Chapter Text
The bed linens have been changed and the bed is piled-high with blankets and an obscene amount of pillows. Blackbeard strips without thinking about it, gets into Stede’s bed without thinking about it, keeps breathing and blinking and doing fuck knows what else without thinking about it. That’s how he spends most of his days, so this shouldn’t be any different.
Except Stede is there pulling blankets over him, and it makes Blackbeard feel dangerously - present. He can feel the ache of his muscles from shivering, the soft slide of the sheets against his skin, the warmth flooding his hands like needles.
“I’ll leave you then,” Stede says, “If you’re okay. If you’re certain. If there’s nothing else you – want.”
The word sounds obscene in his mouth. Blackbeard leans his head back on the cloud of Stede’s pillow, and imagines the rest of the gentleman pirate’s night. Drying off below deck, maybe? Joining the crew in the kitchen or bunking with someone or huddled in the dark, shivering through the cold. He can still hear the rain hitting the side of the ship. The wind seems to have calmed down some, but there’s no way anyone’s sleeping on deck tonight.
Blackbeard wishes he was a different kind of man, sometimes. One born for great, gentle things. Barring that, a man born without the capacity to want them.
But he isn’t.
He catches Stede’s wrist before he can pull away, and it’s a mistake, a fucking mistake, because his wrist is so soft and his pulse is so fast under Blackbeard’s thumb. It’s all he can do not to bring it to his mouth and bite it.
Stede’s eyes go wide, but he stays silent, and Blackbeard studies the dampness of his lower lip.
“You’re shivering,” he says. “Don’t be a fucking idiot. Dry off and get in.”
He drops Stede’s wrist instead of looking at him, and shoves over as far in the bed as he can. Then he awkwardly rolls onto his other side, turning his back because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stay conscious otherwise. He’d thought the cold would have killed it, but even the contact with Stede’s wrist suddenly has him all flushed and half-hard. Ridiculous. He can’t fucking believe he just invited the man to bed with him.
He waits for Stede to - say something. Make an excuse why he shouldn’t. Blackbeard’s almost hoping that Stede will back out so he can wank himself stupid in a bed that smells like lavendar and pass out in his own filth.
He waits - but then he hears footsteps. The muffled sound of fabric moving over skin (is Stede using the same towel as I did, Blackbeard wonders, is he getting me all over him, does he like it, does he -) and then the lantern goes out.
The room is dark but there’s a sliver-moon outside the window, casting a slice of pale light across Blackbeard’s pillow.
He hears rustling behind him, like clothing being pulled off. Hitting the floor? Nah, Stede isn’t the type to just let things fall where they will. He’s probably folding them or hanging them up or something. And now he’s probably standing there, with moonlight all over his skin, and looking at Blackbeard’s tattooed shoulder, scarred up back. Maybe he’s rethinking everything, about to get his kit back on and make a run for it, or maybe he’s coming closer, about to reach out, God please -
Blackbeard holds his breath so Stede can’t hear how fast he’s breathing.
Then the bed creaks. The mattress shifts as someone crawls in behind him. The blankets adjust and Blackbeard squeezes his eyes shut and tenses every muscle in his body, hoping to all hell that his trembling isn’t shaking the whole bed.
He hears Stede sigh. Feels it even, right against the back of his neck.
“I forgot how comfortable this bed was.”
Blackbeard can only grunt a reply. He didn’t know how comfortable this bed was either. He was too afraid to even consider it.
“Are you - warm enough?”
“Yeah. Good.”
He can sense Stede shivering behind him, though their skin isn’t touching anywhere. Blackbeard won’t let it.
But there was a time, wasn’t there, when he couldn’t let their skin touch enough. Back before all this shit, he was out of his mind wanting to be touched. Letting Stede fix his collar or put a hand on his knee. Letting Stede take his arm to show him something. Clinging to each other in the crow’s nest on the first day they met! He’d never been like that before, so he can’t be blamed for not knowing what it meant.
Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t figured it out. Everything might have gone better.
Now they’re naked in a fucking bed together, and there’s so much space between them it might as well be the ocean. Those easy, early days are done, and they’ll never find their way back to them.
That’s too bad. Blackbeard was happy there.
He listens to the sound of Stede’s breathing behind him. There’s no way he’s going to fall asleep like this, not somewhere this soft. He was never meant for fluffy pillows and feathertop this-and-thats and down or whatever. He’ll wait until he’s warmer, til his feet thaw out and the prickling leaves his skin, and then this’ll be over, thank Christ. He can creep away in the night and forget it.
