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Ed enjoys volunteering at random stuff in the city.
It’s fun. It’s cool, actually. He sees a lot of cool stuff, meets some pretty awesome people. There’s a bunch of experiences he never would’ve had if he didn’t just— try whatever came around when he heard about it.
He’s guest-bartended at a bunch of random bars. He’s helped build houses, playgrounds, and once, memorably, a public pool. He’s knit hats, gloves, scarves, and socks. He’s judged a local kids’ talent competition. He’s performed at open mic nights for music, stand-up, and poetry. He’s planted in the public garden. He’s worked as usher, security, and merch-seller at concerts, theatrical performances, baseball games, and comedy shows. He’s passed out flowers, run the projector for outdoor movie nights, and performed in drag shows.
And, today, he’s a wrangler for random celebrities at a local convention.
It’s not too bad of a gig, really. He volunteered when he heard about it a couple of months ago, actually, and mostly forgot until he got the email about his background check clearing earlier this week.
That email also told him his assignment, which is monitoring the celebrities with a group of other guys like him. From the autograph table, to the panel discussions, to the photo opportunities, to anything and everything they might need in between those moments.
The moment Ed had gotten there, he’d been trained, given a strict set of instructions, and unleashed on those visiting celebrities.
He recognizes most of them, but one of the instructions they were given was to be very, very normal around the celebrities. Ed’s been following that rule closely. Actually, he’s been extremely cool around the celebrities, and more than regular.
Except.
One of these guys—
Ed knows him. Like, knows him. He watches his show, and he’s seen shitloads of his other movies and shows (and even a couple of early comedy specials and way, way too many guest appearances). This guy posts the weirdest thirst traps online like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and he’s impossibly charming in all his interviews, and Ed’s had some sort of a weird celebrity crush on him for a couple years now, actually.
And, by some strange coincidence, here he is today.
Stede Bonnet.
In Ed’s care.
He’s totally normal. Of course, he’s totally normal.
It’s just—
It’s Stede Bonnet, you know.
And he’s just the guy volunteering at the convention he’s attending.
“Edward,” Stede’s voice says, and Ed’s eyes snap to him, his blood humming with electricity, his attention all rising to meet him. He’s so put-together, blonde and golden and smiling, and he says, “Hello, darling. How much longer have we got here?”
Darling. Ed smiles.
Checking his watch, he tells him, “There’s twenty more minutes until you’re on your hour break before the next panel.”
Stede reaches back, squeezing Ed’s wrist.
“Thank you, love,” he says, and turns back around to speak with the next guest stepping up to the autograph table.
Instantly, Stede is all smiles, warm and glowing. He greets the stranger with such kindness. Ed doesn’t know how he keeps that shit up all day, all the time. It’s a job, he gets that, but it seems like a completely weird fucking job. Ed’s not sure how he’d take it, if he had to do it. Being an artist and working an office job and volunteering to have fun on the weekends is better for him, he thinks. For now, anyway.
He is just a guy. He has to keep reminding himself that he’s just a guy, because otherwise, he’d probably be thinking other thoughts about the way Stede’s interacting with him.
It’s been a long day, but Stede still keeps giving him these looks. If he wasn’t famous, Ed would assume he meant something by those looks.
Continued looks. Heated glances. Lingering touches. Pet names. Insisting that Ed be the one to take him from location to location. Keeping him as his handler. Asking him to help take pictures. Talking with him, laughing with him, leaning into him, like they’re old friends or lovers and not strangers, like he’s not a rich celebrity, a famous actor, someone who’s paid to be here while Ed has to ask—
—If he thought too much about it, he might just go insane.
But, those twenty minutes pass in a flash, and then Stede’s rising to his feet, asking Ed, “Is there any place I can be alone for a bit, before the panel?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ed answers before he even realizes his mouth is moving. “Come with me.”
