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It’s late when they stumble out of the bar. Late-late. Stray cats and bad decisions late. Late like Ed didn’t know bars even stayed open this late anymore. 1998 and a peek of sunrise late—and Ed’s still got this Stede’s attention melted on him like cheese between two buttered slices of bread. Which is new. And fresh. And rare.
Those hazel eyes (Ed settled on hazel in the bar when he couldn’t decide between green or brownish) a dim gray in the 3:45 a.m. moonlight and streetlight stew, stuck to every word printing from Ed’s lips, and Ed won’t lie—he’s relishing in it. Delighting in it. Sunbathing. The way he always relishes being the center of attention, hogging the spotlight and placing the bright heat of it directly on him.
But this guy Stede loves a little attention, too, doesn’t he? Even in the way he moons at Ed is taking slices of the attention pie for himself, even if he’s not asking for it. It’s in the tousled blond crop of hair that started out like it had come out of a bowl—or, shit—like a Jello mold. Blond Jello curls and flips and shit, and now it’s looser. Curls have fallen. A couple frame his face, rosy and bright from drink. One sits right in the middle of his forehead, and it’s driving Ed fucking crazy. Won’t go away, even when Stede pushes his hair back; bounces when Stede laughs at Ed’s dumb jokes. Ed says increasingly stupider shit just to watch it bounce–bounce–bounce. He wouldn’t mind seeing something else bounce-bounce-bounce. (Stede. On Ed. Sexually.)
Island hopping, Ed calls it. Sampling one fruity tropical drink at a time, starting with a Piña Colada in the Bahamas and making their way to Trinidad and Tobago on the back of a solid Sex on the Beach. (Cheers to Jackie, BFF and bartender extraordinaire.) He and Stede took a week-long cruise, really. First date, and they’re already jumping right into their first vacation, minus the budgies, which Ed has no trouble imagining Stede in. (He’s got big money on something traditional with a twist—briefs, but neon with smiley faces printed all over them, or crocheted like a doily, but the little holes inbetween the nitches and notches give it all away. Something like that.)
Truth be told, Ed thought he’d scared Stede away with the answers to questions he doesn’t usually broach on the first date (or the second, or the third, for that matter), each one growing in its intimacy somewhere around Antigua-slash-Rum-Punch-slash-Stede-watching-his-lips-like-he-was-lip-reading. Thought maybe this golden little (little—lol, he’s an inch shorter than Ed, but broader in the shoulders and built with a tight steel armor chest like a knight. Ed wouldn’t be surprised if his pubes weren’t chain metal) man in the incredibly tailored teal suit, with the slightly crooked smile and the dimple like a fallen souffle, all overcooked and sweet, would maybe stick his tongue out at some common Ed facts:
- Dad was a dick, so he left home too young, did some petty crimes to stay afloat.
- Strings of bad relationships, including one that ended with the burned out carcass of a Toyota Supra that Ed’s not claiming responsibility for—legally speaking.
- Way more piercings than he’s letting on about.
- Can’t make scrambled eggs without getting some dickfuck piece of shell in there.
But, no. Those eyes lit up at every mention. More questions were asked. Stede had leaned forward to show interest, swaying into Ed’s space with a haphazard tipsiness and fingers skating through the condensation on the glass holding his Bay Breeze in place of any actual touching. Even as they walk now (if they could still call it that, given the stuttering cadence, the spurts of giggles, the pauses to wind their tongues together on muzzy, quiet streets), pressed to each other’s side, Ed feels the premature and fucking immediate sting of overshare hangover.
He ignores it, like he’s ignoring the hot and heavy pull on his bladder from Dominica and Saint John and fucking Bikini Martini with an extra shot. Pissed before they left Spanish Jackie’z, but he’s gotta piss again. Except Stede’s hand finds his, soft and warm in the crisp spring air like a little human blanket or a fucking oven mitt, and Ed forgets for a second all about how the nag at his bladder and in his gut.
He pulls Stede over to whatever building they’re close to—brick and for rent—and he finds himself spun and pressed against it, Stede’s fist in his hair, the other hand still clasped around his. He blushes at that. Fuck. Didn’t expect it, is all. It’s tender, the handholding bit, but the kiss is something else.
