Work Text:
“Taste the whip, in love not given lightly”
The Velvet Underground - Venus in Furs
“Oh Edward,” Stede murmurs, “Oh yes, my darling, just look at you.”
Ed is spread out beneath him, breathing heavily, his head tilted back so Stede can kiss the smooth column of his throat. Between his splayed thighs his lovely cock stands up, rigid and dark red, and below that is the place where Stede’s fingers are moving inside him, his hole clenching hot and sweet as Stede slowly, tenderly works him open.
“That’s it, love,” he encourages, “You’re doing well, just lovel—”
“C’mon Stede,” Ed says impatiently, his hips rolling up off the bed. “You looking for buried treasure down there or something?”
“Just making sure you’re quite prepared—I don’t want to cause you any harm.”
Ed makes a frustrated sound at that. “I’m not fuckin’ made of glass, man, I’m not gonna break from a bit of rough treatment.”
“Oh,” says Stede. “Right. Uh, what exactly do you mean by, ah…rough treatment?”
Ed’s face scrunches up in the way that it does when he’s trying to figure out how to say something he doesn’t really want to have to say. He waves a hand. “Y’know,” he says. “Just…you don’t always have to spend half an hour with your fingers up my arse before you fuck me. It’s okay if it hurts.”
“But I don’t want to hurt you.” Stede is extremely aware that he is having this conversation with, as Ed colorfully put it, his fingers up the man’s arse, and he’s not entirely sure what he should do about that; etiquette lessons never prepared him for this situation. He opts for carefully extricating himself, wiping the oil off his fingers onto the sheets with a silent apology to the expensive cotton. Ed huffs, rolls his eyes.
“Well, maybe I’d like you to hurt me once in a while, eh?”
“You want me to—?” Stede can’t even finish the sentence; he feels his face flaming. Ed folds his arms over his bare chest, doing that thing where he doesn’t quite look at Stede while he’s trying to tell an uncomfortable truth.
“I mean yeah, maybe? I dunno. I wouldn’t mind if you, y’know, wanted to slap me around a bit. Or choke me.”
“Choke you?” Stede is utterly horrified now; he adores Ed, why on earth would he do something so awful to him? Why would Ed want—?
“Is that something Jack used to do?” he asks, and instantly regrets it. It’s not fair to Ed, and he should be better than that. He is better, for the most part, but when jealousy raises its head it’s an ugly thing.
“Oh fuck off, it’s nothing to do with Jack,” Ed scoffs. “I just…like it, a bit.” He shakes his head. “Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter—can we get back to the bit where you were going to put your dick in me?”
His erection has subsided to half mast, and he gives it a couple of tugs, wiggling his hips encouragingly in Stede’s direction. Stede frowns, refusing to be distracted. It’s so rare that Edward asks for anything outright, because he’s gone through most of his life without anyone caring what he wanted, learning that there was no point asking; only taking if he could. But this, he asked for. The thought makes Stede’s stomach clench, but he can at least try, can’t he? For Ed.
Ed’s eyes go wide and round when Stede slaps him. He lifts a hand slowly to his cheek where the skin is turning red. “Fucking hell, Stede!”
“Sorry,” Stede says. “Sorry, isn’t that what you—I mean…?”
“No it’s—just took me by surprise, that’s all.” He’s touching the red mark carefully with his fingertips. “Fuck me,” he breathes softly.
“Is that…good?”
“Yeah,” Ed says. “Yeah, you could do that again.”
Stede slaps him again, and this time Ed makes a breathless little sound, almost a whimper. His eyes have gone very dark, and his prick is rock hard again. Stede is mostly feeling a bit uneasy.
“Are you all right?” he asks. Ed nods, licking his lips.
“Could you,” he starts, then: “I mean, if you wanted to, you could insult me as well? Call me names?”
“Oh,” Stede says. Right. If this is what Ed wants. He racks his brain, praying for some sort of muse to inspire him. “You…are a dick.”
