Sarcasm and Inappropriate Jokes

Edward Kenway stands in the doorframe, barely able to keep himself upright. Rain soaks his coat and tunic—straw-blond hair hanging in wet clumps and clinging to his forehead. His face is pale, like a man at death’s door. There’s no smile or cheeky remark offered to soften the sight of him like usual, only blood running from beneath the hand he has pressed against his side and a distant, hazy look in his blue eyes.

He sways on his feet. You catch him when he steps forward, stumbling, arm looping around his waist before he can pitch face-first onto the floor. Edward grunts, a deadweight against you when you brace, shoulder digging beneath his arm to haul him the rest of the way inside. “Jaysus.” The door slams shut behind you, muffling the roar of the storm, but then louder than the lashing rain and howling wind is the unsteady drag of his breath against your neck.

Lowering Edward into the nearest chair, you go to fetch oil lanterns and candles, setting them around your personal quarters and lighting them with a taper from the hearth. In truth, you’re afeared of what the light will show given the state of him.

Your hands set to work immediately, unbuckling his sword belt, and unfastening the holsters with his pistols. He tenses when you touch the layers at his side and lifts his hand—a surge of blood follows then as you push the coat from his shoulders. A sharp and involuntary hiss leaves him when you peel the blood-soaked fabric away, easing his tunic up and overhead.

Edward’s head drops forward, chin nearly to his chest, like the breath has been punched out of him. His hair obscures his eyes—half-lidded and clouded but flitting between you and his side. The bleeding hasn’t slowed.

You know by the look of it that he’s been shot. Far from the first person to stumble into your clinic with a musket ball in them. It’s not a clean graze, but it’s far enough from his gut that he notices the smallest bit of relief settles in your expression, enough you finally curse him. “Damn you, Edward Kenway.” You’ve said the same thing ever since he first came into your life like a hurricane.

He manages something akin to a laugh, or it would be in better circumstances, now it’s just pained. “Many have tried.”

You kneel, prodding the flesh around the bloody tear with one hand, the other holding tight to a candlestick. Edward's lips twitch when his gaze traces the curve of your lips—drawn into a frown because of him—and the furrow between your brows. This isn’t how he planned to show up at your door after being away for three moons. He was supposed to bring you a gift, treat you to a sunset stroll on the beach, or take you sailing for a day. Instead, he’s bleeding out in your rocking chair after thinking he could make a quick buck off the King’s Men at the tavern over a game of dice like a proper knave.

Lips pursing, you sigh. There’s no avoiding surgery. But even when you look close to wanting to strangle him, he swears there’s no finer sight. No remote beach, no ship, not even a hoard of golden treasure can compare to you—not all treasure is silver and gold, boy. Edward’s head rolls back, gaze flitting from you to the shiplap ceiling. “Always wanted to go out to such a fair view.”

You look up at him, unamused by his ill-attempt at flattery. “You’re not dying tonight.” You won’t let him. But there’s precious little time to waste—you need to get that lead shot out of him and the bleeding to stop. You incline your head toward the table by the hearth, not the operating table of the downstairs clinic, but it’ll do.

“On your feet, Edward,” you mutter, bracing yourself as you guide—half-carry, half-pull—him across the room. He lies back, skin slick and glistening with rain, sweat, and blood. Then his head lolls, slow and unsteady, eyes finding yours. Dimmer now and more tired than before. You cup his cheek, and he focuses on you, only you. “Stay with me, yeah?” The nod he gives is almost imperceptible, and you set out to gather supplies and tools.

There are other places he could've gone—should’ve gone. Other hands in Kingston willing to patch up a pirate for the right price. But he came here. A place that’s always felt like home.

Edward presses his head against the table, grimacing. He can smell the salt-thick air from memory, hear the creak of rigging overhead in the breeze, and see the long shadows cast over the deck by lantern-light as he emerges from the hold of the brig. Thatch has him by the front of his coat before he can even make it out of the hatchway. Listen well, boy. You sail where you please. Take what you want. Bed who you like. Thatch’s grip tightens, hauling him closer. But you keep your distance from her.

