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In front of Ed lie two choices: the sum of all his achievements, the ultimate test of his faculties and wit, wrapped in two innocuous squares.
Across from him is Stede; judge, jury and executioner. He’s dressed in his Sunday best, the only person Ed knows that thinks this means a tasteful flash of ankle in between plum socks and satin trousers. The ankle is distracting. Privately, Ed does not think it is tasteful. It is the sluttiest thing he has ever seen, in fact, but he will keep these observations to himself.
A broad hand, one that Ed knows is warm and surprisingly calloused from experience (one that has, as of late, been making too many appearances in his dreams), slides those two squares ever closer. They remind him of the choice he must make.
“Well?” Stede asks, gentle. Firm.
Carefully, weighing all the possible outcomes of his decision, Ed lifts his finger, and points. This is it. The moment of truth.
Stede looks at his choice. Pauses. A moment that lasts forever ensues, in which Ed frantically cycles back through all the lessons they have had so far, and tries to remember what he might have done wrong. By all rights this should be the correct choice. But if it is somehow, impossibly, the wrong one he will bear the consequences.
And then a brilliant smile spreads across Stede’s face, and Ed’s heart skips a beat anyway. He picks up Ed’s Pantone colour swatch of choice, and waves it triumphantly in front of his face.
“You did wonderfully Ed,” Stede beams, “Couldn’t have done better myself! You’ll be matching colours like a professional in no time! Cornflower Blue. A marvellous choice!”
A flush paints Ed’s face red, and for the thousandth time he thanks his beard for its protective properties.
“I had a good teacher,” he replies gruffly, trying not to sound too pleased.
“You flirt,” Stede replies, but he looks chuffed. He holds the Pantone swatch in his hands like it’s a precious thing, and not a choice Ed has made based off of too many days of staring at this man’s eyes. Cornflower blue. Ridiculous. He could hold Pantone swatches up to this man’s eyes for the rest of his life, and try and fail to match that exact shade.
“Well! I do believe I’ve taught to you all that I know. The student has surpassed the teacher!” Stede exclaims. He’s packing up the other swatches into his leather satchel, movements efficient but still reverent. Ed’s finds himself following the movement of his hands, and tries to tamp down the rising panic.
“I-uh well, that’s an exaggeration don’t you think? There’s whole spectrums! You know I read on the Internet the other day that shrimp can see colours we can’t! What if a shrimp chose these swatches -”
“Ed.”
He stops.
“Ed,” Stede says warmly, ever-so-slightly amused, “I don’t think that’s what you want from me.”
Is he going to make him say it? With words and everything? That seems a bit unfair, Ed thinks. A person can’t just assume things of another person like this.
“What - uh, what do you think I want from you?” Ha. Take that. The turns have tabled.
Stede’s eyes narrow slightly, but his posture is still relaxed as he leans back into his chair. His legs spread a little, and Ed’s mouth is suddenly very, very dry. The hand that hasn’t left Ed’s horrible, filthy imagination in months waves casually around at the parlour they’re sitting in.
“Where are we, Ed?”
“The Gentleman Pirate’s private parlour,” Ed mumbles.
“And who is the Gentleman Pirate, Ed?”
“You,” Ed whispers.
Stede leans forward, and Ed notices that the top button to his collar is open, and that his cravat is ever so slightly loose. He planned this.
“And what, Ed, is the Gentleman Pirate known for?”
.
It was simply that at twelve he had felt a life escape from between his fingers, slippery and loose, and had chased that feeling ever since. A man who had kept him in his chokehold for all his time on earth, brought down by pressure and thumbs. The bile in his own throat did not come up until much later, and by then he could pass it off as a side-effect of the food.
When he meets Izzy for the first time, he’s going through his Daniel Craig obsession phase, which means he introduces himself as -
“Teach, Edward Teach.”
This prompts perhaps the most judgemental eyebrow raise Ed has ever seen, to this day.
“Hands,” the other man says drily, “Israel Hands.”
He can’t quite stop himself from glancing quickly at his, just to see if they live up to their owner’s name. And they’re - surprisingly delicate. The rest of Izzy is scruffy and mean, from the curl of his lip to the glare of his gaze. But his hands look soft. Framed in big, chunky silver rings and leather bracelets he’s sure he’s seen in Hot Topic, yes, but uncalloused and delicate-looking. Not even very tanned, compared to the rest of him.