A snort of laughter escapes Ed. “Nah, love, not like that. I mean like, call me a filthy slut who’s desperate for cock, something like that. Humiliate me.”
“Oh,” says Stede again, eloquently. “All right then. You’re a slut. A—a dirty whore who prowls the docks looking for seamen to service.”
“Yeah…” says Ed, breathless. “Hit me again.” Stede does, and this time Ed groans, his hips rolling up. His cheek is flushed where Stede’s slapped him, and his eyes are almost black now, pupils swallowing the rest. He is a picture of desire, and Stede should be hungry at the sight of him, but instead his cock is lying limp against his thigh and there’s a peculiar ache in the pit of his stomach. The palm of his hand stings. He flexes it, swallowing hard.
“Come on,” Ed says, taking Stede’s hand and drawing it down to his throat, pressing it there below the thickening new growth of his beard. The skin is soft, because if there’s one thing Stede knows it’s the important of oiling the skin before and after shaving, thank you; Ed swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing under Stede’s hand, and Stede imagines squeezing his fingers tight, Ed’s face going red and contorted and the sound of him struggling for air and—
“No, no, no,” he says, wrenching his hand away. “Sorry! I’m sorry, I—I can’t.” He’s aware that he’s not only pulled his hand away but has in fact scrambled backwards right into the corner of the window. Ed is sitting up, looking at him with concern, and fuck it but Stede’s really made a pig’s ear of this one, hasn’t he? The man he loves asks him for one thing and he can’t follow through because the thought of acting so cruelly towards him makes Stede feel sick to his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, miserably, and then Ed is there, hands hovering over his shoulders as if not sure whether to touch him.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, Stede, it’s all right. Okay? We don’t have to do that. C’mere.” He pulls Stede against him and Stede goes easily, because Ed’s arms are strong and his shoulders broad and it’s very easy to be held by him. He winds his own arms around Ed, palms pressed to the warm plane of his back.
“I am sorry, Ed,” he says when the catch in his throat unlatches. “And I’m sorry for what I said about Jack. I just—I don’t think I can enjoy hurting you.”
“It’s fine,” says Ed, his voice a low rumble where Stede’s face is pressed into the crook of his neck. “‘S not for everyone. I don’t need it. Honest. Let’s just forget about it, yeah?”
Stede can’t forget about it, of course.
They don’t have sex that evening, thanks to his ruining the mood; the next morning he endeavors to make up for it, and while Ed is very appreciative (his hands twisting into Stede’s hair, pushing Stede’s mouth further onto his cock; his breathy little gasps of aww, yeah, that’s it you fucking gorgeous thing, take it all) Stede can’t escape the lingering sense of failure.
Disappointment in his own performance is nothing new, of course, but this is the first time he’s felt it in this aspect of his relationship with Edward. His lack of experience with men has never felt like an impediment—mostly thanks to the way Ed’s always treated it as an opportunity, taking a rather wicked delight in being Stede’s first in any number of carnal acts.
This is different, though. This isn’t Stede not knowing what to do, being embarrassed or shy; he simply can’t give what Ed wants in this regard. A failure, like so many failures in his life, caused by his softness, his weakness. The same nausea that roiled in his stomach as a child when blood spattered across his face, that abhorrence at the thought of doing violence; and even more so at hurting Ed, who’s been hurt so much in his life, who Stede wants to be nothing but gentle and loving to.
He can’t understand why someone would want that, is the thing. Sex is supposed to be a pleasurable thing (when it’s with someone you desire, at least; the less said about his and Mary’s awkward, uncomfortable coupling the better) so why would you want to be hurt, insulted, demeaned? He could ask Edward, he supposes, but he knows what the man is like, he’d only brush it off as unimportant, and the last thing Stede wants is to imply that Ed is somehow wrong for wanting those things.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t understand why Edward finds pain pleasurable; he isn’t owed an understanding. The real problem is, he can’t bring himself to imagine hurting Edward and enjoying it. Or even not feeling sick over it. He still feels guilty for the time he ran Ed through, even though the man forced him to it and there was no real damage done; despite that, Stede will never forget Ed’s soft, punched-out gasp of pain as the blade went through him. The thought of taking pleasure in the sight and sound of Ed’s pain is incomprehensible.
