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Jack’s been home for an hour when he realises he’s not the only one in the apartment.
To be fair, Stede doesn’t know he’s there either, or at least Jack assumes he doesn’t on account of the way he jumps out of his fucking skin when he sees Jack standing in the kitchen. He starts, visibly guilty, like he’s been caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t be, when in reality all he’s doing (at least, Jack thinks it’s all he’s doing) is raiding their sparse-as-hell kitchen. It’s not like Jack hasn’t stolen a shit-tonne of food from Stede’s place whenever he knows Ed’s over, texting requests like it’s a goddamn grocery order. But Stede’s in his forties, makes six figures a year, and is fucking Jack’s college roommate; the least he can do is spare some chips once in a while.
“Not gonna find shit in that pantry,” Jack tells him, propping himself lazily by one shoulder against the side of the fridge. “We’re one of them ingredients-only households. Fuck all but curry powder and stock cubes in there.”
It’s not exactly true—Jack’s pretty sure there’s a few packets of old Doritos dust if Stede really wants to go digging—but it’s amusing to rile him, watch that pinched look of superiority fracture his face. “I didn’t realise anyone else was home.”
“Yeah,” says Jack, “no shit. About pissed your pants when you walked in here.”
Stede purses his lips.
Jack beams at him. He and Stede have known each other going on just about four months now. As far as Ed’s creepy older boyfriends go, he’s not the worst. Not the best, either—Ed’s a bombshell, could pull just about anyone he wanted to, but he’s got a thing for uppity daddy types. Real fuck-you-in-the-back-of-their-Mercedes, big-dick-bigger-guilt-complex type of dudes. Stede fits the bill pretty seamlessly: blonde, haughty, unsurprisingly mid. He’s going through a divorce, Jack’s pretty sure, as far as he’s been able to make clear from Ed’s endless rambling about the guy, or maybe is just cheating on his wife and thinking about getting a divorce, Jack doesn’t know. By that point in the sesh he’s usually rolling his eyes at Izzy, who acts like their shared unspoken thing about hating Ed’s boyfriends doesn’t mean they’re on the same level, just because Jack happened to drop out a couple years ago. Jack’s not stupid, he’s strategic, and picking up trade gigs pays better than fucking Ed’s scholarship. Sugar daddy pocket money sure as shit ain’t paying their bills.
Stede’s still just standing there in the doorway of the kitchen like he’s been caught out or something. He has this habit of staring; not like he wants something, but like he’s observing, like he doesn’t know it’s creepy.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You waiting around for Ed or something?”
Stede shrugs. Shrugs, like there’s any other reason he’d be standing in Jack’s apartment at four o’clock on a Thursday.
Jack opens the fridge. He takes out a beer, cracking the cap off on a corner of the kitchen counter. The paint’s cracked and the wood’s chipped but they already obliterated their chances of getting their security deposit back years ago, when Jack burned a hole in the carpet and Ed busted the lock breaking in because he forgot his keys. It’s a nasty shithole and their landlord is a notorious ball-buster, but old Horny’s got better shit to worry about than a couple of twenty-two-year-olds pissing away their deposit.
Stede is still just standing there. Staring.
Jack knocks back a too-substantial mouthful of beer. “You want me to call him, or…?”
“Ah. No, that’s quite alright. He mentioned he was studying with a friend.” Stede watches him tip the beer back again, forehead creasing. “I don’t suppose you know what time he usually gets back?”
Jack shrugs. ‘Studying with a friend’ probably means he’s getting drunk at Izzy’s place, which could easily mean he’s not coming home at all tonight. Wouldn’t be the first time he crashed there without remembering to text Jack that he’s not coming home; Izzy’s got a thing about looking after him, probably creams his pants every time Ed gets too drunk to drive himself home. There’s no rule that says Jack has to be forthcoming with this information, though, or that he has to be anything other than an unhelpful shit. “You’re welcome to wait around here for him,” he tells Stede. “Our casa is your casa and all that.”
Stede tilts his head. Stares, unblinking. “That’s very kind of you, Jack.”
Jack shrugs. Doesn’t know what to do with the hand that’s not holding the beer.
Stede lingers, after that, trailing him around the kitchen and doing a god-awful job of pretending he’s actually in here looking for food. He hauls open the fridge and makes a low tutting sound, like the fact that Jack’s got nothing but beer and Sriracha inside is some larger comment on his personality, and shuts it with a muttered comment about bringing over some groceries. Jack nearly offers to write him a list. He’s not sure Stede would take it as the dig it is, though, doesn’t want to risk the guy offering him money. Only because he’s pretty sure he’d take it, and he doesn’t want to contend with the little tendrils of shame in his stomach, the knowledge that he’d be stooping. It’s one thing to ask Ed to steal leftovers from the middle-aged man he’s sleeping with, quite another to ask him to stock their apartment with groceries.
Jack could probably offer to replumb his office or something, but something about that thought makes it worse. Transactional, or something.
