaction of having Ed close, and his own eyes begin to drift closed. God, he’s tired.

His head is spinning pleasantly, odd fragments of not-quite dreams swirling behind his eyes. He’s just about to tip into sleep.

And then he’s not.

Ed is, again, squirming restlessly at his side.

He’s just getting comfortable, Stede thinks. There’s no possible way he’s not moments away from being dead weight, Stede thinks.

Until it happens again.

Then again.

Ed shuffles, tilts his hips back, tilts his hips forward, stretches one leg out, shuffles again. He releases a tiny huff of frustration. A small, sleepy grumble.

“Ed,” Stede mumbles, voice drowsy. “Sweetheart, you’re starting to make a very convincing case for sleeping in separate beds.”

The arm around Stede’s waist instantly tightens, like Ed is afraid Stede might genuinely get up. 

“Don’t. Stay. Sorry. I’m just…”

Stede frowns. Ed sounds different, now. A lot less jokey. A lot more desperate. There’s a familiar rasp in his voice, one that Stede recognises even under the blur of the alcohol. 

“Ed? You okay?”

“No,” Ed admits, breathing a weak laugh against Stede’s neck. “Won’t…fuckin’ go down.”

Stede really, truly wishes he hadn’t asked. 

Ed’s still hard. Critically, urgently, compellingly hard. Hard, and pressed fully against the side of Stede’s thigh.

Jesus, so much for whiskey dick. Perhaps birthday cake vodka grants you immunity. Something about the magical wish-making properties of birthday candles.

If Stede could make a wish right now, he knows exactly what he’d wish for. He’d wipe himself of all his moral objections. Just for twenty minutes or so. Just for enough time to…

It sounds awful. He knows it does. But god, try having a boyfriend as fucking delicious as Edward Teach, lying next to you all hard and wanting, all warm and pleading, and not think about all the things you’d like to do to about it.

Stede’s answering silence is seemingly a bit much for Ed. He rolls onto his back, wriggles a few inches away from Stede. 

“Sorry,” he says faintly. “Not trying to…just gotta try n’sleep, probably. S’fine, I’m…”

He trails off, and Stede waits for him to finish the thought, to elaborate on why his predicament is, in fact, fine.

He can’t.

Stede rolls his head to look at him, only just able to see his gauzy outline in the dark. 

God, he’s beautiful. Stede would know that even if he were completely blind, would feel the beauty radiating off of him in waves, sizzling in the empty space between them. 

Fuck, Stede does not like that empty space. 

Especially not when he can see the way Ed’s entire body is silently crying out for him, his skin whining restlessly for attention. His hands are on top of the covers now, as though he’s trying to resist the temptation to touch something (or someone) that he shouldn’t, and his fingers twitch against the sheets like grappling hooks, fighting to tether himself to sanity. There’s still something about him that Stede can’t quite put his finger on. He can just tell that Ed’s faculties are all running at half their usual speed and efficiency, that his functions are all muffled and slow. 

But Ed wants.

And one of Stede’s points of pride is that he has ensured, and will continue to ensure, that Ed will not want for anything. Not a single day of his fucking life.

There’s a solution. A loophole, maybe.

It’s going to be absolute torture for Stede, he knows. It’s going to be awful.  

But if one of them is going to suffer, Stede knows without a doubt who he’d rather it be.

“C’mere,” he murmurs.

He stretches one arm across the sheets, intertwining his fingers with Ed’s, gently pulling him to roll back into Stede’s side. Ed makes a noise like the smallest, sweetest question mark, and Stede goes “c’mere” again, and Ed goes willingly, each limb falling into place and draping around Stede’s body. He protests for Stede’s sake, at first going “maybe just gimme some space, mate–” and then “can go sort m’self out–” even as he relaxes back into Stede’s arms.

Even as Stede slots his thigh, quite pointedly, between his legs.

Ed’s eyes go big; the biggest they’ve been through an evening of hazy squinting. He moves, and Stede feels the length of him rub delicately against his thigh, straining through layers of fabric. 

“Can I?” Ed rasps.

Stede’s breath hitches, and he does his best to level it flat on the exhale.

“Go ahead,” he says calmly.

He doesn’t feel calm at all, not one little bit. His skin suddenly feels like it’s been half-unstitched, with scratchy clothing tags all sewn in where the joins should be. His blood pulses hotly, and his mouth is dry and sticky. 

Ed rolls his hips slowly against Stede’s thigh.

“Fuck,” he groans, almost instantaneously. “Oh, fuck…”

So maybe Stede is something of a martyr. Maybe a masochist. Maybe just a complete idiot, one who’s completely set himself up for a Herculean test of will and then found himself shocked when his will is, in fact, tested. 

