ninetoes | Noctium Inbox

There would be no objection from Izzy who is absolutely thriving under Stede's efforts. As good as this would be straight, the addition of his tattoo heightens every sensation to a degree he can not compute. The man's hot, wet month, his attentive tongue, the vibration in his throat when he hums, it is euphoria. Like a blow job and sinking his cock into someone's sex all at once.

It would be too easy to give in and it be over far too soon. He can't have that.

Izzy reluctantly releases Stede's hair and gropes for his right hand, raising it up and guiding it to his chest. Past his tightly pebbled nipple to get Stede's fingers back on the ink of Ed's mark while Izzy shifts his own hands. One back into Stede's hair (tighter this time) and, having to now sit properly, using the other to press his thumb hard against the base of his cock. A move designed to restrict blood, forcing his prick to flare, but also denying him release.

Eventually, Stede's eyes flutter shut, firmly fixated on his work. It isn't until he feels Izzy's fingers release his curls that they open, watching as Izzy guides one of his hands up over his chest—god, his chest—to find Ed's mark. Understanding, Stede rubs his fingers gently over the spot, cautious at first. He wonders if Izzy will allow the sensation to overtake him, but it seems the man's thought of it all, if the thumb pressed at the base of him is any indication

Good, Stede thinks. It means he doesn't have to go easy on him. He presses deeper down onto Izzy's cock, inhaling heavily though his nose, and doesn't stop until his lips brush Izzy's thumb. His palm gives Izzy's gorgeous tit a squeeze before he lets his fingertips press into that tattoo, less gently this time. Knowing how it will send shocks of pleasure straight down Izzy's spine just as the back of his throat closes around his cockhead.

It's like fucking lightening, and were Izzy not physically stopping himself from release he would tip over that edge immediately. Half of him is desperate to spill down Stede's throat for the pure satisfaction of the act. The other half is nowhere near ready for this to stop.

His fingers curl ever tighter, a filthy noise in his throat.

As usual, he finds himself thinking about the man who did this to him. Mentally inserting him into the equation, standing behind him on the bed, wrenching Izzy's head back by his hair to swallow his cock. Or perhaps under him, splitting him open at the same time Stede swallows him down. Fuck, wouldn't that be something. Stede's hair is so soft. His mouth is so hot. God, he can't fucking think.

It’s so easy for Stede to get lost to this, in learning the ways Izzy is different from Edward, in the lightning-sharp buzz of Synchrony that’s less of a surprise this time but no less potent as it melts down his spine. The curl of Izzy’s fingers in his hair is good, too, drawing a heady moan from Stede and causing his own fingers to dig into that tattoo a little harder. His other hand landed on Izzy’s hip at one point, curling tight as if to anchor himself. He pushes himself a little further, jaw open as wide as it can go as he gags himself on Izzy. He’s determined to give as good as he’s got, like that will finally prove himself to Izzy.

He draws back for a moment to catch his breath, tears glistening at the corner of his eyes from the intrusion in his throat, gasping for air. Stede doesn’t waste a moment, though, his tongue swirling hot around the head of Izzy’s prick while he waits for his lungs to stop burning.

It is, for a moment, as if Izzy can feel the burn in his lungs, if only because he has been there before, himself. It could possibly be some transference through synchronicity, which sings like a live wire through them. Wound from a million gossamer threads, it spans heart to heart. Gem to gem. Inside each other in a way no one can put to words, they simply are.

The small reprieve gives Izzy a moment to collect himself (as much as a man in his position can, which is very little), and whilst contact isn't broken, Izzy elects to - if only to pitch forward and pull the other by his hair up for a searing kiss. He doesn't get to kiss enough. He doesn't get to taste himself on another's tongue. To plunder their mouths and swollen lips for his very own. It isn't a signal to stop, he doesn't want the moment to stop, and from experience of having the tattoo done he knows he can come several times. This is just a little, self indulgent, detour along the way.

Stede's not expecting to be tugged by the hair away from Izzy's cock and toward his mouth instead, but he surrenders willingly, rising up on his knees the better to let Izzy devour his mouth. He pulls in a deep breath through his nose, struck by the contrast between their first kiss and this one. Then it had been all confusion and alarm and feral instinct driving him. Now it's something different entirely. Giving himself over to Izzy's wants, giving him what he needs, feels less like a charity act than Stede would have imagined, and more like a puzzle piece fitting into place than he's ready to admit to.