He thumbs open his emails on his way out of the kitchen, checking for job requests. Some chick all the way on the other side of the city needs her pipes looked at, but that’s it. Jack grins, almost sends back lol yeah i bet you do, before reluctantly forwarding a copy of his rates and hours instead. As much as it pains him, he can’t be throwing away jobs while he’s tight on cash. Gone are the days when he might have had the luxury of deciding he didn’t wanna sit for a forty-minute bus ride just to take home fifty dollars cash and net zero pussy. Times are tough, though, as they say, and Jack stopped getting student benefits a year after someone realised he wasn’t going to classes anymore, right after he got kicked out of the fraternity and moved in with Ed. He’s got responsibilities, now, is taxed and billed like a regular fucking Whole Ass Adult even if he doesn’t always feel like one.
There’s nothing in the email that says she needs it done today, so Jack logs out and boots up his XBox. He’s halfway through a round of Call of Duty when he realises he can’t hear Stede in the kitchen anymore. Their living room’s right by the front door, so Jack knows he can’t have left. The only other rooms at the back of the apartment are his and Ed’s, but he leaves it; if Stede wants to get himself in trouble with the missus for snooping around, that’s his prerogative.
Jack’s phone buzzes. He waits for a break between rounds to check it, and by then it’s gone off four more times.
Ed: where tf are you should come ovre izzy made margartias
Ed: margartias
Ed: shit lol
Ed: MARGARITAS
Ed: is stede there ??m
Jack: Yeah he’s here
Ed: omg 🥺
Ed: can u tellhim
Ed: tell him im drunkkk <333 and i dont think i;m coming home lmao sorry
Ed: ask him if he wants to comedrink margartias???
Jack grins, thumbs dancing over the screen. Considers pointing out that Hands would sooner die than have Ed’s cradle-robbing boyfriend under his roof, like Izzy’s not just as down bad and pushing thirty.
Jack: I’ll ask him. Say hi to Iz for me? 😘 💦
Ed: he says “tell rackham to eat a dick” lololol
Jack turns his game off, stretches. He gets up to go kick Stede out of his apartment.
Their place used to be a one-bedroom, but Hornigold put up some shitty drywall right before they moved in, so the bedrooms are tiny. Ed’s is the first on the left and usually so trashed that Jack can’t see his bed. It’s the kind of mess where Jack would notice if something was out of place, though, which is how he knows Stede hasn’t been in there when he cracks open the door to look for him. Jack frowns. He’d assumed he’d find him holed up in here, waiting stiffly on the edge of the bed or else sniffing Ed’s underwear or something. Jack’s pretty sure he’d have heard him leave. They have a bathroom, but it’s down the other end near the living room, and Stede would have had to walk past the TV or squeeze between the couch and the front door to get to it. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but that means—
Jack backs out of Ed’s room, shuts the door, and flings open the one next to it.
Stede is in his bedroom, rifling through his shit.
“The fuck?” says Jack.
Stede doesn’t start guiltily, this time. Doesn’t start at all, like he’d heard Jack coming. The walls are paper thin, so he probably did. But there should at least be contrition, or some sort of—of you caught me look on his face, Jack thinks, considering Jack’s walked in on him elbow-deep in the nightstand, actively snooping around shit that doesn’t belong to him. Stede doesn’t even look sheepish. Just blinks at Jack, patient but condemnatory.
“Can I fucking help you, man?”
“As a matter of fact,” Stede begins brightly. He removes his arm from Jack’s nightstand. It takes Jack several seconds to understand what he’s holding, and even then it’s only because Stede gives it a pointed shake. “Do you care to explain what you’re doing with this?”
He’s holding what’s left of Jack’s weed stash in a crumpled sandwich baggie. His grinder, his papers, the little lighter that’s got a chick in a bikini on it: all of these have been laid out on Jack’s bedspread, accusatory. “Uh,” says Jack, “yeah. Pretty sure you should know this at your age, but you’re supposed to smoke it.”
Stede gives him a look. “Marijuana is illegal here, Jack.”
“What are you, a cop?”
“No,” Stede says, still in this patient, condescending tone, “I’m a concerned adult. I have an obligation.” He shakes his head. “You could get Ed in a lot of trouble, storing this under the same roof as him. Think of his scholarship. He shouldn’t have to suffer just because he’s chosen an irresponsible roommate. What were you thinking?”
Jack opens his mouth. He means to answer—tell him to get fucked, mind his business—but the words sort of get stuck there, hanging off the edge of his tongue.
Stede stares back at him, expectant. Jack feels his face start to heat under the scrutiny. It prickles, itchy. “Look, man,” he says, trying to ignore the fact that his voice has come out croaky, “it’s none of your business. You shouldn’t be rifling through my shit in the first place. I think you should probably just fuck off, okay?”
But Stede is shaking his head. “I can’t do that. You’ve put me in a very difficult situation.” He sighs, stands. Tucks the baggie into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to confiscate it.”
Jack’s stomach does a little flip. “You can’t do that.” It comes out sounding—off. Whinier than it meant to. Like a child: you can’t, that’s not fair. He clears his throat. “Stede. Come on. Give me my shit back.”
