Chapter Text
When Izzy fumbled his empty pint, aiming to set it down on the bar top and missing completely, Ed figured it was time. Lucky thing he’d been so close, plastered affectionately against Izzy’s spine. Meant he could dart his hand out, catching the glass in the air before it fell and shattered on the floor. Could reach around Izzy’s waist to set it carefully on the shiny wood, murmuring:
“All right there, mate?”
At first, Izzy didn’t respond. He just stared at the glass as Ed set it down. The way the last dregs of foam slid lazily down the inside. After a moment he turned clumsily in Ed’s arms, bouncing once against the bar on his way to meet his husband eye to eye. The little jolt of pain, ribs against hardwood, seemed to sharpen his confusion into fury. A little hazy, sure—not the sharp, clean anger he could manage when he was in his right mind—but still, definitely fury.
“You… fucker,” he rasped. His words came out slow, like his tongue was too heavy. Like it defied his control, awkward and wet behind his teeth.
Ed’s answering grin was smooth as silk, but behind it he wanted to crow. Wanted to crawl into Izzy’s mouth right there, with everyone watching.
”Turning into a bit of a lightweight,” he crooned. “That’s only, what? Your second?”
“We were meant to watch the fuckin’ rugby, Ed.”
“Well, yeah—” Ed slipped his fingers through Izzy’s belt loops to reel him in tighter, steering them chest-to-chest. From this close he could feel the slight, inebriated sway of Izzy’s body. A gentle roll, like a man bracing against the deck of an anchored ship, trying to match himself to the eddies of the tide. “That’s how I knew you wouldn’t see it coming.”
A growly sound seethed up Izzy’s throat, rattling harsh like pebbles in a blender. He shoved at Ed, trying to wrench himself free. Instead he lost his footing, staggered, and cracked his shin on the barstool.
“Fuckin’…” he began, right before another wave of dizziness rolled through him. His mouth went slack, the sentence losing its way and dying on his tongue. His shoulders sagged. Ed’s chest throbbed sharp and hot.
“Don’t worry,” Ed kept his voice soft, just for the two of them. He leaned forward to let his lips brush Izzy’s hair, reveling in the familiar smoke-and-pomade scent of it. “We’ll get you sorted right away.”
Keeping Izzy upright with one arm, he slipped his phone from his back pocket. he’s cooked he tapped out, one-thumbed. Stede’s reply came back instantly:
right on time! there in 5 😁
Ed could picture him bouncing up off the couch, eyes bright, phone clutched tight in his hand. Fuck, but he was adorable when he got excited about something.
cool. meet you round the back.
“C’mon, Stede’s coming to get us.”
Izzy hadn’t suspected a thing when Ed suggested they walk to the pub. The evening was cool and mild—perfect for September. Too beautiful to waste, Ed had said. Iz had held his hand, laughed at his shit jokes, even accepted a perfectly innocent puff off Ed’s one-hitter as they walked, lips curling around the smoke in that fuckin' way he had that made him look soft and sly and kissable. Ed, who'd always loved that fuckin' look, dragged him in by their joined hands and kissed him sweetly right there in the middle of the sidewalk. A kid on an electric scooter had jeered at them as he zipped by, and Iz’d flipped him off without taking his mouth off Ed’s.
When they’d pulled apart, the weed making everything feel slow and sweet as taffy, Izzy’d flashed him a tiny, crooked smile and said:
“You’re in a good mood.”
And Ed had practically folded right there. It took everything in him not to blurt out their real plans for the evening—they were bubbling up his throat, about to absolutely explode. Instead, he’d just shrugged and squeezed Izzy’s fingers.
“Yeah, well,” he’d said. “I like you, ’r whatever.”
You’re gonna love it, he didn’t say. By which I mean: you’re gonna absolutely fucking hate it. But you love hating shit. That was another one of those little things, those Izzy Hands specials that'd pissed Ed off and turned him on in equal measure throughout the mess of their lives together. The sheer fucking contradictions of the man. The stubborn nastiness, the razor sharp edges wrapped around his embarrassingly mushy insides.