Stede shifts a bit in bed and something absolutely murderous-cold brushes against Blackbeard’s spine.
“Bastard shit-fucking – was that your hand?”
“Sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to –”
“Jesus.” No one was towelling Stede’s hands dry, were they. No one was drying his hair and rubbing feeling back into his skin.
( Don’t do it .)
“ Come here,” he says.
There is no sound behind him, not even a breath.
“Give me your hand,” he says again, when Stede doesn’t move.
“Are you –”
“Yes, shit, I’m sure. Come on.”
In the almost-dark, there is the touch of a cold hand at the dip of his waist. It makes all the muscles in Blackbeard’s body tense, but he exhales through his nostrils, forces himself to relax. He puts his hand on top of Stede’s and draws it up to his chest. He puts his other hand on top of it too, holds it there, warm (or warmer, at least) against this delicate block of ice.
He ignores Stede’s quick gasp of breath. He ignores the way it makes his toes curl.
Tremors run through the arm stretched over Blackbeard’s ribs, but he holds on. Doesn’t let go.
After a few minutes, the tip of a cold nose touches the back of his neck and rests there.
Stede stays.
Stede avoids him for a bit after the kiss (just a kiss, who cares about a kiss, Blackbeard’s kissed loads of people, and who wouldn’t want to kiss him, he’s Blackbeard.) But he doesn’t disappear into the night. He’s still there every morning, and Blackbeard tries not to look at him and fails all the time.
One day, he overhears an argument in the crew’s quarters. Pete is shouting and Fang is shouting back, and Blackbeard is just going to carry on to the gun deck and let them sort it out with violence when Stede’s voice stops him.
“No, listen guys. Guys! We’ve got to clear the air, all right? If you have something to say to each other, you have to say it. Otherwise it will fester, and no one likes festering. But that also means you’ve got to listen . Okay? Fang - you go first. What do you have to say to Pete?”
Of all the complete shit - this is a pirate ship, not some poncy fucking school. Izzy will find them soon enough, curse them out and send them all back to work, so Blackbeard just ignores it.
Or he intends to.
But that night when he’s checking their coordinates with Buttons, something goes wrong in his head.
“Shouldn’t have left you on the island, mate.”
It comes out of his throat like a cough, and Buttons stares at him with his perpetual severe and wide-eyed look while Blackbeard screams “ fuck ” silently in his head. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Why the fuck did he say that?
Eventually Buttons replies, “Thank ye, Cap’n,” and Blackbeard nods awkwardly and they both go back to their business. He blames it on sunstroke and tries to forget about it.
But it happens again.
Oluwande looks confused and Jim sneers at him and it just keeps fucking happening. Even Izzy, that rat, who sold him out and almost cost them their lives - Blackbeard finds him on the orlop, can’t even look at him while he stammers out whatever his broken brain insists he say.
“Where’s the laugh, right? Kind of messed up to be honest, not the right way to deal with – all of that.” He waits but Izzy says nothing. Blackbeard can hear the grinding of the man’s jaw from across the room. “And if you fuck with me and the crew again, I’ll tie you to an anchor and put you in the water, all right? That’s pirating. Good talk.” He raps his hand on the doorframe a couple times for punctuation before he leaves.
Stede brings him a mug of tea the next morning.
“It’s nice to see your face,” he says, which is weird. Until Blackbeard realises he’s forgotten to put his paint on.
When’s the last time he wore it, actually? It feels kind of nice without that tacky shit all over his skin. It got in his eyes sometimes, and his hair was always stuck in it.
He doesn’t reply, just takes the tea, and the next day he forgets the paint again.
He’s not drunk when he gets Izzy to fetch Lucius for him, but maybe he should be. Lucius will barely enter his cabin and lingers by the doorway shifting from one foot to another, making Blackbeard feel more uncomfortable than he already does.
Yeah, he should’ve been drunk for this (he’s been trying to settle down a bit with that, but he’s clearly made a mistake.)
“See you’ve changed up the place,” Lucius says, and Blackbeard realises he hasn’t seen the room since everything was cleared out. “Made it your own, good for you. Did you need something?”
“I wanted to say –” This is the fucking worst. This is the worst idea Blackbeard’s ever had, and once he tried to ride a dolphin. “I wanted to say - I’m glad you’re not dead.”
That takes Lucius a minute. “Wow.” He smiles but doesn’t actually look like he’s smiling? It’s a thing he’s done before, Blackbeard’s seen it a lot. “Huh. Well. Me too, actually.”
“I fucked up there.”
“Cool.” Lucius just stands there, smiling with violence. “That’s great. Really.”