And here he is, knocking on your door again. “Thatch is going to unman me for this,” Edward mutters, barely audible—delirium shining in his bright blue eyes. He takes the folded strip of leather you offer, putting it between his teeth.

With the mention of his name, your father’s voice echoes in your mind, too. Warnings given more than once over the years. You’re meant to stay away from him and his kind. From pirates with silver tongues, bloody hands, and ill intentions. From men like Edward. Your jaw tightens. “He’s a talker,” you reply, dismissing the concern. “Now keep still.”

The flesh at his side is torn, angry, and weeping red, albeit slower now. You angle the lantern closer and frown—you’ll have to make an incision to get the lead shot out. Dousing a blade with oxycrate, you flatten one hand against Edward’s side, pulling the skin around the wound taut. His hand finds the loose fabric of your chemise, fingers curling tight when the knife’s edge bites into flesh. It is a lie to say this is the worst of it, especially with what comes next.

Steel forceps press into the wound, and Edward goes rigid, breath catching. A low, strained sound slips past his teeth, barely bitten back. You ignore it. You have to.

Your mouth presses into a thin line, but your hands don’t falter as you go deeper, searching past blood and torn tissue for something solid. There. A faint scrape of metal on metal. You hold your breath, adjusting your grip on the clamp, and the lead shot comes free with a sickening squelch and with it a piece of linen that matches the hole in his tunic—that alone is a great relief. The bloodied ball drops into a ceramic basin on the floor with a clink, and you press a clean cloth against the wound, hard, head dropping to rest on his bicep—just a moment to regain composure.

Edward’s blue eyes are on you, and the bloodied hand twisted into your chemise slips to curl around your wrist—he can feel your heart racing under the pads of his fingers. Shifting, you look at him, hair frazzled, blood smeared on your cheek. With his head swimming from exhaustion and pain, he can’t think of words to say.

“Hold this,” you instruct, slipping your hand free of his. You need to gather better bandages and some rum, a swig for both of you. A good patient for once, Edward nods, hand covering the fresh bandage on his side.

He’s barely awake, even though he’s sitting up with his arms bowed out to make it easier for you to work. "Knew if I made it here” —he takes a slow breath— “I’d be fine.” A knot rises in your throat, pulse stuttering, so you focus on the roller bandage, winding the long strip of linen around his trunk to bind his wound, then send him off to bed with a kiss to the temple.

He limps over and sinks down onto the edge of the rag-and-straw mattress with a low exhale, shoulders sagging. You think he’s going to collapse backward right then and there, but Edward careens forward, pressing his face into your middle, hands settling on your hips, breath warm and uneven through the thin cotton-linen of your chemise. “I’m a sorry lout,” he murmurs, voice muffled and rough with exhaustion. “I know.” A poor apology.

You card your fingers through his damp hair—the golden locks tangled beneath your touch. The tension in his muscles and bones ebbs as you hold him there. If Edward Kenway had the nous or courage to ask for what he truly wanted, he’d say it plain: Hold me, love, just for tonight. But pride keeps his tongue, and guilt settles into his belly.

Stepping back, just enough to be able to cradle his face, you look upon him with terrifying fondness—thumbs following the sharp line of his cheekbones and jaw and the golden stubble there. He looks up at you. Those blue eyes of his are glassy from pain and exhaustion. “Just once,” you muse with a faint little smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, “I’d like to be greeted by a sight that isn’t you all mucked up.” He huffs, but then you bend, pressing your lips to his forehead, lingering, then to the corner of his mouth. A kiss he cannot quite claim, but one he’ll gladly accept. “Get some rest, my jolly sailor bold.”

Edward Kenway settles then, into the warmth of your bed—vanilla and jasmine cling to the linens, clashing against salt air and iron blood. You don’t join him just yet, taking to cleaning your instruments, piling together all the bloodied rags and scraps, and scrubbing the blood as best as you can from the table—the floor will have to wait.

And when you finally lie down next to Edward, he is already asleep. His breathing is even, muscles at ease with one arm resting across his middle where the roller-bandage sits. You watch him longer than you should.

Against better judgment, you reach for him, fingers grazing one of the raised scars on his shoulder, along the dark lines of a crown tattoo. One day, the wind will change…you close your eyes briefly, fingertips lingering on his skin…and he’ll be gone all the same. Maybe your father is right. But tonight, Edward is here.