All those feelings came roaring back now, fizzing achy-sharp just under Edward’s skin as he steered Izzy from the bar toward the back door. Love and want and gloating delight all tangled up, that he was the one who got to have Izzy like this. Melted, wanting, undone. It felt like the old static charge he used to chase as a kid, rubbing his socked feet against the carpet until the ends of his hair lifted and sparked. Like all it’d take now would be his skin on Izzy’s and he’d flare and crack, blinding as lightning.
Lost, for a moment, in his own head, Ed almost missed his stubborn bastard of a husband veering left, toward the cluster of tables near the telly. The match had started up again, Ireland in possession, and a few of the lads cheered as the ball flew across the green. Izzy tried to join in but his mouth wasn’t quite keeping up—the sound coming out instead as a sort of garbled yuh!
Closing the gap quick, Ed looped an arm around Izzy’s hunched shoulders with a sharp, chiding: “Ah ah!”
Izzy, absolute shit that he was, growled again and tried to bite his hand.
Behind the bar Steak Knife paused, mid-polish, with a pint glass in one hand and rag in the other. One of his pierced brows inched upward. It was a look that asked, not entirely kindly: do I need to get involved, mate? Ed only rolled his eyes, all fond and put-upon, and tightened his fingers on the back of Izzy’s neck.
“Told him to line his stomach,” he said, sing-song. Steakie’s mouth twitched, something like a smile, before he nodded once and turned back to his glass.
The rest of the walk was slow fucking going, with Iz practically unraveling at the seams. His limbs sat more loosely in their sockets, his steps heavier, limp more pronounced. His pupils’d blown cartoon-wide, the black of them practically swallowing the light from the television screens. Every few paces he’d list sideways, catching himself on Ed’s arm, and for a heartbeat he’d seem vulnerable, almost sweet. Then, just as quick, he’d twist in Ed’s grip, teeth bared, snapping and snarling as if his every faltering step was Ed’s personal fault.
(The way Ed figured, it was really more like a third his fault at most. Sure, he’d been the one to actually spike Iz’s drink, but it was Stede who’d done all the real work. He’d been so careful with all the calculations and the ratios—the chemistry taking into account Iz’s body weight, metabolism, tolerance. After weeks of research and mad science he’d whipped up a cocktail perfectly tuned to not just knock Izzy out, but to bring him over all yummy-soft and touchable. Left to his own devices, Ed probably would’ve just dropped one of your standard benzos in Izzy’s pint and called it good enough.
And Izzy? Well, Izzy drank it. That’s on him.)
Finally, finally, Ed managed to chivvy Izzy out of the pub and across the cracked concrete of the smoking patio. Thank fuck it was empty—the last thing he needed was to get caught up by a regular looking to bum a light. Hard to explain why his husband was stumbling half-melted in his arms—not unless the locals had suddenly become very cool about a lot of kinky shit, very fucking fast.
When the cool night air hit his his face, Izzy made a shuddering, breathy little noise.
“Y’cold?” asked Ed. He steered Izzy around the pub’s rickety back fence to lean against an alley wall, then pulled him in close and guided his head right into the warm crook of his neck. Iz tipped forward, no protest, just a punched-out little oof as he landed face-first against Ed’s lapel. He nuzzled in deeper until his lips brushed the bristled underside of Ed’s jaw.
“Edw’rd,” he whispered, voice gone dry. “Gonna… watch the match? ’S Allblacks.” The words tripped, tangled on his tongue, falling apart before they’d properly formed. They must’ve had Stede’s little concoction to thank, because alcohol alone hadn’t ever loosened Izzy’s grip on language quite like this.
“Nah, babe," Ed muttered into Izzy's hair. Another hot, sharp spike of anticipation and want stabbed through his chest. "Stede’s coming for us. Remember?”