He’s using massive aggression, Blackbeard’s sure of it. He’ll allow it this one time, probably owes him a little after the attempted drowning. He waits for Lucius to piss off now that the air-clearing is done, but instead, Lucius wanders further into the room. He looks around cautiously, almost casually, though he twists his mouth when he sees the bookshelves.
“You kept that art, hey? That’s a choice.”
Blackbeard follows Lucius’ eyes to the stupid lighthouse painting on the wall. He should’ve cracked it over his knee by now, should have lit it on fire and scattered the ashes. It’s only good for looking at while crying, and even then he could probably find something better.
“Not my favourite,” Lucius says, taking a few steps closer to examine it. “But I’m more of a charcoals guy myself.” He glances briefly at Blackbeard, then frowns. “You know, I grew up in a town with a lighthouse.”
Is he supposed to care about this? Is this what clearing the air gets you? Fuck, he’d rather have things fester.
“On the coast. There was a harbour nearby and a canal or something, a narrow bit -” Lucius obviously knows less than nothing about sailing, and he makes a gesture like something - swimming? through another thing? Blackbeard must look as confused as he feels because Lucius rolls his eyes. “ Anyway . It was like, the ships wouldn’t have made it through without the lighthouse there. It was a - light.”
Blackbeard nods.
“Also a house.”
“Yeah, got it.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not all about rocks and warnings, is it.” Lucius looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, maybe even overboard. “Sometimes it’s about - safe passage. Sometimes they guide you home.”
Something twists in Blackbeard’s gut. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“He told me what happened,” Lucius says quickly. “What he did.”
“Did he.” Blackbeard wishes he had a piece of glass to bite into.
“And I’m really mad about it, just so you know. It’s not okay, absolutely not - but we also do a lot of murdering and robbing and stuff on this ship, so - you know. Comparatively.”
“We’re fucking pirates.”
“Yeah, and sometimes we fuck up.” Lucius swallows. “And I know – I know he loves you.” He says it like he’s pulling a sword from his stomach, and Blackbeard’s suddenly on his feet.
Lucius raises both hands, backing up immediately. “Are you going to throw me overboard again because I’ll start screaming right now, I swear –”
“I’m - no. I’m not going to do that.”
“Or stab me in the face.”
“... no.”
He has to think about it first. But just for a second. He lowers his hand from his knife, and they look at each other, silently.
“So. Um. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Blackbeard says, and he means it, and he hates that he means it.
“Are you – I can’t believe I’m asking you this, given all of the everything but – do you think - are you going to be okay?”
“I don’t know.” He hates that he means that too.
“The crew was wondering,” Frenchie asks him a few days later, “if Cap- Mr. Bonnet could - uh - return to his previous nightly - entertainments.”
He’s standing at the doorway of the great cabin, which should have been shut and locked. That was dumb. A beginner's mistake.
“Wee John is - particularly interested, sir Blackbeard, um, and they asked me if I - well, we drew lots and -”
“Do you think I fucking care whether you have a story hour? Do whatever the fuck you want, and get out.”
Stede may not have his books anymore, but he seems to have no lack of stories to share with the crew. Blackbeard always makes sure he’s not on deck to hear them, but sometimes, even from his cabin, he’s startled by a bit of laughter, a shouted question, a gasp.
Sometimes he'll put his ear to the door. He can’t make out the exact words, or not all of them, but he can hear the cadence of Stede’s voice. He imagines lamplight on his face, and the crew gathered around him, eyes fixed on the expressive movements of his hands.
Blackbeard remembers those.
Sometimes on these nights, he’ll slide to the floor, sit there with his head against the door and the music of Stede’s voice in his ear. Sometimes he falls asleep like this. And while he does, a tiny golden thing deep inside him, one he thought he’d murdered long ago, shakes itself awake.
Just for a moment. Buried in the cavern of his ribs, something beautiful keeps breathing.
The bed is very comfortable, so Blackbeard can’t be too put out when he hears Stede snoring. It’s a gentlemanly snore, not enough to keep anyone up at night. He murmurs in his sleep too, talks a bit, and Blackbeard’s known this since they met.
He keeps a tight hold on his hand in the darkness.
It was a terrible idea to lie down here, and an even worse one to let Stede join him. He should have given Stede the bed and spent the night on deck, even if they’d have to scrape him off in the morning.
There’s as much space as there can be between them, but he can still feel the warmth of Stede’s skin reaching across the distance. It would be so easy to roll over and take the man in his arms, he might do it without thinking about it, and the thought makes him feel almost sick with panic.