It’s a cowardly thing to do—leaving before the sun has the decency to rise, before you even wake—but it’s easier this way. He’s never been very good at goodbyes that ask a man to stay. His muscles protest when he sits up, jaw tightening with the nagging pain, hand instinctively going to rest over his injured side. Edward presses two fingers to his lips, then rests them gently against your own. The closest thing to a goodbye he’ll allow himself.

Before he goes, though, he sits at the table—stained reddish-brown in places—and dips a quill into an inkwell, scrawling a hastily written letter on a slip of laid paper as though words will ever be a substitute for his presence. Then, gathering his kit, Edward Kenway slips away into the first light of dawn.

The bed next to you is empty and cold. You know it is before you even open your eyes. And still, you reach across the sheets, searching for something—someone—not there anymore. Your chest tightens as you sit upright. If not for fresh memories, the bloody handprints on your chemise, and stubborn stains around your nailbeds, you might think it was only a dream.

Something between sadness and anger stirs in your belly when you find the note left in his place. My Cariad, it reads. You have every right to be angry with me. For the unrest that accompanies me, and for presenting myself at your door as though I have any claim to its warmth. Of all the refuges I might have looked for, I find it was ever destined to be yours. It takes a moment to realize the warmth on your cheeks and the salt on your tongue are tears.

Wiping your eyes, you read on. Thatch will have my hide if I do not return soon. I can near hear him cursing my name across the seas. There is coin. You eye the scarlet pouch of reales and doubloons on the table. Not payment. You know better than that. Call it poor penance from a man who owes you more than he will ever be able to settle.

When the winds shift and see me bound once more for Kingston, I shall return to you. He won’t go back on his word, you know that by now, but it’s the waiting that hurts the most. Until then, keep a place for me, if you can. Signed. Edward. The paper slips from your trembling hands, reminding you of a night on a beach that seems like a lifetime ago.

Flames lick the night sky. Ben and Edward left to retire for the evening some time ago, retreating into the streets of Nassau. Thatch still sits there, next to you, on the beach, looking over a sea shining silver-black in the light of a full moon. A rare thing for him and you to have such a calm moment to share.

He isn’t daft. Kenway has been finding excuses left and right lately to wind up in your company—a scratch he acts like needs more than just water and pressure, a delivery of supplies from the harbormaster, a drink at the Old Avery. And he saw where your attention went for most of the evening. Despite it all, Thatch doesn’t remember the last time your spirits were so high and free. “He won’t stay, lass,” your father says, quiet, gaze not straying from the sea. “Not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t know how.”

You swallow. “I’m not asking him to stay.” You never asked that of anyone. Not Edward. Not Thatch. Only that they return to you on the wind and tide in one piece—alive and well.

“You’ll tell yourself that. You’ll tell yourself you’re stronger than it. That you can take what he gives and not want more.” He leans closer, fingers closing around the neck of the bottle of rum. “But you will,” he finishes. “And every time the sea takes him, he’ll take a part of you, daughter, until your heart’s broken beyond mending.”

And maybe Edward does take pieces of your heart with him every time he leaves, but it seems like a fair exchange, in truth, when he leaves pieces of himself behind in your safekeeping too.

“THERE YOU ARE, miss.” Emmanuel sets the crate of medicinal vials, bundled herbs, and other things that make up your trade on the counter. It took him some time to find and gather everything on the order, especially after a battered frigate of the King’s Men came to port needing more skills beyond the ship’s physician. You nod your thanks, handing over a pouch of silver coin in exchange for the supplies. The last matter of business for the day.

“Oh” —the clerk shuffles through a small box of plainly wrapped parcels and letters before you leave, remembering one of them came in a day prior, addressed to the apothecary— “correspondences.” Your name is scrawled across the front in a hand you know well enough. Father. It never bodes well to have a letter from Blackbeard. He’d sooner have set a course to Kingston under cover of a merchant and see you in the flesh than take the time to write. You tuck the folded paper into the crate, thank Emmanuel, and set off for home three streets over.