Through star-spotted tipsiness, he can feel Stede’s passion like it’s something to get over, like it’s a big hill or a mountain Stede’s climbing. Ed goes along with it—it’s no challenge to him, he’ll climb every mountain to get the sugary dance of coconut rum and tequila off of Stede’s grinning lips and the warmth of Stede’s body pressed against his on the wall of this future frozen yogurt shop or bank, or whatever. The handholding thing—well, that’s the fucking outlier in Ed’s years of scything through the field of desires, but his fingers wrap around Stede’s anyway, like they’ve had years of practice.
Stede had fooled him in that bar. Hot Dad From the App, as Ed’s been referring to him amongst his nearest and dearest, as the reason why he wouldn’t be able to hang tonight (“hot date with Hot Dad From the App”). Genuinely, he thought the guy would be kind of lowkey grateful for a quick fuck with a certified A-plus ass puller, considering he had the phrase ‘dipping the old piggies in the pool’ in his bio instead of the usual measurements and restrictions. But then he popped around in his exquisitely tailored suit (overkill), with all of this good conversation and sparkly eyes and a scary ocean floor fish tarot card deck that was right up Ed’s alley, and the combination came at Ed like an earthquake knocking all of his pictures and expectations off the wall. Makes it easier to hold a guy’s hand after he pulls the High Priestess, then proceeds to give a hundred facts for the anglerfish gracing the card’s face.
He’s got that rush he gets when he gets sparked with an idea for a new project, that two vaulted hours of daydreaming before he gives up the ghost and continues business as usual. Unfortunately for him, this Stede is anything but business or usual.
There’s a thousand fucking books sitting right on his bladder now; the longer they’re out here, the more touching and kissing, the more his piss is begging to be let out on the side of the building. They’re about five minutes away from Ed’s place, which is real fucking presumptuous considering he hasn’t checked with Stede if that’s their destination.
With some reluctance, Ed cuts into a kiss gone dry from the rubbing and smashing together of the lower parts of their faces. “You, um, wanna come—”
“Back to yours?” Stede finishes in a rush.
Ed grins, nods, “Yeah.”
“Yeah. Yes. I would, actually.”
A quick jaunt into the old mom-and-pop CVS for some lambskins and nasal spray (both for allergies), and then Stede’s forging ahead with his mountain climbing as soon as the latch clicks on the door behind them in Ed’s flat. Nothing but shattered light thrown around the place from outside as Stede shoves them both into the kitchen mouth-first. The edge of the kitchen island batters at Ed’s lower back, stopping him there. It’ll hurt like a bitch in the morning, but tonight, Ed gives himself to to this hot makeout session with Hot Dad From The App, their slippery tongues and bids for purchase on the limited space of a narrow stretch of lips.
Another island, another drink—or at least Ed offers, tearing his lips from Stede’s long enough to ramble off, “You want anything? I’ve got a full bar—some incredible selections of whiskeys and half a bottle of cheap vodka, or like, Coke. Real Coke—not coke-coke. Coca-Cola. Though if you want the coke-coke, I can see if I can get ahold of a guy. Or, juice. Water. I have water.”
Shit, he’s embarrassing himself—the way he’s tripping over his words like there's a banana peel on his tongue. But, Stede’s bypassed all that and wears the look of a starving man looking at Ed, eyes dark and gleaming, and Ed comes closer to mend his verbal fall and to get the kissing started again, kind of already forgetting about his hosting duties.
“The whole gamut of beverages, is it?” says Stede, gnawing at his bottom lip in anticipation, and Ed nods.
An airy chuckle catches up to him. His mouth’s gone dry.
“Anything you want,” Ed says.
There’s heat at his ears and closing around his neck and crossing his chest. Heat from steady eyes piercing his, falling down to his lips and the scruff at his chin. Heat from breath that’s kind of sour with the day and sweet from their island adventures. They’re close, but Stede moves closer. He dips in and kisses Ed’s neck like Ed’s something that could break—real delicate, wrapping Ed up in newspaper before packing him away with another kiss, and another, and a trail of them to his shoulder over the cut-up sleeveless sweatshirt he’s wearing.