The mental gymnastics needed here are Olympic level, he recognises. But he can justify this to himself, in a way. 

It’s not like Stede’s touching Ed, is it? He’s not even doing anything. He’s just. There. Just innocently there, trying to sleep, and if Ed just so happens to get himself off, well. Stede can hardly be blamed for that, can he?

All well and good, he realises belatedly. Only this logic only stands if Stede is actually able to keep his hands to himself. 

While Ed is… god. 

Slowly, drunkenly rutting against Stede’s thigh. 

Stede sucks back a sharp breath and holds it tightly in his mouth.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

He shovels one hand under the pillow beneath his own head. His other hand lingers at the small of Ed’s back, subconsciously coaxing his movements. Shit. He fists the sheets behind Ed instead, digging his nails into the bedding until the skin around his knuckles feels stretched to the limit. 

Ed is already fucking gasping. He’s got one leg twisted around Stede’s, his ankle hooked under his calf to hold him in place, like he thinks Stede might have a change of heart and snatch this away from him at any given moment. His hips push against Stede in slow, tipsy swirls, and he breathes heady and heavy against Stede’s clavicle, mewling softing on each exhale. He claws at the hem of Stede’s t-shirt, then slips his fingers beneath it, seeking out any skin-to-skin contact he can. His palm is hot against Stede’s belly, dragging its way up to Stede’s chest, fingers wandering until he’s brushing lightly against a nipple.

Stede shudders. He clenches his jaw, and the hand beneath his pillow balls into a fist.

It’s fine. He’s fine. 

Ed cants his hips up, and the next gentle roll becomes more of a sharp buck. He moans; this loose vague outline of a moan that Stede’s never heard from him before. It’s dazed and disoriented, distinctly missing all of Ed’s usual hiss and spark. The hand against Stede’s chest drops back down to his waist, clinging tightly as Ed continues to squirm and writhe, chasing his pleasure.

It’s only then that it dawns on Stede.

He knows Ed’s body. He knows Ed’s body fucking biblically, knows every trace and seam of him, knows his taste and texture, knows the exact pattern that his goosebumps are going to ripple into. Stede knows how to get Ed off, and he knows how easy it can be, how fast, if that’s ever the goal. He can draw it out, of course, and he usually does. But in dire straits, Stede can get Ed tense and trembling and spilling in a matter of minutes. 

If he has unlimited access to Ed’s skin.

Which he currently does not.

Jesus fucking christ. This is going to take ages.

And Stede just has to…fucking lie there. And let it take ages.

Well. He doesn’t have to. He could end it, he knows. Even in his current state, Ed would understand if Stede needed to stop. 

But god, look at his face.

His mouth is hanging open, eyes half-shut with just a sliver of glazed black peeking out from beneath his lashes. He’s panting, his breath coming in harsh and ragged, and the muggy dark surrounding them is dappled with his moans. His eyes flutter all the way closed as he moves, and when his lips part again they fumble their way around a word, mouthing something with barely any sound to support it.

Stede does his best to sharpen his hearing, brows creasing and eyes squinting, as though that might somehow make a difference.

“Thank you,” Ed’s gasping feebly, barely audible against Stede’s skin. “Thank you, thank you…”

“Fuck,” Stede hisses, and he knows right then and there that he is not going to ask Ed to stop. He’s going to muscle through this, no matter how long it fucking takes, no matter how achingly hard he gets, no matter how little satisfaction he gains.

Stede doubts he can get any more achingly hard than he is right now. He’s all too aware of how uncomfortably tight his very loose, very comfortable pyjama pants have gotten over the past few minutes; all too aware of the damp spot he knows is pressing through the fabric. Where Ed is loose-limbed, Stede is shackled tightly. Where Ed is meltingly pliant, Stede is rigid, stiff with restraint.

But the restraint is still there. The restraint is still…

“Please,” Ed whines, his hips rolling faster, his mouth dragging against Stede’s neck in open supplication. “Stede, c’mon …”

The restraint is still there.

“Stede , I– fuckin’...give me something, I gotta–”

The restraint is not still there.

Stede doesn’t do much. He's still clinging to his moral qualms with shredded fingernails, though it's becoming increasingly difficult to remember what those qualms are even about. 

But he’s got to do something. He’s going to completely lose his fucking mind, if he has to lay here for too much longer; frozen in regimented self-discipline, fighting every impulse in his body not to touch while the love of his life whimpers and sighs and humps his fucking leg like a slut.

Ed lets out a particularly slutty noise, fumbling to grab hold of Stede’s thigh with both hands and pull it more firmly between his legs, against his cock.