He sees you when you go into the general store from down the lane—unmistakable to his eye and the way his heart seizes. You hadn’t seen him, leaning against one of the posts on the porch, when you left out the shop door. His lips twitch, a good surprise then. He pushes himself upright and takes a step after you. “Need assistance, lass?”

That voice. You nearly drop the crate. “Edward!” It’s been a year. A full turn of the seasons. Countless days spent convincing yourself that if he meant to come back, he would have by now. That Thatch had been right all along.

He’s not bloodied, dying, nor asking if he can lie low for a time to avoid the gallows. This time, there’s a rough-picked bunch of roses and hibiscus with uneven stems clutched in his hand—looks like he tore them from wherever he found them, with little thought beyond giving them to you.

Edward holds the flowers out. “Thought I’d try something different,” he says, glancing down at them briefly ‘fore looking at you, the corners of his lips curving. “Arriving in one piece.” You set the supply crate down and reach for the small bouquet, fingers brushing his. “I know,” he adds, softer now, as he sees the smile creep up on your lips. “Took me long enough.”

The backs of his fingers brush against your jaw when he reaches for you. You lean into his touch, just for a heartbeat before stepping closer, arms twining around his neck—head tucked under his chin.

It’s easier to be honest while in your arms. “Have you any mind how much I’ve missed you?” He whispers, stroking your back with the full width of his hand. Up and down the curve of your spine, keeping you pressed close to his chest. And by Neptune, it feels like he’s home.

“May I stay a while?” It’s not a question you expect. A while. He’s never been one for a while. Three days. A week if fortune, or misfortune, keeps him longer. Then gone again, always chasing something just beyond reach.

You should be angry with him. For the past year. For a year without receiving a single word to assure you he was still alive and hadn’t met his end at the gallows or found his way to Davy Jones’s Locker. For the way he keeps returning just when you’ve nearly convinced yourself to stop hoping he will. You should tell him no—make him feel the same ache that took weeks to fade from your heart when he left. But he’s holding you so tightly—desperately—and having him back in the flesh unmakes whatever walls you sought to build in his absence. And God help you, you smile. “’Course you can.”

Edward wonders, fleetingly, if he ought to warn you. Tell you what a dangerous thing it is to make a man like him feel wanted. Instead, he laughs into the crown of your head. “That’s fortunate,” he murmurs, drawing back just enough to look down his nose at you—his sea-blue eyes bright and clear. “Already decided I was staying, regardless.” Arrogant as ever. You wouldn’t want him any other way.

He stoops down to pick up the crate and walks close enough that his arm brushes yours every few steps. Excuses to steal glimpses when he thinks you aren’t looking. Once, twice, then again at the turn near the bakery that puts you on the street with your home and clinic. You catch him at it but pretend like you don’t—until you do the same and catch his eye. “What?” You ask, fighting back a smile.

“Nothing,” Edward muses, voice tinged with mirth.

He sets the crate on the table, and the familiar scent of dried herbs, jasmine, and oxycrate tickles his nose. You cross the room to the mantle, arranging the rough-picked roses and hibiscus into a small vase. You adjust them, lingering on a crimson rose before stepping back to admire them. Edward’s chest aches as he watches, and his mind wanders—to what it would be like if he stayed, truly stayed. 

Waking beside you each morning and going to bed every night with your legs tangled through his and your head upon his chest. He could run errands for you through Kingston. Help make tinctures and salves. Grind herbs whilst you scold him for crushing them too coarsely or tracking mud into the house. Hold down the unlucky souls who found themselves beneath a bone saw or cauterizing iron. A strange little life—not so different from Swansea—but God help him, he wants it fiercely enough it frightens him.

His eyes dip briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze—it’s terrifying, the way you look at him. Because some part of him feared he wasn’t meant to be looked at so gently again. Not after all he’s done. But you are, and you do. And despite the warmth and comfort of the surrounding four walls and roof, you look at him as though he’s what makes this place home.  

“Spent the whole voyage wondering if you’d still look at me like that once I returned,” he admits, catching your waist as you turn to finish unpacking the supplies.

“Edward James–” The rest of his name softens as he draws you back around to him, bending down just a bit. Your eyes catch his, wide with surprise, and then his nose brushes yours, and the warmth of his breath fans against your cheek. “–Kenway,” you finish, quieter—a warning he has no intention of heeding.