Stede ignores him, collecting the other pieces of evidence, the grinder and papers, the lighter, which he holds between thumb and forefinger like he’s wary of absorbing contact germs. “I’m sorry, but I can’t in good conscience leave it here. It wouldn’t be right.”
He’s serious. Jack’s stomach flips again. That’s a hundred bucks he’s got on him, easy. “Wait. I—come on, I paid for that.” Stede’s not listening. He’s tucking the grinder, the papers, the lighter into his other pocket. Genuine panic starts to stir in Jack’s belly, makes a valiant leap for his throat. “At least let me smoke it,” he blurts.
Stede stops. Straightens, turns to him. It was the wrong thing to say. “Oh,” he says, disbelieving, “Jack—”
“Please.” Jack hates how desperate he sounds. But—fuck. He doesn’t make a lot of money, okay? And there are at least four, five decently sized joints worth of stuff still in there. “Just—come on, would be a waste otherwise.”
Stede is watching him. There’s an unreadable expression on his face, skin tight around the mouth and eyes. “Say please again.”
Jack scoffs. “Fuck off.”
“Say please, or the answer is no.”
Jack swallows. Shifts on the balls of his feet.
Stede raises his eyebrows.
“Please,” Jack mutters, not looking at him.
Stede makes a low, pleased sound, a drawling hum in the back of his throat as he retrieves the baggie from his pocket. “I suppose, since you asked very nicely…”
Jack starts forward. Stops in his tracks when Stede halts him, fingers curling tight around Jack’s forearm.
His hands are kinda big. Like, kinda almost bigger than Jack’s bicep.
Stede peers down his nose at him. “You can finish it here, under my supervision.”
“What, like.” Jack licks his lips. “All of it?”
“If you want.”
“That’s not fair—”
“No?” Stede shakes the baggie, holding it just out of reach. “Well, then, I’ll just have to confiscate it after all. The choice is yours.”
Jack’s gaze flicks between Stede’s face and the baggie. He’s sweating. Surely, he thinks… surely, Stede’s not really going to make him—
But of course he is. He’s waiting, expectant, like he already knows what Jack is going to do.
“Fine,” Jack mutters, snatching the weed. Stede allows it, returning the rest of Jack’s shit to the bed. Jack climbs up, sets about rolling up some smokes, off-kilter and itchy under Stede’s stare. It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s whatever. He was probably going to smoke a bit today, anyway. Can probably get away with one or two, even with the beer sitting unsettled in his gut, before Stede gets bored and leaves him be. Might even be able to stash the rest between now and then, find a better fucking hiding place where Ed’s boyfriend can’t go snooping the next time he wants to go on a moral crusade.
Wood grinds a protest as Stede forces the window open, letting in some of the balmy afternoon air. The frame is warped like hell from swelling all summer and shrinking every winter, the glass old and dirty, and there’s no flyscreen, but the air outside is late-afternoon fresh, warm and sweet-smelling.
Stede makes himself comfortable on the bed. It’s not the stiff perch on the edge Jack had imagined at all; the fucker makes himself right at home, crossing his legs at the ankle and propping his back against the wall, where he can watch Jack with ease. Jack’s fingers are kind of shaking, which is embarrassing, but he chalks it up to the fact that he hasn’t eaten today. Either that or it’s his indignation, fucking rightfully so with Stede breathing down his neck like this, thinking he gets to tell Jack what to do. Surprisingly bossy, the way so many of Ed’s boyfriends aren’t.
It gets worse when the bastard starts running his mouth.
“You know, I really do hope this teaches you something,” he’s saying, watching Jack’s hands work the grinder. “I meant what I said about the scholarship. It’s in Ed’s best interest to surround himself with people who care about investing in his future, not some errant layabout.”
“Yeah?” returns Jack, making a point to not look at him. “That what he’s been telling you?”
“He doesn’t have to tell me a thing. Ed would never do something this irresponsible.” There’s a certain quality to Stede’s voice beneath the haughtiness; like he’s genuinely disappointed. “He’s obviously more mature than you are. It’s no wonder you dropped out. I was surprised when he told me you’d ever been to university at all.”
“Ooh, university,” Jack mocks, twisting the end of the joint he’s working on before moving onto the next one. “I dropped out ‘cause college is a fucking scam. Bunch of rich assholes and charity cases coasting on someone else’s cash just for a piece of paper that says they’re better than everyone else. Real men go out and work, they don’t waste their time getting some bullshit degree.”
“Oh?” Stede raises his eyebrows, like he’s humouring him. “Is that so?”
“Yeah,” Jack spits, “it is, actually.”
“Then by all means, you should be able to afford to replace a few grams of marijuana. Shouldn’t you?” Jack doesn’t answer. Stede presses, tone lilting, saccharine and condescending. “You must be so busy, always working so hard. Am I keeping you, Jack? Do you need to be at work right now?”
“Do you,” Jack shoots back, voice so hoarse it doesn’t even come out sounding like a question.
