Archive of Our Own

The words Bahamas destination wedding had at first conjured images of white sand beaches and glittering turquoise seas. Lots of white fabric billowing elegantly in the breeze, god-fucking-knows why. Baskets of tropical fruit. Some kind of grilled meat on the beach. Six days so luxurious and relaxing that Ed could forget how depressing weddings are when you’re single.

And then he had remembered that this is Jack Rackham’s wedding they’re talking about, and the illusion shatters.

“Don’t put this on me,” Izzy had said when Ed expressed concern. “I suggested a night at the pub and a trip to the registry office, but who cares what I think?”

The resort is loud and sprawling. There are screaming kids everywhere, their parents too drunk to keep them on a tight leash, and Ed once again questions why this wedding had to happen during the fucking school summer break, and also why the universe hates him.

He’s already such a regular at the poolside bar that the barman, a young guy with obnoxiously massive sideburns, starts making Ed’s customary strawberry daiquiri before he even slides onto the bar stool, a fake bamboo abomination in keeping with the tacky tiki vibe the place has vaguely attempted. The barman takes the bottle of rum back in hand without a word and lets it slip, so he claims, until at least another two shots have made their way into the blender. “Whoops,” he says sarcastically. “I’m such a klutz.”

The extra rum gives the drink a harsh edge, some distance from the fruity sweetness Ed prefers in his drinks, but he kind of needs it, and he’s only been charged for the standard measure of rum. The rest of the guests aren’t due to arrive until the end of the week, but Ed is already juggling pre-wedding jitters Izzy, pre-wedding slutting Jack and pre-wedding chaos instigators Anne and Mary, and apparently it’s his job to keep things on track.

Him. The responsible one.

His twenty-year-old self fucking hates him.

And now Anne has thrown an impromptu joint bachelor party into the mix (because it’s a travesty Ed didn’t organise one, apparently, even though Izzy was very clear that he didn’t want one), and sure, Ed loves all of them deep down, but right now, from his hiding place in the bar by the over-chlorinated swimming pool, it’s hard to remember why. And to add insult to injury, he’s wearing one of the horrible Hawaiian shirts Jack had made for the occasion. Ed somehow hadn’t noticed the multitude of dicks hidden in the design until after he’d agreed to it, and Jack had declared, authoritatively, no take backs.

“Sex on the beach, please.”

The familiar accent is enough to make Ed glance up from his glass, and the guy who just sat down on the next stool over is enough to keep him looking.

“We do charge extra for that,” the barman teases.

“Ha! I think I’m a little old for you, I’m afraid.”

He’s around Ed’s age, maybe a bit younger, but he’s like, daddy, in the way that Izzy definitely is but he and Jack aren’t. Ed doesn’t know how to quantify it because Izzy doesn’t have kids and he has no idea whether this guy does or not, but he has that energy about him. His pale skin is damp with sweat and a little pink from the Caribbean sun. Bright blue sunglasses are propped on the top of fluffy blond waves, and he’s wearing a creamy white shirt with a goddamn Cuban collar so wide that Ed reckons he’d only need to undo one button for there to be a significant chance of a flash of nipple. Just the thought of it makes him wanna undo the button himself.

With his teeth, maybe.

“Here, one sex on the beach.”

The barman hands the drink over, and Beach Daddy takes a long sip through the stripey paper straw. Lets out a noise that makes Ed want to know exactly what he would sound like moaning his name.

And then he turns to Ed and says, “You wanna try it?”, and throws him a goddamn wink, and Ed splutters on his drink, flushing with embarrassment as he hastily wipes sticky red liquid out of his beard.

His first thought is that he wishes he’d ordered a cooler-looking drink than a strawberry daiquiri. Definitely wishes he didn’t just dribble it down his chin like a pent-up virgin in a teen movie seeing tits for the first time.

His second thought is, oh god, yes, he absolutely wants to try sex on the beach with this guy. Even though he normally follows a strict no beach sex policy, thanks to a few days in his twenties in which he learned how unpleasant it can be when sand gets into orifices it has no reason to be in.

His third thought is that the guy has been waiting expectantly for an answer for a good fifteen seconds, which doesn’t sound like much, but feels cavernous in conversation. His flirtatious look is morphing into something closer to concern — decidedly not sexy — so Ed panics and says, “Oh, no, I’m good, thanks!”, and then watches in real time as Beach Daddy’s face falls. It’s only then that Ed realises that he’s made out like he’s also not interested in the other thing Beach Daddy is definitely, shamelessly, possibly too shamelessly, offering. Which he absolutely fucking is interested in, for the record.

“I’m Ed, by the way,” he says, racing to fix this before he blows it entirely. He loads as much fucking rizz into his voice as he can, flicking his hair out of his face, batting his eyelashes, flashing the trademark Ed Teach smile. Really piling it all on. It’s all going so well, until he follows up with, “You come here often?”

Fucking hell. Fucking hell.

“The Bahamas?” Beach Daddy asks, blessedly going with the flow. “Sure, every other week.”

“Funny. I’ve not seen you around here before.”

“You’d remember if you had?”

“Hardly likely to forget you, mate.” That’s more like it, Ed thinks. “So what brings you here this week?”

“Bit of sun, bit of sea.” He raises an eyebrow, then adds, “Maybe a bit of fun too, if I’m lucky. What about you?”

“Oh. Um. A wedding. Well, combination destination wedding and bachelor party.”

“In that order?”

“Probably would be more wise, given what could happen at the bachelor party. Least that way, the wedding is locked in.”

“It’s not your wedding, is it?”

“No! God, fuck, no. Best man. Not married, me. I’m very single.” He regrets the very there. Regrets it a whole fucking lot.

“Hi, Very Single.” Beach Daddy’s smile spreads so wide it takes over his face, already laughing at his own joke. He makes Ed wait for all-too-predictable punchline, captures his straw with a particularly dexterous tongue, slurps up a mouthful of his cocktail before continuing. “I’m Dad.”

Ed snorts with laughter, shakes his head. “Jesus. You’re something else, mate.”

And then the door swings open, and of all people, it’s Izzy who storms in. “Fucking hell, Eddie, there you are. Where the fuck have you been all day?”

“Sorry, Iz. Lost track of time. What’s up?”

“What’s up is that you’re meant to be celebrating my wedding, not hiding in here and flirting with this twat. We have a dinner reservation.”

He will never forgive Izzy for dragging him away from this guy with his dad jokes and his Cuban collar and his chest, but he accepts that leaving Izzy to rot with Anne, Mary and Jack while he hides away and tries to get laid is hardly best man behaviour. “Fuck, fine,” Ed scowls, slurping the last dregs of his strawberry daiquiri without spilling any this time. “Next time you want a favour, remind me of this before I say yes, will you?” Like, really, he deserves some kind of Best Friend Medal Of Honour. “Nice meeting you, mate. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“If I’m lucky,” Beach Daddy says, and god, fuck Izzy and his fucking cockblocking. Asshole. “Hey Ed? Meant to say,” he calls out when he and Izzy are almost at the door. Ed spins around so quickly he might get whiplash, to find the guy trying to hold back a laugh. “Nice shirt.”