He kisses you softly. Different, somehow, from all the times before, and yet the same. It’s only a chaste press of lips. Testing. Asking the questions he’s not brave enough to speak aloud: Am I still welcome? After all this time? After all I am?

You sigh into his mouth, fingers grazing the open neck of his tunic. Of course, you are. He has his answer.

Breaking away, you stare at him, a curse on your lips, but it fades when his fingers flex softly at your hips. You reach for him, more forceful than he expects, a quiet, desperate sound escaping you as your hands tangle in the lapels of his overcoat and shirt, pulling him back down, chasing his kiss. Edward lets out a rough breath against your lips like the sound’s dragged from his chest.

There’s nothing cautious about the way he tilts your head just a little—hungry for something he hasn't had in more than a year. His mouth parts against yours, and one hand slips from your waist to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing beneath your ear. And you’re drowning in him. The scrape of blond stubble against your skin. The clinging must of salt and cedar. The callous drag of his fingertips.

A half-step back and your hip knocks against the edge of the table—bottles and vials clink, but you pay them no mind. Edward breaks the kiss to draw breath, forehead resting against yours. “Kiss me again like that, and I’ll forget every good intention I had coming here,” he nigh whispers, voice hoarse and heady.

Good intentions. It’s nigh enough to make you laugh, but it catches in your throat when he kisses the corner of your mouth, tender in such a way that undoes you far more than his lust and hunger ever have. Your hands slide beneath the open edges of his coat, palms flatting against the planes of his chest as you slip the garment from his shoulders, letting it fall over a nearby chair.

It serves as an invitation. Edward kisses you again—he cannot get enough—hands straying to the line of buttons on the back of your blue frock. The fabric loosens little by little beneath his hands, though not quickly enough for his liking. He grumbles under his breath about the number of buttons, pins, and impossible layers women are made to wear. A breath of laughter leaves you.

His hands slide to your shoulders, pushing the blue wool down your arms, letting the dress and stays fall to a heap on the floor, fingertips lingering on newly bared skin. In only your chemise and stockings, you almost feel barer under his heated gaze than you would have naked, because under the wanting is something worse, like longing and love.

God forgive you, but you cannot keep yourself from it—from him. “Edward.” He hums against your mouth, barely pulling away, even after your hands press against his chest, “I want you.”  

There’s a jest on the tip of his tongue—well, that’s obvious. But you continue before he can say anything. “In a way that is wholly selfish,” you admit, hands sliding along the strong line of his neck until you’re cradling his face between your palms. “I’ve always wanted you.” Your voice softens, becomes fragile, as you hold his gaze. “Only you.” I love you. You don’t say it aloud—you don’t have to, because the look in Edward’s eyes changes all the same. And when he whispers your name, it sounds less like desire and more like devotion.

Loosening the tie at the neck of your chemise, you let the thin piece of linen slide down your body to join your frock. Edward sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes roam over you slowly, openly, as though he cannot decide where to look first. His knuckles trace the curve of your breasts, reverent. Then he bends, stubble scraping against your skin as he presses an open-mouth kiss near your collarbone, and another lower still.

The backs of your knees hit the rag-and-straw stuffed mattress, and you settle back onto the bed, leaving Edward standing at the edge of it, blinking down at you.

It’s a dream to see you lying there, unclothed in the last light of the sun streaming through half-open shutters and the glow of firelight, skin warm and soft—beckoning to be touched—and shifting with a familiar ache that makes his pulse rise to his throat. Your eyes are half-lidded but fixed on him, following every movement with quiet need. In that moment, he craves you more than anything—he wants your acquiescence, wants you so consumed with desire that you’ll whimper and sigh beneath him—atop him. And by God, he’d let you drown him if it meant having you for eternity.

Edward’s hand slides along your calves from your ankles, fingers hooking into the wool of your stockings, pulling them off to join the rest of your clothes on the floor. Calloused palms are warm against your skin. His thumb strokes a circle, absentmindedly at the bend of your knee, before he shakes his head once. “Christ,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then he leans over you—the mattress dipping beneath the weight as he braces into his hands on either side of you.

