Chapter Text
Ed’s POV:
Ed is a dead man.
He knows it. He feels it in his bones the second he lays eyes on Stede fucking Bonnet.
There’s no walking away from this. Not now.
Because he has never wanted someone the way he wants him —that infuriating, bitchy, adorable , blonde little angel with a sharp tongue and a face that makes Ed want to sin in a hundred different ways.
Okay. Maybe “angel” is a stretch. He’s more like a brat prince in designer shoes.
But whatever he is, Ed’s fucked.
Absolutely, undeniably, completely fucked.
Because there is no version of this where Vincent Bonnet doesn’t kill him for what’s already running through his head. And the worst part?
He doesn’t think he can stay away.
Not from that firecracker of a young man with his snark and his smirk and his fucking dimple.
Ed’s already circling the drain.
And the only thing he wants to do is jump.
It had been pretty entertaining—Ed can’t lie—watching Stede bristle at being called a child. The way his eyes had narrowed, voice going sharp with indignation. But it was when he fired back with that “Are you forty?” line, all smug and biting, that Ed knew.
He’s fucked.
It’s not lost on him how young Stede is. Eighteen. That’s eleven years between them. And Ed’s never gone for anyone that far below his age bracket. Not his style. Too much life lived between the years.
But Stede… doesn’t act eighteen. He’s clever. Sharp-tongued. Composed. Confident enough to stand toe-to-toe with Ed and smile while doing it.
It’s a problem.
“So,” Stede says now, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I guess that makes you my bodyguard?”
Ed’s pulse jumps. He can hear the teasing in his tone. The glint in those soft eyes says I know you’re lying, but also I’m going to let you.
And honestly? Ed is fine with that.
It’s better than admitting the truth—that he’s here to make sure this bright, feral little hurricane marries some minor prince named Ricky. Some guy Ed hasn’t even met but already wants to punch on principle.
He offers a casual shrug. “Looks like it,” he says, leaning against the edge of the desk like it’s no big deal.
And he doesn’t miss the way Stede’s eyes flick down and then quickly away.
Yeah. This is dangerous.
And Ed is already in so much trouble.
“Well then, tough guy,” Stede says, stepping in close again— way too close—and wrapping his hand around Ed’s wrist.
Ed gasps.
It’s quiet, barely audible, but he feels it like lightning under his skin. The contact is electric. Confident. Possessive. And the way Stede’s looking at him now? Cool, amused, dangerous.
“I think you’d better come shopping with me,” Stede continues, gaze never leaving Ed’s. “I need a new outfit for my second date with this guy I’m kind of seeing. His name’s Ricky? Did my father tell you about him?”
Those eyes—wide, innocent, devastating—blink up at him like he hasn’t just turned this into a power play.
Ed stares at him.
Yeah. He’s about 99% sure Stede was eavesdropping.
Because there’s no other reason he’d be bringing up Ricky right now.
But Ed’s already committed to the bit.
So he rolls with it.
“Nope,” he says casually, “but yeah. Sure. I can come with you.”
Stede just smiles—sweet, smug, victorious—and tugs him by the wrist toward the door.
Once out of the study, Vincent descends the stairs, stepping into the entryway just as they’re crossing it. It’s not lost on Ed how quickly Stede drops his wrist, and he’s grateful for that, honestly.
“Oh, good, you’ve met,” he says, voice affable enough, but edged with interest.
Ed doesn’t miss a beat.
“Yes, sir,” he says, glancing very pointedly at Vincent. “I told Stede how you hired me to be his bodyguard.”
Then, with equal pointedness, “Apparently we’re heading out to pick an outfit for his next date with Ricky?”
Vincent pauses. Just for a second.
And then, mercifully—
“Right,” he says with a nod. “Well. Carry on, then.”
Ed exhales silently through his nose.
Thank fuck. He’s not ready to let this charade go quite yet.
************
It quickly becomes apparent that this guy is either messing with him, or flirting with him.
And honestly, neither option is great.
Because both leave Ed feeling hotter and hotter under the collar as this outing drags on.
The outfits Stede picks start off innocent enough—clean, tasteful, appropriate for a second date with a minor royal. But it doesn’t take long before things… shift.
By the time they’re several outfits in, Ed suspects Stede’s not trying to pick an outfit for Ricky at all. He’s trying to test Ed’s ability to function.
And Ed is failing .
Room People by Wee John Feeney is, to Ed’s surprise, the most progressive and frankly delightfully unhinged boutique he’s ever set foot in. Along with a range of more mainstream options, there’s leather, lace, sequins, see-through mesh, aggressively low-cut suits, shimmering lamé, and at least one full-length coat made entirely of rhinestones.
He’s fascinated by the clothes.
But seeing some of them on Stede ?
That’s a whole different problem.
“What do you think of this one?” Stede calls, and Ed barely has time to brace himself before the curtain pulls back.
And then—there he is.
Stede steps out from behind the curtain, and Ed’s brain immediately short-circuits.
Tiny shorts— the shortest shorts Ed has possibly ever seen—hug Stede’s hips like they were custom-built to ruin lives. A pair of white, knee-high go-go boots gleam beneath them, and the paisley-print shirt tucked in is unbuttoned nearly to his navel, revealing far too much smooth skin and the faintest suggestion of chest hair.
Ed forgets how to breathe.
************
Artwork of Stede in the outfit described above. He’s standing with his weight on his left leg, hand raised up and resting under his cheek in a shy-like pose. His other hand is down at his side, and he’s looking ahead with very flirtatious, albeit shy, eyes and a cheeky little smile. There is an archway behind him with a curtain pulled back behind a curtain holdback. There are fun patterns on the walls and floors and the dressing room is painted in various shades of green.
