the pearl

We're Gonna Keep Our Eyes Wide Open

It was a Sunday morning and Stede didn't even think they could play music for a service, much less a pirate service, which seemed to be against everything the Church said when he attended, back when it was entirely about dourness and lighthouses.

But Wee John said it needed to happen, and Buttons — Buttons of all people — agreed with him, and Frenchie knew a few songs, and the jam room became a...not a chapel, exactly, but they gathered together, and sang songs and did whatever it was pirates needed to do on a Sunday morning.

They didn't expect Stede and Ed to attend, which Stede was immensely grateful for, because it's incredibly difficult to think about God and salvation when you're buried to the hilt in the writhing man beneath you.

You take the opportunity when you can, right? And if most of the crew is below decks clapping their hands and singing along, no one will notice if the co-captains are in their quarters, right?


Ed arches his back a little more, changing the rhythm, changing the sensation, and Stede groans, his thrusts growing shallower, hands clenching harder against Ed's hips.

Stede can hear the clapping from the jam room, slow and steady, a regular rhythm to time his strokes, a rhythm that seems to drive Ed even more frantic, grasping at the bedsheets, tilting his head back as he moans.

It's slow, it's luxurious, it's everything Stede wanted to give Ed, and it keeps going, even as Stede has to breathe deeply and control himself, even as the feeling of Ed, hot and tight around him, drives him further and further. As long as Ed is moaning and saying his name, he will keep the rhythm, keep it along with the clapping, along with the singing.

Ed shudders, a full body shudder, shaking his legs wrapped around Stede's hips, shaking his collarbones as Stede sucks along the tattoo, shaking his hands as they still grip the bedsheets, shaking his voice as he cries out Stede's name again.

"Look at me," Stede whispers. "Look at me."

Ed opens his eyes, looking up at Stede, and his hands fly from the sheets towards Stede's face, grabbing him and pulling him closer, shifting the angle again, making Stede feel it in his hips and thighs even as Ed moans against his lips, body shaking against him, cock hard and thrusting against his belly, hot against Stede's hand.

Stede groans, one hand against Ed's cock, another pulling against his hips, pulling Ed closer, pushing deeper into him, still keeping the rhythm to the crew's clapping and singing, even as Ed shudders and shakes against him, striping their bodies together, hot and wet against Stede's hand.

Stede groans against Ed's skin, his final thrusts sharp, shallow, and fierce, breaking the rhythm, breaking the song, coming hard in Ed even as Ed reaches up to stroke his hair, kiss him fiercely, whisper words of love against his skin.

This Our Flag Means Death story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at