He turns it over and over in his head for days, even considers asking Lucius for advice before remembering he’s been barred because (in Lucius’ words) it’s too much like thinking about his parents having sex, getting nowhere and nowhere and nowhere and then—
And then, like a thunderbolt from the blue, he remembers Archibald Smythe-Strangford.
Archie was a year above him in school, clever and handsome and charming, admired by everyone; the older boy didn’t know he existed, of course, but Stede was utterly devoted to him from a distance. At the time he considered his adoration akin to a disciple’s love for Christ, though looking back on it in the light of more recent realizations, his infatuation is painfully obvious. And it took on a whole new aspect the day he walked past a classroom after lessons and saw Archie being caned by one of the schoolmasters.
Caning was a frequent occurrence at school, and painful as it was, there was something reassuring about it. It was a simple, consistent punishment; if you broke the rules, you knew exactly what you would get. The pain was meted out in measured strokes: three, five, a dozen—twenty for the worst offenses. You knew how long it would last, and you knew that afterwards the punishment was done and the infraction was forgiven. For a boy like Stede, who grew up mired in uncertainty, never knowing whether any given act or word would draw scorn, disgust, hatred from his peers, his father, that consistency felt like a kindness. A comfort.
The sight he saw that day seared itself into Stede’s adolescent brain like a brand; Archie’s lips parted around whimpers of distress, tears running down his handsome, flushed face, his thighs quivering with each strike of the whip-thin birch rod. Over the following weeks and months that scene was the focal point of any number of furtive, confusing wanks (which, again, rather less confusing with the benefit of hindsight) and sent him fleeing shamefully any time Archie came into view.
It wasn’t, he thinks, the fact that Archie was in pain; it was the sight of his idol vulnerable, helpless to avoid the punishment being visited on him under the hand of authority. The tantalizing spark of a thought in his pubescent mind: what if it were Stede’s hand? The means to hold and to have, to mete out punishment and forgiveness with the same stroke.
The thought of treating Edward with wanton violence is impossible. Simply can’t be done. But the careful control of discipline, the impartiality of five blows for this infraction and then it’s all over and forgotten? The idea that he could hold Ed down and give him what he wants with care, even gentleness? Well, that feels a lot more like something Stede could manage. Could maybe enjoy, even.
He spends the next couple of days vibrating with excitement at having solved the problem—and with nerves at the idea of putting theory into practice. He imagines a dozen ways to raise the topic with Ed, and a dozen false starts where he cocks it up, because for all he’s in favor of talking things through he’s really not great at this particular sort of thing. How on earth is he supposed to look Edward in the eye and say: I’d quite like to cane you erotically, if you’d be amenable?
After a great deal of anxious fretting, it occurs to him that perhaps he’s overthinking it. The schoolmasters never asked if you wanted a caning, after all, they simply told you that you were getting one. And Ed didn’t seem too keen on conversing about it either, last time, simply wanted to get to the action. The more Stede thinks about it, the more the direct approach seems best; even he can’t cock up a conversation that doesn’t take place.
That evening as they sit down to a late dinner, he has an idea clear in his head (not to mention a freshly-whittled rod tucked behind his chair—thank heavens Pete didn’t ask what he needed it for) and at the moment Edward stretches across the table with his fork to spear a slice of salt beef from the platter, the muse tells him it’s time.
“Edward!” he admonishes.
“What?” The look Ed gives him is bewildered. Stede furrows his brow, letting his tone go sharp and authoritative; his best captain’s voice.
