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What you think about when you’re holding a fish.
So- it’s not a bad thing being whim prone, Ed thinks. Not always, not exclusively. Yes, if the whim is sailing into a storm and then attempting to blow the mast to tiny little bits with a cannonball because you’re unbearably sad to the point where you can’t even stand you anymore then yep, bad whim. Shit whim. He’d hold his hands up and admit that. He did hold his hands up to admit that, just this morning.
This whim though, the whim which he’d sort of been thinking about the whole time he was on that boat with Fang (Kevin- fuck, who knew? Fang’s been Kevin the fucking 47th or whatever, this whole time, amazing-) is a bit different. He’s not sure it even still counts as a whim, if he’s been thinking about it for so long. Pressing his lips against Stede’s all gently and nicely- he even rang his bell a little before he did it- it’s been haunting him all day.
This was thoroughly thought out for a whim. Well, sort of- he hadn’t planned for Stede to be so handsome in the moonlight and so genuinely excited to hear about Ed’s day- and just so- fucking-nice. Ed knows that nice is one of those words that people don’t usually like as a descriptor- but God, when things are genuinely nice? When they actually feel nice and stay nice? Unbelievable- unbeatable. Pleasure is great but you can’t sustain it for long, really, and if you don’t have nice to return to after the pleasure sometimes it’s not even worth it. It’s like having a wank when you’re sad-yeah, your bits might feel happy tingly for a while and the animal part of your mind is soothed for a bit but the loneliness creeps in after a minute, like the tide. Plus, you’ve got to clean yourself up and that’s embarrassing as fuck, he’s glad he threw Stede’s once lovely pink robe over the side of the ship, that thing was getting distressingly stiff.
So- kiss is a bit of a whim. A nice one, so nice. Stede’s so familiar and lovely- he smells less like the fancy bergamot oil he used to use with abandon, but there’s definitely still a whiff. Probably rationing out his last bottle of fancy stuff, making it last. When Ed sways into his space Stede steps forward to meet him- which is different again. He supposes the last time they did a bit of spit swapping he took Stede by surprise. Ed’s glad he rung his bell- he sort of meant for it to be a joke but maybe it isn’t.
It had made Stede smile, anyway, as they leant in to meet each other.
Stede’s warm. Really warm, like a fucking brazier on a cold winter’s night. Like the sun rising over the sea on a frigid morning.
Like a big, strong, man who Ed really wants to fuck.
His lips move against Ed’s, which again, last time, not so much. Not that the kissing was bad, last time, it did things to Ed which he wouldn’t let himself think about for too long or he’d start weeping- but this is something else.
Stede’s determined, Ed can feel it in the press of his mouth. Ed’s pretty sure, if he had his eyes open, Stede would have his ‘I- am-concentrating’ frown on, like the one he wore when they did pirating lessons. God, it makes Ed so fucking fond of him, and- as that Danish prince bloke in that weird murder play said- there’s the bastard rub.
‘Cos if this was anyone else Ed would be totally fine with where this is plainly going- he’d open his mouth a bit, let Stede do what he clearly wants to do with his tongue in there, and then they’d just- get down to it. He’d whip off his potato sack in a heartbeat.
But it’s Stede. And he can’t actually think about them having sex without feeling like he’s going to fall over because he’s so turned on his limbs are rendered useless. But then there’s also the other big feeling that he’s dealing with in regard to Stede banging him which is that- maybe- just maybe, a little bit- he’s terrified.
Because he knows this isn’t going to be a simple shag for him, not even a little bit. And he’s reaching a point where he’s starting to believe that Stede isn’t going to leg it at the first sign of trouble but- but, but, but.
He wants to trust Stede, he really does. He thinks he’s almost on the brink of it. But it’s too fragile a thing at the moment, and he’s scared that if they move too fast it’ll break, like when a fishing line snaps if you aren’t patient enough with the movements of the fish (as Kevin nee Fang had gently explained to him about five times earlier that day.)
Stede’s fingers wind into Ed’s hair and the pad of his lightly work roughened thumb brushes against his neck and Jesus fucking Christ and all his mates, it feels brilliant- but it’s too much. It makes Ed’s heart race with giddy abandon but there’s also that uncontrollable flutter of fear. Of remembered loss and crying into ruined fabric and being so utterly ready to let go of everything- Yeah, he’s just not ready.
So, he pulls away and mumbles some absolute shit about fish. This isn’t the first time he’s turned someone down, and yeah, it breaks his fucking heart a bit to see Stede’s shiny eyes dim a little with disappointment. But they brighten again just as quickly when their palms fit together, all perfectly and lovingly. The way Stede looks at Ed makes Ed want to punch him in the arm and tell him to stop. Ed’s pretty sure that wouldn’t work though, Stede still wants to fuck him even when he’s dressed in the least alluring outfit Ed’s ever worn.
He wants to make a joke about being alluring and fishing lures but he’s not quite pulling it off even in his own mind, and he knows Stede would laugh anyway, so he may as well wait until it’s properly formed. For now, it’s just good to stand beneath the moon and watch the waves and talk about nothing with his best mate.
Yeah. Sometimes whims aren’t bad at all.
He's thinking about when he's going to have his next one.