Yesterday’s fashion faux-pas has Ed burning with shame, and he’s not making that mistake again. He knows there is only the tiniest, slenderest chance that he’ll run into Beach Daddy again, but he sure as fuck won’t be wearing the dick shirt again if he does. He solves the problem by ‘accidentally’ dropping every item of bachelor-themed clothing into the trash can of the cleaning service cart he passes in the hallway. When he goes downstairs for breakfast, he’s thrilled to see that only Jack is continuing to commit. “Awww, you too, Eddie?” Jack pouts. “I thought the dicks really brought out your eyes.”

Ed ignores him. Dealing with Jack’s shit before his first coffee is guaranteed to end in tears, or possibly blood, though it’s hard to say whose.

After breakfast, as they traipse back through the hotel lobby, Ed sees him. A different shirt to yesterday, but similarly open-necked, flowy and floaty and draping so artfully over his broad chest. Bright pink shorts that stop mid-thigh. Delightfully hairy legs, freckled biceps, and if Ed had a strawberry daiquiri in front of him right now he’d be drooling it into his beard all over again.

“You can catch the shuttle bus to the beach from just over there. They’re every twenty minutes, and the next one is in five.”

“And just to confirm, the last shuttle bus back from the beach is at 6pm?” He overhears Beach Daddy ask, scribbling it down in one of those tiny notepads you see in every gift shop, which is horrendously, mind-bogglingly endearing.

“That’s exactly right, Mr Bonnet,” the man behind the desk says. “Though we’re happy to organise a taxi for you if you’d like to stay later. Is that everything I can help you with today?”

“Yep, that’s all!” He says brightly, and Ed ducks behind a plant to hide so it doesn’t look like he’s eavesdropping. Which he definitely isn’t. But if, as a result of coincidence and very good timing, he happens to know that Mr. “Beach Daddy” Bonnet is planning a trip to the beach today? Well, maybe salt air and sand between his toes is exactly what Ed needs right now.

And if he makes a conscious decision to dress for said mission? Well, he’ll offer up his own name and address for the court case, because sue him.

Ed expects it to be tricky to find Mr BD Bonnet (as he has taken to referring to him), but he spots him at the beach almost immediately. He lounges under an open umbrella, keeping the sun off his skin — very sensible, Ed approves — but there’s no mistaking the blond waves, the improbably taut calf muscles, the—

Jesus fucking Christ.

Jesus fucking Christ on a goddamn motherfucking pogostick cocksucking motherfucker.

Mr BD Bonnet is wearing Speedos. Speedos. To a beach. Around other people. And Ed can confirm, oh boy can he confirm, that BD does not solely stand for “Beach Daddy”.

And above the Speedos, when Ed can tear his eyes away, is the most deranged thing he’s ever seen. The guy has tapped into something carnal deep in his hypothalamus or whichever the fuck part of the brain controls pure horniness, and Ed is losing his goddamn mind.

He’s still wearing the shirt. He’s at the beach, and he’s still wearing the shirt, which, fine. Protecting his shoulders from the direct whack of the sun. Smart. And, okay, it’s unbuttoned. Unbuttoned shirt at the beach. The tantalising sight of abs and chest hair underneath fabric that pretends to hide it from view. He gets it.

What he doesn’t get? What he can’t figure out, what he’s going to be questioning for the rest of his goddamn life, is what on earth possessed Mr BD Bonnet to leave the bottom fucking button done up. It is so much fucking sluttier than not wearing a shirt at all. Ed has no idea why, but it just is. He doesn’t make the rules.

Then the guy has the cheek, the nerve, to throw his hands behind his head, feet anchored in the sand with his legs spread just enough that Ed knows if he got a little closer, he’d get a perfect view of the bulge of his cock through the navy fabric. Like Beach Daddy Bonnet (the Mr. is gone, no longer a place for such formalities) is a wild animal Ed wants to study at as close quarters as possible.

It occurs to him as he stands gawping from across the sand, towel under his arm, that he’s being a full-blown pervert over a guy who is probably just trying to enjoy a nice Caribbean get-away. Sure, Beach Daddy flirted with him a bit yesterday, but the fact Ed fumbled the bag hard doesn’t actually give him carte blanche to follow him to the beach, stand here and ogle him from a distance like a lunatic. It’s fucked up. It’s so fucked up. When you lay it all out, he’s lost his goddamn mind over this DILF and his fucking wide-collared shirts that are absolutely not an invitation for Ed to lick his nipples, no matter how desperately he wants it to be.

So of course that’s when Beach Daddy looks up and spots him, gives him a little wave. Ed is close enough to see him raise an eyebrow like it’s a challenge. Close enough to see the smirk. It’s the weirdest flirting Ed’s ever been a part of, and he’s in real danger of falling foul of public decency standards if the guy keeps looking at him like that.

Fortunately, Ed came prepared.

He finds an empty sun lounger, pulls his t-shirt over his head, pushes his shorts down his legs to reveal his swimwear underneath. Doesn’t look at Beach Daddy. Doesn’t give the guy the satisfaction. Doesn’t even care how Mr BD Bonnet might react.

Ed grabs the sheer black cover-up robe from his bag, throws it on over the black and purple swim shorts that make his ass and thighs look incredible. Over the bralet that matches so closely you would believe the two items came as a set, the straps criss-crossing over his ribcage and tying in a bow at the back. The bralet is slightly sheer too, enough that his tattoos peek through, and he knows he looks fucking edible. Knows how great his hair looks when the wind catches it in just the right way, long tendrils of black and silver billowing in the breeze.

Finally satisfied, he glances at Beach Daddy, and fuck, is Beach Daddy staring back. Mouth agape. Doesn’t look even the slightest bit embarrassed when they make eye contact, holding Ed’s gaze until he has strolled past Stede’s lounger entirely, headed for the sea.

Ed knows how good he’s gonna fucking look getting out of the water, dripping wet, throwing the robe back on and letting the fabric cling to his soaked skin, accentuating every muscle. Knows how much Beach Daddy wants him, can see it in his eyes, that instant spark of attraction deliciously, delightfully mutual.

In the water, he psyches himself to go over when he’s done with his swim, introduce himself properly, get a name to put with the most gorgeous smile he’s ever seen, and he’s gonna do it, he’s ready, strolls out of the water like something out of an old James Bond movie, squeezes salt water from his curls, lets the black robe do its magic.

But by the time he gets back to the deck chair Beach Daddy Bonnet had been sitting in, it’s empty, and the man is nowhere to be seen.

Two hours into Jack and Izzy’s bachelor party, Ed decides this is a particular kind of hell.