Your arms wind around his middle, drawing him closer. His hips roll into yours before he even thinks about it, answering the motion of your body instinctively—it’s been far too long since he last knew you like this.

His mouth hovers above your own, ready to kiss, but the soft grind between your thighs coaxes a shaky breath from you. Lips parting, your head tips back. Edward watches. Entranced. The flutter of your lashes. The faint crease between your brows. The little noise you make when he presses closer. Beautiful, Edward mutters, though for a moment he doesn’t know if he’s spoken it aloud.

He lets his weight sink to his forearms, body pressing into yours, and his lips press a light kiss to one of your breasts, just near a taut nipple. You gasp, arching into him, and a sweet moan carries against his temple. Edward sighs against you, nose pressing into your tit, and he groans into your flesh when your fingers work their way into his golden locks, catching on tangles, nails grazing his scalp.

Restraint frays each time your hands wander over him. You feel it in the tightening of his jaw, in the cadence of his breathing. Your palms drag over hard muscle beneath stained linen, tugging impatiently at his shirt until Edward finally breaks away from you with a low groan of surrender.

You lie there and watch, unabashedly, face flushed, and lips swollen from his kisses, as he draws his tunic overhead. There’s a new tattoo, one of a ship on his breast, and new scars too. But the one on his side catches your attention—it seems to have healed well. He notices where your eyes settle, and his hand drifts there, fingertips brushing against the silver-pale raised mark. “Did damn fine work,” Edward says, knowing he might not have survived without you.

Shifting, you reach for him, fingers replacing his on the scar. A gentle touch. “You scared me, Edward,” you admit. “I thought–” It’s not a thought you wish to entertain again. He’s come with his fair share of cuts and bruises; you even stitched up the gnarly gash on his cheek, but that.

Edward’s forehead brushes your stomach, body shifting downwards between your spread legs, a foot planting on the floor. One hand smooths up your thigh; the other braces beside your hip, rough fingertips brushing your skin. Another kiss. This one pressed low against your stomach, just beneath your navel. You shiver beneath him. “I know,” he says after a moment, apologetic.

Rolling to the side, he eases himself back up, fingertips trailing from the inside of your knee to the crease of your thigh, and presses his face into your neck. But it’s you fighting to regain your breath when he parts the seam of your cunt—warm and wet and all for him. Edward slips one finger, then two, in, and you cry and sigh and keep whispering his name like a prayer. He slides them deep enough to stretch you good, to let his palm grind against your clit—then he moves them, slow and gentle at first, then quicker when you start to sing like a siren come to drag him to the depths.

Edward swallows every sound—a parched man. The low whine in your throat. The hitch of breath when his fingers curl just right. Your whispered Edward, Edward—soft and desperate. “Listen to you,” he mutters against your skin. His mouth drags along your throat, teeth grazing the flesh there before soothing the sting with a kiss. The hand between your thighs keeps its rhythm, slick fingers working you open while his thumb brushes slow circles that make your hips twitch helplessly beneath him.

You clutch his shoulder, nails digging into warm skin and hard muscle. “Edward–” 

He bites his lower lip, curling and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you. Then repeats the same motion, this time achingly slowly, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his scarred knuckles stroking that spot. Your hips jerk softly along with his movements, and there’s unspoken interest in his gaze as he stares down at you, relentless in his efforts to see you come undone. “Let go for me, love.” And you do.

He watches your expression, beguiled—the flush across your cheeks, the shine in your eyes, your lips parted around broken little gasps. It’s impossible for him to fathom how anyone could witness this and still believe in heaven elsewhere.

Edward pulls his hand away, palm giving one last squeeze to your hip—leaving a slick dampness behind—before fumbling with the laces of his breeches, hurriedly shoving them down his legs and to the side before wedging himself back between your spread thighs. The blunt tip of his cock head glides between your folds, his hips rocking back and forth as he coats himself in your slick. Heart racing, your body cries out at his teasing. You could almost cry at how badly you need him, but it comes out as a hoarse whimper: “Please. Take me.”