He stays there as long as Izzy wants, the hand on his hip creeping up over his stomach, thumbing over skin and hair and scar as if committing it all to memory. His heart is pounding in his chest, he can feel it, wonders if Izzy can hear it. Stede moans, lashes fanning his cheek, sucking lewdly at the first mate's lower lip, lost to the moment and committed to whatever follows.

It is a perfect moment, all things considered. The who and how and why. If Izzy thought this were charity for a moment he would be out of here so sucking fast. Mercifully, it doesn't. What it is, he doesn't know, but he sure as hell isn't complaining as they trade turns trying to devour each other.

Izzy pulls back, a thin strand of saliva between them. He's pink with flush, eyes dark and glassy, pupils blown wide as he drinks Stede in. He really is beautiful. How terrible.

He breaks the strand by wetting his own lips and then begins to guide Stede back down to finish, releasing the hold he's got on himself to cup his cheeks. He stops, thumbs gently sliding over soft skin, never mind he can only feel it on one side with that glove in the way.

"Say my name?"

Staring into Izzy's face, flushed and full of want and terribly, terribly attractive, Stede forgets for a moment that he hasn't been drugged, that all of the lust he feels is of his own volition. He wants this man so badly that it burns inside of him, all of the wrongdoing and hurt and bile between them reduced to desire so closely distilled that he fears it might combust within him.

He exhales, letting himself be guided back to his work, but he doesn't expect to find his jaw cradled between skin and leather, staring wide-eyed up at Izzy from between his knees. Yes, he can certainly do that. "Izzy," he breathes, and then, "Israel," his voice low and wrecked from the use of his throat.

Izzy lets out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding, feeling a strange sort of surprise and relief and visibility all at the same time.

He didn’t know Stede even knew his given name. No one has called him by it fondly in a very long time. This gift, mixing in with everything else, slides down his spine with a warmth that lights up every rib it passes.

God. God. To be called by his name.

Maybe it’s pathetic. Probably is, he asked for it after all. Not sure he cares.

Reopening his eyes, Izzy finds Stede’s and looks so fucking grateful that were he watching as a third party, he would leave from the display of emotion.

“Oh Stede,” he whispers back. The name feels so very foreign on his tongue without a curse or venom. Like he’s learning it for the first time, beads restrung to hang properly.

It’s intense. It’s all so intense. That won’t stop him.

Stede doesn't even remember where he first heard Izzy's full name, one of the crew perhaps, but it had always struck him as a rather elegant name for such a bitter little berk. Now, it rolls off his tongue all too easily, and Izzy calls him Stede and it makes his heart skip an absolutely ridiculous beat. What is happening? Stede half expects to wake up in a cold sweat any moment.

Instead he smiles, all golden sunlight breaking out over the horizon, and dips his head to take Izzy back into his mouth. His brow draws together sweetly as he devotes himself to his work, fingertips stroking a steady rhythm over his tattoo in time with the bobbing of his head in his lap.

Pleasure, rolling and all consuming, comes barrelling back three fold and with it a symphony of noise from Izzy’s own throat. He’s vocal, he always has been, it’s just so rare that he’s not had to bite his hand or a pillow to smother the noise when opportunity to engage arose.

Either that or it does locked in the deafening walls of far distant brothels where it never fucking mattered. Transactional, brief relationships that sated the void in his belly for a moment before leaving him even more hollow than ever before.

Izzy, as it turns out, is not made for brief, meaningless sex. He is cast of devotion and anything less feels worse than nothing to begin with. So what he’s doing here, what they’re doing, this is dangerous.

Even given a moment to regroup, can feel climax mounting behind his eyes, whole body telling that he’s close.

“Fuck-“

He tries to warn in any case.

“Bonnet I’m- fuck I’m so-“

Stede takes Izzy's warning in stride, moaning in encouragement as he redoubles his efforts. The hand not stroking Ed's mark on his chest slides between his own thighs, trying to relieve some of the pressure straining his breeches, but mostly he's devoted to the task at hand.

Stede whimpers, feeling Izzy's body draw up tight, and every nerve of his lights up in anticipation. All he wants, all he can think of, is making Izzy spill down his throat, and the sudden and burning desire to know what he sounds like when he comes. To know that he did that.