He’s kissing Ed’s clothes just as sweetly as if it was Ed’s skin, then running his nose over bare shoulders and nuzzling into Ed’s pit, and Ed laughs and lifts his arm a little to give him some room. His eyes fall closed—they don’t usually—usually, he barely fucking blinks when someone new is in his apartment on the first night—he’s been swindled out of cash twice, which says something about his choice in guys, probably—fool him once and all that—but Ed’s eyes fall closed, and his neck cranes back, and he feels—safe is too easy. Can’t be that easy, not yet. Yet. Or ever. Stede returns to that stretch of skin, kissing over Ed’s esophagus, biting and licking and nosing into the fade of his beard.
And then his lips are gone, and Ed opens his eyes at some fierce giggling coming from in front of him. He shifts to one side, because he’s now super aware of himself and the last few minutes and the kind of impossible fullness of his bladder thumbing into his arousal. Ed giggles, too, out of—whatever—nerves, he guesses, before he can even ask, “Fuckin’—what, mate? You find a weird mark or a mole, or something? Those’re normal parts of the human body. Unless they’re not—unless you’re saying I need to get something checked out.”
“I’m checking you out. I think your human body is perfect,” Stede says, like it’s nothing, and Ed tries to stop the warmth infusing his cheeks, mocking him, by huffing a breath of acknowledgement. He tosses his long, graying curls behind him, straightens his spine. Stede calling him ‘perfect’ feels like a walk on a bridge toward Condescension, and Ed doesn’t fuck with that at all, because in this room, only Ed knows the truth of himself, the stories behind some of those tattoos he’s awarded himself, the dirty corners of his past, and ‘perfect’ isn’t on the pages of any Ed-centered reference book.
“Yeah, then what, then?” Ed asks, tempering a growing unease.
“I just remembered—” Stede says.
Ed fills in the blanks:
“I’ve got to get home and feed the dog.”
“I left the stove on.”
“I’m actually not super into you, really, but thanks anyway for the flattery. Let’s go ahead and unmatch on the app, mate—you understand.”
Contrary to Ed’s thoughts, Stede doesn’t say another word—certainly doesn’t give any excuse to get out, unless the bright red little tube that he digs out of his pocket and holds up between them is code for something.
“Fuck is that?”
Upon closer inspection, Ed knows exactly what the fuck that is. The cartoony label and clear body—Lip Smacker lip gloss. Ed’s lost more than his fair share when he was younger. Didn’t know they were still making it. Seeing it in Stede’s hand is a rush of nostalgia, and Ed takes it from him to get a better look, unscrews the cap to get a good whiff of his childhood.
“Holy shit, I used to love this stuff. Where’d you find this?”
“Swiped it from the CVS,” Stede tells him, then lowers his voice and leans closer. “I didn’t pay.” He clenches his teeth and stretches his lips back in a face that’s supposed to evoke guilt, but he’s snickering and too fucking proud of himself to make that work.
Smells like chemicals and sugar and the middle fingers Ed used to give to the guys who called out his glossy lips in rugby after school. “Strawberry,” Ed reads from the label. He removes the cap and runs the slick ball over his lips until he feels that familiar coating. It’s sticky feeling, kind of gross, honestly. Stede watches Ed press and pucker, his mouth slightly parted, eyebrows hiked.
“Here,” says Ed, and he aims the stick in Stede’s direction, glides it over Stede’s bottom lip first, then the top. Stede instinctively rubs his lips together to blend it. “You’re messing up my work, mate. Just blot ‘em, don’t rub.”
Ed reapplies. This time, Stede blots. His lips glisten and dance under the cracks of light floating in.
“Better?”
“Much. You look very fuckin’ hot, you lunatic.”
There’s that stretched wide grin of his, that dimple, that pride. Damn if his little petty thief action didn’t get Ed even more revved up, stomach swirling with the obvious horniness diluted with something else a bit gushier that Ed can’t name. Stede knows the next move. Ed knows it, too, but he’s glad Stede takes the lead here: smooshing their overly glossed lips together in a kiss that’s fucking hot and also a fucking menace to every single one of Ed’s senses. Feels gross, tastes gross, sounds fucking diabolical. Definitely didn’t have it so rough smacking lips in Lip Smacker when he was a rowdy little teenager.