Izzy sees where he’s looking, and looks, if possible, even more unimpressed than he was before. “Like what you see?” He asks. His eyebrow is still raised.
It is at this point that Ed remembers where he is, and what he is trying to achieve. He straightens his back, and tries to look as menacing as possible. He has on his new leather jacket (not from Hot Topic), and also the beginnings of a beard. It’s as menacing as it’s going to get.
“And if I don’t?” he grunts.
Izzy pauses, and does a very unsubtle sweep of his body. Boot to chest to head. His eyes linger on Ed’s own hands, which are coarse and rough from a youth spent at sea. Perhaps he likes what he sees, enough at least for him to reply, carefully,
“You could do something about it.”
And that is that. On Ed’s very first night out in a gay club in the big city, he meets Israel Hands, who, aside from being an absolute brat in bed, also shows Ed the literal and metaphorical ropes of gay culture and BDSM. He does this all mostly unknowingly, throwing out scraps of knowledge like cigarette butts and old lovers, most often in the post-haze of sex.
It is with Izzy that Ed discovers that his hands, coarse and rough and already familiar with knots, can be put to good use. On rope and silk and leather, but also on wrists and throats, the latter of which gives Ed a little twist in his chest. He decides it is a good twist. It must be.
Because Ed is a Dom, and damned good at it. He builds a reputation for himself, in the ensuing years - a persona he names Blackbeard, after a lot of time and consideration. (And the visceral memory of Izzy, pulling on his beard in the throes of pleasure, and how that gave him another little twist. He’s not sure how to label that one. Memorable, at least.)
He specializes in ropework, and is known for his rough hands. And he enjoys it! Mostly. He definitely enjoys the way Izzy looks when he’s lost in subspace and utterly pliant. It heralds his favorite part - the aftermath. A time both quiet and holy, of untying ropes and rubbing lotion on reddened skin.
Eventually, with carefully saved funds over the years, and the enthusiastic support of those in the scene, they set up their own club. It is first the Kraken, because of a variety of tasteful tentacle jokes, but later, after a harrowing few years of sabotage and struggle and near-misses, they renovate and rename it. Subtle, it is not. But subtlety has never been their lover. The Revenge tastes like clean books and a set of documents that tell the world this place is theirs, and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.
In this timeline, Ed and Izzy are for a while, Ed and Izzy. They are referred to with that particular tone of voice that implies one does not come without the other. Where the ‘and’ is as much a part of their title as the ‘Ed’ or the ‘Izzy’.
It is good. In the rockiest moments, when it feels like the world has tossed them both out to sea, they are the other’s anchor. Ed knows, down to his very marrow, that falling is never an option; there is a back against his, and it is sturdy. It is good. If he reaches out, there will be a hand pulling him ashore. If he drowns, it will be by choice. It will be in an embrace.
Izzy, for all that he is a pillow princess in bed, takes to paperwork and administration like a pirate to treasure. He keeps everything running behind the scenes. The tax and revenue office awaits his call with dread. And Ed, building on the reputation he’s already made for himself in the scene, handles everything that the light touches and people see. The face of the Revenge greets its guests with red eyes and black beard. (But only sometimes, because the contacts make his eyes dry and itch after a while, and really, he’s getting on in the years.)
But when the sea finally settles and the waters turn calm, things begin to change. Where they thrived under pressure they flounder in the open sky. Left to their own devices, things that were overlooked in the chaos of those hard years are now suddenly unable to be ignored. Where Izzy wants to fight, Ed is happy to leave well enough alone. Where Ed finds himself chafing and yearning (for what for what for what he doesn’t know), Izzy wants things to stay the same. A million grievances build up.
Some things are better left spoken. With so many years between the two of them, Ed and Izzy know how to speak, and even better, how to listen. So they go on a holiday to the Bahamas. They try to rekindle something dying.
And so they shout and scream and whisper, and cry and fuck and promise. At the end of it all it is acceptance, in the blue light of dawn, with sand scratching their shoulders and salt on lips, origins indistinguishable between seawater and tears. A thing does not have to be eternal to have had value. They are both better men for it all, even if this is an ache that might last for a while (a lifetime).
In time, their regulars and competitors learn that Ed and Izzy are now just Ed, and Izzy, respectively. Still a pair, but in a dance different from the one they knew before.