He hates the space between them and he hates this soft fucking bed that he can’t sleep in. He hates his body for wanting things, he hates his heart for being used up. He hates Stede Bonnet, he hates him so much sometimes it feels like that’s all he has inside him. If someone hit him hard enough he’d crumble inward like a wasp’s nest, and all that hate would come stinging out.
Stede pulls away, turning onto his back with a murmur. His hand slides from Blackbeard’s grip, and he resists for as long as he can before he rolls over too. On his side, so he can look at Stede while he’s sleeping. Sometimes that’s all he wants, just to look at him, just a little.
The moonlight spills over Stede’s face. He’s expressive when he’s dreaming – his eyelashes flutter, and his lips move restlessly. There are lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth, and Blackbeard wants to memorize them with his tongue. He wants to look at Stede every day until his eyes go weak and milky like his mum’s did (probably something that’s coming for him down the road, but odds are he won’t survive ‘til then.)
“You don’t –” Stede murmurs, the words blurred together.
“I don’t what?” Blackbeard asks the dark, but Stede doesn’t answer him, just says something too quiet to be heard.
“Oh,” he says after a moment, and Blackbeard watches the flutter of breath beneath his skin.
“Oh, yourself.”
Stede’s nice to watch while he sleeps. That probably sounds a little creepy. Well. Maybe he’s creepy, so what. He’s always like seeing people at ease and unguarded. It’s not a thing he gets to do much in his line of work. The first day they met, Stede was mostly unconscious, and Blackbeard was fascinated by him - how did anyone sleep like that, belly up, throat bared for the world to tear out? Blackbeard could’ve killed him then without even waking him.
Instead he just sat there, wanting to touch him.
“Oh,” Stede says again, and it’s higher in his throat. Blackbeard can smell him, and it doesn’t seem fair that even without his lotions and perfumes and whatever else - silks, probably - Stede still smells like himself.
Is it a posh thing? Blackbeard doesn’t think so, he’s met his share of rich arseholes who smelled like spoiled milk, maybe with a bit of rosewater overtop. But Stede smells like - lavender, yeah, but also salt and - and honey maybe. The bed smells like him, the air smells like him, Blackbeard’s fucking hair smells like him now.
He wishes he could regret it.
“ Oh, ” Stede says in his sleep, and there’s a - tenor there that Blackbeard was not expecting. His chest is rising and falling a bit quicker beneath the blankets and - is this -
This isn’t -
Is it?
Fucking hell, Stede is writhing, there’s no other word to describe it. Blackbeard can’t take his eyes off him. He should cough or something, wake the man out of whatever’s going on in there, but he can’t. He’s a monster after all, and this is too close to what’s been lurking in the shallows of him for ages. The look on Stede’s face right now, the sounds he’s making. There was a time Blackbeard would’ve done anything to be the cause of these noises (that day on the beach he thought - maybe it’ll happen. Maybe someday it’ll happen. He’d spent the rest of it in a fog of affection and panic and gentle lust, swears his feet didn’t touch the ground after they kissed.
He thought it was just the start of everything. He didn’t know it was the end.)
Stede makes a soft little injured sound, and shudders. Blackbeard’s prick is aching, but it’s nothing compared to the sharper ache in his heart. He leans in a little bit, not enough to touch Stede, just enough to study the shape of his mouth when he makes that noise so that Blackbeard can remember it for the rest of his life.
This is of course when Stede’s eyes open.
“Ed?” His voice is rough and he blinks, clearing his gaze. “I thought - I thought I was dreaming.”
“Please let me kiss you,” Blackbeard says, and Stede is on him immediately.
Thank God, thank Christ. There is a mouth hot and open on his, and hands in his hair, tugging him closer. They both make a noise as their lips collide, and Blackbeard’s hands are frantic, ribs shoulders back waist , he can’t stop touching him. Their bare calves rub together, their thighs, and it hits him like a bullet: he’s never done this before.
He’s never kissed anyone in a bed.
Stede tilts his head back, gasping, so Blackbeard kisses his throat the way he’s always wanted to, with his teeth scraping up to his jaw, sucking at the hollow of it, desperate to hear that little gasping sound again. It feels like he hasn't been kissed before in his life, like he’ll never be kissed like this again. Maybe this is another one of those ‘last times that feel like first times’, but no - Blackbeard can’t think about that or he’ll start snivelling and go soft. He’s got to pretend.
“Your skin,” he says, fascinated by the feeling of Stede’s neck against his lips, by his perfect unbroken collarbones. “I - can’t believe your fucking skin.”
“Here, please come here,” Stede says, and oh Christ - he’s rolling on top of him, slotting their thighs together. “Is this okay?”
