ninetoes | Noctium Inbox

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?”

Oh! Not the answer he expected. Nor is it a question he really has an answer to, but Stede forges ahead confidently anyway.

“It’s regular chocolate that they’ve taken all the color out of to make it sweeter,” he replies without skipping a beat. “Meshes very nicely with the tart cherry.” He arches an eyebrow at Izzy, questioning but also challenging. “Fancy a cuppa?”

Ugh. Curse his sex stupid brain and Bambi legs, he can not get out of this room fast enough.

Izzy could not possibly look less enthused. They have always been very openly vocal about their distaste of each other and as a result have spent very little time together. By design of course. Even on a ship as small as this one. Maybe it’s an opportunity to gain some..kind of leverage. Insight. Anything.

But oh how he longs for a bigger ship. If only to have a place of privacy that isn’t the spare bunk-cum-Stede’s fucking closet.

“If you insist.”

Can Izzy justify this by taking pleasure in Stede making him tea? Being waited on personally by the great blue buffoon? We’re going to find out. And so he sits at the table, not moving a single inch to assist.

"Oh, I do," Stede replies, not missing a beat, smiling smugly to himself as he goes about making the tea. He hadn't made the offer with the intention of winning, per se, but he does have the distinct impression that he's won, which is always satisfying when Izzy is involved. It doesn't even occur to him to ask him to make the tea, as Stede isn't confident the man wouldn't poison him.

Hmm. Interesting thought.

He has to step into the galley to boil the water, but he returns in a few minutes with a tray of scones and a pot of hot water, which he steeps the tea leaves in with practiced movements. "Lovely tea they grow here, it's not quite what we've got at home but it's quite the bracing sip!"

The time alone gives Izzy a chance to breathe and collect his thoughts, idly observing the room his captains- no, wrong, Stede and his captain share. It’s a far cry from the elaborate quarters of The Revenge and even farther from the den of curio Edward had crafted on The Queen Anne, but he can see scraps and hints of the two men’s personalities here and there. Little knick knacks Izzy supposes Edward found. Stede’s succulents on the window sill. Fine bedding and even finer dressing gowns on the back of the door. Very much a room that Izzy does not feel he belongs in. At all. And yet this is the third time he’s been in here for debauchery. The first time he has stayed longer than he should.

He wonders if this will become a habit. There’s obviously been some agreement made about him which he can’t wrap his mind around. To share a toy, he supposes. Without work to focus his life, is that Izzy’s new place? Are they well and truly retired? Just like that? It feels as though the floor has dropped out right from under him, replaced with a foreign deck and domestic dinners and more sex- more intense sex- then he has even countered.

Izzy Hands is a good shag if only because he commits to it with the unwavering single mindedness in which he approaches everything in life, but this whole…situation. This thing with emotions and magic and close quarters. It’s messy. It’s messy and shifting and he doesn’t like it at all.

When Stede returns, Izzy nods as he listens, finally coming back to himself a bit. His heart has stopped pounding so hard. His brain has begun to fire again.

“I’m more of an Earl Grey man,” he admits and gives Stede the first scrap of personal information he can bear to part with. Yea it’s anachronistic don’t @ me.

Stede does some contemplation of his own while he fixes the kettle, his hands a little bit shaky as the adrenaline wears off and his blood stops pounding. Everything has happened so quickly, he reels a little as his brain catches up, as he assesses the facts.

Izzy loves Ed. Izzy hates Stede. Stede's not a big fan of Izzy, but he loves Ed, and Ed...Ed needs Izzy, he thinks. They need each other, the two of them, and try as he might, Stede can't find it in himself to tear them apart from each other, even after all the betrayal and antagonism. That's why he's doing this, he tells himself. It just makes sense, to try and keep the peace, and perhaps reap a little bit of reward from the arrangement.

It has nothing to do with Izzy and the fact that he is so clearly and desperately in need of some positive attention. Absolutely nothing to do with the kiss they'd shared, mid-blowjob, whispering each other's names into the space between them—

Abruptly, Stede grabs one of the scones and licks it, before placing it back on the tray on Izzy's side and marching back into the room.

"Love an Earl Grey," he comments as he sits down, putting a scone on his plate from the tray and pre-emptively beginning to spoon sugar into his teacup. "I'm surprised, I think I've only ever seen you drink coffee."

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