“It’s improper to use your own cutlery on the common dishes—simply not done, in fact. You should know better, after all the time I’ve spent teaching you about dining etiquette.”
Edward stares at him, his brow furrowing. “What the fuck are you talking about, Stede?” There’s a note in his voice that’s teetering on a knife edge between amused and hurt, and a cold pit opens in Stede’s stomach. It seems he’s managed to cock this up after all. He knows Ed is sensitive about his perceived lack of social graces, but he hadn’t thought the man would take him seriously. So he went ahead and prodded at a sore spot without a thought that it could open a wound. Stupid. Stupid.
“Ed, I—” he hurries on. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was just—” He stops, his tongue locking up as he casts about for the right words, hands waving helplessly.
“Just what?” Ed demands, his shoulders hunched defensively, body language turning subtly in on itself, as if he’s prepared for some cruelty or scorn. Stede makes a heroic effort and manages to untwist his idiot tongue at last, getting the words out in a breathless rush.
“I was, ah…trying to propose that I—I cane you? Erotically?” That last in a high pitched squeak that is decidedly unerotic, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. To emphasize, he reaches behind his chair and brandishes the thin, springy rod. Ed is staring at him now, mouth open, and if nothing else at least Stede can add managed to surprise Edward sexually to his list of achievements.
“Bloody hell,” Ed breathes at last. “Every time I think I know what’s going on in that brain of yours…” He shakes his head, his posture relaxing. “So…what, you were going to whip me like a bolshie deckhand?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a-an unruly student, but yes? Essentially. I thought we could…make sort of a game of it. Like theater?”
“A fuckery,” Ed says with a slow grin, and Stede feels an answering smile spread across his own face.
“Rather more literally than usual, but yes. What do you…think?”
Edward’s eyes on him are thoughtful, assessing. “You don’t have to do this for me, you know.”
“I know,” says Stede, gripping the rod more tightly; his palms are sweating. “And I have thought about it. Quite a lot, in fact. I think that…this might be something you could enjoy, and I could…also enjoy?”
“Oh,” says Ed.
“Umm,” says Stede.
“So, uh…caning, eh? That’s what does it for you?” Ed’s gaze is hungry; Stede feels his cheeks go hot.
“Consequences of a boarding school education, I suppose.”
“Right,” says Ed, and shifts very deliberately in his seat. “Right. So, uh, you were saying? About my…etiquette?”
“Yes!” Stede declares. “Right, yes, that. I’ve, uh, I’ve decided that I’m going to have to start implementing physical discipline with our lessons.” He pushes back his chair and stands, slapping the cane against his palm. “I think five strokes of the rod might do to teach you manners.”
Edward’s eyes follow the motion of the cane, and a wicked smile stretches his lips. “I dunno, I’m not really sure that’s fair. I mean there are so many rules to this whole dining thing—how’m I supposed to know them all?” He gives Stede a wide-eyed, innocent look, and then very deliberately puts both feet up on the table. Stede’s heart beats faster.
“Right, that’ll be ten strokes, then,” he says, sounding as stern as he can with his voice pitching up breathily. “Unless you want to make it an even dozen?”
Ed grins at him and picks up his wine glass, his fingers caressing the stem in a way that ought to be illegal. “How about fifteen?” he asks, then takes a mouthful and spits it dramatically onto the floor. Stede spares a second’s distressed thought for the state of his rug, but now is hardly the time to worry about that.
“Twenty it is!” he declares, and slashes the rod through the air to point past Ed. “Against the desk please, Mister Teach.” He didn’t expect Ed’s name to come out of his mouth that way, but it seems Edward’s not averse to it, a flush staining his cheekbones as he gets to his feet, strolling across to the desk with exaggerated carelessness. Ed places both palms flat on the desk and leans against it, his hips tilted back, glancing over his shoulder at Stede.
“This how you want me?” he drawls, and Stede’s mouth goes dry.