Stede laughs. Honest to god laughs, like Jack’s told a joke. “I have the flexibility of deciding my own hours these days, thank goodness. One of the benefits of being a real man.”
Something hot and uncomfortable swivels in Jack’s belly. He ignores it.
He finishes rolling the joints, returning them carefully to the baggie for later. The lighter takes a few tries to catch. Should probably get a new one, but—this one’s got tits on it. Jack leans back, lights up, and breathes in the treacly musk of his first hit, resolving to do quite literally whatever the fuck he needs to in order to successfully ignore Stede. If he’s gonna do this, he’s at least gonna do it with some dignity. Can try to enjoy himself, at the very least.
The smoke burns sweetly at the back of his throat, filling his lungs. He makes sure to blow it all back out in Stede’s direction. It sets him coughing, the second time, and a nasty grin slides over Jack’s face at the sight of him, pink-faced and hacking. If some lame as fuck old man wants to push Jack around just because he’s sleeping with Jack’s roommate, then by all means, Jack’s just gonna be a dick about it.
It only takes him a couple minutes to smoke through the first one. Stede doesn’t let up watching, doesn’t show any signs that his attention is wandering elsewhere, the way Jack was kind of hoping it would. He nods at the baggie, waiting for Jack to light up a second smoke. Right, then. Jack selects a modestly-sized joint, turning it between his fingers before he lights up. It’ll be fine, probably. He can already sort of feel it hitting, but that’s just because his stomach’s empty, nothing but beer to ease him through. He smokes regularly enough that two joints shouldn’t be a problem. He’s not a pussy.
He’s about halfway through his second smoke when it starts to hit properly. Jack’s head swims, thoughts sliding around and away like marbles.
Stede is still watching him, staring.
A high little laugh starts to bubble to the surface of Jack’s throat, threatening to spill over. This is so fucking stupid. Stede really is just gonna sit there watching someone else get stoned. What does he get out of that, Jack wonders, because it’s certainly not gonna be any kind of satisfaction, not if Jack has anything to do with it. He’s gonna, like—fucking—teach him a lesson, maybe, teach him that Jack’s not someone to be messed with. Or, no, that’s not it. That Jack is someone to be messed with. Someone who can take it, who isn’t afraid of the challenge, or… something. One of the benefits of being a real man.
Jack squints in Stede’s direction, trying to get his thoughts to stay in one place. “So what’s your deal, anyway?”
“My… deal?”
“Yeah, you know. Your deal with Eddie.” Jack gestures at him with the joint, which has burnt nearly all the way down to the filter. The heat of the nearing flame feels ticklish, like a sense-memory of friction burn. “How long have you been fucking him?”
Stede sputters, doesn’t answer. Jack’s actually pretty sure he already knows. Was last spring, right after Ed turned twenty-one; they both went to the coast for break, hopped the fence of a country club. Ed ended up swiping some dude’s wallet who had, like, a thousand coupons for sailing lessons on him, which Ed found fucking fascinating for some reason, decided to pretend he found the wallet instead, give it back. It turned out that the guy owned a catamaran, a fucking catamaran, parked ten minutes away at some fancy yacht club, and it turned out that he was trying to pitch free sailing lessons in exchange for nothing but a little company, like it wasn’t colossally obvious why some middle-aged dude was really creeping on college guys. Which is right around the time Jack’s pretty sure Ed started sucking his dick, so. Jack doesn’t care , he’s not, like, judgmental, but he’s an ally, figures having this many gay friends means he ought to be looking out for their best interest or some shit.
It’s in Ed’s best interest to surround himself with people who care about investing in his future, not some errant layabout.
Jack blinks. The joint has burned down to the filter, puttered out. Stede is waiting for him to light another one.
He exhales, taking a minute to gather his bearings so that his mouth will form the shapes it tells him to. “This is pretty fucked up. Like. What you’re doing.” Jack squints. Blinks hard, when it sends his vision sliding all over the place. “Pretty sure I could die, man.”
“I’m quite certain you can’t,” says Stede, and it takes Jack too long to realise he’s moving, scooting closer. He rifles through the baggie, handing Jack an unlit joint that he just stares at, unlit between two fingers. Stede has to light it for him.
Jack’s trying to hold a hit of smoke in his lungs when he remembers he was in the middle of trying to ask something. “Hey. Stede, hey. What’s, like.” He licks his lips. Damn, his mouth is dry. “What’s, like, your whole deal with Ed? Do you just keep him around because he gives good head, or does he actually let you fuck him for real?”
Stede’s eyebrows jump towards his hairline. “You two don’t talk about that sort of thing?”
Jack shrugs. They do, but. Ed doesn’t really let him press for details. Not anymore, not since he started seeing Stede on the reg. It hurt Jack’s feelings, at the start, but he gets enough secondhand information just from listening to Ed get stoned and ramble, even if he’s always careful to omit anything damning from Izzy, who would take it upon himself to hunt Stede for sport if he thought for a second that Ed was no longer in control of the situation. Like he’s Ed’s older brother, not a dude who Jack knows for a fact beats his meat raw over Ed, like, at least three times a week.