************
Shit.
“You, uh…” he starts, voice cracking as his gaze shamelessly drags down Stede’s body and back up again, “…realize it’s heading into winter, right?”
Stede shrugs. “That’s what the boots and long sleeves are for.” Then, with a wicked little smile: “But do I look hot ? That’s the real question.”
He spins— actually spins —and Ed’s pulse spikes so fast he thinks he might pass out.
He shifts quickly in his seat, crossing one leg over the other in a desperate attempt to conceal the situation rapidly developing below his belt. Stede’s ridiculous, obscenely sexy outfit is burned into his mind now, and there’s no undoing it.
Dead man. Dead man. Dead man, he chants silently, his jaw clenched tight.
Because not only is he not supposed to be entertaining these thoughts—he’s supposed to be helping this barely-dressed firestarter get closer to some prince.
Instead, he’s sitting here, struggling not to moan, and trying not to picture what it would be like to peel that shirt the rest of the way open with his teeth.
He’s so fucked.
And it’s only day one.
A rush of jealousy punches through Ed’s chest before he can even stop it as he remembers why they’re here.
That question— Do I look hot? —wasn’t for him. Not really. It was meant for some sleazy, soft-handed minor prince with too much money and not enough soul. And Ed needs to remember that.
Needs to get those two together, get his check, and move the fuck on to other jobs before he does something incredibly stupid—like listen to his dick instead of his brain and wind up dead in a ditch with Vincent Bonnet sipping whiskey over his grave.
But still.
He doesn’t want Ricky— anyone —seeing Stede like this.
Not in those goddamn shorts. Not in those boots. Not in that shirt, which hangs just open enough to drive him insane. He wants to keep this image to himself.
He can’t admit that, though. Won’t. The words would taste like betrayal—of logic, of the last fragile thread of self-control he’s got left, of his fucking family counting on him to stay alive.
“I dunno, mate,” Ed mutters, scrubbing the back of his neck with his hand, trying to cool the heat rising to his face. “Doesn’t quite feel right for a second date.”
But Stede isn’t letting him off that easily.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
Ed blinks—and then Stede is kneeling in front of him.
Fucking kneeling.
Looking up at him with those wide, pleading eyes, mouth pouting like a sin, voice soft and sticky sweet as he repeats, “Do I… look hot?”
His hands land on Ed’s knees—warm, steady—and then slide slowly up the outside of his thighs. Ed has never been more grateful there’s no one else around.
And yep, yep, this little tempter is absolutely coming on to him. No more pretending. No more doubt.
And Ed? Ed is royally, spectacularly, fucked.
But then—just as he’s about to reach for him—his mum’s face flashes in his mind. His aunt’s. The kids.
What happens to them if he dies because he couldn’t keep it in his pants?
Because let’s be honest: if he touches this boy—if Vincent Bonnet gets even the slightest whiff of what's going through Ed’s head—he’s done. Not fired. Not dumped. Dead.
Dragged out of some alley. Dumped in the bay. Family never finds out what happened to him.
He didn’t ask for this job. Didn’t want it. He just needed to make rent. Feed the people back home. And now he’s in this, trying not to lose his damn mind over the boss’s son in the tightest shorts he’s ever seen, kneeling between his legs and looking up at him like sin wrapped in lace.
So Ed does the only thing he can do—he gets up.
Steps over him.
Puts distance between his body and the absolute disaster zone in front of him.
“Okay,” he mutters, voice tight and shaking with the effort, “that’s… enough of that.”
He drags a hand down his face, trying to settle the fire under his skin. Across the room, Stede stands too, arms crossed, all sass and offense, like he can’t believe Ed’s just walked away.
“And here I was thinking you might be fun,” he pouts.
And fuck. That might be worse than the flirting. That lip. That expression. Those arms crossed across his gorgeously exposed chest.
He wants to go to him, soothe it, fix it. Pull him into his arms and tell him what a sweet angel he is… He wants a lot of things he has no business wanting.
But he can’t.
This isn’t about fun. This is survival. And if he’s smart, he’ll remember that.
But fuck, if he doesn’t want to keep playing… whatever the fuck this game is.
“I thought you were here to get an outfit for your second date with the prince,” Ed says, a smirk spreading across his face.
“You know, it’s not lost on me that you still haven’t answered my question,” Stede says with a smirk of his own. “I think I got my answer,” Stede says, hand on his hip, eyes sparkling with triumph.
Ed huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away, just for a second, because if he keeps staring, he’s going to do something stupid. Like kiss him. Like confess he’s never wanted someone more in his whole fucking life.
When he looks back, Stede’s still standing there, cocky as hell, waiting for Ed to fold.
“You don’t play fair,” Ed says, half amused, half defeated.
“And yet, I’m winning,” Stede replies, all too pleased with himself.
Ed chuckles, but it dies in his throat, replaced by something heavier. He lets his gaze linger a moment longer—just a moment—and feels that fondness twist into something almost painful. God, he’s in so much trouble.
Because he already knows the answer to Stede’s question, the one he keeps dodging. Yes. Yes, you look hot. Too hot. And this whole thing—this job, this setup, you —is going to ruin me.
But instead, all he says is, “You ready to check out, or are you planning on trying on the whole bloody store?”
Because if he doesn’t get out of this situation soon, he’s not sure he’ll be able to.
“If it gets you to admit you think I’m hot, I just might,” Stede says with a wink, disappearing behind the curtain.
It takes everything in Ed not to follow him. Every last ounce of restraint not to cross that line he knows he won’t come back from.
************