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In another life, perhaps, John will love him back.
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Sherlock is gone, and John can't let go.
Slow days go one by one, but you have no returning.
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Stede and Ed's relationship ended months ago, but Stede hasn't been able to let it go. He's amazed when Ed agrees to participate in The Ex-House with him, sharing a tiny house on live television for six weeks to win the grand prize.
“Hello, Edward!” he says, forcing brightness. Remembers to look at his face - two seconds at a time is perfectly acceptable, look at the face, not directly into the eyes - tries to remember to turn his lips up into a friendly smile. Behind Ed, the door whooshes closed again and leaves them in silence.
Ed’s fully clad in leather, which is always a good look for him. Slight hint of eyeliner. One arm bare, showing off the winding snake tattooed into his skin. Beard trimmed short. Hair up, as well, properly styled. Small silver dagger earring dangling from one ear.
He looks unapproachably hot. The kind of guy that would skim over Stede without a second glance. The kind of guy that would sniff out Stede’s oddness in a second and push Stede down as a way to lift himself up. There are probably people watching on their televisions right now, wondering how the hell the two people in this room were ever together in the first place.
Series
- Part 1 of The Ex-House
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- English
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- 65,131
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- 9/9
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- 1
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Bookmarked by piratereader
04 Jun 2025
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Edward Teach is a pop star about to embark on his latest tour when he develops vocal nodes. Stede Bonnet is the voice specialist who treats him. Sparks fly.
“Right. And could you please describe your singing voice to me? Or sing something you feel showcases your voice, if you feel comfortable. For my usual clientele, I’d suggest their go-to audition song, but I don’t get the sense that you do much auditioning.”
There’s a long pause during which Stede takes note of the guy’s eyes. Not a literal case note, that would be inappropriate. His eyes are large and brown and expressive, quicksand eyes. Eyes a person could get lost in. Right now, they’re slightly narrowed at Stede. He seems to decide something.
“Listen,” the client says. “I appreciate you not wanting to make it weird, but I promise I’m used to it.”
“Used to it?” Stede asks, and there go the eyes again. Stede has the oddest sense of being taken apart, exposed, like the recurring dream he has of walking through the halls of his secondary school without a single stitch of clothing on, down to the same vague, unsettling sense that it should be more awkward than it is.
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Edward Teach moved to suburbia for a change. He's been wanting a change for a long time, but so far nothing has stuck, instead he finds himself bored and tired, and most of all lonely. Until one evening there's a knock at his door and he opens it to a sleeping handsome blonde who asks to pick up his order for fries and a shake.
Night after night, Ed finds out his neighbor sleepwalks, and each time he sets his work aside and goes out to keep him company. And night by night he wonders what Stede might be like when he's awake. Because despite the fact Ed knows he's just another dream to Stede, he feels as if he's found a best friend he's never had.
Bookmarked by piratereader
09 Jan 2025
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The guy sitting next to Ed is kind of, and by kind of Ed means completely, covered in blood.
Like, a lot of blood.
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- English
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- 4,579
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Bookmarked by piratereader
31 Aug 2024
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Stede draws his attention back to the head massage, alternating pressure from the kind of bruising that’s enough to knead a migraine away, to gentle, delicate strokes through his hair. He grows almost meditative with it, forcing his eyes away from Ed’s face and simply enjoying the feeling of body heat and cool, damp-silk hair against his palms. Truthfully, he could do this for hours, rather than the usual three-to-five minutes that’s usually afforded to customers when they…
When…
It’s been longer than three-to-five minutes.
A quick glance at the clock reveals it’s been far, far longer than three-to-five minutes.
Stede doesn’t mind, obviously. And Ed doesn’t seem to be about to question it. But the snide little Lucius-like voice in the back of his mind points out that almost twenty fucking minutes is maybe a bit of an overkill.
Stede yanks his hands away from Ed’s hair like it’s covered in bleach.
“Okey-doke!” Stede manages, voice shrill and a little strangled.
From across the salon, the real Lucius snorts.
(OR: Stede's a hair stylist. Ed shows up for an appointment. And shows up. And shows up. And shows up...)