Work Text:
Stede's familiar with gloves. He has a whole box of his own, of course, in all the colors and materials appropriate to a gentleman – deerskin, kid, silk; white and buff and a fabulous array of pastels. But Ed's gloves. Stede's never seen a pair like them.
They're thick leather – sensible for handling rope and knives and the like – and Stede can feel the difference in texture when Ed touches him. Which Ed does quite often. The gloves are worn and snagged here and there on the palm, but they retain the buttery suppleness of good quality leather. Ed's fingertips are lighter, calloused and gentle, almost cool next to the leather, which being black is always hot from the sun. Stede knows these details because when Ed touches him he forgets everything else.
The most important thing about the gloves is that they don't cover Ed’s fingers. If anything, they emphasize them, making them look longer, more graceful, emerging from the heavy leather like a revealed secret.
Which is ridiculous. Stede shouldn’t have such thoughts about a man's fingers. He shouldn’t think about Ed's fingers at all.
But he does. At night, when he's alone, when he won't bother anyone with his oddities. Stede thinks about the power in Ed's hands, the sturdy press of them against Stede's shoulder or knee. How that strength contrasts with the glitter of his rings, the red flash of the ruby he wears most days. He thinks about how Ed's hands are always moving, fingers spreading and pointing and clenching, a flowing illustration as he speaks. Stede was taught to keep his own hands still. He would hate that for Ed. Ed's hands are perfect: free, spontaneous, art in motion.
Stede thinks about catching Ed's hands in his own. Not to still them, of course, not to capture Ed in any way, but just to – to hold. To feel that power and grace against his own fingertips. He wonders if Ed's tattoos have a different texture than the rest of his skin. If his palms are soft and damp, since they spend so much time inside the gloves. He thinks about Ed's wrists, about the thin line of skin that’s only sometimes visible between his glove and the arm of his jacket.
Stede thinks about putting his mouth right there, on that one spot of vulnerability in all of Ed's armor. He shouldn't, oh, he shouldn't, it’s wrong even to think about, but the sudden cramp in his stomach is only partly shame. The rest of it is dizzying want. If Stede kissed Ed there, on his exposed wrist, would he feel Ed's pulse against his lips? Would it race, like Stede's is doing now? If he ran his teeth along the tendon, would Ed gasp? If Stede put his tongue against the skin, could he taste the leather?
Stede can't hold back a groan, curled up in a painfully tight ball in his bed. He comes hard, humiliatingly hard, and once his breathing steadies out, the guilt and mortification creep back in. Stede's a grown man, a married man, and to be so overwhelmed at the thought of another man's wrist is ludicrous. He's supposed to be Ed's friend, for God's sake. Fantasizing about his gloves – it's just not done. Stede tells himself that he won't think of it again and manages until the next morning, when Ed spills some of his morning tea and sucks it off his own wrist, licking under the edge of his glove. Then Stede knows, knows, he is a bad friend – selfish, weak, greedy – but doesn't look away.