“This is fucking perfect,” Blackbeard says, clutching Stede’s body against his own. The air outside their little world is still cold, Stede’s nose and lips are cold, but his prick is hard against his belly, and when Blackbeard pulls his hips close, Stede flushes like he’s got a fever.
No one who breaks your heart should be allowed to look that pretty, it’s really annoying. Blackbeard decides to suck Stede’s tongue into his mouth so he doesn’t think about that anymore.
“God.” Stede keeps having little hitches in his breath that make Blackbeard want to bite him (hard), see what other kind of sounds he’d make. “I want to do this when it’s light out. I want to look at you.”
“Sure thing,” Blackbeard says, feeling a stab in his gut at the thought. Let’s see if Stede is still here in the morning. See if he still wants it, see if the sight of Blackbeard, scars and all, doesn’t send him running again (don’t think about that either.)
“Stede, Christ. Wait.” He pulls back, trying to calm down. “What do you want?”
“You. I want you.”
“Okay, yeah, but –” It’s hard to focus when Stede leans in to suck on his earlobe, just a hint of teeth, perfect.“What specifically?”
Stede seems a bit flustered now, but Blackbeard needs him to say it. He needs it to be very fucking clear.
“Anything. Everything. Whatever you like.”
“That’s not an answer –”
“I want to suck your cock.”
The air leaves his lungs. He makes a hiccoughing sound of surprise and that’s not cool, it’s the least cool thing ever.
“I – you don’t – you –”
“It’s what I want. You asked.” Then Stede gives him a sly, small grin. Blackbeard’s seen that grin only once before, on a fancy burning party boat. “But only if you want that.”
“ If I want that, fuck’s sake -”
“I admit my imagination has been quite - vivid in this regard.” Stede kisses his neck and his chest and Blackbeard moans, gasps, clutches at his hair. He’s too stunned to do anything but lie there as Stede trails his mouth down his stomach, kisses a scar or two on his ribs. Stede's hands pet down his hips and thighs, and he shoulders his way between his legs. “If I do this wrong - you might have to tell me. If it isn’t what you like.”
You’re what I like, Blackbeard doesn’t say, you’re all of it. You couldn’t do this wrong.
“I’ll like it, swear to God.”
Stede licks at the hair below Blackbeard’s belly button, and Blackbeard wishes it weren’t so dark out so he could see everything. Wishes he could see Stede’s eyelashes flutter as he looks at him for the first time. Wishes he could see the man’s tongue wetting his lips, the nervous clench of his fingers on Blackbeard’s hips.
“Is this okay?” Stede asks and Blackbeard’s going to die before he gets off, he can just tell, but he moans and nods and then Stede’s licking the crease between his hip and thigh.
He has to close his eyes at the first touch of Stede’s tongue. Then he has to cover his face with his hands, tug on his own hair, focus on anything else so he doesn’t just spill at the image of it happening in his head. There are a few tentative, very delicate licks and what the hell , even if he just keeps doing this, it’ll work.
“Oh,” he hears Stede breathe, and then lips are encircling the head of him, a warm mouth is drawing him in, and Blackbeard has to reach down for Stede’s hair so he stays exactly where he is. Sometimes he kind of - goes away during sex, but he doesn’t want to do that now. He wants to be here, he wants to feel it.
“Is this - ?” Stede asks, pulling off slowly, and Blackbeard nods frantically even though no one can see him.
“It’s good, it’s so good,” anything to get Stede’s mouth back on him. “It’s perfect, you’re perfect -"
Stede swallows him down again, making a pleased little sound. He’s still uncertain and a bit sloppy. There’s spit everywhere, Blackbeard can feel it dripping. He tries to keep his hips from shifting, resists the urge to fuck up into that wet heat until he goes blind. Stay here. Feel this.
“Fuck me to hell,” he grits through his teeth. “Just like that.”
Stede keeps his movements steady and slow, a simmering sort of pleasure. Sometimes he tries to take him a little deeper, and then Blackbeard feels the flutter of his throat, and it’s murderous, actually. He’d have a better chance of surviving being run through on the right side, and he keeps flexing his fingers in Stede’s hair, trying to be gentle, trying to hold on. He can’t - fuck - the end is going to wreck him, he knows it -
Stede stops suddenly, gasping. “It’s so much.” He’s breathing hard, hands clenched on Blackbeard’s hips. “You’re so - I want -“
“What do you want? I’ll do anything.” Blackbeard pretends he doesn’t hear the way he sounds as he says it, like he’s gratefully signing away his life.