No answer. Izzy’s head lolled against Ed’s shoulder, breath coming in shallow, off-tempo bursts, hot against his exposed throat. It still felt weird sometimes, having the beard so short but it was worth the cold neck and chin in times like these, when Izzy licked his lips to wet them and Ed felt the accidental flick of a tongue against his skin, butterfly-quick.
Then, abruptly, Izzy’s knees started to give. He made a low, whining sound and began to slide down Ed’s front, apparently content to melt into a puddle right there on the dirty, potholed ground of the service alley. Ed caught him with a grunt and shifted his stance, slotting one thigh between Izzy’s to brace them both.
Jesus fuck. Ed was hard as hell now and they’d barely even got started.
“Remember, Iz?” Ed repeated. When Izzy still didn’t answer, Ed bounced his knee where it was snugged up tight ‘gainst Izzy’s flat little ass. The whole of the smaller man’s body jostled bonelessly. He made a grumbling noise into the hollow of Ed’s throat (the same one as he made on a Sunday morning when he didn’t want to get up for the farmer’s market and fuck the thermos of Italian roast Stede had already brewed to sweeten the drive over). Ed was so delighted by the sound he bounced his knee again, again, again—and was this what those old nursery rhymes were always on about, dandling someone over your knee? Hopefully fuckin’ not, because as Ed found a rhythm and slid his arms around Izzy’s waist, fingers dipping into the deep divot at the base of his spine, he realized with a kind of giddy, guilty jolt that they were more or less dry humping against the alley wall.
It was just that the warm, dead weight of Izzy against his chest was driving him entirely insane—the whole of him looser, less guarded than he ever was in public. The smell of him, too—the salt of his sweat, the smoke on his breath, plus a faint trace of leather that always seemed to follow him, no matter what he was wearing—Edward could finally catch it now that they weren’t trapped in the pub’s close, booze-and-polish air.
Digging his fingers into the comfortable layer of fat that protected Izzy’s hard-packed muscle, Ed pulled their stomachs fully flush and added a roll of his hips to the rhythm he was setting with his knee. That was—fuck, yes, that was what they’d been missing. It must’ve been fifteen years since the two of them had actually fucked in an alley—not since all the gay bars in Soho had installed front-and-back security systems. They’d said it was to stop gay bashings but it’d probably had more to do with the used condoms they must’ve been dead sick of scraping off the pavement come Monday AM. Ed hadn’t thought he’d missed it—he had Stede’s three-thousand-thread-count sheets to fuck on now—but there was that electricity building and building and building again in him, licking and sparking off the spots where the cool night air met Izzy’s flushed skin met his own hungry body…
Toot, toot!
The cheery sound of a car’s horn and the glare of Stede’s bajillion-watt headlights knocked Ed back into the world that existed beyond Izzy’s lax body in the circle of his arms.
“Hello, darlings!” Stede called, pulling abreast of them in his absurd silver Range Rover. He insisted it was absolutely necessary for the children, but he only had his kids on alternating weekends. Even then, the two of them plus all their combined overnight things and sports bags didn’t come close to filling the backseat. Ed had tried again and again to wheedle Stede into getting something more practical for the city, something with a modicum of fucking cool, but Stede refused. Ed was fairly sure he got off on the whole soccer mummy vibe.
“Fuck you, drive ‘round,” Izzy slurred into Ed’s chest. “N’thing to see.”
“Izzy, mate—it’s Stede.”
“Stede?”
“Hello!” Stede repeated brightly, popping out of the driver’s seat. He leaned over Izzy’s shoulder to peck Ed on the lips. Then for a moment—just a moment—instead of pulling away, he stayed pressed against Izzy’s back, caging him neatly between their two bodies. Backlit by the headlights, his eyes looked fathomlessly dark and hungry in a way that sent a shiver skittering across Ed’s skin.
“Oh my,” he breathed, his voice dipping low and rough-edged. “Looks like someone needs a bit of help getting home.”