It’s mostly Jack’s party, really. Izzy is suffering alongside Ed, but his status as one of the grooms means he’s finding it quite a bit harder to opt out of the occasion. Last Ed saw of them, Jack was sporting hot pink dick-themed sunglasses indoors, and using his ONE D FOR ETERNITY bachelor sash to lasso unsuspecting members of the public in an attempt to make out with them during his “last night of freedom”, while Izzy frees them and apologises on Jack’s behalf. Anne and Mary have disappeared entirely, having been kicked out of the karaoke booth (and possibly the whole venue) after being caught in some under-the-clothes groping in the middle of a duet of ‘Take Me Or Leave Me’, and Ed hasn’t seen them since.

So, yeah. He’s back to his status quo on this trip, which is hiding at the bar with a sugary sweet cocktail and willing the time to pass a little quicker. Izzy, at least, had gruffly thanked him for not foisting any novelty sunglasses or embarrassing groom-to-be sash on him for the duration, so he’s just about still in Izzy’s good books.

“How about we make tonight the night we finally have that sex on the beach, hmm?”

Ed nearly topples out of his seat. Beach Daddy has appeared out of nowhere on the stool next to him, a glass of something dark and whisky-based in his hand. Absolutely not a sex on the beach, for the full avoidance of any doubt.

He’s dressed up compared to the previous times Ed’s seen him, a sage green button down over grey tailored shorts and loafers, and it strikes him that the man is beautiful. Not just brain-meltingly hot, with his unbuttoned shirts and his nipples and his massive dick, all of which Ed’s already very aware of, but also that beaming smile, the sweep of his perfectly coiffed hair, one loose curl falling over one eye.

He’s the most beautiful thing Ed’s seen in years. Maybe ever.

Fortunately for Ed, he’s dressed up too. A white, almost translucent shirt with floral embroidery that’s only a bit ironically reminiscent of a bridal veil, and black leather-look trousers that are much too warm for the climate but make his ass look fucking great. Not a phallic pair of sunglasses or novelty-print shirt in sight. “Think maybe I’d like to know your name first,” Ed says, getting that particular humiliation out of the way before this conversation gets any further down the line.

“Shit!” Beach Daddy says. “God, did I not— Oh. God, sorry. I’m Stede. Stede Bonnet.”

He holds out his hand, and Ed reaches over to shake it. He has a firm grip, strong hands but soft. “Nice to meet you, Stede Bonnet. I’m Ed, obviously. Ed Teach.”

“Nice to meet you properly, Ed.”

“Was gonna say hello yesterday, but by the time I’d got back from my swim, you’d gone.”

“Right, yes, sorry about that,” Stede takes a sip of his drink, his cheeks a deep pink. “Emergency, you see. Couldn’t be helped.”

“Emergency?”

“Well. Um. Unfortunate wardrobe malfunction.” Stede laughs almost as hard as Ed does. “You really came out fighting with that particular ensemble.”

“Jesus, Stede. Nah, that’s on you for wearing Speedos out in public, you fucking lunatic.”

But Stede just shrugs. “Got your attention though, didn’t they?”

“Trust me, mate,” Ed leans in so he can whisper the words straight into Stede’s ear, cutting underneath the noise of the bar. “You didn’t need the Speedos to get my attention.”

Stede puts his now-empty glass back down on the bar, wets his lips with a tiny flick of pink tongue, and Ed decides to find out first-hand whether his mouth tastes like whisky. He places a hand high on Stede’s thigh, a light touch, and when he looks up into his face, checks if this is okay, Stede nods and leans into Ed’s space before he even gets a chance to make a move. A hand on Ed’s bicep to brace himself, and they’re kissing, whisky mingling with the sweet-sour tang of Ed’s mojito.

It starts gentle, ish, but Stede’s hand migrates quickly from bicep to Ed’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair and a thumb pressed firmly against his jawbone, holding them together as Stede’s tongue moves against his. It’s hardly even kissing. It’s absolutely what Ed’s mother would have referred to as necking when he was a teenager, desperate and loaded with the promise of more, and god, it’s a promise he intends to keep.

“Bad news,” Ed says, keeping his mouth only an inch from Stede’s as they catch their breath. “I have a firm No Sex On The Beach policy. Too much sand. It sounds fun, but it’s really not.” Stede looks a little disheartened, until Ed adds, “Any other locations in mind?”

“Well, we are in a hotel,” Stede starts. “Or this bar has a pretty swanky bathroom.”

He pauses for a moment, rational thoughts fighting with the part of him that cannot wait another five minutes to get his hands on Stede, and turns out the decision is easier than he’d thought.

“You had me at swanky bathroom.” Ed slides off the stool, snatches Stede’s hand in his and yanks him along in his wake. “Not wasting another fucking second, mate.”

Stede, as soon as the door swings closed, bundles Ed against it, putting those arms to good use as he shoves Ed back by the shoulders, back pressed against the door, and no, it doesn’t lock, but positioning Ed like this will give them a bit of notice of anyone trying to get in, and fuck, who even cares?

“You’re so lovely. Been thinking about this for two days straight,” Stede purrs into his ear. His lips dance along his neck, alternating kisses with nips of his teeth, picking his spot and sucking until Ed knows there will be bruises. Blows cool air across the wet spots he’s left on Ed’s skin, and the feeling is enough to make him shiver. “So responsive. That’s fun.”

“Stede, fuck—”

“I bet you’ve got really sensitive nipples,” Stede carries on, without a drop of self-consciousness. “Yesterday, on the beach, I could see how hard they were for me.” Ed moans at that, even though he knows Stede couldn’t actually see. Educated guess, that’s all. Really fucking good educated guess. “You have no idea how much I wanted to get my mouth on them, god, Ed.”

The pressure of Stede’s hand on his hip, pinning him to the door, disappears, and it moves in a firm stroke up his chest instead, seeking out the bud of a nipple through his shirt. The texture of the mesh and the embroidery add just enough roughness that Stede brushing his fingers with barely-there pressure is enough to make Ed squirm. “You can’t talk! One fucking button, Stede, what the fuck were you thinking when— hmmmph!”

The sharp shock of pain jolts through his body as pale fingers pinch his left nipple, and whatever point Ed was trying to make dies on his lips. “Knew it,” Stede breathes. “You make such beautiful little noises for me, Ed. So pretty.”

Ed keens, puts all his energy into stopping his knees from buckling beneath him. “Stede, please—”

“Do you like that, hmm? Being told how pretty you are?”

Ed’s brain is rapidly turning to mush, and he doesn’t even know the answer. He’s not had much reason to think about it before, but he can’t deny that something about Stede’s voice, about the way the familiar accent shapes the vowels, the softness in his voice as he calls Ed pretty, is really doing it for him. “You’re being so good for me,” Stede says, and then pulls back to watch the desperate, squirming reaction, and answers his own question. “Hmm, praise kink. Got it. Good to know.”

“Fuckin’— God, Stede, I don’t have a praise kink.”

“Are you sure?” Stede asks, fingers still trailing circles around his nipple. Just one of them. Fuck. He’s not even got to the other one yet, and Ed is rattled to his bones, cock straining against the leather-look jeans that he put on earlier in what turned out to be textbook Ed Teach poor decision-making. “You seem to like it when I tell you how gorgeous you are, that’s all.”