Just this morning, he and the other handlers were shown an area in the conference center that was all roped and curtained off, secluded in a ballroom-style space. Each of the little sections has a laminated paper sign with the name of a different celebrity, giving them their own space, and it’s to this room that Ed guides Stede.
He takes him through back hallways, avoiding the crowd as much as he can— for Stede’s sake as well as his own, in all honesty— and Stede steps closer the second they’re alone.
“So, Ed,” he says, conversational, like he’s not Stede fucking Bonnet. “What brings you to a place like this on a day like today? You don’t seem the sort.”
Ed laughs, asks, “What’s that mean?”
Stede’s face rushes with color. It’s even more attractive to see live than it has been in any interview, or sketch, or scene he’s ever watched the man in.
“I only meant that you’re— Well, you seem rather cool, is all,” Stede informs him, somehow pinker, then redder. “Much too cool for the sorts of things that I do on the weekends.”
Ed’s so bewildered, in that moment, that he can’t help but ask incredulously, “Mate, what are you fucking talking about? You’re a really fucking good actor and you’re— Like, you’re all famous about it. People wanna come see you and talk about the cool shit you do. That’s cool.”
Briefly, Ed’s concerned that Stede may actually lose consciousness, which would suck both because it’s his job to keep him conscious, and because he sort of likes where this conversation is going.
“Well, what an honor that you think so,” Stede ends up saying to him, sounding mildly strained. Ed wonders if he’d even notice that if he didn’t know his voice so well.
He’s not a superfan. He’s not. He’s just— a really, really big fan, who is also a very casual, normal fan, and he’s behaving very normally right now, because Stede really is just a guy. He’s an incredible guy, funny and handsome and just as kind as he’s always seemed, but he’s just a guy. A very talented guy. A guy that lots of people would like to be this close to.
Just a guy. Just a regular guy.
That Ed wants to kiss very, very badly.
“You must like these sort of things, then,” Ed says, and leads him into his curtained area, beneath the hotel’s harsh-soft lights, somehow warm and piercing his eyes all at the same time. “If that’s how you think about it.”
“I really do,” Stede tells him, excited. He takes a seat in one of the plastic chairs as if it’s actually comfortable. “These are so wonderful, you know? I started doing all of this because I really just enjoyed acting, but— I don’t think people realize how much I actually act. Or, how little, I guess. A lot of what I do is just this, and it’s— I don’t know. I think it’s rather nice, to get to meet all the people who make what I do possible. Do you know what I mean?”
He really is just a guy. Ed nods, because he thinks he understands what he’s saying, even if it’s sort of surreal that Stede Bonnet’s the one saying it to him.
Ed’s brain clicks into place.
Stede really is just a guy.
And he seems like he’s a guy who really does understand and enjoy what it is he’s doing.
“Oh, my God, I’m being so rude,” Stede says. He reaches to pat the seat beside him. “Come on, sit down.”
“We’re not supposed to— like, fraternize with you guys,” Ed informs him, reluctant, regretful.
Stede seems to care absolutely nothing for this rule and replies, “You’re not supposed to talk with us? I’m sorry, I think I’d much rather be socialized with than treated like an exhibit, if that’s alright—”
“Shit— That’s not what I meant,” Ed rushes to say, but Stede lifts his hand, cuts him off.
“It’s not your fault,” Stede replies, sounding tired. “It’s just the way lots of these things are. And I really do understand why, I do. And others— I mean, even friends of mine, they don’t mind the separation. They prefer it, really. But I…”
Stede trails off. He seems to be genuinely thinking of what he wants to say next, and so Ed allows him his silence.
He takes the moment to come in and sit, as told, in the seat beside Stede. Nearby, he can hear the low murmurings of other conversations, the staticky tones of phone calls on speaker, the shuffling of objects, the changing of clothes, the powering-on of devices. Other celebrities and artists and guests all living their own tiny lives in each one, being regular people.
It’s into this mumbling quiet, so different from the noise and chaos of the hectic convention just outside those doors, that Stede finally says, “I think it all just makes me feel rather lonely.”