This dance is not so different, they find. Although they decide to end their own, personal contract once it’s time, they are still partners in owning The Revenge. The inside jokes are still there, and they remain united in intimidating the newest fools from the health and safety department. (They maintain strict standards of hygiene in the club, but homophobia is alive and well.) Tentatively, they begin to find new ways to love each other; a gentler kind of love, built on a better understanding of themselves and what they need.
There is nobody in the world who understands Izzy better than Ed, and the same is true vice versa. This is why, when Izzy walks into the club on a sunny Thursday afternoon, Ed instantly knows that something is wrong. It is something in the step. Something in the way he is holding himself. Ed itches to be the person holding him up instead.
He waits, patiently going back to the accounts he was looking over before the interruption. With Izzy it is best to wait. Nothing will spill the beans faster than silence. (And perhaps, the bloody mary or two Izzy seems to be scrounging up.)
It doesn’t take very long. The bar stool next to him creaks - they need to get it replaced actually - and a grumbly torso knocks against his, and stays there. Shoulder pressed against shoulder. Ed waits, happy to be a human pillar for his favorite angsty baby, and continues to flip through the accounts. He’s not actually reading them anymore, but he pretends to squint anyway, to let Izzy’s guard go down even further.
“I keep telling you to bring your glasses to work,” Izzy starts.
“Mmmm yes my fault,” Ed replies.
“And the accounts are fine, I looked over them yesterday,” Izzy continues.
“I trust you, I just wanted to make sure I know where we stand compared to last month,” Ed says.
“Hmph.”
“Mmmm.”
A pause. Izzy takes an aggressive sip of his bloody mary, and Ed scrawls something on his notebook. It’s a doodle of an angry chicken, but Izzy doesn’t need to know that.
“There’s a new club downtown,” Izzy finally grits out.
It’s not really the news Ed expected to hear, but he stays silent anyway, to ensure Izzy will continue to talk.
“It’s called ‘The Gentleman’,” Izzy mutters, “and the owner is some rich fop calling himself ‘The Gentleman Pirate’. Who comes up with these things?”
Ed raises a brow. He thinks about it, and then ventures a question.
“Do you think it’ll be a problem for us?”
“Of course not,” Izzy shoots back, vicious. A vein on his forehead twitches. “That twat probably doesn’t know a thing about BDSM, much less how to run a business. It’ll go under within the year.”
“Of course of course.”
Silence.
“They won’t be a problem,” Izzy says. He doesn’t sound convinced.
.
The Gentleman Pirate is a misnomer. Beneath the genteel handshake, the impeccable cravat, and the polite little smile lies a wolf. It is a well-groomed beast, and its teeth are always hidden behind its lips, but Ed knows.
Ed also knows that his interest is disproportionate. That there is good reason for him to be interested in the Gentleman Pirate; as a competitor, as a fellow BDSM practitioner, and as a neighbor, even. That none of these are the reason he finds himself fascinated.
It is simply that, at forty-eight, he is wondering if the feeling of rope and breath under his hands is what he really craves. He’s good at it. Brilliant, even. But is it what he wants? At twenty-four, with everything to prove and everything to lose, he had blossomed knowing that yes, here was something he could do. He was useful . He was wanted . If his gaze lingered a little too long on things that weren’t meant for him, then that was a secret for him and him alone.
But now, with the Revenge running as smoothly as it possibly can, and things with Izzy at an established peace, Ed finds that he suddenly has the room to really think .
Perhaps it is fate that throws Stede into his path at this particular moment in time. Stede, specifically, at this moment, especially. No other person and no other time would have worked. Too early and Ed would still be running off the high of The Revenge and her success, still aching to prove himself as a somebody of worth. Too late and perhaps he would have thought himself too old for change. Would have been content with the place he had built for himself. Would have thought that perhaps contentment meant satisfaction.
And for it to be anybody but Stede seems impossible, after meeting the man. Who could possibly compare? Not even the damn pantone swatches can match his eyes, and they are only one brushstroke in a walking masterpiece.
So it must be fate, even if Ed has never been one to believe in such lofty concepts. Fate’s doing, for him to walk into the Gentleman Pirate’s club and stumble, heart first into steady hands and eyes that crinkle when they see him.
(Izzy laughs at him about it later, when he goes back to The Revenge with his tail between his legs. It is not a laugh that reaches his eyes.)
It really is a nice place. Ed uses ‘nice’ the way he would wield a sword - this seems like a room designed to make him feel out of place. Fine fabrics everywhere, silk ropes cleverly hidden into the decor. Furniture that looks like it belongs in a museum for fine interior design, and most damningly, a clientele that seems mostly white and young and slender.