Stede is looking at Jack’s mouth. Waiting for him to speak, Jack’s pretty sure. “Is it true you’ve got some sorta, like, monster cock situation?”
“I…” Stede blinks. “Is that… what Ed told you?”
“Nah, but he kinda…” Jack frowns. Is pretty sure he’s forgetting something, a feeling a bit like missing a step on a familiar set of stairs. Can’t put his finger on it. “He walks funny. When he’s been at your place. And he wouldn’t keep coming back otherwise, I don’t think.”
Something shifts in Stede’s expression. Jack sees it, like watching ink swirl around water, something dark spiralling, locking into place beneath the surface. Weird. Weird, weird, weird.
Stede says, “Do you think about sleeping with other boys often, Jack?”
And before Jack can answer, he clarifies—as though it’s a different thing: “Do you think about sleeping with men?”
Something twists through Jack’s stomach at the question. Slithers, deep and scalding, like he’s swallowed a lit match. He’s too high to defend himself, he realises too late, goes through all the trouble of making his brain tell his mouth to shut up until it occurs to him that he’s already spoken, answering immediately and without a trace of self-preservation: “Yeah, all the time.”
Stede is watching him. Unwavering, unsmiling, utterly fucking focused.
Jack tries to sit up. His hand slips on the sheets, sending him pitching down to an elbow. Stede starts like he means to help him, but Jack waves him off, rolling onto his belly and swiping around for the water bottle he knows he left down the side of his bed. He drinks deeply and for a long time, gets it all over himself before he knows what he’s doing. But it helps, having something to coat his mouth with. Cuts through the other sensation that’s like hot coals sitting at the base of his throat.
He wasn’t meant to say that, probably. He thinks? He’s pretty sure it’s meant to be a secret.
“It’s not, like.” He licks his lips, tries to remember what the hell he’s talking about. “I mean, yeah, whatever, I think about it. So what. Doesn’t mean, like—uh—” He fumbles, sucks on the end of a filter for something to do, before remembering too late that he’s meant to be pacing himself and he probably doesn’t need to be smoking more. Realises after that the flame’s gone out anyway. He peers at Stede, hazy. “Doesn’t mean I’m not straight.”
“Right.”
“It’s like how I hook up with Ed, sometimes. Hand stuff doesn’t count. Or like how Izzy always comes sniffing around for me ‘cause he wishes he was hooking up with Ed.” Words seem to just keep pouring out of him. Jack’s mouth works around the filter before he remembers he still has to light it. Flicks his zippo a few times, getting lost in the snick, snick sound. “It’s like… it’s normal. So. Doesn’t matter if I think about it, sometimes.”
“What do you think about, Jack? Tell me.”
Jack doesn’t even consider not answering him. He just blurts it out. “Sucking dick.” Shit. Oh, shit. He probably—he shouldn’t be talking, he always talks when he smokes. He hastens to clarify, “Only because I’ve never done it before. I mean, I have with Izzy, sure, but that’s not the same, it’s not like…” Jack trails off. Shuts up, just in time. It’s not like he’s got anything to choke me with is what he was going to say, and there’s no way he’s saying that to Stede.
Stede’s expression is starting to take on too intense of a quality to look at, like direct sun-glare. “Why is it not the same?”
Jack doesn’t answer him. He may be an asshole, but he’s not about to out Hands, especially not if it means—not if he’s going to out himself too, probably.
It sounds like something he’d do. Something he’d blurt out if he wasn’t careful.
Stede’s gaze drops to Jack’s hands, still holding the unlit joint. “Keep smoking.”
“I—”
“Unless you want me to take it away from you.”
Jack huffs. Tries the lighter again, before he realises it’s already lit. Orange licks at the off-white of the paper, crawling towards his fingers. He must have got it working after all.
“Jack.”
Jack blinks. Something’s not—something doesn’t feel right, his thoughts moving too sluggishly, tripping over one another, clumsy like falling bodies in a crowded room. His mouth doesn’t feel dry anymore; it’s too wet, like he’s salivating.
There’s a hand cupping the back of his head, suddenly. Bringing the joint to his lips.
Jack blinks down at it, going a little cross-eyed. It’s starting to canoe. Ordinarily he’d wet the paper a little on one side to stop it, but that would mean licking Stede’s hand, probably, and the thought makes his face burn.
“Breathe in,” Stede commands, no room for argument.
Jack parts his lips. His tongue bumps up against the backs of Stede’s knuckles anyway. He breathes in, and—
Something happens in the back of his brain, then, makes time go fuzzy. He’s pretty sure Stede asks him a question. Jack’s eyelids feel heavy, and the weight of the filter is cumbersome, pinning his tongue. No, not the filter. Jack blinks, tries to breathe, hauling in a panicked lungful of air through his nose. The smell is wrong. Heady, all salt, body, sweat. The hand in the back of his hair tightens.
Jack blinks again as he realises. That they’re—he’s—and Stede—
“Shh, you’re alright,” Stede whispers, petting him like he’s calming a frightened animal. “Don’t fight it. That’s it, just like that, Jack. Relax your throat.”