“T-trousers down,” he orders, though he thinks it comes out more like a plea. Ed gives a put upon sigh and starts slowly unbuckling his belt. He pushes the leather trousers down his hips, exposing the globes of his arse, the lean muscle of his thighs.
“Elbows on the desk, Mister Teach,” he orders, and Ed leans forward onto them, head hanging between his shoulders, the curve of his back leading down to the sharp snapped angle of his hips, his arse thrust out bare and lovely. Stede swallows, steps around the table with the cane held loosely in his hand. He comes to stand behind Edward, lets his fingertips rest in the small of Ed’s back where his shirt has rucked up, lets them trail lightly down to the cleft between Ed’s buttocks, then curves his palm over one cheek. Ed gives a sweet little shiver.
“Stede,” he says, a hitch to his voice that is music to Stede’s ears. “We don’t have to…you can just fuck me right now, fuck, you drive me fucking crazy, y’know?”
“Now now, Mister Teach,” Stede says, getting into his stride. “This is for your own good. Discipline is an important part of the learning process.”
He lifts the cane and taps it playfully against Ed’s arse, a promise of what’s to come. Ed makes a small, incoherent sound. Stede’s heart is racing, and he can see the slim rod trembling in his hand; he’s never used a cane on someone before for any reason. What if he does it wrong? But the sight of Ed laid out before him, so pliant and wanting and trusting him, is near enough to bear him past his anxieties. Edward wants this, and so does Stede, his own cock already stirring with interest. He rests one hand flat against the small of Ed’s back, halfway between a caress and a restraint.
“You’ll keep the count?” he asks, his nerve slipping for a moment. Implicit in that question: you’ll tell me if it’s too much? If it’s not right? Ed lifts his head and glances over his shoulder, and his eyes meet Stede’s in understanding.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ll keep the count.” I’ll tell you.
The first blow is far too light, Stede knows as soon as his hand falls. It makes only the faintest thwip sound on impact, and Edward gives a dissatisfied grunt. “Thought I was getting a caning, not a massage.”
Stede smiles at the challenge, and then tuts with exaggerated disappointment. “You didn’t count, Mister Teach, so neither did that one. Let’s start again at “one,” shall we?”
He puts more force behind the strike this time, raising his arm and bringing the rod smartly down on Ed’s rump. There’s a sharp smack of wood on skin, and Ed’s whole body twitches, his shoulders tensing. But his voice is unruffled when he says: “One.”
There’s a small red mark on the swell of Ed’s right buttock when Stede lifts the rod, and something hungry and possessive coils in his belly at the sight of it: mine. He brings the cane down again in almost the same spot, another smack and another beautiful little shiver through Edward’s body, his posture at once relaxed and coiled tight, ready for Stede to take him apart.
“Two,” says Ed. Stede raises the rod again, and the part of him that’s always standing outside himself can scarcely believe he’s doing this, while the rest of him is dizzy with exhilaration.
“Three,” Ed counts as the cane comes down, this time on the other cheek, and his breath is starting to come rougher now. He counts through four, five, six, his thighs twitching and his back arching beautifully under each sharp, stinging blow; seven, eight, nine draw desperate little sounds from between his teeth, though he won’t give Stede the satisfaction of actually crying out. At ten Stede’s shoulder is starting to feel it, the smooth wood slipping in his sweating palm, and then the next blow flicks across the top of Edward’s thighs and his composure breaks.
“Ahh! E-eleven,” he gasps, and then groans when Stede’s fingers trail over the flushed latticework of marks adorning his arse. Stede slides his hand lower, down between Ed’s thighs, brushing over his balls and lingering on the length of his cock, stiff and hot and leaking where he rubs his thumb over the head. Ed whines and tries to thrust into his hand, and Stede pulls away with a disapproving cluck of his tongue.
“This is supposed to be a punishment, Mister Teach,” he chides, trying to pretend that the noise Ed just made hasn’t gone straight to his cock. “You’re not supposed to enjoy it, like some kind of…cheap dockside whore.”