And then, blink, the roughness vanished again. It was kind, sunny Stede who ducked between them, smiling indulgently as he looped his arms under Izzy’s to half-lead, half-drag him toward the car.
“Here,” Ed grunted, dodging in to open the back door. He felt suddenly off-kilter without Izzy’s weight pressed against his front, unbalanced and too cold without the close, compact heat of him.
Stede flopped Izzy onto the leather bench seat with a graceless oof, leaving him half in the car, legs dangling out into the alley.
“I’ll go ‘round, pull him from the other side, eh?” Ed said, and before Stede could answer he was already moving—circling the hood, lungs tight and throat dry. On the far side of the car he paused long enough to squeeze his eyes shut and press the heel of his hand against the front of his jeans, trying to will back the hunger that was rapidly hollowing out the bottom of his stomach. Wait. Just wait.
Turns out he needn’t have bothered.
The hunger came roaring back, full-force, when he opened the passenger side door to find Stede crouched between Izzy’s slack, flopped-open thighs, balanced light on the balls of his feet, careful not to let his knees touch the grimy black tarmac. And he was unzipping Izzy’s leather trousers. Tugging them down to reveal the moon-pale juts of his hipbones, skin prickling up in gooseflesh as soon as it was exposed to the night air.
“Stede!” Ed said—practically moaned, if he was honest—as Izzy made a faint, protesting sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.
“Gosh,” Stede breathed. He might’ve heard Ed, he might not have. All his attention was on Izzy, on his prize, as he peeled the trousers down to his knees. As he slid a hand between his thighs to spread his cunt with thumb and forefinger. “He’s already soaked.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Is that all natural, d’you think?” Stede’s voice, soft and distracted, wasn’t really directed at Ed. It was more like the tone he slipped into when he was hours deep into one of his books, murmuring encouragement to the characters on the page: just tell him you love him already! The same one he’d used earlier this week while he was reading and researching, mumbling his notes aloud as he fine-tuned every last detail for tonight. “Or, you know… I did pop some GHB in the mix. He’s very susceptible, physically.”
Ed’s skin felt too tight, a tingly-hot pressure that bloomed and pulsed with the thundering of his heart. He licked his lips. “Didn’t you want to get him home?”
Stede looked up at him then, familiar smile gone a bit wild.
“I don’t hear him complaining,” he murmured, right before he twisted his wrist, sliding his thumb into Izzy’s hole, and dipped down to lick sloppily at his red little cock.
Izzy’s head snapped back, mouth opening wide, silent. The eerie white spill from the headlights flickered over the pulse at his throat, playing tricks on Edward’s eyes—for a second it looked like his swallow tattoo was pulsing, stirring. Ready to take flight. Then Stede hummed, pleased, and closed his lips. He sucked until his cheeks went hollow. Izzy’s body lurched again, heavy and helpless, limbs thrashing like he he was trying to fight, or maybe flee.
”Shit…” Ed clenched and flexed his fingers to keep his hand from trembling as he set it on the roof of the Range Rover, steadying himself. With the other he was already unbuttoning his own jeans, shoving his fingers under the waistband of his boxer-briefs as soon as there was room. It was cramped, tight, and awkward; humping his hand, more than wanking. Fingers twitching, reaching. A weird angle for his wrist, too, since he was a middle-aged man, not a desperate, sweaty teen any longer. Still, he couldn’t have stopped now with a gun to his head. “You’re a fuckin' lunatic, you know that?”
Glancing up through his gold eyelashes, Stede had the gall to fucking wink. Pulling back his lips, he trapped Izzy’s dick between his teeth and tongue—held it there like a precious thing, worried at it until Izzy’s voice broke around a raw, dry keening sound.