Permission is sublimely granted, he almost can’t believe, and that revelation is the final delight which pushes Izzy over the edge with a shivering, wrecked moan.

Every part of him feels so deliciously alight as he spills down Stede’s throat.

Spills his seed down Stede Bonnet’s throat.

Fucking hell. Izzy’s cry, sharp and ragged and gasping, fills the tiny room the way he fills the captain’s belly, knowing another is right behind in short order. Izzy can’t help it, it’s Edward’s doing, this debauchment that would make a cum dumpster of his husband. That sends Izzy into mindless, spinning, uncontrollable rut feeding a synchronic feedback loop between them.

Stede's rewarded for his curiosity soon enough, a low and guttural groan resounding as he feels Izzy finish in hot spatters at the back of his throat. His lips move back and forth, just an inch or so, intending to work him through it and pull off, but he's forgotten about the tattoo, and before he knows it he's being treated to a multi-course meal on Izzy's behalf.

And not only that, but he can feel in in the connection between them. He's experienced this with Ed, but experiencing it with Izzy is another thing entirely, and Stede isn't quite ready for it. He fairly trembles, face buried in Izzy's lap, his hand pressed down the front of his trousers to grip at his own throbbing prick. He feels dizzy with arousal, strung tight, the waves of Izzy's orgasm battering at his own resolve, and it isn't long at all before Stede's coming with a howl of pleasure around Izzy's length, his face flushed and eyes squeezed tightly shut as he spill over his own hand.

At some point in this Izzy removes Stede’s hand from his tattoo, unable to take it anymore or he will submit completely and do something stupid like beg the man to fuck him.

(The plea already cued on his lips.)

There is no rational thought occurring, it is simply reactive, and in releasing that touch the most overwhelming waves, largest and heaviest, crash down one final time and pool but do not make way for more.

There’s nothing but this perfect, consuming bliss. Brainless. Sex stupid. Nothing in the world but he and Stede.

Izzy takes a ragged breath and tips backwards to hit the bed, chest heaving, arms limp at his sides. Holy fuck. Holy fuuuuuck.

That would have been good without the tattoo in play, but with it? It’s almost cheating because how could he ever’ve experienced better otherwise.

He. He needs a minute. He needs two or three.

Stede doesn't move until he's sure Izzy is done, until he feels the last twitch of his cock against his tongue, until he hears him fall back against the bed. Even then, he draws back slowly, cleaning every bit of seed from Izzy's prick, his eyelids at half mast in the wake of his own orgasm. He regrets not pulling Izzy's trousers down properly, wanting to pepper kisses over the tops of his thighs. Instead he leans up to mouth a few warm kisses across his hip and lower abdomen, before he sits up, wiping his mouth elegantly on his sleeve.

Stede pulls himself up to sit on the mattress beside Izzy, looking down at him with a very pleased little smirk on his face. In a fit of daring, he reaches over to stroke his hand over Izzy's hair again, smoothing a few strands back into place.

An extremely tender, extremely illegal move. But Izzy allows it, moving his face towards the gesture just a bit before looking up at Stede with a sexed up, downright dopey smile.

That’s what he’s done. Stede’s swallowed all the bastard down and left the soft, tender scraps to surface at low tide.

Izzy looks, then looks over Stede, sees his cock’s out and wet. Oh you dirty devil, you.

“Spent your penny in the wrong place,” he purrs and raises a tired, bare hand to Stede’s chest before he gives up and lets it flop. He’s so fucking spent and full of manna at the same time it is unreal. Brainfucked and so alive.

“Id’ve helped you out, there.”

Stede marvels for a moment at the look on Izzy's face, floored again by the very concept of Izzy Hands, smiling at him. It's wrong, he thinks, even as it tugs at something in his chest that tells him quite otherwise. Can something be so wrong and feel so good and, dare he say it, right, at the same time?

The hand on his chest brings him back to the present moment, his gaze dropping between them, and a sheepish grin tugs at his lips. "Ah. Well, I suppose it's a shame. There was a moment, there..." How to explain this? "It was like I was feeling what you were feeling. Couldn't help myself, in truth."