Stede pulls back and slides the gloss from Ed’s hand. He rolls on a little bit more. And this is a bit unexpected—and advanced: the slide (slide’s doing a lot of work for Stede’s middle-aged movement and accompanying grunts) down to his knees, right there on cold, hard Italian stone tile; the look up to Ed to make sure he’s still into it; the hesitation.
Ed nods at him, reaches down to loosen his belt, but he remembers he doesn’t need to. He remembers, when Stede’s hands are at the tops of his combat boots, slipping up his legs, the hairs tingling as they flatten and lift again. He remembers, when those hands rise under the hem of Ed’s denim skirt, up through the black scratched ink and hair across his thighs. Stede pushes the thick material up to Ed’s hips, the gust from the movement battering its way through the cotton weave of his jock.
He blinks down at Stede, whose focus hasn’t left Ed’s face. He’s a little woozy. He remembers he’s drunk. Not drunk-drunk —not out of it . But stretched like caramel, defenses up but inhibitions down. Remembers he left his glasses at his desk (kind of on purpose), his contacts over Jack’s a couple months back. And when Stede’s pulling his jock to the side, taking Ed out and—
"Wow."
—touching his tongue to the solid gauge of Ed's Prince Albert—he remembers that he still needs to take a giant fucking piss.
“Stede,” he says, hand in Stede’s Cupid curls.
Stede peers up, tongue out and flat and pillowed underneath the head of Ed’s quickly swelling cock, glossy lips rounded open for a welcome landing with Ed's glint of silver metal right in the middle of all that pink. Yeah, Ed could Mt. St. Helens right now, but it wouldn't be the explosion Stede would expect.
“Is this too fast? Maybe not fast enough?” Stede asks, breath skimming over wet skin.
“No, it’s—” Ed pulls back as much as he can, stuck between Stede’s mouth and a hard place—the edge of the counter still dully digging into his lower back. He laughs. “Gimme a sec,” Ed tells him. “Fuck—I gotta piss—just—”
He makes a move to sidestep, but Stede holds him in place with a hand at his thigh—good hand, good grip, good, substantial fingers scratching lightly down the surface, and fuck. Yeah. Stede’s limiting his choices here, dwindling them down to a warm, open mouth and eager puppy eyes that Ed can’t make out the color of. “No, I know, I…you said anything I want. I want you. All of you,” Stede says in front of a breathy giggle. “Is that alright?” Then he opens his mouth wider, lengthens his tongue. Blinks, nervous. Ed’s cock twitches against a light wave of hot breath against the skin. He’s unfairly hard now, the red tip of him cutting through the darkness.
“Two minutes, mate,” Ed says, laughing again–embarrassment, realization, utter and complete fucking horniness taking over his brain like a virus. Stede sucks at the head like he’s coaxing something out, and yeah, something’s happening. Stede’s rubbing his lips together, licking and tasting, and there’s a bright bead of precome at the tip of Ed’s cock, new and shiny like Stede’s pilfered lip gloss. Ed feels that good strange urge clawing at his insides. He wants more of this. He wants more of—himself on those pretty pink lips, wants to get that pout as messy as what’s churning in Ed’s gut—wants to piss and wants to come, and Stede’s making good hard eye contact, wrenching an eyebrow, offering Ed a mountain of his own here. Offering Ed a quickdraw and a carabiner and climbing shoes and—
Shit.
It’s not like Ed hasn’t played around like this. And it’s not like Stede doesn’t deserve what he’s asking for. Looking at him with all of that misplaced twisted up fucking fondness in his eyes. It’s not like Ed’s endurance isn’t waning, either. He’s been holding it since 4th Ave., and the build-up of Mai Tais and Painkillers (drink, not pill–not tonight anyway) make his bladder feel like that kid with his finger in the dam.
It’s just—dunno—one of those things—the rare first date fuck that doesn’t make it past the bathroom or the hotel or Thursday night. The guy from the bar on 81st with the toes-up-the-ass request stopped responding on the app, and yeah, there was Mr. Balls Only, a rare case of scheduling conflicts where Ed said they should do this again next week, and Mr. Balls Only decided he had no more weeks to spare, so yeah, the kinky stuff is fun for a one-off, but somewhere around the Cayman Islands, he figured that maybe he wasn’t sure he wants this thing with Stede, his Hot Guy from the App, to be just a one shot thing. Stupid. Embarrassing, actually.