A part of Ed wants to be ten and slack-jawed, staring at the inside of one of those old churches that wield extravagance like a virtue. The ceiling is so far away. There is more than a mile between him and heaven. He does not belong , never has, but he aches to know what it must be like. Are fine fabrics as soft as they seem? As invincible, as above reproach, as the lords and ladies wearing them in that church appeared to be? Will he be safe, if he dons this armour?
There’s a stain on Ed’s shirt he doesn’t know the origins of. It’s a black shirt, thankfully, but the fabric of the shirt is a bit stiffer where the stain falls, and at this moment in time it is the scratchiest material known to man. He feels it rubbing against his collarbones with every step. A reminder.
“Can I help you?”
Ed spins, and tries to downplay how startled he is. This place is affecting him more than he thought it would.
“Yes,” he replies, gruff and short. His beard is fully grown now, and the leather jacket he wears over the black shirt is the real deal. Not armour, perhaps, but at the very least a thicker skin.
“Oh! Then I am at your service, Mr -?”
It comes out before he can stop it.
“Teach. Edward Teach.” He’s not looking Izzy in the eye after this. He’s going to change his name, and move to Australia.
But the man in front of him smiles, and looks delighted.
“What a lovely name! I’m Stede. Stede Bonnet.”
The smile on Stede’s face is wholly inappropriate. Historically, Ed knows, there have been sinners and saints. Realistically speaking, nobody is taught the correct procedure for when some insane conflagration of both pops up in front of you, like a demon from your sweetest dreams.
He resolves instead to speak as little as possible, and nods.
“And how can I help you today, Mr. Teach?”
For a moment he’s stuck on the horror of being referred to as Mr. Teach, a name he associates with calls to the tax and revenue office, or that one especially horrible role-play idea he and Izzy had decided to try once.
“Please, just call me Ed,” he pleads, voice a little hoarse with embarrassment. So much for not speaking.
The fey creature in front of him takes his request with aplomb, shifting titles easily.
“Well then, Ed, do you have any questions for me?”
He does not in fact, have any questions. Or at the very least, any questions he can ask without seeming like a straight-up creep. Ed casts his gaze frantically around the place, and in a fit of madness, he says,
“I uh, really like what you’ve done with the place. Those curtains look really. Soft. And uh. Blue?”
For some unfathomable reason, it is the right thing to say.
Stede claps his hands together like a schoolboy in front of sweets, and launches into an impassioned speech that doesn’t seem rehearsed, but has too many Names and Facts for it to be something he just had ready in his back pocket.
Ed does his very best to follow, because even if it were about drywall he thinks he could listen to this man talk forever. It’s not about drywall though, and is instead about things like ‘Pantone colors’ and ‘wood grain’. He does eventually get around to walls, and apparently this specific shade is eggshell blue, but he was really having a bit of a crisis because periwinkle was so pleasing to the eye too. Periwinkle does not sound like a real word, but because it’s Stede, and because Ed is a fool, he’s willing to believe in its existence. If Stede can exist, then so must a word like Periwinkle.
They’ve been standing in Ed’s little corner for what feels like 5, but turns out to be about 20 minutes, when something flits across Stede’s face, and he comes to an abrupt pause.
“Goodness, that was a bit uncalled for, wasn’t it. You didn’t come here to listen to me talk about my adventures in interior design! You -”
“I did!” Ed reassures hastily. Unthinkingly.
Stede looks at him in wonderment, though his mouth looks like it’s trying its best not to curl into something else.
“You came to the Gentleman Pirate, a club known for its explicit ties to BDSM, to learn about interior design?” Stede asks, carefully. His eyes are fucking twinkling.
“I - thought I might kill two birds with one stone, you know? Never had the chance to learn much about this rich people stuff anyway,” Ed mutters.
The twinkle dies down a bit, replaced with something softer and more knowing.
“Well you’ve come to just the place Ed.”
And just like that, Ed’s fate is sealed. There’s no backing out now. Go hard or go home and all that. For once, Ed isn’t sure if he wants to go hard or if he wants it the other way around.
(By which he means, maybe for once he’d like to be fucked. Maybe he’d like to be topped, licked and creamed. Maybe he can ask for hands around his throat for once.)