The hand he’s got in Jack’s hair firms, tightens. He pulls him off a little before pushing him back down.
Jack makes a tight, panicked sound around the cock in his mouth.
Stede is huge, choking him. Jack starts to fight when he realises, awareness returning like he’s coming out of a bad dream. It feels fucking massive, buried to the tight ring of his throat, nudging against the roof of his mouth. His hands slip and scrabble weakly against Stede’s thighs, at the bedsheets. It feels like he’s been knocked off-balance, tossed carelessly into some other reality, head swimming in all directions heedless of the capabilities of his body. His throat flutters, fighting ineffectively around the intrusion jammed in there, coughing and gagging and drawing in quick anxious breaths that burn his nostrils.
Stede tightens his hand again, pushes Jack’s head down. His cock slides in another half-inch.
Jack lets it.
“Oh, good boy,” Stede groans, pulling Jack by the hair up the length of his cock, pushing him down again. Using him, fucking his face. Jack’s brain is panicking, thoughts flying anxiously a mile a minute, but it’s like his body hasn’t gotten the memo yet, submitting to the intrusion like it thinks going limp will save him, belly-up and playing dead. Stede sucks a breath through his teeth, hips working, rough and overeager. “Good boy, that’s it—not too much, Jackie, you’ll hurt yourself.”
Jack didn’t realise he was moving. Was trying to bob his head, swallowing compulsively.
When Stede pulls him off he immediately starts choking, gasping, spit all over the lower half of his face and stringing from his lips. Feels like someone’s coated him in it, too slick and viscous to be normal. Nausea turns his gut. Jack opens his mouth to say something, probably, but instead he just moans, and the sound of it in his own ears is fucking humiliating, throaty and whorish, looping back through his brain like an echo.
Stede keeps him still with the hand in his hair, staring hard into his face. Then, pointedly, down.
His mouth thins. He’s staring at Jack’s lap like he’s disappointed, like Jack’s done something wrong. Jack’s face is burning. He can’t remember ever blushing this bad, shame like a live animal squirming around inside of him. He’s gone and fucked up, disappointed Stede somehow.
There’s enough blood roaring in his ears to dull most of what Stede’s saying, so that Jack doesn’t even realise he’s talking until he’s nearly finished.
“—nothing we need to worry about, probably just the drugs. You’re still going to let me make you feel good, aren’t you? Let me show you what’s good for you?”
“Uh,” Jack says.
Stede smiles. His eyes do this sort of crinkly thing at the corners, like paper folding up in a fire. And Jack—
He’s gotten onto his back, somehow. He realises too late that Stede’s tugged his pants off.
The realisation is like a slap in the face, like a bucket of ice water. Jack bleats a singular wordless sound, whiteout panic. He shuts his legs, tries to crawl away, to curl in on himself.
Stede’s holding him open, staring down at his bare cunt. “Oh,” he breathes.
Jack can hear his own pulse in his eardrums. Beating like a snare, rabbit-quick. He tries to shut his legs again, too aware of the air on his skin, cooling rapidly where he’s blood-hot and soaked.
Something stops his legs from closing, gets in the way; Stede’s hands, prying him open. Stede’s thumbs, pinning his lips back. Exposing him. Running a finger through where he’s wet and soft and twitching.
“Oh,” Stede breathes again, gaze like a fucking sword pinning Jack to the bed. “I didn’t know.”
“No shit,” Jack chokes, gasping like he’s been lanced. “I don’t—tell people, Jesus, stop—” He tries to shut his legs again. Grunts. Paws blindly, crossing his arms where Stede’s trying to—he’s pretty sure that’s Stede trying to get his shirt off, pulling at the fabric. “It’s not a big deal.”
“No,” Stede agrees easily.
Jack makes a wordless, strangled sound. “Not a fuckin’—don’t make it a thing.”
Stede blinks down at him, stare searing-intense on his face. “Alright,” he agrees. He turns his attention back to removing Jack’s clothing.
Jack’s gaze tips up to the ceiling, head gone all swimmy again. He’s pretty sure he’s not meant to be letting Stede strip him. Stede, who’s acting like he can’t tell Jack doesn’t want it, is squirming to get away from him. The skin of his open palms is like hot velvet, touching Jack all over, careless possession, leisurely exploration. Jack shivers, hard.
He needs to make his brain work. Focus. He can’t be lying here, greening out in front of Stede fucking Bonnet of all people, letting him—letting him. But it’s like whenever Jack tries, it just gets harder, his thoughts turned slippery, darting away all in different directions like trying to catch water droplets in his hands. His body feels light; like air, sparking and weightless, a pop-rocks fizzing sensation shooting down every limb. It feels good, he’s pretty sure, in that his body feels one way even if his brain is somewhere else. Jack realises he’s making noises again, breathing through his open mouth, panting.
Maybe it’s not so bad that this is happening to him. Could be that it’s a good thing, that his brain just needs to get on board with it, stop trying so hard to fight it or figure it out. Maybe he just—just—
“Uhn,” Jack says, intelligently.