“Yeah, sorry mate,” Ed breathes, his tone ragged but utterly unrepentant. “Guess this is bad etiquette as well, eh?”
“Terrible,” Stede agrees. “It seems we’ll have to redouble our efforts.” He’s growing more confident with the cane now, and he puts a bit more force behind the next few strikes, knowing that Ed can take it. On fourteen a cry falls from Edward’s lips, lovely and anguished as a martyr’s, his whole body flexing like a bow.
“Fu-uck,” he moans helplessly, and Stede senses that they’re at the crux of the thing now. He metes out the rest of the caning with barely a pause between blows while Edward counts them out with breathless desperation, his thighs trembling and the long muscles down his back twitching restlessly. The sight of him is deeply, achingly erotic and Stede is lightheaded with desire, with having this beautiful man under his hands, playing at being helpless to Stede’s will. The thought curls through his brain again, mine, mine, mine, and he feels overcome, almost drunk with it.
“Twenty!” Ed cries at last, and Stede lets the cane drop to the floor, breathing hard, surveying his handiwork. Ed is leaning heavily on the desk, panting like he’s run a race; vivid red stripes crisscross his buttocks and upper thighs, and Stede can’t help thinking what a pretty picture they make. He reaches out a hand and trails his fingers gently over them, the skin hot and tender. Ed makes a noise that’s close to a sob.
“Very well done, Mister Teach,” Stede says, his own voice rough with arousal. “You took that beautifully. I think you deserve a reward for such a fine showing, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, yes, please…” Ed moans, almost frantic, and Stede has visions of fucking him right here over the desk, opening him up as slow and tender as he likes before driving deep into him, because Edward is thoroughly his right now, in no position to refuse anything Stede wants to give him. That possessive hunger simmers hot in his chest at the thought.
Then he notices that Ed is leaning hard onto his right hip, holding his left leg gingerly, and concern tempers his lust; fucking his beloved over the desk will have to wait for another day. Stede carefully tugs Edward upright and into his arms, and then manuevers them backwards to the nearest couch, Ed shuffling awkwardly with his trousers still tangled around his knees, most of his weight propped against Stede.
“Come here, my darling,” Stede murmurs, pulling Ed down with him so he lands heavily on the couch and Ed lands in his lap, a soft hiss of pain between his teeth as his arse hits Stede’s thighs.
“Please, Stede, c’mon,” he whines, and when Stede tucks his chin over Ed’s shoulder he can see Ed’s cock bobbing hard and desperate between his legs, Ed’s hands clenched into fists in an effort not to touch himself. Trousers, Stede is suddenly aware, were a terrible idea. He reaches between them to fumble himself free, and his cock springs forth aching, slotting so easily, so sweetly up into the seam of Edward’s thigh and groin, where the skin is soft and sweat slicked. Edward moans, and Stede hears himself make a high-pitched, breathless sound as his body finds its home.
He takes Edward’s length in hand, and Ed sobs, his whole body shuddering.
“Shh…” Stede soothes. “I have you, love. You’ve done so beautifully for me, you’ve been so good, haven’t you?”
Please seems the only word left in Ed’s mouth, his body slumping back against Stede’s, his solid weight pinning Stede deliciously, as he says it over and over again, his body racked with desperate sobbing gasps, his cock hot and dripping in Stede’s hand. Stede murmurs mindless words of comfort to him: “Shh, shh,” and “I have you, darling,” and “There you are, there you are my love,” his hips rolling up hungrily, the friction of Ed’s thigh against his cock emptying his head of thought, and when he finally, unthinkingly murmurs: “Shh, sweetheart, Daddy’s here” his heart stops because where the fuck did that come from?
Ed stiffens against him, and before Stede can stammer some explanation he chokes out: “Say that again.”