But he’s dying against this kitchen island. He’s fucking wriggling out of his skin with how much he needs to go; this backup is leaving him in some sort of piss fugue state, and now, with the chance to freefall, his dick’s being all goddamned shy about it. All of a sudden, Ed’s bladder needs to whisper secrets to him when it’s been screaming at him for the whole walk home. And there’s a slight dip in Stede’s brow—quick, but Ed catches it. Regret. Stede’s changing his mind, taking on Ed’s hesitation, and Ed doesn’t want that, either.
He rakes fingers through Stede’s hair, flashes something akin to a grin to soothe them both, and that does it. The confidence returns to Stede’s face—a little goading even. Some prodding for Ed to get on with it that spreads Ed’s smile even wider. Stede’s thumb wipes softly at the top of Ed’s thigh where he holds him for balance. Relaxes him.
He hears it before he feels the sharp relief of it leaving him. Hears the quiet trickle of it land, and then Stede’s gripping Ed’s dick like a microphone, like he’s trying to get the crowd to sing the chorus, and he jerks back with a snort loud enough to disturb the anxious silence in the house. He squeals about it, a high-pitched, “Shit,” and Ed holds the fucking overwhelming boulder of piss back while Stede wipes piss from his face.
“Mate, I thought you wanted—”
“No, I do want. I do.”
“Still? You’ve got piss lips...and chin...and a little mustache..."
Stede huffs a laugh, but the accident hasn’t tampered his enthusiasm. He’s back at the fount full-chested, open-throated. The eagerness is a turn-on. Fuck, it’s a turn-on. Fuck, this guy’s a turn-on.
Doesn’t take much before Ed’s letting loose again. The spurt of it lands in the middle of Stede’s tongue, and Stede looks prepared this time to catch it. Ed watches some of his piss leak over Stede’s bottom lip, and Stede tightens around Ed’s cock. He moves his head closer, slides his tongue further down Ed’s shaft. His eyes widen to suppress the start of what looks like a smile, and Ed breathes into it, the pressure easing from his bladder. He moans a little from how good it feels, how good he feels against Stede’s tongue, how pretty it looks when Stede’s mouth fills up with him.
A clumsy gulp as Stede swallows. A stream that slithers down jaw and neck, into the open vee of his shirt, through sweet little golden hairs and pinkened skin, casting a dark tributary in the button panel of printed silk. Ed white-knuckles the edge of the counter on either side of him to keep from thrusting down Stede’s throat like this, but his hips push in slightly. Stede welcomes the charge.
His Adam’s apple bounces, the lowering of the drawbridge for the cars to cross over. He chases every drop with lavish discretion. His moans send a good buzz all the way down Ed’s cock to the pit of his balls, and Ed imagines them wet and glistening with his own piss, from what Stede can’t accommodate, and he moans, too–shaky sounds from the almost painfully comforting feeling of Stede taking care of him like this.
That revelation—being taken care of like Stede thinks he deserves, one night or not—well, shit, it’s just been a long time since Ed’s felt that. Felt enough security to try something left field that’s upheld on the other side. Stede opens his mouth, letting the sound of Ed take up the silence, the sound of his piss filling Stede’s cheeks reverberate around Ed’s marble and stone fancy fucking cold, empty kitchen. And then Stede closes around Ed to swallow, learning in real time how to take as much of Ed in as he can.
Ed bends and touches a finger to that wet stream glinting on Stede’s cheek in the low light, feels the tautness in Stede’s neck muscles as he remains devoted to the task at hand. He waits for Ed to finish, waits for those last lingering bleats to leave him, and then he pulls back to catch his breath. And Ed bends low and finds Stede’s mouth, and he kisses him deep to thank him, or something, finding the taste of himself salty and strangely lush on Stede’s tongue, behind his teeth, on his lips still sticky with faded lip gloss.
He’s fucking lovely in this light. The moon’s kind to his face, that strong jut of nose, the firm slope of forehead, the creases in the skin at his eyes and around his cheeks where he’s smiling now, tentative, but somehow smug. He presses his hand against Ed’s thighs and leans forward, and Ed stands at attention as his date sets about finishing the job, lapping over the hairs of his balls, cleaning up his mess until he pushes Ed off the cliff to orgasm.