“Maybe I’m just vain.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are. Perfectly within your right to be, too.”

Ed tries to keep arguing, but his brain fails when Stede presses against him, hands pulling the shirt to one side to grant his mouth access to Ed’s clavicle. His teeth scrape across bone, soft lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of skin they can find. Stede hums in satisfaction, fingers twisted in the translucent mesh of the shirt, the embroidered flowers sitting in subtler contrast against his fingers than they do against Ed’s brown skin.

“God, you look so hot in this,” Stede says between kisses. Lets his mouth float over the fabric, kisses him through the shirt, and yeah, fuck, god yeah, Ed can tell where this is going, and he’s here for it. He’s so fucking here for it. “The black is lovely on you, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something about seeing you in white that really does it for me.”

Ed doesn’t mean to say it, or at least, mostly means to say it as a joke, but it doesn’t come out like one. “Bridal?”

“God, yes—” Stede moans, and then laughs at himself, the sound shocked but joyful. “Is that a thing for me? That would be crazy, right? Like, my divorce has finally gone through, and suddenly I’ve got a thing for tall, handsome men in bridal-esque shirts?”

“Mate, glad you’re having some sort of therapy breakthrough,” Ed says through gritted teeth. “But I’m pretty sure that mouth was just on its way to sucking my nipple through this fucking shirt, and I’d really, really like to get back to that.”

At least he thinks he’d like to. There’s a non-zero chance that the second Stede’s tongue hits his nipple, the cool stretch of damp fabric and the graze of harsh thread against his flesh, he might come on the spot without so much as unbuttoning his jeans.

Stede acquiesces, his mouth continuing to chart a course over his pecs, sucking the hard nub into his mouth, letting his tongue drag over it. Ed’s fingers scrabble to find anything to cling on to, fail, and end up one in Stede’s hair, one on his shoulder, and it’s hardly sustainable, the way Stede is crunched over to take Ed into his mouth, but fuck, who cares, this moment can last forever in his fucking memory, logged in the mental wank bank with several back-up copies.

The door slams hard into Ed’s back, and he stumbles from the impact. Topples into Stede, who manages to only lightly catch Ed’s nipple with his teeth, rather than hard biting down on it. Ed winces at the pain in his back as the door swings open and he’s not sure if he’s relieved that it’s Jack and Izzy, or if he’s humiliated beyond belief. It takes them less than a second to clock the sweaty redness of Ed’s face, Stede’s messed-up hair, the way Ed’s shirt is pulled open to expose most of his chest, and — Jack’s eyes flick down without even attempting to hide it — that both of them are sporting notable erections. Izzy smirks in satisfied silence, but Jack has never been the silent type. “Oh, hello,” he grins. “What have we here?”

The dick sunglasses have migrated from his nose to his forehead, making Ed’s usual description of him even more apt than usual. Izzy seems to have inherited the ‘One D For Eternity’ sash, which he looks sort of pleased with himself about.

“Thought we’d sneak in here for a quickie, but guess it’s already taken?” Jack grins. “Though, there’s two cubicles, so I guess we take one each?”

“Nope, not having this conversation, I hate you both. We’re leaving.” Ed grabs Stede’s hand, tugs him towards the door. “Don’t talk to them. They’re fucking assholes. See you bright and early for the rehearsal ceremony. Please don’t get arrested.”

And then Ed pushes Stede through the bar, where the darkness hides their indecency, out to the relative quietness of the resort at this time of night. The pool is a slightly eerie green-blue, the surface still and glassy, and the palm trees are lit from floodlights on the ground, casting dramatic shadows. It’s sort of beautiful, and also sort of tacky. Bit like Jack and Izzy, really.

“Ed—” Stede says. “Did you— I mean, I get it, if the moment’s gone, or—”

He turns, pulls Stede towards him with a fistful of his stupid Cuban collar shirt, the goddamn thing that started all this in the first place, and kisses him hard. “Moment’s never been less fucking gone, mate.”

“Your room or mine?”

“So, I’m actually sharing the bridal suite with four other people, for some fucking reason, including those two back there. So like, as much as you’ve apparently got some kind of marriage kink going on—”

“I do not have a marriage kink—”

“Your room is a safer bet.”

Stede’s room isn’t quite as fancy as the bridal suite, but it’s still nice, and Ed wastes no time piling Stede onto the bed, desperate to finally see every goddamn inch of him. That last tiny bit of skin covered by his shirt still haunts him, and he needs to see. He needs to get Stede naked and find out exactly what he’s been hiding.

Ed makes quick work of his buttons (starting from the bottom one, conquering his foe straight out the gate) and throws his shirt aside before tackling the pants, Stede lifting his hips to help, and Ed doesn’t know what it is about the guy that has him down quite this bad, but he has never wanted another person more in his life.

“Do you, um—” Stede says, sounding unsure of himself, but powering through. “Do you have a… Um. A preference?”

Ed doesn’t, usually. He likes everything, likes feeling good, but looking at Stede spread out underneath him, the outline of Stede’s thick cock clear even in the dim light and so erect that the head of it is peeking out at the waistband, Ed knows he needs to have it inside him. Like, right now. Like, two days ago, probably, when he first laid eyes on Stede at the shitty tiki bar and had been overcome with the pressing, filthy need to get destroyed by this man. “Fuck me,” he says, breathy and half-begging. “Gonna need you to hold me down and rail me until I forget my fucking name.”

There is a moment then where Stede’s eyes go wide and Ed worries he’s ruined this somehow, is on the brink of tacking on a nervous if that’s okay with you, when Stede chokes out a half-sob, half-laugh and pulls Ed down on top of him, kisses him until neither of them can breathe. “I’d be honoured.”

The leather-ish pants come off easier than Ed expects, but the shirt is more of a challenge. Not because it’s physically difficult to remove, but because Stede seems to have an emotional attachment to seeing Ed in it. “I can keep it on if you’d like?” Ed suggests, but Stede sighs like he’s going through some real personal hardship, and shakes his head.

“No— No, it’s just—”

“Marriage kink?”

He giggles again, doesn’t deny it, exactly. “You’re a vision like this. God, look at you. Such a beautiful little thing.”

Ed feels the flush rising on his skin, no idea how or why those words spoken so gently, so honestly, in Stede’s voice, an unmistakable taste of home, gets him going quite like this. “Gonna be a vision with a pre-come stain if you don’t take this off me soon,” he warns, and that, it turns out, is the motivation Stede needs to toss it aside with the rest of their clothes.

“Can I blow you?”

Ed winces at the idea, and immediately regrets it when he sees Stede’s expression. “Fuck, Stede, it’s not that, it’s— God, this is embarrassing because I’m a fucking forty-six-year-old man and not a teenager, but I swear if you put my cock in your mouth tonight, I’m a goner, and I really, really want to feel you inside me without wanting to cry from the overstimulation.”