That’s when the back door of the pub swung open and the alley filled with light and noise: television commentary, laughter, the scrape of chairs. Ed and Stede froze. Two sets of footsteps clattered onto the smoking patio before the door thudded shut again, cutting the noise back down to a distant drone. Then the sharp click! of a Zippo snapped through the quiet like a gunshot, followed by the low murmur of voices, soft and shapeless. The smokers were only screened from the alley by an ivy-choked wooden fence that looked as though a stiff breeze could knock it over, and of course the Rover’s headlights were a blinding bright we’re here! to anyone nosy enough to peer round into the darkness.
Stede sat back on his heels, lips and chin gleaming shiny-slick in the light. Ed raised one eyebrow. His eyes flicked, quicksilver, between Izzy, Stede, their meager cover. Stede responded with his smuggest, maddest smile. Then he moved his wrist again, doing something with his hand, and Izzy made a sound that cracked the air: a desperate whine that shot through Ed’s chest like a bottle rocket, setting fires all in its wake.
One of the smokers—a man, it sounded like, with a light, amiable Irish accent—grumbled:
“Keep telling Steakie, it’s a goddamn stray cat orgy back there.” The other one giggled, sloppy and tipsy. Before Stede could laugh as well, Ed dived across the backseat, over Izzy, wrenching the one hand out of his trousers and slapping the other over Stede’s mouth.
“Night’s just started,” he whispered, barely audible, “nothing fun happens if we get banged up for public indecency.”
Stede’s eyebrows jumped and wiggled, rather insistently. Cautiously, Ed uncovered his mouth.
“I’m sure some of it could still happen.”
Fucking maniac!
“Yeah, all right, but Iz’ll be livid if he comes ‘round in a jail cell.”
For all of a breath, mischief crackled in Stede’s eyes. Ed braced for the inevitable argument; Stede loved to get all bitchy and self-righteous when he was dead-set on a wild bit of fuckery. Drove Iz absolutely bonkers. But then Stede’s gaze drifted down, past Ed entirely, to Izzy himself—the flush creeping across his cheeks and the splayed, spit-slick plush of his thighs. A limited-time miracle of surrender, beautifully pliant and undone. With one last, lingering, shuddering look, the fight clearly bubbling in Stede’s eyes winked out.
Instead he stood, careful not to let his trousers brush the grimy tarmac. Ed jerked his head toward the driver’s seat, a wordless bit of direction that earned him a quiet click of the tongue, almost fond. Sliding into the back, Ed hooked his arms under Izzy’s shoulders and hauled him the rest of the way in, settling the heavy, unresisting weight of his head into his lap.
Izzy made a soft, broken noise. His eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling like he was halfway to dreaming.
Then: thunk. the door closed behind them.
All the ambient sounds of the night—the smokers bickering, the hum of cars the next street over, the faint mechanical rattle and ping from an air filtration system down the block—all of it cut off at once. Ed and Izzy were left in the velvety-dark bubble of a luxury backseat, sound dampened by steel and hand-stitched leather.
The driver’s side door opened and shut, and then Stede was easing himself down into his seat with a comfortable, middle-aged noise—a sort of ahhhhh-hmm that made Ed’s heart go stupidly soft. It was still a bit novel, pairing that gooey softness with desperately horny— so turned on that Ed could feel his pulse in his dick. In the good parts of his and Iz’s relationship, they’d had moments of one and then the other. In the rougher patches, they hadn’t had much of the softness at all. The mix of both at once—well, Ed was glad he was sitting comfortably. His thighs might’ve been trembling a bit under Izzy’s head.
Speaking of Iz, speaking of softness, Ed brushed his fingers through the steely grey at his husband’s temples, then let them trace down the familiar lines of his face. Iz was always handsome, with the hawklike curve of his nose and the wry tilt to his smile, but he looked fuckin’… otherworldly like this: dazed, half-naked, spread out like an offering. The streetlights slashed through the tinted glass as they drove, strobing him in amber and shadow, amber and shadow.
Resting his palm on Izzy’s throat was almost instinct; it just fit there so exactly, like they’d grown for years into these complimentary shapes. His thumb tucked in the soft spot just below Izzy’s jaw, the center of his palm perfectly cupping his trachea. Fingertips resting light on the tendon at the side of his neck. He could feel Izzy’s life under his hand, his pulse and his breath. Hot and so fucking precious. Izzy swallowed against the subtle pressure, making Ed’s hand bob.