Ed’s chest aches a little bit. He gets what that’s like; he gets it exactly.
“I’m sorry, man,” he says. “That sucks. I get it. Like— At least when I’m feeling alone, I can just go out and find some guy to make out with a little or something, you know? You probably can’t even do that without people knowing exactly who you are everywhere you go.”
“You seem to think I’m more famous than I am,” Stede says with a smile, face still so tantalizingly filled with color. “But that’s the gist of it.”
There’s only a single beat of silence before Stede glances at him sidelong.
“So,” he asks, “is it often that you… go out and find a fellow to kiss for a bit?”
Ed’s heart turns over sideways in his chest.
“I’m sorry if that’s too forward,” Stede apologizes a beat later. “I just— I never know with these things, and I’m a bit tired, and you’re just— You’re very handsome, I—”
“Whoa, wait,” Ed stops him. “Mate, you’re a fucking movie star.”
It almost seems like Stede deflates, at that. Ed’s heart turns over again.
“I suppose I am,” Stede replies. He sighs, says, “You’re right. It’s so— That was absurd of me, I should know better. It’s really— I shouldn’t be taking advantage of—”
He’s so dejected-sounding, and so real, and he’s just a guy.
This is a lonely guy, asking if Ed will kiss him, and why the fuck would Ed say no? Because he’s famous? How the fuck is that a reason to say no?
Ed cuts him off with, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant— Fuck, you could have anyone you wanted. You don’t have to settle for me right now, that’s just— Y’know?”
He has no idea why the fuck those words come out of his mouth. There’s an opportunity here to make out with Stede fucking Bonnet, and he’s still somehow saying no, I think you should kiss someone you actually like, like he’s a fucking idiot—
Stede’s eyes lift to him, and he tells him, “I suppose not anyone I wanted.”
They look at each other for another long beat where Ed’s mouth goes dry and his pulse pounds.
“Is there, like— a specific guy, then?” Ed asks, feeling dumb even as the words come out of his mouth. The way Stede smiles makes him feel both much better and far stupider, all at the same time. “Or—”
“I was talking about you,” Stede cuts him off to inform him.
“I hoped so,” Ed replies, just as quickly, “I just didn’t wanna assume.”
They evaluate one another. Stede’s eyes are so interesting, a warm-hazel that’s dark and light at the same time, strangely bright in the high-up conference center fluorescents.
Because he doesn’t know how to just take a good thing and run with it, Ed decides, in for a penny, and asks, “Can I get your number first?”
Stede grins. “Want to make sure it’s really me?”
“Nah,” Ed says. “Want to make sure it means something, I guess.”
Stupid. Stupid. People want to have flings with celebrities all the time. Stede Bonnet— Stede Bonnet— wants to make out with him, and yet Ed still can’t manage to do it without seeing if it means something.
Why would it mean something to someone like him? Why—
“That’s—” Stede starts to say, then stops. His grin is even more genuine, warmer, wider, and he tells Ed, “That’s very smart. And quite lovely. Give me your phone.”
Ed does as told, and Stede surrenders his own, the two of them swapping. It’s briefly surreal, the realization that he’s holding Stede Bonnet’s phone, but it’s starting to become more and more normal by the moment, as Stede swiftly becomes just a guy.
Or—
Not just a guy. But not just a celebrity, either.
Much more. Much, much more.
Programming his name and number into Ed’s phone, Stede tells him, “I actually haven’t been in this area very often. Perhaps you could even show me around a bit after the con. I’m sure I’ll be rather beat during the con, but— I’m here for a few days after.” Only a heartbeat passes before he adds, “And I’d love to have someone I know I can text.”
“To feel less lonely,” Ed says.
“Exactly,” Stede agrees.
They swap phones back, and Ed tells him, “I can think of a few places I’d like to take you. I think you might like it around here, actually. There’s loads to do.”
“I’m seeing that,” Stede says.