“Save the blow jobs for a later date, fine by me.” And he says it so casually like he’s rearranging a haircut, and that has Ed wanting to reconsider the whole bridal veil thing. “Where’s most comfortable for you?” He asks. Ed considers it for a moment, because he loves being fucked from behind, adores it, but the last thing he needs for the rest of the trip is his knee playing up from spending too long on all-fours. Instead, he plays it safe and flips onto his back, spreading his legs wide enough that Stede can settle between them. “My perfect pillow princess.” Stede teases, and Ed groans.

“You’ve created a monster.”

“Nothing monstrous about you, darling.”

Stede Bonnet, it turns out, is very organised and completely shameless in the face of daily maid service, and has put a full-size bottle of Astroglide and a box of condoms in the bedside cabinet. Mental. Fucking lunatic, but Ed can hardly complain. Stede maintains full, intense eye contact as he props a cushion under Ed’s hips, drips lube over two fingers. Ed would usually feel self-conscious at being so exposed, but Stede’s fingers, warm and slick, are so gentle as he presses his index finger inside that Ed doesn’t care, forgets he’d never seen this man two days ago, forgets that he only found out his name an hour ago, and he’s already chanting it like it’s a prayer.

Stede, Stede, fuck, please, I need—

“Shhhh, sweetheart,” Stede murmurs, and Ed looks up at him taking up his entire field of vision, the softest smile on his face as he pushes one finger into Ed. His level of self-restraint is agonising. “Hmm, you feel amazing, opening up so easily for me.”

Oh, Ed’s not gonna survive this. This is how he dies, coming so hard that it fries his brain with one single index finger up his ass.

“You gonna admit you have a praise kink now?” Stede teases, giving his finger a few shallow pumps, testing out how Ed’s body yields to the intrusion. “Your eyes go all huge and wet whenever I tell you how good you’re being for me.”

“Stede, that’s so not fucking fair,” he whines, moving one hand down to desperately squeeze at the base of his cock. His stomach is sticky already, a trail of pre-come sticky and matting hair running from belly button to his groin. “C’mon, mate, please, I can take more — I don’t have the stamina for you to go this slow.”

“Ask me nicely.” The words sync up perfectly with a curl of Stede’s finger that doesn’t quite brush his prostate but gets close enough that Ed yearns to tip over the edge. “Tell me how much you want it.”

Ed makes a choked noise that even in the heat of the moment he feels a little embarrassed by, and Stede pauses. “Is that okay? Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself, I can—”

“Please, Stede,” Ed gasps, cutting off his words, and Stede smiles, presses a tiny kiss to his fucking goddamn forehead, the sweetest little press of a kiss, and Ed’s going to die. He’s going to melt and he’s going to fucking die. “Please, I want it so bad. I want you so bad.”

“What do you want?”

“Fuck, fuck, your cock, another finger, anything, something, please—”

The fraction of a second between Stede withdrawing one finger and fucking back into him with two is the longest moment of Ed’s life, but then Stede is back, fingering him roughly, the aim no longer being exploration or teasing but stretching him open enough to replace fingers with Stede’s cock. “E-Ed,” he moans, leaning down to get his mouth on Ed’s, while his fingers keep up their rhythm in Ed’s ass. The kiss is desperate and messy, the angle tricky to get right, and there’s a bit too much teeth, not enough tongue, but Ed doesn’t care. Stede tries for a third finger but there’s not quite enough lube slicked over his fingers for it, and Ed shakes his head.

“Two’s fine, two’s enough, please—”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Two’s good, fuck, Stede, please—”

“Tell me if it hurts.” And he says it in that bossy tone that has Ed squirming, thinking what else Stede could turn that voice to, and he realises that this night might ruin everyone else for him if he isn’t careful.

“I will, I swear, please.”

Stede straightens up, pulls his fingers out, wipes away the slick of lube on the inside of Ed’s thigh, which makes him jerk and jolt and giggle like a maniac. “Should have known you’d be ticklish too.” Stede reaches for the condom box, plucks one out, tears open the packaging, rolls it onto his cock while Ed watches, squeezing hard at the base of his dick, trying to pull himself the fuck together while also refusing to look away for a second.

Then some more lube, a generous amount slicked onto his cock, the excess spread roughly with the pad of Stede’s thumb around Ed’s hole, the pressure delicious and infuriatingly not enough in near-equal measure. Maybe in the aftermath of this night, Ed will be able to reflect on why, how, why Stede has so fully got to him in his way, but for now, he just needs to be filled, needs to feel Stede sliding into him, inch by inch. Needs to hear the breathy moans and murmured praise, Jesus, Ed, you’re so tight, you feel heavenly, just like that, god, you’re so good for me, such a good boy, so perfect, until Stede is flush against him and Ed is full, fingers clutching at Stede’s hips so tight that he’s pretty sure he’ll leave marks against Stede’s skin.

“That’s it, darling. So good for me.” And Stede, once he’s given Ed time to adjust, drags his cock out of him almost as slowly as he sank in. The motion is eased by so much lubricant that the excess drips between Ed’s cheeks and soaks into the bedsheets. It’s an exquisite punishment for some unknown crime Ed has committed in a past life, the way Stede pulls almost all the way out, just the head of his cock still inside him before he starts to push in again.

Stede rocks into him slowly, and Ed feels every inch. Doesn’t linger too long inside him once he’s flush, not quite enough prostate stimulation for Ed to get any closer to orgasm. Slow, languid thrusts, timed with such precision that it’s like Stede’s set a goddamn fucking metronome, and despite how hard he is, how every nerve ending in his body is alight with need, it’s never quite enough to tip him over. After only a few minutes, he’s shaking with the strain of it, the push and pull, the carefully trodden line between too much and not enough. Tears well in the corner of his eyes as Stede rubs one thumb so tenderly against Ed’s wrist and murmurs, “Will you touch yourself for me?”, and Ed is sobbing with the relief of it, his dick in his hand so quickly that Stede can only huff out a laugh.

Ed manages a stroke, two strokes, before his hand stutters, and he groans, “Fuck, I’m gonna come — can I come, fuck, please?”, and Stede says yes so enthusiastically that makes Ed giggle. Another two strokes, the second perfectly synchronised with Stede rocking against his prostate, and the wave of pressure that he has been so desperately holding off ever since he first dragged Stede into that bathroom finally breaks, shuddering under Stede’s hands as he spills over his own chest.

“Fuck—” Ed groans as Stede makes one last thrust before pulling out, Ed wincing at the over-sensitivity, lowering his legs from where Stede had been holding him up, lets them collapse onto the bed. “That— fuck. Stede, god—”

“Could say the same about you.” Stede sits back on his heels, his erection curved to his stomach, one hand lazily pumping his cock at the same sort of pace he’d been fucking Ed, still wearing the condom. “God, Ed— You can say no, I know your, uh, appetite for such things might have decreased now you’ve come, but—” His words slam to a halt, a level of pinkness in his cheeks that Ed’s not seen yet, and he’s obsessed with the multitudes that Stede Bonnet contains. That the man can be so cool and collected, say the hottest fucking shit Ed’s ever heard, and then flip to this sweet, gentle man who double checks Ed is completely into it mid-sex.