Unable to deny you, Edward eases himself down upon you, half-mad with need, beads of perspiration dotting his brow. One hand slips between the bed and your shoulder, moving further to cradle the back of your head as he guides himself with his free hand into your warmth—he curses behind clenched teeth at the heat and tightness.

Breath leaves him the moment he’s fully seated inside you, forehead dropping to yours; eyes squeezed shut. “Fucking Hell,” he mutters, voice strained thin with restraint as he starts working himself into a gentle rhythm. “Missed you something fierce, cariad.”

His thrusts are deep and slow, and you find your eyes already stinging with a wetness from the way he feels buried inside you. Too long. You roll your hips into his. It’s been too long. “Missed you too,” you breathe, lips curving into a lazy smile, “stubborn as you are.”

Edward's breathing shifts, a half-laugh, lips finding yours. He needs your kiss; all of you—has gone too long without—and he swallows the little gasps and whimpers you make. The pace, the angle, the heat of his skin pressed against yours—you feel everything. Every ridge and vein, the weight of his cock reaching a place within that undoes you.

Arms straining with the effort of holding himself above you, Edward grunts, and groans behind gritted teeth. With every deep and desperate thrust of his cock inside of you, he fucks you like he’s trying to stop time itself. Struggling to keep you his for as long as he can, his fight to prolong the times when he’s buried inside of you is written in the flush of his cheeks and the look in his half-lidded eyes.

You push your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly, and he shudders into his next thrust, an elbow giving out to press his body down into yours again. Then the other, curling near your head. The sound he makes at your ear is jagged, wrenched deep from his chest.

Your hands find purchase on his back, feeling the muscles contract under your palms—nails digging into flesh. He responds with a low growl. One of Edward’s hands shackles your ankle, running up the length of your calf, up and over your thigh. Your belly knots as his fingers drift back down, hooking his hand behind your knee and drawing your leg around his waist—tilting your hips upward. The shift in your breathing and how your thighs squeeze him tell him you’re close.

His hand slides down between your breasts, across your stomach, and still further until he reaches where you’re joined—his thumb pressing against your clit, starting to rub slow, uneven circles. You tense at the jolt of euphoria, clenching around his cock. Greedy. He doesn’t want it to end. God, he’s not ready for it to end, but you’re falling apart under him, holding tight to his backside and breathing his name like a prayer, and it’s been too long.

It takes all his strength to pull out from the warmth of your snug cunt when his cock starts to twitch, muscles tightening. Edward presses himself against you, wholly, chest to chest, lips brushing over yours when his brows knit together, but never closing the small gap—a fresh sticky warmth on your bellies. His gaze flits over your contented expression, and his heart starts to ache. Forehead dropping to rest on your shoulder, he exhales, steadying himself, and you cradle the back of his head with one hand, the other stroking his freckled and tattooed shoulders.

“Were the world kinder, I’d have you like this, always,” you murmur, fingertips drifting through his straw-blond locks, working a tangle free at the nape of his neck. But were the world kinder, Edward fears your paths would never have crossed at all. His lips brush against your collarbone before he lifts his head to look at you, thumb stroking lazily along your waist where he still holds you close beneath him.

After a long while, Edward shifts, reaching for his discarded tunic. He doesn’t say anything as he cleans his seed from your stomach and thighs, but it looks like he wants to—you make me want things I’ve no right wanting. Settling back down, his arms fold around your waist, drawing you into his side—legs tangled together. Smiling, you trail your fingers over the scar on his cheek and the one cutting across his brow, humming a tavern shanty. Here's a health to the company.

Edward brushes his nose against yours, affectionate and terribly tender for a man so often mistaken as a devil in disguise. His fingers half-thread into your hair, thumb tracing over your cheek. A shaky breath leaves him, and a heavy weight settles in his gut when his lips brush yours.

There was a night not so long ago on Queen Anne’s Revenge—merriment for a good haul. Ale and rum tankards slammed against the rails and deck whilst the crew sang themselves hoarse. Edward had been laughing too, rum warm in his blood, though his thoughts wandered elsewhere more times than he cared to admit—always to you, especially when his gaze drifted to his Jackdaw, moored next to Blackbeard’s galleon.