“I think I want you to - to fuck me.” He’s quiet, barely above a whisper. “If you want that.” His voice catches like silk on metal, and Blackbeard’s brain whites out for a little bit. He opens his arms and Stede crawls up the bed and kisses him, touching his hair, mouth wet and trembling.
“I’ve thought about it. I’ve - wanted it,” Stede tells him, and the image (Stede on his hands and knees fucking himself on Blackbeard’s cock demanding more, Stede riding him, little jumps of those gorgeous hips, prick spurting without even a hand on him, Stede with those legs up over his shoulders bent almost in half shocked speechless by how good it feels- )
— might have crossed his mind. Once or twice.
“Do you want that?” Stede asks and Blackbeard hands are tight on his shoulders. He feels a bit too much suddenly, an ache in his chest that he can’t speak around. He’s quiet for too long, and Stede lifts his mouth from his throat.
“Edward? Are you -“
“I don’t know how,” Blackbeard says in a rush. “I’ve never done this.”
“No. Really?” Stede blinks at him in surprise. “That’s not - you give off certain vibes, so I -”
“I mean - not like this. Like how you deserve it. Like – gentle or good, I don’t think I can –” Oh fuck he’s panicking, nothing sexier than panic. “I’ve never.”
“Well. Then we’re the same.” Stede gives him a tiny smile, and that turns into a kiss, which turns into another and another one. His hands cup Blackbeard’s face. “That’s kind of nice. Makes me feel better.”
How did Stede survive in the world long enough for Blackbeard to find him? How the hell did he they end up here? With a final kiss (on his nose of all the fucking indignities) Stede leans away. He reaches off the side of the bed and rummages beneath it, while Blackbeard falls in love with each freckle on his back.
“No,” he says when Stede returns with a flat tin of something. “Under your fucking mattress?”
“It’s for my cuticles,” Stede says.
“Yeah, I’ll bet it is.”
“Oh, shut up.” Stede presses it into his hand, and kisses his throat. He’s shaking, but it’s not from the cold, and anyway Blackbeard is shaking too. “Edward. Will you show me?”
He doesn’t correct him. It’s impossible to care what his name is when Stede is so gentle beneath him, shifting his knees so that Blackbeard can fit in between (he has to lift each one in turn to kiss the back of them immediately, there’s no other option.)
Whatever it is in the tin melts in Blackbeard’s palm and smells a bit like oranges. He fingers Stede open so slowly, and it feels like a dream and a bullet and a ghost that’s going to haunt him for the rest of his fucking life. Stede's slick and warm and every time Blackbeard presses in, Stede’s beautiful cock jumps, and he makes this sound like he can’t believe it, a surprised little bird sound, and Blackbeard’s going to lose his mind.
He never does this sort of thing. Just takes or is taken, there’s no build up to the act. But the noises Stede’s making, the way he keeps reaching for his cock and then pulling his hand back, like it’s so good he can’t stand it.
Blackbeard doesn’t even care if they get to the main bit. He could get Stede off just like this and probably get himself off just watching it. They could take all night, and if Stede’s hips needed a break he could put his legs up on Blackbeard’s shoulders and get eaten out a bit. That'd be all right. Blackbeard would make it good.
“This is so good,” Stede murmurs, hissing as Blackbeard adds another finger. “How is this so good?”
“Cuz it’s me.’
It’s supposed to be a joke, but Stede reaches out to brush his hair out of his eyes, and the look on his face is so gentle. “You’re right.”
Fuck, Blackbeard has to stop for a moment, press his head to Stede’s stomach and breathe until his body stops trembling. He holds his hips very carefully away from the mattress.
“So fucking - embarrassing,” he mutters into Stede’s skin and the other man laughs. “Sorry, I’m just -”
“It’s all right, love. Take your time.”
Love – it’s still not a word that Blackbeard can hear. Even though it’s in his mouth as well, burnt onto his tongue with the edge of a hot knife. He bites Stede’s hipbone to shut him up, and then gets back to it.
“I think I’m ready. I think you’d better -” Stede is breathing heavily, and he shifts backwards, murmuring as Blackbeard’s fingers slide free. Blackbeard sucks once on the tip of his prick, just to get the taste, and it makes Stede cry out and almost kick him, which is probably a compliment. “God, you're so good at this."
That should be feeding Blackbeard’s ego because yeah, he knows what he’s doing, but instead his stupid brain just latches onto the word ‘good.’
“Yeah?” he asks. “You like this?”
“Please come here.”
He pulls his hair up into some sort of knot on his head, because the last thing he wants is it getting in Stede’s eyes.