“Stede, c’mon man — we’re so past that point, I’m sure whatever it is—”

“I want to come on your chest,” Stede blurts, that pink spreading down his neck, down to that patch of cinnamon-gold hair that stretches from one nipple to the other. “Um, if that would be okay with you?”

Ed chokes out a laugh. “Fuck, yes, that’s okay with me. Jesus, Stede. Made it sound like you were gonna ask for something properly mad. God, come on my chest, please, yeah.”

He helps Stede roll the condom off, chucks it to one side for now, missing the bin entirely, probably. Stede straddles him, leans over so his chest is parallel with Ed’s. Their mouths are inches apart, but Stede doesn’t close the distance to kiss him. Just hovers there, staring down into Ed’s eyes as he jerks his own cock, eyes wide, bottom lip pink and bitten between his teeth, and it’s not long before his face twists in ecstasy as he pulses in his own hand, his come mixing with Ed’s own on his stomach, his chest, splatters of white stark against his tattoos, and then Stede is collapsing next to him, totally spent, laughing at the ridiculousness of that post-sex interlude, sated, sticky, slowly coming back to his senses.

“What would you have done if I’d said no?” Stede asks ten minutes later, once they’ve cleaned up a little.

“Hmm?”

“You asked me if you could come,” Stede says. “What would you have done if I’d said no?”

Oh— oh, fuck, Ed hadn’t even clocked that he’d asked that, in the heat and the mind-fuck of the moment, that whole soft dom thing that Stede apparently does like a fucking pro without even trying, he’d— god, that is embarrassing as all fucking hell. Ed groans. “I’d have cried and sworn at you a lot and called you every fuckin’ name I could think of.”

“Would you have come anyway?”

He closes his eyes and sighs. “No. Probably not.”

Stede beams. “Good boy.” And Ed’s suddenly got a face-full of blond curls, Stede pressed up against him, and they’re cuddling, and Stede’s managed to position himself very selfishly in a dry-ish patch of the sheets but Ed doesn’t give a single shit that he’s going to end up sleeping in a puddle of come and lube, because he just had a Top Three All-Time Orgasm, and Stede is cuddling him, and— Yeah.

This might be a problem.

“You should come to the rehearsal ceremony.”

It’s far too early. Stede’s made him a shitty instant coffee from the sachet provided in the room, and they sit on the mostly disgusting remains of the bed, Ed damp and clean from the shower, smelling of Stede’s expensive shampoo. In the bright light of the morning, Ed finds so many more things about Stede that he wants to explore. Not just the strong thighs and perfect calves or the urge to swallow the man’s cock, but his sense of humour, the preposterousness of the wardrobe he brought with him (two suitcases’ worth of clothes! For a one week trip! Lunatic!), his bitchiness about the horrible coffee, and Ed could soak in this man for weeks without ever getting bored.

“I can’t.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I had a plus-one and didn’t bring one, and like, it’s a rehearsal, it’s not the real thing, so no-one’s gonna care—”

“Ed, my flight home is this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Right. Yeah. Real life. Ed had forgotten about that. “That’s… Oh.”

He’s not going to see Stede again.

Vacation fling, that’s all this was ever going to be. He’s had plenty of one-night-stands in his time, far more first nights with beautiful men than he’s had second, third, tenth nights, which is why it hurts so much to realise he wants a second, third, tenth night with Stede.

Stede chatters on about his flight time out of Nassau, the joy of not having to worry about jet lag. How watered down the wine tastes at thirty thousand feet, and Ed just nods along. “I don’t need to leave for a couple of hours, though.” Stede winds his fingers into Ed’s, the soft expression on his face making it clear he’s sad about how this ends too, which makes Ed feel better, maybe? “I can check out, and then we could take a walk before my taxi arrives?”

Ed checks the time, cross-references the schedule he’s memorised because he’s the only one with enough wherewithal to corral the combined forces of the Rackham and Hands clans, the weird cousins and distant aunts and their extended friend group from their days at college who he hasn’t seen in a decade, and he shakes his head. “The rehearsal. I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He wants to. He needs Stede to know how much he wants to, but Izzy and Jack are (for all their many, many flaws) family. Stede just nods, and there’s a beat of silence in which it sinks in for Ed, for both of them, probably, that this is it. This is all it was meant to be, one night, and Ed decides on balance that he’d rather have had the one night than nothing at all.

“I guess I should go,” Ed says, finishing his awful coffee, grabbing his shirt from the floor. It’s so see-through that he feels more exposed with it on than he does shirtless. Stares at his underwear on the floor, which took a real hit last night, soaked with pre-come by the time Stede got him out of them, and he debates which is worse — going commando in leather-effect jeans or putting on truly fucking gross underwear — when Stede chucks some clean briefs at him from his neatly packed suitcase.

“Here, have these. It’s the least I can do.” And he picks them up and pulls them on, and then his jeans, and leaves Stede’s room with only a long kiss goodbye and a pair of his fucking Calvin Kleins as a souvenir.

Ed’s late, not having quite enough time to go back to his hotel room and change, but showing up to greet their guests in the same outfit he went out in last night is hardly an option. He’s pretty sure that wedding guest hosting shouldn’t be done in a shirt that puts his tits on full display, no matter how pretty the embroidered white flowers look layered over his tattoos, and no matter how many light bruises are visible through the translucent fabric, marked into his skin for everyone to see.

So Ed had changed into a black short-sleeved shirt and shorts, dressed like a proper adult, someone responsible, respectable. He doesn’t change out of Stede’s underwear though. They were on Stede once, and now they’re on him, and no-one knows. He wonders how long he’ll be able to resist jerking off into them. Wonders how many washes he can get away with before they cease to be Stede’s, how many days he has until the one bit of Stede that he has left will be gone too.

The rehearsal goes smoothly enough, and Ed stays just long enough at the rehearsal dinner that it doesn’t seem weird, but it’s been a real fucking long day, not helped by him thinking about Stede every time he goes to the bathroom and clocks the fancy fucking underwear. It’s definitely not helped by the dull ache in his ass that is impossible to ignore. He’s pretty certain Izzy at least noticed him adjusting his position during the rehearsal ceremony with a wince, and Izzy would fucking know all about that. Once the dinner is over, Ed makes for the elevators in the lobby, debating whether it’s too soon to have a sad wank into Stede’s briefs. He’s all for delayed gratification when the situation calls for it, but this doesn’t feel like the time.

“Mr Teach?”

He’s about to hammer the button on the elevator for the bridal suite when the guy on the reception desk calls his name, and he spins around. “Yeah?”

“Someone called asking for you earlier,” he says. “He asked me to take a message?”