As if Stede could ever deny him anything, and he presses his lips to the thundering pulse in Ed’s throat, whispers: “Daddy’s here, sweetheart, my love, Daddy has you,” and Ed whimpers one more please in a voice ragged as torn silk as his cock spills over Stede’s hand in hot, thick spurts, his whole body going limp against Stede’s.
Stede cannot breathe, cannot do anything but hold Ed close, driving his cock up into the tight seam of Edward’s groin, feeling Ed’s chest rise and fall against his hand as he pants for breath, the scent of Ed’s neck filling his nose heady as perfume, and he is still mumbling Ed’s name and a dozen other adoring monikers as he tips over the edge himself, spilling his seed across the lean muscle of Ed’s thigh, and as he does Ed’s hand comes up to cover his own, threading their fingers together against his heart.
They breathe together then. Long, slow moments where Stede attempts to recover something like rational thought and wonders at the feeling of Edward in his arms, heavy and warm and like he belongs there. At last, he gathers himself enough to ask, nose still pressed to Ed’s slowing pulse:
“All right?”
Ed makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and a groan, and then he’s twisting in Stede’s lap, rearranging himself so he’s sitting facing him, arms slung loosely around his neck. Their now-flaccid cocks nestled against each other.
“Am I all right?” he asks, as if he hadn’t considered the question. “I reckon…yeah, pretty good, all things considered. I’m not going to be able to sit down properly for a couple of days, but…yeah.” He leans in, presses a soft kiss to Stede’s lips, his beard scratching softly against Stede’s chin. “How’re you?”
“I’m—I’m fab!” Stede enthuses; how could he be anything else? He feels heady, euphoric, even more than he usually does after their congress. This play, this fuckery of theirs…he thinks he rather liked that. Though there is one thing he should probably address, much as he would rather not. “The, uh, right at the end there—”
“Oh!” Ed interrupts. “Yeah, no, don’t worry about that. That is—not a thing. Honestly. We just both sort of…got caught up in the moment, yeah? Nothing we need to talk about.”
Stede can see that Edward is flushed again, though whether it’s embarrassment at the memory or something else, he can’t be sure. He proceeds carefully.
“Right,” he says. “Only I…I mean, if you liked that? That would be…fine. Absolutely fine! I mean, I said it first, so it’s—it’s…” He trails off, looking at Ed to see his reaction; Ed’s eyes are very wide, and he swallows hard.
“I, uhhh…” he says. “I mean, maybe it’s something I—something we could talk about?” His voice is soft and rough with emotion. “Not—not right now though, yeah? It’s a bit—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Stede gets it; this has already been a lot. He combs fingers through the damp strands of Edward’s hair, as always half lost in the realization that someone so beautiful, so wonderful, could want him. “How about we move this to the bed?” he suggests. “It’s been a busy evening.”
It takes a little while to get Ed out of his lap, but then Stede gets him situated in the bed and fetches some soothing balm to rub over the hot, swollen stripes on his arse; Ed makes soft, pleased sounds as Stede rubs it in, his body almost melting into the mattress.
“This’s nice,” Ed murmurs, almost slurring, sounding half asleep. Stede smiles, and gives his arse a gentle pat.
“I’m glad,” he says, sliding onto the mattress behind Edward and pulling the sheets up over them both. Ed slips into his arms easily, trustingly, and Stede is overwhelmed by the privilege of having this man; at belonging to this man, as much as Ed belongs to him. He presses a kiss to Ed’s shoulder.
“Do you think you’d like to do this again?” he asks, nuzzling in close. He hopes so, because it was one of the most intensely erotic experiences of his life. Edward makes a satisfied little sound, shifting against him.
“Yeah, I reckon,” he says, and then, his voice warm with affection: “You have a whole cast of kinky characters you want to try out, don’t you? You mad bastard.”
Stede muffles his snorted laugh in Ed’s shoulder, and Ed’s laughing too, and Stede thinks that this is how he always wants their lovemaking to end, regardless of the games they may play: with laughter and warmth and the joy of belonging to each other. And he trusts that it always will.