Whatever magic lies in Ed's ink, in that tattoo, Stede's got a newfound respect for it. Lord have mercy.

Spare a prayer for the poor bastard living with it. Just the slightest brush of fabric over his chest jolts Izzy to attention and back to the moment it was done. Edward over him, around him, in him. Ownership in all its many forms.

Someday he will learn to control it, perhaps as the tattoo fades so will it’s magic. But right now Izzy Hands is absolutely beyond fucked by this gift.

“I felt it.”

And he did, truly. It’s probably for the best they don’t have sex. This as it is, is a lot.

Izzy will be grateful later when he’s got his wits back. At least there will be one remaining line in the sand.

The energy created in their union hums loud and sweet in Izzy’s chest. He doesn’t know what to do with it, but he feels incredible.

“What you were feeling. I felt it. It was like some…loop.”

Does that make sense? He’s sex high, he doesn’t fuckin’ know.

"You did?" Stede's voice is hushed, a little creaky, as he reaches for one of the clean towels he keeps in the bedside cabinet and gets himself cleaned up and tucked back in his trousers. Oh, thank God, he's not going mad, at least. He may not have self-control, or moral fortitude, but he's pretty sure he's got most of his sanity left.

He nods at Izzy's description of the sensation, finally pushing himself to a sitting position and raking his hair back away from his face. "That's precisely what I felt, yes." What does it mean? Does it mean anything at all? Hard to tell when he feels so full of Manna, painfully aware that if he's feeling this good then Izzy likely is, too, and it's highly irritating to have found mutual bliss with someone he dislikes so much.

Still. This was...much, much less terrible than it could have been. "Thank you," he says, threadbare, glancing sidelong at the other man. "For showing me your tattoo."

Izzy holds back a small scoff, if only because he’s too tired and fucking brainless, but the neat conclusion Stede offers is just so brilliantly succinct.

They’ve had their fun, that’s all it is. It feels like dismissal and Izzy can take a hint.

Besides, it isn’t as though he wants to stay and have a cuddle.

“Sure,” he manages weakly, needing another moment to recover before he can contemplate the idea of putting himself away much less getting up and leaving.

Don’t get used to it, he nearly says. For some reason it holds back the same as a customary fuck off.

He takes a breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. These past weeks, a month now? Have demanded so much of him both physically and emotionally. Izzy doesn’t know how to reconcile it with himself. This could be good, were he a better man. Healthy, even. He feels incredible and in the same breath, awful for it.

As it stands he doesn’t know the first place to start.

Izzy forces himself to sit and tug his trousers back up. He isn’t ready, but when has that mattered.

“If that’ll be all.”

Stede doesn't seem to be in a hurry, at least, taking his time in getting to his feet and wandering over to the little table he'd found and added to the captains' quarters. He's considering making tea, pulling together the tea tray and checking to make sure there's enough sugar for the both of them. It occurs to him he doesn't know how Izzy takes his tea, and it's only polite to make your rival tea after you've just propositioned him and sucked him off!

He's got a teacup in each hand, mouth open to ask, when Izzy asks if that will be all. Stede pauses, half-turned, and quickly sets the cups back down. "Oh, er, yes, I'm sure you've got...things to do," he says. Of course Izzy's not going to want to linger. He probably has a thousand better places to be than staying in here, being reminded of what they've just done.

In truth, Izzy has exactly nowhere better to be or anything better to do, but he is under no illusion that his continued presence would be wanted and so he doesn’t consider it for a moment.

He eyes the cups for a moment, not quite putting together the meaning of them, and struggles to his feet.

“I’m sure I’ll find something.”

"Oh," Stede answers, and then, fumbling, "well, if you wanted— I was going to make tea."

He gestures at the tea tray, all confident politeness now that he's gotten the words out. "I've got some very nice little scones, even, cherry with something they call 'white chocolate...'"

As if Izzy Hands strikes him as the kind of man to be enticed by baked goods. Stede can't decide if he actually wants to spend more time in his company or if he just wants to watch him squirm around his nice manners and fancy table setting. Maybe a bit of both, if he's honest.

Does he. Want to. Stay for tea. Stede just sucked him off in what can only be described as a fucking power move (ha), and now he’s offering tea.

It’s rude to say no. Izzy does not have an issue being rude.

However.

“What the fuck is white chocolate?”

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