“Eddie?” His eyes were still closed, his voice coming out hoarse and dreamy.
“Yeah?”
“Stede was here.”
“Still here, love,” Stede cooed from the front seat. Izzy squirmed at the sound of his voice, rubbing his bare thighs together. Maybe he could still feel Stede between them.
“Think he misses ya, mate. All the way up there.” Ed slid his hand further down, skimming over the threadbare, skin-warm cotton of Izzy’s favorite tee shirt. Running his fingernails through the dense trail of hair that meandered down from the hem, spreading and thickening until it tangled up with his bush. A muscle in Izzy’s stomach spasmed. He always was ticklish, if you were able to get up close.
“Oh, dove, it’s just a minute ’til we get home. Be patient, now.”
Izzy made that rocks-in-a-blender sound again, loud and discontent. Could’ve been a response to Stede or more of a blanket complaint about whole situation—hard to tell. Either way, it wasn’t English. It only hitched higher, becoming a sharp, animal whine, when Ed shoved his way between those pale, slick thighs to pinch his cock hard between thumb and forefinger.
“He said patient.”
Arching into the cruel touch, Izzy pressed his head into Ed’s lap hard enough to send pins and needles shooting down Ed’s leg. His hand scrabbled weakly against the leather, fingers twitching and sliding with no purchase. In the half-light of the backseat it looked like some stranded thing, dragged up from the depths of the ocean.
“Eddie,” he slurred again. Pleading, this time.
In the rearview mirror, Stede’s eyes flicked between Ed’s hand and his face, his hand and his face and the road. He licked his lips. Readjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
”Ed…”
Ed bared his teeth at the mirror, not quite a smile, and loosened his grip only enough so that he could jerk roughly at Izzy’s cock. He really was so fucking wet, between his own slick and Stede’s saliva, that there was barely any friction. Just heat and velvety movement, faster and faster, and Izzy in his lap making sounds like it hurt, like he was dying, but he couldn’t marshal his tongue enough to say anything coherent.
Ed, on the other hand, found that he couldn’t stop talking. There was a burning line from his dick to his heart to his tongue, all shooting off fizzy-bright sparks the more he spoke.
“That’s whatcha wanted, hmm?” He growled, just loud enough that Stede could hear him too, all the way up in the front seat. “Couldn’t wait now that Stede’s got you started? All fuckin’ hungry? You can complain if you want, mate, but I know you’d pick this over a boring pint every time—bein’ a whore for us. For me, Iz. ’S’what you’re meant for.”
Izzy choked, spasmed again. Without slowing, Ed shoved his ring and pinkie fingers into his hole. His hand started cramping almost immediately. Didn’t matter, not when it made Izzy keen.
“God, Iz… I wish I’d known you’d be so perfect like this. Woulda spiked your coffee every morning ’n’ kept you all floppy to fuck all day. Whenever I wanted. You woulda loved it. You love it, Iz—you love it.”
The car door—the one closest to Ed—swung open, flooding the backseat with harsh garage light. They were home. Somehow. Ed hadn’t clocked the turn onto their street, the smooth roll into the narrow concrete garage, the quiet hum of the engine dying. He hadn’t noticed Stede unbuckle, hadn’t heard the door open or the footsteps rounding the car. Just the sudden brightness and the soft rush of cold evening air sneaking in after it.
Then Stede was there, warm and solid at his back. Pressed cotton and expensive aftershave where the window had left Ed’s skin chilled. He bent close, breath ghosting against the shell of Ed’s ear before he kissed a path from temple to jaw to the tender hollow of his neck.
“Just a quick trip,” Stede murmured, voice gone all husky with want even as he tried for breezy. “Shall we get our lad inside, then? Seems he’d be much better off in bed.”