Ed’s mouth has gone dry. It’s one of the wedding guests. One of the guests who are arriving tomorrow, who misplaced his personal number, or something. He abandons the elevator in favour of the reception desk, and the guy slides a piece of folded hotel stationery over the counter for him, his name elegantly printed on the outside in royal blue ink.

Ed,

This isn’t the ideal medium for telling you exactly what I want to tell you, given some poor person is writing this down for me, so instead, I’ll just say that you haven’t left my head for a second since the moment I first laid eyes on you. I get that this was meant to just be a one-night thing, but I would never forgive myself if I didn’t tell you that. You’re incredible, Ed. And if this is all we get, that would be fine. Still the best vacation ever.

But in case you’re feeling the same sort of way, I’m still thinking about you, and probably will be for a while. On the off-chance you’re ever in Philadelphia, give me a call?

— Stede

And then there’s a phone number.

A phone number.

He shoves the paper in his pocket, thanks the guy on reception, hopes desperately that he hadn’t been the one to dictate that fucking note because Jesus Christ, Stede. Grapples with the keycard access until the light flashes green and lets him in, and has his phone in his hand, punching in the number before the door is even closed behind him.

The call connects after three rings. “Hello?” The voice is careful, uncertain. Hopeful.

“Stede?”

“Ed?”

“Yes, fuck, yes, yeah.”

“You got my note, then?”

Ed laughs, delirious and mind spinning, not quite sure what to do with himself. “Yeah, I fucking got your note. You lunatic. You made some underpaid hotel employee write out a fucking booty call memo. You’re fucking mental.”

“Was it— Was it too much?”

Ed can imagine Stede’s expression right now, even without him here to prove it. That careful crease of his brow, appearing and disappearing at a moment’s notice in those brief interludes of uncertainty. It’s not that he’s unsure of what he wants; Stede knows exactly he wants, asks for it, gets it. The uncertainty is around whether he’s allowed to even want it in the first place. “It was perfect,” he tells him. “And I’m definitely feeling the same sort of way.”

“You are?”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “Been thinking about you all day, if you must know.”

“Really?”

“Been a real fuckin’ asshole about the idea I’d never see you again, actually.”

“God, Ed, I— I wish I were still there. I wish I didn’t have to come home. I wish we’d met a few days’ earlier.” He hums under his breath, searching for the words. “I never got the knack of hook-ups. Too many big feelings. Thought if I tried on vacation, I’d be able to leave it on vacation, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Which is ridiculous, because you probably do this all the time and I’m the one making it weird—”

“Stede, I live in New York,” he says. “I can’t say I’ve had that many reasons to go to Philadelphia in my life, but I’ve just found a really good reason to start.”

“Wh-What? Really?”

“Yeah, mate. Only a couple of hours away. Maybe you can give me some recommendations of things to see while I’m there?”

“Well, if you’ve never seen Liberty Bell, that’s a must. And The Franklin Institute is always worth a visit—”

“I was thinking more along the adult entertainment lines, actually.”

“Can’t say I’ve got an encyclopaedic knowledge of Philadelphia strip clubs, but I can ask around.”

“Stede.”

“Okay, so not strip clubs then. Why don’t you tell me why you’re suddenly so interested in Philadelphia? Go Eagles?”

Ed grins, the hesitation in Stede’s voice when he first picked up the phone ebbing away. He’s got Stede Bonnet back in his ear, teasing him, and Ed is shameless in shoving his shorts down his legs and collapsing onto his bed in just his underwear. Stede’s underwear. Ed palms himself roughly through the fabric, just once, needing something to relieve the pressure that has been simmering under his skin all day. “Oh, just this super hot guy I met on vacation. Insane tits. Pert little ass. Very kissable face.”

“Sounds like the whole package.”

“Oh, sure, he had a nice package too.”

Stede giggles at that. “Can I video call you?” He asks. “I want to see you.”

It’s only a second after Ed scrambles to say yes that the box pops up and there’s Stede’s face, a little pixel-y and weirdly lit, but it’s Stede. And Ed can see himself in the corner too, adjusts the angle to be most flattering, blows Stede a kiss. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Stede replies. “You still wearing those briefs I lent you?”

Ed tips the camera down to show him, moves his hand to rub over his crotch lightly as Stede watches. “Oh, fuck, Ed—” Stede gasps, and Ed tips the camera back to his face in time to see the wide-eyed, dumb-founded expression on Stede’s face. “I was joking, I—”

“Didn’t realise I’d find it such a turn-on, but…”

“Fuck, no, yeah, I get it,” Stede breathes. “It’s, um. Definitely doing it for me.”

“Yeah?” Ed says. “You like that? Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Is this okay? I’m not— We can just chat, if you want.”

“Ed, please. I want this. Want you.”

“Good, fuck, okay, good, yeah.” Ed arranges himself so he can touch himself with one hand, hold his phone with the other, and still manage a camera angle that isn’t deeply unflattering. Stede’s camera is temporarily pointed at the ceiling, and when he picks it up again, he’s shirtless, the soft curve of his collar bone visible at the bottom edge of the screen, hair slightly mussed. “God, Stede. Are you naked?”

“Thought it’d be easier to do it now than have to fiddle around with clothes later.”

Ed groans at the idea of later. “Good point, gimme a sec—”

“Take your shirt off,” Stede says. “But keep my underwear on?”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. That voice, my underwear, the soft command of it, is not lessened in its impact by the thousands of miles between them. Ed rips his shirt off, showing Stede a full-body view, ending at his dick tenting the briefs. It’s fucking obscene. He’s painfully, outrageously turned on, and the sort of choked moan that Stede makes suggests he’s not alone in that.

“Touch yourself for me, Edward. Over the briefs. Slowly.”

“Fuck, Stede, you can’t just—” His hand is on his dick before his brain really has a chance to catch up, still processing his name in that posh voice, the shape of it. “Can’t just drop an Edward there without warning.”

“Do you not like Edward?” He asks. “I can stick to Ed. Or ‘darling’?”

He fucking whimpers. Actually fucking whimpers. “Edward when you say it is the hottest fucking thing. Sounds like I’m in trouble, but like, in a sexy way? Not that I object to darling either, I mean, you probably noticed that last night, the darling thing, it’s like, insanely hot. Your whole soft dom vibe, I don’t fucking know, do you practice it? Like is that something you rehearse, or does it come natural, like some virtuoso soft dom Daddy, fucking born to do it—”

“Edward, darling,” Stede interrupts. “I want to hear all those lovely noises you make, and I can’t hear them over you talking.” And then he adds, “Wish I could see all of you too, but I’ll have to settle for just your face.”

“Are you jerking off right now?”

Stede flips his camera down to show one hand lightly fondling his balls, but that’s all, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach but going mostly ignored. “I’m practising self-restraint. Want to make you feel good first.”

That’s so not fair. Ed can hardly hold his shit together and Stede is, what? Teasing himself? “I do, you feel so good, fuck.”