Their next look is so loaded, so charged, that Ed’s skin practically vibrates with it. Stede’s shimmering with heat, a mirage in the desert, and Ed acts on impulse in leaning forward and letting his fingertips trail over Stede’s bare wrist.
He’s rewarded with Stede turning his hand over and sliding it up, letting their fingers interlock.
“Is this alright?” Stede asks.
“More than,” Ed replies.
“Mind if I—” Stede starts, and Ed nods.
“Please fucking do,” Ed tells him.
Stede’s flushed and smiling when he surges forward, bringing their lips together. His tongue dives into Ed’s, a swift shift, their first kiss rapidly transitioning from a soft press to a deep one, lips closed and then open.
The way Stede kisses is filthy, unexpectedly plunging into him. His hands cup Ed’s face, and he tilts his head, and deepens the kiss, and Ed’s lost.
Their first kiss becomes their second, and their third, and then Stede’s shifting off his chair to climb into Ed’s lap, the plastic creaking beneath their combined weight. They break their kisses only to get into new ones, sucking in air, and Ed’s brain is rushing like he’s in a fucking dream.
Stede’s hands trail to Ed’s shoulders, sweeping his hair back and out of the way. His fingertips come to the soft collar of Ed’s lilac-blouse of a shirt, and he asks, lips brushing Ed’s, “Can I?”
Ed nods, and Stede tugs his shirt off in one swift overhead motion. These cons are always warm, Ed knows that, with so many people around, and so he has nothing on underneath; Stede pulls his shirt off to expose his bare chest, and he’s immediately touching him, hands roving all over. His pale fingers stroke with meaning, pressing in, over Ed’s tattoos and his fat and his muscle, and every touch is blazing with flame.
Fitting his knees on either side of Ed’s thighs, Stede crams himself into the seat with him, rolling up into Ed’s lap. Already, Ed’s cock is steel, trapped tight against his thigh— and yet, somehow, Stede knows exactly where to go, exactly how to move, grinding himself down over his cock.
“Can I—” Stede starts to ask, and Ed doesn’t need to hear anymore.
“Fuck, yeah,” he says. “Go ahead, you can do whatever you want.”
Stede’s smiling when he fumbles down between them, tearing open the button and fly on Ed’s jeans, yanking down his own pants, nearly tripping in the process of climbing back into Ed’s lap.
“There you go,” Ed encourages him. He grips Stede’s hip in one hand, the other scoring between his thighs. His fingertips seek his entrance, find him already slick, and he gasps out into his mouth, mumbles, “Oh, fuck, you’re soaking wet—”
“You’re very handsome,” Stede informs him, foreheads gliding together when he tips his head to give him another kiss. “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t wanted this all day. I was worried that was unprofessional, though—”
“Fuck professional,” Ed insists, and Stede laughs against his lips.
Their words vanish into their next kiss; Ed’s already lost count of how many they’ve shared so far.
Stede’s cunt is so fucking hot, like he’s burning with an internal flame, and Ed’s overjoyed in sinking his fingers into him. He bucks on Ed’s hand, hips twitching against his, kiss breaking so he can drop his forehead to Ed’s shoulder, and he moans, a long, broken sound, before Ed leans up and claims him in a silencing kiss.
When they part, Ed whispers, “There’s other famous people in here, man, you gotta keep it down.”
Stede giggles, of all things, and tells him, “I’ll try my best,” in a hush, and it’s so impossibly endearing that Ed has to kiss him all over again.
The way Stede rides his fingers is insane. He moves like he really has been craving this all day, twitching in these minute grinds and rolls; the friction of him on his lap, over his cock, is so fucking much, and Ed loves watching him writhe on his fingers, but, fuck, he needs his cock in him now.
He tells him as much, says, “Can I fuck you, can—”
Stede nods, and Ed doesn’t waste time, kissing him in the same breath that he pushes his hips up. Taking the hint, Stede climbs upright, letting them readjust so Ed can take the base of his cock in his hand and guide it to Stede’s entrance, helping him lower down onto it.