So it follows. Ed shows up at The Gentleman every Thursday, when Izzy is having his weekly spa treatment and the Revenge is closed for maintenance. It’s the lie Ed likes to tell himself – he’s going to Stede for all these lessons to be better at maintenance. Surely this knowledge will come in handy at some point, and the interior design at the Revenge could certainly use a little touch-up.
He does actually learn a lot – finery is not just colours that sound made-up and cutlery that should have stayed made-up. There’s a whole secret language too, of insults and things that sound like insults but are actually propositions for sex. Which is insane to him, personally. Are you telling me people don’t normally score hot dates by introducing themselves like a Bond character?
He also learns more about Stede, which is the real takeaway here. He learns that Stede had an entire secret room built into The Gentleman, because he thought it was ‘good for the aesthetic’ and also just because he could. The first time Ed steps into it a small part of him weeps. There is a child in Ed, that dreamt of secret rooms and fine things, but settled happily instead, for security. He has been content for so long. He has forgotten what it means to want.
But as lessons with Stede go on, he finds that it is growing, this wanting thing. He is safe now, and there are enough savings in his account that he won’t go hungry even if the Revenge has to close. His house is his own, and all the clothes in his closet are things he chose himself, and they fit him and keep him warm.
Hunger is all-encompassing. Ed knew this when he was twelve and had a death on his hands and not a penny to his name. When he was twenty-four and learning that there was something he could do, and that people would want him for it. Hunger is a beast that ignores the hopeful creature of want and dreaming. It demands everything. So he had set aside those childish fantasies of a life larger than the one he’d been living, and made sure he was never hungry again, instead.
What Ed is beginning to feel for Stede is a different kind of hunger, but it is no less violent. It is not a hunger he knew how to have. Nonetheless, it is here now, and every passing day in Stede’s presence makes the thing in his chest writhe. He is a little afraid, actually. He does not think his hunger is a pretty thing, and Stede deserves only the prettiest.
Still, life goes on, and the hunger that is so terrifying in the beginning becomes something Ed learns to just live with. Just him and his grasping want. A dude and his desires.
Which brings them to the swatches, and the one that is cornflower blue.
-
“And what, Ed, is the Gentleman Pirate known for?”
He’s about to be known for reducing a grown man to tears because of sudden-onset-boner-syndrome (SOBS for short). Ed’s sartorial choices are biting him in the dick. He’s not particularly well-endowed, and none of his partners have ever complained because it wasn’t really his dick they were after, but tight leather pants will make mountains out of very average hills apparently.
Stede looks delighted. If the emotional equivalent of clapping at a plane landing could be transfused into an expression, this would be it. He somehow manages to still look sinful doing it.
Ed musters up the courage to reply.
“Being a gentleman?”
A hum.
“Robbing delicate maidens of their virtue? Not that virginity is a construct I encourage placing weight on,” Ed tacks on hurriedly.
Stede tilts his head, and chuckles softly. It is a sound that portents doom. He rises from his chair, and steps towards him.
There was never much space between them to begin with, but it feels like Stede walks miles to reach him. Their eyes do not waver once, and all Ed can see is blue. Blue like wallpaper swatches and pleasant conversations. Blue like a request for drowning, and flinging oneself into the riptides. Blue like thirst, blue like hunger. He is just a man. Ed is only a believer.
The fingers, when they touch him, are so gentle that his skin aches with their memory. They trace a silver river up the side of his throat; three fingers, then two, then just the one, tilting his chin up to better look his god in the eye.
“Would you like me to give you a demonstration?” Stede asks him kindly. His finger has not left his skin. The path he traced burns.
Ed can only nod, and even this is a slow movement, so afraid is he of dislodging Stede’s finger from where it rests.
And then! And then and then and then, as if touching him has granted Stede some form of telepathy, those fingers trail slowly back down, weaving through his beard, stopping at the jut of his Adam’s apple. It is motionless, still holding in the breath Ed has been afraid of letting out.
Ever so softly, fingertips come to wrap around his throat, one after the other. Ed feels each one land in a rush that sinks through his entire body, and he knows his heart is beating fast enough to be a medical concern. He keeps so still, though. He is being so good.
And then there is an entire palm, resting against the warm column of his neck. Stede holds him there, loosely, like an afterthought.
“Do you trust me Ed?” Stede asks.
Ed does not respond with words. He cannot, at this stage. There is nothing in his mind but the hand on his throat and what it can do to him. Trust is too simple a word to describe how he feels about Stede. His life rests in the cradle of his palm. He is asking Stede to keep it, and do with it what he will.