“Show me.” Ed switches from the front-facing camera to the rear one, so he can both see Stede and see what Stede sees. Ed’s erection comes into view, his right hand rubbing so fucking gently between his legs. “Oh, you’re already making a mess of my things,” Stede admonishes when he sees the darkened spot soaked into the fabric, and Ed nearly cries.

“Stede, please, I need… More, faster, something.”

Whatever control Stede had before is crumbling, Ed can see it in his eyes, that deer-in-headlights panic of a man whose entire world has reduced down to this one fucking moment. Ed should be smug that he’s had that effect on him, but right now, all he cares about is Stede in his ear as his underwear wank fantasy turns into a glittering reality. “Y-Yeah, god, go for it.” He sounds wrecked. Totally fucking gone, and Ed’s eating it up. “Show me how you like to touch yourself.”

“Only if you do too.” It takes Stede a second to figure out how to flip his camera, but then there it is, perfect view of Stede’s cock on his phone screen, a flushed, dark pink, the head appearing and disappearing as Stede fucks slowly into his fist. “Given up on the whole self-restraint thing then?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

It feels filthier somehow, now they can’t see each other’s faces, but he can still hear Stede’s irregular breathing, the noises that leak from his lips as his fist hits just right. Ed can see the freckles over his thighs that he wants to press kisses to, the cock he wants Stede to feed down his throat until his nose is right in the curls of his golden hair, fingers sliding between his legs to play with his balls as he sucks. So much more he wants to do with Stede, wants to do to Stede, and maybe he’ll get that chance after all. Philadelphia? Pfft. What’s two hours on the train, if he means he gets to hear Stede laugh again? Gets to feel his thick cock sliding between his stretched lips?

Slipping his fingers underneath the waistband of the underwear, Ed starts to slide them down his legs, only to hear a slight whine coming from Stede. “What? You’re not getting much of a show, are you?”

“It’s— Well. I liked seeing you in them, that’s all.”

Stede sounds really disappointed, but Ed can’t get a good angle under the fabric, knows he won’t be able to come like this, as much as he wants to. He apologises as he pulls them off, half-joking, goes to throw them aside, and then something fucking possesses him to… Not. To wrap his hand in them instead, the fabric soft around his fingers. He brings his hand into shot, and Stede is entirely silent. Ed can’t even hear him breathing as his fabric-wrapped hand reaches his cock, and he strokes once, twice. The drag of the fabric sends shivers through his body. It’s less intense than going straight in with his hand, but that’s probably for the best — Ed reckons a squirt of lube and about eight seconds is all he would need to come his brains out right now, and he’d quite like to last longer than eight seconds, all things considered.

Stede’s hand is still on his own cock, fingers circled vice-like around the base. After how easily Stede broke him into pieces the previous night, it’s joyous to see him like this, thoroughly destroyed. “Ed, that’s— I didn’t know this would—”

“So you didn’t lend these to me just so you could think about me wearing them?”

“N-No,” Stede manages, and then swears so loudly that Ed snorts with laughter. The truly inspired underwear-jerk-off idea is playing to his strengths and right into Stede’s weaknesses. He’s found a good rhythm, the fabric on his cock stimulating every fucking nerve with just enough of a reduction in sensation that he knows he’s in control of it, can keep up his pace without coming until he’s ready.

Stede has no such luxury. He can hardly manage a single stroke without having to stop and squeeze himself, and Ed knows the sight of Stede on the brink of losing it because of him is something he will hold on to forever. “Don’t hold back, babe,” Ed says gently, letting the sound of Stede’s gasps and whines envelope him, his voice right in his ear. “C’mon, keep pace with me, yeah? We’ll jerk off together.”

There’s a pause, a quick yeah, and then he speeds up, matching Ed’s strokes one-for-one. It’s only a matter of seconds before he lets out a quick, high-pitched chant of EdEdEdEdEdEd, and Ed watches with wide eyes, heart thumping so hard he can taste it in his throat. Stede spills over his hand, come splattering his stomach, dripping down his fingers, and Ed squeezes himself harder, thinks about how much he wants to drag his fingers through the mess on Stede’s stomach and suck it into his mouth, and that’s all it takes for him to drop off the cliff right after Stede does. As he comes, he catches as much of it as possible in Stede’s briefs, uses them to wipe himself down. Stede is still panting in his ear, and Ed flips the camera back to his face, Stede following suit, and he’s flushed a delightful pink, collapsed into the pillows.

“Jesus Christ,” Stede says eventually. “Ed, that was—”

“Yeah,” Ed says, because he doesn’t really have words to describe whatever the fuck happened there. Just knows he’ll never, ever fuckin’ forget it. “Is that what you were hoping for when you left your phone number?”

Stede blushes. “I just wanted to see you again.”

“You free next weekend?”

“I’ve got the kids next weekend.”

Ed laughs. “Oh, so you do have kids.” Stede looks confused, and Ed clarifies. “Was thinking of you as Beach Daddy in my head, before I knew your name. Didn’t know if you actually had kids, but you’re, like, daddy, either way. But good to know my instinct about you being a DILF was correct.”

“That’s not a problem, is it? I mean, not that we’re… You know. But I know some people don’t like the idea of kids in the picture—”

“Love that you have kids,” Ed confirms. “Kids are great, but I’d rather wait until they’re back with Mum before coming out to Philly and having you fuck my throat, so… Maybe the weekend after?”

“Wait— Really? You’re serious?”

“Never joke about getting my throat fucked, Stede.”

“I mean about coming out to Philadelphia. You don’t— You don’t have to. Like, obviously I’d love you to, but—”

“Stede,” Ed says. He props his phone screen up on the other side of his double bed, and it’s like they’re falling sleep next to each other. “I want to. I want to see you again, and not just to get my face fucked. I want to see you again. You’re… I don’t even know. Like, you do something to me that turns my brain into goo. But also you’re just… Fun? Nice? There’s something about you, man. Need to see more of it. Definitely worth a few hours on a train.”

Stede blinks at him, and the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen as his face floods with excitement. “I’d love that, Ed. Sounds perfect.”

They stay on the phone for another hour at least, just talking. Jack and Izzy roll in just after midnight, more reminiscent of two teenagers after prom than two middle-aged men on the night before their wedding, but it’s not like Ed can judge. They, thankfully, make it to the main bedroom before they start fucking in the communal space, and by that time, Stede is starting to yawn. “Travelling takes it out of me,” he says. “It’s only a three hour flight, but all the security and dealing with the luggage and things. It’s exhausting. Feel like I need another vacation to recover!”

“You can go to sleep, Stede,” Ed says, and then follows it with something that might be ridiculous, but he’s so far gone for this man that to him, it doesn’t even feel like too much. “I promise I’ll still be here in the morning. Just the other end of the phone.”

The moment the line clicks dead, Ed opens the Amtrak website, books a ticket to Philadelphia for the weekend after next. He takes a screenshot of his booking confirmation and sends it to Stede.

He wakes up to Stede’s reply.

Very organised, I approve! Already counting down the days, darling ❤️🍆😮