And that’s the fucking limit. Fuck, Stede isn’t made of stone.

His palm finds Ed’s back again, then slides down to his ass to give him a sharp squeeze of encouragement.

With his other hand, he angles Ed’s jaw upwards, then shovels his fingers deep into his hair and captures his lips in a desperate, fervid kiss.

Ed comes on the spot.

His entire body locks up; hard as porcelain, just as easy to shatter under stress. Stede feels the tight pull of his calves as they tense, squeezing against Stede like a vise. He groans deeply into the kiss; a low, throaty groan that resonates through every single hollow in Stede’s entire body, makes his blood fucking tingle. The sharp, helpless spasms kick in a moment later, and Ed has to break to kiss just to breathe; gasping, urgent, panting breaths that taste like humidity and intoxication and toothpaste. He’s shuddering, hips still pushing frantically against Stede, riding out his orgasm until the very last drop. 

Stede isn’t sure which is more bone-meltingly hot. His prediction that Ed would take an eternity to finish and leave Stede waiting, wanting, helpless to do anything about it. 

Or what’s actually happened, which is that it barely took any time at all.

Fuck, he’d come from being kissed. It’s the kiss that’s tipped him over, that’s made him leak out into his underwear, Jesus christ…

“Edward,” Stede chokes out, though he has absolutely no plans to follow it up with anything. His entire body is near throbbing, raw like an exposed nerve. “Oh darling…”

Ed is bonelessly heavy beside him, slung over him like a human sandbag. Their legs are tangled together beneath the covers, and Ed’s clinging to Stede’s waist like he can’t bear to let him go. His breathing evens out slowly, smoothing itself flat like wet cement, and Stede strokes mindlessly at his hair through the comedown, murmuring soft praise and endearments while he waits for Ed to decide he’s all slick and uncomfortable and wants to get changed. 

It’ll work out perfectly, Stede thinks to himself. Help Ed change, get him back to bed, then sort myself out in the bathroom while I’m up.

His near-agonising erection fucking relishes in the thought. 

Any moment now. Ed can’t tolerate more than a moment or two of fluids, Stede’s or his own. Not once the moment is passed and the sizzling aftershocks have cooled.

Any moment, and he’ll be whining about being in a textural nightmare. And then Stede won’t have to consider the concept of sleeping with balls so blue they could inspire their own Picasso period.

Any moment, surely.

Surely.

“Ed?” Stede murmurs, doing his best to gentle the impatience out of his voice. He really doesn’t mean to hurry the moment along; certainly not if Ed still needs a minute to reboot, to calm his firing pulse. But god, he’s very close to losing his mind here, if he’s honest. “Love? Are you–?”

There’s a snore.

A low, happy snore, one that sounds distinctly satiated. 

No.

“Ed?” Stede peeps, doing his best to try and untangle himself without jostling Ed awake.

There’s no chance of that, he quickly realises. Ed is out for the count.

Out for the count, and completely collapsed all over Stede, trapping him in like a car wreck.

And Stede is maybe more hard than he’s ever been in his life.

Great. Bloody wonderful.

He assesses his options. 

Could try and wiggle a hand free, take care of business with Ed asleep by his side. Doable, he thinks.

Only he and Ed are far too similar in some regards, and Stede also cannot abide by being wet and sticky while trying to sleep. Perhaps if he weren’t stone cold sober, it might be a different story; he might be like Ed, zonking off before the mood even manages to shift.

But he is. He’s sober. 

And truly, he doesn’t want to risk waking Ed up. It’s taken him so long to finally fall asleep, after all.

And that really leaves Stede with only one option.

He fixes a glare on their bedroom ceiling, and does his best to think deeply unsexy things. For some reason, the image that surfaces almost instantly is that snail he’d found in Alma’s pocket, back on her first day of school. Those squished strawberries, all caked in sand. 

It helps, but not by much.

At his side, Ed’s drooling slightly onto his shoulder. He mumbles something Stede can’t understand; something smushed like a strawberry, kept safe in a pocket.

Ed looks utterly at peace in this moment; safe and secure and trusting and soft. Truly having every faith in Stede to take care of him in his vulnerable state.

He’s complete. He’s whole.

Stede lets his frustration peter out into something reluctantly gentle. Of course, Ed would pass out with that ridiculously pleased smile on his face. Of course, Stede adores him not in spite of it, but because of it.

Well. Perhaps a little bit in spite of it.

He leans in to brush a tender kiss against Ed’s temple. 

“You owe me so much, you complete hole,” he mutters.

It’s going to be a very long night.