“Are you sure?” He can’t stop shaking as he slicks himself, as he hitches one of Stede’s lovely legs up around his waist. He’s got to make this feel incredible and he’s got to make this last and he’s not sure if he can do either of those things right now. “Fuck, are you sure?”
“Yes. For heaven’s sake, y-es –” The word cracks in half a little bit, because Blackbeard is lining himself up, is lifting Stede’s hips and slowly pressing inside. Something breaks open in his chest as he does, and Stede wraps his legs around him like it’s their wedding night, hissing and tilting his head back until he’s filled in one long stroke.
“O-okay?” Damn, it’s hard to do this shit when you’re in love with someone. Maybe he just needs to practice, and that’s – no, we’re not thinking about that.
“It’s perfect,” Stede says. “You’re perfect.” He gasps as they rock together, lets out a breath every time Blackbeard is completely inside him. His hands don’t stop moving, fluttering down Blackbeard’s back, running up his ribs, gentle and constant and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind them.
Blackbeard's not used to being touched like this.
“Take it easy with those hands, mate,” he says, shivering with it. “It’s uh - a lot.”
“Oh, sorry.” Stede kisses him then, and Blackbeard grabs at his hair to hold him steady, but not a moment later those soft hands are petting his neck, slipping silvery against his skin.
“Stede, Christ -”
“I’m so sorry, I’ll try. You just feel - everything feels -”
“A second, give me a second.” Blackbeard holds himself still, hisses a breath through clenched teeth. He can’t believe he’s so touch starved that Stede’s fingers on his shoulders are moments away from ruining everything.
“You could help me,” Stede says. Even without much light, Blackbeard can see how dark his eyes have gone.
It’s like that, is it? Blackbeard feels the blade of a smile on his face. He gathers both of Stede’s wrists in one of his hands, stretches them up over his head and pins them there.
“Okay?” he asks. His prick throbs inside him, and Stede’s thighs shake around his hips.
“Um - very, very okay.”
“Good.” He pulls back and thrusts in a bit more sharply. Both he and Stede make matching gutted noises as he does. The tenor has changed suddenly, things don’t feel slow and dreamy anymore. Stede’s eyes are fixed on him, and Blackbeard can’t stop moving, hard and deep, the pulse of Stede’s wrists running all the way down his spine like fire.
“You feel so fucking good,” Blackbeard says, the words bleeding out of him like he’s severed an artery. He’s never felt anything like this, never had his whole heart fucked out of his body. “Think you were made for this, just to lie back and take me. Could fuck you all day, been wanting to, been -” dreaming of it, gagging for it, lying awake and feeling sick that I’m not touching you all the time every second.
Stede leans up to kiss him, and the bed beneath them shakes.
“What do you need?” Blackbeard says, and he can’t hold back, can feel everything building too quickly.
“You, that’s all - oh, do that again.”
“Like that?” Christ, it feels good. He should’ve known it would be like this, should have known it. “Can I touch you?”
“No. Just like this. It’s enough.” Stede whimpers beautifully, and Blackbeard can’t help but bend to bite at his neck, his jaw, kissing as much of his chest as he can reach while still pinning Stede down. He’s too close, it feels too good.
“I’m going to come inside you.” He says it with a bit of shock, disbelief. Oh Christ, it’s happening, he’s here. “I’m going to –”
“Yes,” Stede says and Blackbeard feels him then, spilling hot and wet against his stomach and his chest. Stede makes a surprised, pained sound at his peak, and the surprise - like Stede never expected it to feel as good as this - is what sends Blackbeard over the edge. That’s hot, that’s so fucking hot, and Blackbeard wants to make him feel like that three times a day every day for the rest of his life.
He bites his lower lip, presses his face against Stede’s neck, and falls apart. It goes on and on and he’s choking out some kind of noise that he doesn’t want to think about. Fuck. Fuck.
“I love -” Stede starts to say, but Blackbeard kisses him, clutches him, and won’t let him go.
Everything gets gentler after that. Their bodies slip apart, and Stede is wiping his chest clean, pulling the blankets back up and murmuring nonsense at him, the horrible healing kind.
“Your neck,” is the last thing Blackbeard remembers saying, and he doesn’t know why (besides - objectively - Stede’s neck) before he’s falling asleep all tangled up in someone else’s hands.
Tonight, dark water doesn’t drag him under. Blackbeard dreams, and his dreams are soft.
He walks very slowly as he crosses the deck, trying his best to make sure nothing spills. Stede is winding rope with Oluwande, and when he sees Blackbeard approaching, he smiles at him like no one ever has in his life (except this fucking man. Over and over and over again.)