Thatch saw the look in his eyes. Heading to Kingston instead of Nassau again, are you? It was too late for both of you. And maybe Thatch’s attempts to thwart this only made it inevitable. Seen men chase after gold with less hunger. That should frighten you, Kenway. Edward remembers saying nothing. For once, there had been nothing to say. Should any hurt ever befall her by your doing, swear to the Almighty Himself I’ll come back from Hell just to drag you there with me. The pad of his thumb traces over your bottom lip. “Thatch said he’d haunt me if I ever broke your heart.” He doesn’t know why he says it.

“You already have,” you whisper with an ephemeral smile. “Many times.” Every time he was gone before dawn without a word. Every time you were able to kiss him farewell. He left, and it broke your heart a hundred times over.

Pain and guilt flash across his face, clouding his blue eyes. He’s not come away unscathed either. Edward Kenway took a little piece of you every time he went and unknowingly left part of himself behind—with you. Think we stopped belonging to ourselves a long while ago. “But,” you start, fingertips following the outline of one of his tattoos. “I think I may have broken yours, too.”

His breath catches, just for a heartbeat, and then he’s kissing you again—a rough sound caught in his throat, a half-sob, in truth, now that he understands what you’ve given him despite having every reason not to. You press yourself closer, and his arms tighten.

Edward Kenway takes your hand and presses it against his chest—the stubborn beat of his heart thrums under your palm. “Keep it,” he breathes against your lips, voice nigh trembling. “God knows it’s yours already.” You kiss him, softly, sweetly, and nuzzle your face into his chest, surrendering yourself to his warmth and embrace, not worried this time that he’ll be gone come the morning.

You wake in the middle of the night, Edward’s arm still draped over your waist, but the letter from your father catches your eye sitting there on the table. Breaking the dark red seal, you hold it near the candlelight. Daughter, it reads in a heavy slant. If this reaches you, then I trust Kingston still stands and you have not worked yourself into the grave tending fools too stubborn to die proper.

There’s another matter besides. Kenway. You glimpse him over your shoulder, still asleep—lying on his stomach, arm tucked under a pillow, the sheets low around his hips with the candle glow making the tattoos on his back look like wet ink. A man may counterfeit charm easily enough, but not devotion. Edward Kenway loves you. Your heart tightens in your chest, a ghost of a smile creeping to your lips. God help him for it. Loving you has made him better.

You have my blessing, if a blessing from a pirate is worth anything. It means more than you dare admit. You read on. He’ll still leave. The sea owns part of him same as it owns part of me. Now, though, he intends to return, an unspoken vow to himself and to you. Truth be told, I suspect the boy’s heart has been yours for longer than he realized.

Do not tell him I wrote any of this. I’ve a reputation to maintain, after all. You smile. Your loving father, the letter is signed, Thatch.

A quiet breath leaves you as you fold the paper and place it back on the table, flattening the seal again. And maybe you do look at the man in your bed a little differently after reading your father’s words. Not because his blessing changes anything—no, you loved Edward long before anyone permitted you to—but because Thatch saw it before either of you dared to name it truly. Edward Kenway loves you and you love him, it need not be more complicated than that.

His arm tightens around your middle as soon as you lie down, drawing you back against the warmth of his chest. You settle next to him, and he presses a lazy kiss against your bare shoulder before burying his face near your neck, breathing the scent of you in. “What’d he say?” Edward asks, sleep clouding his voice. He saw the letter mixed in with the supplies and faintly heard the rustling of paper.

Your fingers drift idly over a scar along his forearm. Don’t tell him I wrote any of this. The thought brings a smile to your lips. “He said you love me,” you tell him.

Edward falls still behind you, his breathing catching for a heartbeat. Then his arms tighten around you. His lips brush your shoulder again—once, twice. Lingering. “Aye,” he says at last, not denying it, “suppose the old devil’s right.”

The candlelight shifts and shadows dance across the walls. Edward’s hand moves softly—thumb tracing a small arc under the swell of your breast where he holds you, like he’s not quite even aware he’s doing it anymore. “Edward?” You murmur softly into the dark. He hums—the sound nigh lost against your skin. “I love you, too.” It’s a whisper. A truth you’ve not spake aloud before. “Always have.” Always will.