Stede adds a third finger, sliding easily to the second knuckle inside of him. Jack didn’t even notice the first two.
He panics, then. Starts to fight in earnest, body thrashing on auto-pilot. He doesn’t—he never—Jack’s straight, he’s straight, and even when he’s not acting the straightest it’s not like he does this, not like he bottoms, not like he ever lets people touch him like that, touch him there. He rears up, tries to get a sense of balance in his own body, even though it feels like trying to walk over fresh wet ice. Slurs, “Wha—”
“Shh,” Stede hisses.
Jack doesn’t like it. Instantly, he doesn’t like it: the way that it sounds, the harsh timbre. He whines, sharp and through his nose. Thinks he must make some other noise, something that communicates how he’s feeling, because Stede’s eyes snap to his face, softening at whatever he gleans from Jack’s expression. “You’re quite endearing like this. Pliant—pathetic, really—but at least you’re behaving.”
Jack shivers again. Something blunt nudges up against his entrance, the very edge of his hole where Stede’s set him aching, caused a dulled but distinctive pinch. Stede’s cock, sliding through his folds. Jack’s heart is beating hard in his neck, panic nesting in his skull with purpose, like it’s going to crack him open from the inside.
“Hmm,” Stede hums. “I wonder if… I really should…” But whatever he really should, he doesn’t communicate. There’s a rush of cold air as he gets up, leaves. Abandons him. Abandons Jack, he’s left him, Stede’s left him he’s left him he’s left—
Jack blinks rapidly at the ceiling. Something hot and stinging prickles at his eyes. He can’t move, spread and naked and supine. Head, thoughts, guts all churning, winding tight like he’s going to be sick.
It can’t be more than a minute that Stede leaves him there, but by the time his face hovers back into view Jack’s started hyperventilating. Stede tuts, eyebrows pinching together. “Now, now, there’s no need for dramatics. I only left to get a condom.”
Jack’s gaze manages to land on his face, questioning. Stede huffs a short laugh.
“Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to, either. But goodness knows how clean you really are. I certainly don’t feel confident asking you in such a state.”
Shame buffets Jack’s body. He’s filled with the insane urge to apologise, suddenly. “S… sor—” His throat constricts, raw from abuse, mangling his attempt to speak. “M’sorry.”
“Hush.” Stede’s not looking at him. He’s rolling on the condom, fisting himself at the base of his cock.
Jack tries to sit up on his elbows. It’s like attempting telekinesis, like his body is something wholly separate from his brain. Stede swipes his cockhead over Jack’s hole again, catching against his rim, rubbing all the way up to his cock where it’s pink and swollen, luridly visible under the dark blonde thatch of hair. Then he’s pushing, breaching, bullying his way into Jack’s yielding body.
It hurts. It hurts. It’s like being split open, a tight squeezing invasion. Like being hollowed out. Jack’s so wet that it’s coating his thighs, soaked to the sheets beneath him, and there’s barely any friction, but he’s vice-tight and Stede is big, way too fucking big to be driving in the way he’s doing, an unending barge into Jack’s body that has a sharp scream building in the back of his throat.
It takes several strokes to get all the way in, Stede hissing and muttering through his teeth. He stops only once his hips are flush against Jack’s, pressed pelvis-to-pelvis.
Jack realises he’s trembling, badly. Makes a high, pitchy noise that gets cut off by Stede’s palm landing on his throat. Not choking, not hard, but squeezing, gentle and controlling. It starts Jack panting all the same, pulse fluttering insect-fast, so arrhythmic he’s sure Stede can feel it.
The cock inside him jumps, twitches.
Stede’s not watching his face anymore. Not watching how Jack must be turning red as fucking blood, the way it all keeps rushing to his head. He’s staring instead at the place where they’re joined, watching his own cock sliding in and out of Jack’s body. He hisses. Must be tight, must be choking him, the way it feels to Jack like being hammered open by a fucking battering ram. Stede stops, adjusts, moves Jack around like he’s weightless—and Jack’s not huge or anything, but he’s tall, is decently muscled, and Stede’s just tossing him around like it’s nothing. Hefting him, stuffing a pillow under his hips, putting Jack where he wants him like he’s a doll, something to be adjusted and positioned and fucked—
“Oh,” Stede breathes, like he’s been punched. “That’s better. Getting into it, are we?”
Jack is making noise on every exhale. His face feels wet, smeared with spit and maybe—probably—something else, fuck. Is he crying, he really hopes he’s not crying—
Stede draws back, fucks in. Grabs Jack by the hips and pulls him down onto his cock, hard. It punches a startled moan straight out of Jack’s lungs with the last of his air, like he’s been gutted, ridden and bounced and driven into.
Stede starts properly fucking him. Holds his thighs apart and pistons inside, hard and mean and unerring. There’s a pressure building in Jack’s belly, something he’s scared is the nausea creeping back, and he’s suddenly terrified that he’s gonna humiliate himself by puking all over Stede, god— he channels all his focus into not vomiting, fighting it, focusing so hard on relaxing that he ends up just going limp under Stede’s body, boneless, and Stede groans and draws back and fucks him, pounds into him like Jack’s done something right.