So instead he looks up, and Stede looks back.
The hand squeezes.
Ed comes.
Neither of them are prepared for it, but Stede takes it in stride. He keeps his hand where it is, firmly pressing with the same amount of strength as before, riding out Ed’s orgasm with a pleasant smile on his face and a wicked gleam in his eyes.
When Ed is finished, breathless and gasping, Stede loosens his grasp. Unbidden, a whine escapes from Ed’s throat, left bereft from its keeper.
“Oh?” Stede mutters.
Shame flushes Ed’s ears, but overwhelming it is an indescribable wave of want. He barely has the strength to look Stede in the eyes again, but he does it anyway, in the hopes that he will understand what Ed is asking for.
Because Stede is a gentleman, he obliges. He steps even closer, into the cradle of Ed’s thighs, and tucks a few wayward strands of hair behind his ear. His thumb lingers on his cheek, moving in lazy circles. All the while he hums a litany of praise and adoration to him, and Ed feels each word sear into him like a brand.
“You’ve been so good for me darling, so beautiful. I wish you could see yourself right now, I’ve never seen a more gorgeous sight. Can you give me another, do you think? Would you trust me to make you feel good?”
Ed doesn’t say a word. He’s vaguely aware, in the haze of his mind, that he’s dangerously close to drooling. When Stede’s request pierces through the heady fog, he only just musters enough will to blink rapidly.
Stede smiles even wider, pleased. He removes his hand from Ed’s face, and before Ed can protest, he removes his cravat from around his neck. Ed is forty-eight. His refractory period is abysmal. In his pants, his cock twitches.
With practiced motion that cravat comes to rest around the back of Ed’s neck, and Stede takes his time tying it snugly. He does it blind, hands covered by Ed’s beard. It is a demonstration of skill Ed did not need, but he’s hard about it anyway.
When he’s done the cravat kisses the circumference of his throat, and Stede’s hand lingers at its side.
“Beautiful,” he whispers.
Stede’s arousal is evident too, because neither of them have any concept of wearing pants that fit. It hovers in front of Ed, the curve of it beckoning, but he is denied access. It doesn’t seem to bother Stede overmuch, focused as he is on Ed’s pleasure instead.
“Will you be good for me baby?” Stede asks.
Ed nods frantically. He’s panting again, in little baby breaths. He wants . He wants so much.
“Don’t come until I tell you to,” Stede says sweetly.
Ed groans. His pants are tight again, but the pressure is almost soothing this time. He can’t move, for fear of disobeying, but at least there is some illusion of friction he can sate himself with.
And then Stede’s foot comes up, and steps ever so politely on his dick.
It is only the culmination of forty-eight years of experience and his recent orgasm that stops Ed from coming on the spot. The breath he sucks in lodges in his throat, and the cry that rushes out is not a sound he thought he could make.
“Good boy,” Stede praises, as he steps down even more firmly. Ed whimpers. Slowly, that foot begins to move back and forth, grinding down in filthy drags on Ed’s dick. He’s bursting at the seams, more arousal than man. Time drips onwards like honey.
For an eternity and a minute all that exists is pressure and heat. Ed doesn’t know what possesses him, but somehow he manages to keep himself from coming. The tension in his belly ratchets up and up, suffusing his entirety. His mind is blank.
Ed swims in a haze of pent-up arousal. He wants to come so badly. He wants this to last forever. His wants and wants and wants.
That grinding foot comes to a sudden pause, and suddenly Stede’s lips are brushing Ed’s ear, and those hands are pulling at his cravat, and he can’t breathe, and doesn’t want to, and the pressure is everywhere, all at once.
The foot steps down.
The cravat is pulled tight.
In his ear, he hears a breathless demand, but the words don’t register until later. Nonetheless, he knows.
“Come for me darling.”
And he does.
.
In the aftermath, Ed is vaguely aware of being poured onto a bed and cleaned up lovingly. Somewhere between having his clothes taken off, and his soft dick cleaned by a warm cloth, he falls asleep.
When he wakes, they will have a conversation, him and Stede. At some point, he will have to discuss things with Izzy too, and introduce him to the Gentleman Pirate in the flesh. There will be arguments and tentative ceasefires, and the kindling of something new on the horizon. There will be understandings to come to, between the three of them and to himself.
But for now there is a hand on his brow and the promise of rest. He is not hungry anymore.