“Brought you tea,” Blackbeard says, and wishes the boat would capsize.
“You brought - me -” Stede looks at him like he just strung the world on a silver chain and handed it to him.
“Getting you back, whatever. Probably too hot or something.”
Stede lifts the teacup to his lips. “It’s perfect. And where did you get this? I don’t think I’ve seen this pattern before.”
Blackbeard shrugs, one-shouldered.
“Did you bring me tea?” Oluwande asks.
“Fuck off,” Blackbeard says, only feeling a little bit bad about it.
Stede is still smiling at him, and Blackbeard panics, says, “I, uh, better get back to it,” when what he wants to say is ‘I don’t know how to forgive you, and I don’t know how to forgive myself, and I am absolutely fucked in the head in love with you, would peel off my skin and pull out my teeth if you wanted them, because love has always been violent, but maybe that’s not what you want, maybe you deserve better things and I might not know how to give them to you, how to be them for you, and I never thought I’d live long enough to feel this way.”
“Thank you,” Stede says. Like he already knows.
As dawn slices across the sky, Stede touches his face slowly in the new light. He’s very careful about it, and it makes Blackbeard feel precious beneath his hands. Stede drags his short nails through the whiskers on his chin, while Blackbeard tries to hold his whole heart inside his chest. It keeps trying to claw its way free, and maybe he should let it.
Clear the air.
“When you left, I went a bit… off.” He hates how weak his voice sounds, how broken, like a little kid in a bathtub.
Stede just nods, and doesn’t stop touching him.
“I did too.”
“Why - weren’t you there?” he asks the question, even though it costs him a year of his life to say out loud. “I waited for you.”
He presses his forehead against Stede’s and closes his eyes.
“Ed, I thought -”
“I couldn’t hear it. You tried, but I couldn’t.”
A cautious hand cards through Blackbeard’s hair. A cautious kiss is pressed to the ridge of his eyebrow.
“Tell me again?”
He keeps his eyes closed, because he hopes it will be easier that way. If he opens his eyes, if he sees Stede’s face he’ll get lost, he’ll want to kiss him, he’ll feel ugly or starving or both, so keeps his eyes closed. He focuses on Stede’s breath, the whisper of it against his mouth. He focuses on Stede’s skin against his, the heartbeat he feels like a ripple through the mattress.
Stede tells him.
Do the reasons matter, in the end? Blackbeard hears his apologies and his fears and his regrets, and it all hurts. Every word hurts.
It hurts because it can’t fix anything, can’t undo any of it. It can’t make the clocks wind back to that day on the beach, where everything seemed possible and the horizon of his heart was wide and gold and endless, the whole world waiting for the two of them to find it. Stede’s reasons don’t change anything in the war-wound of Blackbeard’s body.
But this time, Edward hears them.
In the morning the sky is clear. Ed wakes before Stede does, listens to the music of his steady breathing. He puts on his trousers and one of Stede’s old silk robes, belts it, and leaves the door to the auxiliary closet open.
On deck he finds Buttons at the helm and Wee John on watch. They nod at him as he goes to lean against the railing. The sails have been repaired and the sea is calm, as if it’s never even heard of a storm. He stands there, looking at the sky. He smells faintly like lavender, and the wind blows his hair out of his face.
The horizon is wide and gold and endless.
Not long after, Stede comes out to join him. He has two cups of tea and a purplish bruise high on his throat. He’s the most beautiful thing Edward’s ever seen, and he would attack the Spanish and give up piracy and cut his own heart out, he would do it all over again just to see him in this perfect light.
“Good morning,” Stede says, handing him his tea.
“You love me,” Edward says, and Stede drops his cup. It shatters on the deck, spilling everywhere, and Stede doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Yes. Yes, I do. I do, I — yes, I have for so long. Yes.”
Something in Edward’s throat untangles, and he takes a breath.
Maybe those early, easy days are gone. Maybe they’re both too broken, and they can’t go back to where they were, a time when neither of them had hurt the other – though Stede ran Ed through on one of their first nights together, so maybe they were bound in blood from the start. Maybe it was always going to happen, the painful bits, the wounding.
Maybe what matters is what happens next.
“Well then.” Edward leans his head against Stede Bonnet’s shoulder, not caring who sees them. His heart feels like a key in a lock. “All right.”
Or maybe they will find their way, maybe it’ll just take time. Right now, Ed thinks he can see it far off on the water, like a light glittering, one that only gets brighter the closer Stede stands beside him.
Maybe after everything, it’s still possible. Maybe they’ll reach it some day.
They do.