Takes, like, three seconds or three minutes before he’s squeezing at Stede’s hair again, begging him for a reprieve. Fireworks, champagne cork popping—the works. Ed gets himself down next to Stede, the both of their chests heaving as they lean against the side of the kitchen island.
“Well, that was an experience indeed,” Stede breathes out. He licks his lips. Smiles. “A wonderful experience.”
He’s blushing. Dreamy-eyed. Fucking maniac.
“That, um, something you like doing? That, like, your thing?”
“My thing? No. Maybe. I have a lot to get through before I declare any one act my thing. Wait–do you have a thing?”
“I’m a multifaceted fucker, Stede Bonnet—I have plenty of things.”
“Such as…?”
“You gotta get to know me before you get my things. I don’t just give out my things to anyone who asks.”
“How much more should I get to know you? What more would that even entail after…this?”
Ed shrugs. An insulating silence builds its walls around them, a perfect bridge for some awkward giggling that rolls into outright laughter. Ed takes a chance with that yellow curl on Stede’s forehead—brushes it away, but it bounces back expectedly like a fucking cartoon. Fucking Acme branded curls.
“Hair-pulling," Ed says. "Mild, but effective. A little slap here and there, some ball flicking on a good day. Orgasm denial. Puppy play.”
He sneaks a peek over to Stede to see if he’s still in the game, but joke’s on him—Stede’s winding the bat, practicing to step up to the plate, looking at him with wide-eyed interest and lips itching to say something.
“Any of that of interest to you, Stede Bonnet?”
“I’ve never heard of most of those. More things to add to the list, I suppose.”
“The list? Like, a list of—”
“Acts I want to achieve, yes. Some I pulled from the internet, some were given to me by various…well-meaning friends and colleagues.”
They laugh again, shoulders knocking together this time, and Ed hopes he’s subtle in how he presses himself against Stede’s arm, into the defined curve of Stede’s bicep. It’s one thing to even be in possession of those things, but Ed laments that he’ll probably never see them outside the confines of Stede’s shirt. Never get to see that chest beyond that tease of vee Stede’s showing off. They did the thing, and they’re done, but Ed nods down at Stede’s crotch anyway and, least he could do, offers, “You gonna let me get you off now, mate? Think you’ve more than earned some—” He wags his eyebrows. “—gratification. Sexually.”
“Oh,” says Stede. “Yes, well, I do expect recompense. Maybe a quick break, and then…your bedroom?”
“My room?”
“Yes. Of course.” He grins. “You can—fuck me thoughtless on a mattress. With pillows. Or—I could? I haven’t even charted that course, have I? Should’ve posed that before we left the bar.”
Question seems almost innocent after the last few minutes. Practically a cut scene from The Sound of Music.
“Don’t care either way, mate. Long as we’re both getting off. Promise I’ve got a solution for every issue—I’m a master tactician. Plus, I’ve got a fuckload of toys and vibrators and shit. We can…I dunno, figure it out maybe, or whatever, if you want.”
That seems to satisfy Stede, who takes a deep breath and looks over at Ed once, then twice, then leans his head back. “Master Sex Tactician.”
“I’m a Master Sextician.”
Stede wheezes a laugh, snorts to end it. Ed could squeeze the life out of him for that, it’s so fucking endearing. Stupid. Wasn’t even that funny.
“Maybe another round after breakfast, Master Sextician,” Stede says, that smile not leaving his face.
Something sharp and tingly shoots all the way to Ed’s fingertips. Can’t pinpoint the origin. It’s so late that it’s early, but Stede’s not asking after pancakes right now. Ed gets that. Gets wanting to twine their limbs together under his sheets and snuggle in nooks and crannies. At least, that’s what Ed’s taking from it. Stede making it so Ed’s one shot with him is at least two days long.
“Yeah,” Ed says. “‘Kay. Yeah, putting me to work, making us eggs and bacon and waffles. Barely even know you, mate.”
He feels fingers slotting between his, Ed’s hand resting flat on the stone floor between them. Stede’s hand curls over his. He feels Stede’s pulse through his palm. More handholding. Ed’s own pulse jumps up his throat, buoys itself behind the bird tattoo at his clavicle.
“No one said anything about putting you to work,” Stede says.
Ed smiles. He’s right. No one's said anything about any part of this being work.