He gets a hand back in Jack’s hair, draws his head up. Digs in viciously tight as he holds Jack’s face to the crook of his neck and sets about pounding his insides. He pulls Jack down so he can see him, gaze flying over Jack’s face, his half-lidded eyes, dumbstruck, his open and drool-slick mouth.
Stede rears back. Digs a thumb into Jack’s bottom lip, pinning it open. Spits right into Jack’s open mouth.
Jack chokes, eyes squeezing shut, body seizing. Feels himself clench around Stede’s cock. God. God. There’s something about it, being used like this, so perversely disrespected and unable to fight it, unable to even convince his mind to focus properly on what’s happening—it’s breaking Jack’s brain a little, thoughts darting in all manner of terrified directions. The taste of precome and weed and Stede’s spit in his mouth. He realises too late that the high-pitched noise he’s hearing is him, wrecked moans driven out of his body, a high-tight continuous uh uh uh like he’s sobbing.
“—good boy,” Stede mutters, low and vicious as growls and right the fuck into Jack’s ear. “Good boy, can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted—how many times—” He cuts off, fucking harder, faster.
There’s some sort of tight pressure building in Jack’s core, strange and sharp like the urge to piss. Stede’s belly is rubbing on him with every pass, they’re pressed so tightly together.
“Ed and I talked about you,” Stede hisses, reverent as fucking prayer. “Talked about sharing you. He told me all about—about how you are, how cocky, how fucking—undisciplined, trailing after the older men he brings home, so clearly desperate, just like he is, so clearly in need of a father figure—”
Jack is openly wailing now, body winding tight, horror overtaking every nerve as he realises that he’s going to fucking come like this. He’s going to come speared on Stede’s cock with Stede’s cruel words in his ear and there’s not a thing he can do to stop it.
“But that’s alright,” Stede is saying, still fucking talking. “I’m here now—here to fuck you, here to keep you in line. Oh—you sweet, poor boy, I see you. I know how badly you want to be good for me, Jack.” He leans in, bending Jack nearly in half, punctuating every few words with a vicious jab of his hips. “I’m here to make sure you get what’s best for you and that you don’t—disappoint—anyone else—”
And that’s it, Jack’s coming. Like pulling a trigger, like a bomb going off. His eyes fly open, the cry punched from his wet open mouth as he seizes, spilling, gushing around Stede’s cock.
Stede snarls, fucking him. Not slowing, not even when Jack starts threshing, writhing, fighting wretchedly to get away. Stede fucks him until he’s on the edge of his own climax, and then—only then—does he pull out, strip the condom off, and fist himself over Jack’s belly, hand flying, cock a shiny reddish smudge through the blur of his fingers until he’s shooting off all the way up to Jack’s chest.
It gets all over him, everywhere. His bare chest, his tits, his belly. A stray shot catches him on the chin.
Stede flops onto his back after, panting. “Goodness me,” he groans. “That was—my goodness.”
Jack grunts. Would comment on the fact that Stede’s the sort of guy to say goodness me right after blasting rope all over someone else’s face if he wasn’t busy trying not to black out. He curls onto his side, shivering. His head swims, muscles lurching through earthquake tremors as his body tries to come down.
There’s a snick, snick that’s Stede trying to work the lighter. It takes significant effort for Jack to turn his head. Stede is lighting up the end of one of the forgotten joints. He draws in a slow exhale, sputters only a little, and doesn’t hold the smoke in for long enough before he breathes out. “I haven’t enjoyed one of these since I was in university,” he confesses.
Jack doesn’t say anything. Can’t seem to make his mouth move. Can’t seem to move at all, except to blink slow and heavy.
Stede smiles lopsidedly. Brings the joint to Jack’s lips, pressing inside. “Suck,” he commands.
Jack sucks. Inhales. Breathes in the smoke, obediently.
He holds it, lungs burning, tears welling up in his eyes until Stede takes the joint away. It comes tearing out of him. He coughs, chokes, sputters, heaving. Finally manages to turn onto his side to retch over the edge of the bed. Nothing comes up, but it wants to, stomach gripping the empty space that’s filled with beer and probably pre-jizz, or else just Stede’s spit rolling around in there. God. Fucking hell.
Stede’s hand draws a slow circle on his back. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, tenderly patronising. “You’re alright, Jack.”
“Fuhyou,” Jack manages, slurring.
Stede tuts. Draws his fingers to Jack’s face, over his bottom lip, applying pressure until his mouth drops open and pinning his tongue. He fucks them lazily in and out, hooking over the backs of Jack’s teeth until his eyes slip shut.
“You know,” Stede says casually, “I think I like you better like this.”
Jack grunts. His eyelids are too heavy to pry back open. He’s going to feel like shit tomorrow.
There’s a smile in Stede’s voice. “Rest up,” he says brightly. “I’ll be here to take care of you.”