The moment he breaches him, Ed’s breath all punches out, and Stede’s head falls back. The long line of his pale throat is exposed, the knob inside bobbing thickly when he swallows, and Ed surges in to mark that unblemished expanse. He feels like he’s practically sucking Stede into his body, swallowing him whole, and Stede’s sort of doing the same to him, consuming him in one bite.
When Stede finally sinks down the rest of the way onto Ed’s cock, sitting in his lap, he moans into his mouth. Ed muffles the sound, swallows it, and Stede huffs a thin laugh down his throat.
The way they grind together is rushed, filled with friction, desperate for feeling, just pushing in and rolling and trying to fuck each other as best as they can, as fast as they can. It’s one of the wildest sex-sessions Ed thinks he’s ever had, the two of them scrabbling against each other— here, in the middle of all these random fucking celebrities— just desperate to get off.
Stede starts getting there first, his breath going thin and strange, his hips losing their rhythm, and he practically melts into Ed, folding into him, collapsing.
“Oh, God,” Stede whines. “Oh, God, oh— Oh, my fucking God, Ed, please, please—”
His next words are mumbled and they slide down Ed’s throat to coil tight in the pit of his belly, his cock surging hot, and he wishes he could throw Stede down on the floor and fuck him until he screamed— until he actually fucking screamed, until he came apart so mercilessly beneath him that every single other person in this entire fucking convention center knew what Ed was doing to him, until everyone knew he was his.
The possessive thought strikes him like a bolt of lightning, and he bites Stede’s lip before shoving to sink his teeth into his throat, drawing blood and a heavy purple mark.
Stede’s hand flies up, covering his own mouth, muffling the whimpering cries and sobs that surge out of him when he cums around Ed’s cock. He’s falling apart, craving more and more until there’s so much he’s stuffed full with it and bursting, and Ed draws him in for another deep kiss, claiming his mouth while his cunt pulses around him, soaking him, throbbing with his cock.
With each trembling wave of orgasm, Ed keeps fucking Stede through it, not stopping even when his breath is going high and reed-thin. He just keeps going, his cock so hard it fucking hurts, until Stede’s got tears streaming down his face and he’s insisting, “Shit, fuck, I think I’m going to cum again, Ed, shit,” in this little whispered voice, only for Ed.
It’s too much. It’s way too much, he can’t keep going like this, and he cums so hard he thinks his brain goes out with it, his heart, his lungs, just— everything.
His vision’s white, and his body moves, wringing out the orgasm. It’s so impossibly fucking good; Ed didn’t realize how fucking hard Stede’s been edging him all day, the flirty little shit, until he was finally allowed to fuck him about it.
They’re both struggling for breath, chests heaving, collapsed into each other in the weak plastic chair.
Then, Stede huffs a laugh.
Then, one of the thin metal chair legs snaps, and the both of them go hurtling to the ground.
Ed shouts, because that feeling on his cock is insane in good ways and bad, and Stede yelps, his hand flying out blindly for purchase. He ends up catching the edge of the small table in here, upending that, sending tiny bottles of water and bags of chips fucking everywhere.
“Where was that?” a voice calls, and Ed recognizes it as the head handler. “Does someone need help?”
“Shit,” Ed hisses.
“Don’t worry about it,” Stede tells him in a rush. “Just— Help me.”
The two of them tuck back into their clothes and hurriedly set the stall to rights and, by the time the curtain’s being tugged open, it mostly looks like they just got into a small fight with each other.
Ed’s assuming. They might also look like they just fucked, which— makes sense.
It turns out there’s not much time left before Stede’s panel regardless, though, and the rest of the con is just as much of a whirlwind as the first part had been, except—
Except.
Except that Stede’s flirting directly.
Except that Stede keeps winking at him.
Except that Stede’s number is in his phone, and his is in Stede’s, and they have plans together for later.
Stede fucking Bonnet. Ed never would’ve fucking guessed.