Chapter Text
Alma and Louis are helping Stede clean out the garage. Alma finds a shoebox labeled DAYTONA 1990 with red dyno tape. “What’s this, Dad?” Alma asks.
“Um, nothing!” Stede rushes over in a panic. He’d forgotten all about that box. “Just some old photos. Nothing to see! Please, Alma, give me that box!”
“Oh, now I gotta see!” She rips it opens. “Hey Lou, I found some of Dad’s old college pictures!” Louis comes running.
“No, really kids,” Stede protests, “please don’t, PLEASE DON’T LOOK!—” …but it’s too late.
“Oh my God, Dad, is this you?” Picture after picture reveals Stede doing some very un-Stedelike things. Posing on stage in a wet t-shirt. Executing a flawless keg stand. Pulling a six-foot bong rip. Vomiting into a trash can. Kissing girls. Kissing boys.
“Where’s Mom in these pictures?” Alma asks anxiously, with the growing fear of Pandora watching untold horrors fly from the box she was warned not to open.
“Uh, yeah, she wasn’t there.” Stede admits. “That was her year abroad. I went a little…um, crazy, I suppose, while she was away.”
“A little crazy?” Louis cackles. “Holy shit Dad. I wonder what a lot crazy looks like!” He holds up a polaroid of an intoxicated young Stede. In the picture Stede is leaning against a shaggy blond-haired boy with a handlebar moustache, who is wearing a pair of faded cutoffs so short and tight they might have been denim hotpants. His cropped Florida Gators shirt reveals an impressive six-pack. One of the strange boy’s hands is wrapped around a bottle of Coor’s Banquet beer, and the other arm is draped around Stede, holding a joint to his lips. Stede’s eyes are closed, his expression is dreamy; while he is ostensibly taking a hit off the joint, what he’s really doing is unmistakable: he’s kissing the boy’s fingers by proxy.
Stede sighs. “That, children, is what a lot crazy looks like.” He takes the picture from Louis and chuckles softly. He touches the face of the boy gently and his eyes grow misty with reminiscence.
“Jack. His name was Jack.”
Stede gazes at the polaroid for a long time, his fingers tracing over the lines of the boy’s thighs and belly. Alma and Louis exchange uncomfortable glances, knowing they’ve opened a can of worms but also fascinated to discover another side of the father they thought they knew. Finally Louis asks, carefully, “Does Mom know about this?”
“No. Please don’t tell her.” Not that their mother would be shocked, or even mildly interested. They’d been carrying on separate private lives for years: Mary with her art instructor Doug, Stede with a bartender named Edward. But it was different between them when they were in college, when they still thought they were soul mates, before Stede understood that he would never love her the way he sincerely wished he could. He suspects that Mary wouldn’t care, even now, to learn salacious details about Stede’s past infidelities with men, but she would be furious to know the children found out.
“But Dad! You have to tell us, now!” Alma insists.
Stede puts the picture back into the box. “There’s not much to tell,” he lies. “We met during Spring Break. We had a dalliance. That’s it really.”
“Did you keep in touch with him?” Louis asks.
“Of course not. It was a different time. There was no social media or anything like that. You’d have to write letters, and long-distance phone calls cost a fortune, and you’d have to make an effort, and it wasn’t like that with him. We just had… fun.”
Alma presses the issue. “Have you looked him up? What’s he doing now?”
“Honestly kids, I had forgotten about him completely until ten minutes ago. I have no idea what became of him. Probably in prison or running an underground reptile zoo, if he hasn’t been killed in some fiery misadventure.” Stede rubs his eyes, wiping away a tear that threatens to spill. “He was a wild one.”
Louis clears his throat with discomfort.
“Kids. I’m serious. It was a long time ago. I’m trusting you not to tell your mother you found this box. Promise me you won’t let it slip.”
“Fine, we promise," they chorus.
Stede trusts them not to tell. He knows it’s enough for them to have solid blackmail material to use against him.
That night, after everyone has gone to sleep, Stede creeps downstairs, locks the door to his study, and logs onto Facebook to search for “Jack Rackham.” He finds him immediately.
The public face of Jack shows he is doing well. Still living in Florida (of course). High school teacher and football coach. Nice house with a yard. Two brindle pitbulls named Anne and Mary. Married to an Israel Hands.
He has aged beautifully. He’s kept his shaggy blond hair and moustache, both now graced with a touch of grey. There are several pictures of Jack posing with a diminutive man, equally handsome, with a grey goatee and a small tattoo of an X by his left eye. Stede surmises that this is his husband, and admires the sheer ballsiness of Jack, as a high school teacher in Florida, to live openly gay and married to a man; it’s something that Stede, although he lives in one of the bluest of blue states, has yet to find the courage to do.
Jack seems happy. Not just the surface happiness everyone shows in their public social media profiles, but really and truly happy.
It is because Jack seems so happy that Stede feels emboldened to compose a DM.
Jack, I doubt you remember me, but I found some old pictures of us from Spring Break in Daytona 1990 and I was compelled to look you up. I was delighted to see you still have the moustache ;-) I’m glad to see you have a good life. Best, Stede Bonnet.
He hits Send before he can second guess himself, and lies awake for hours, remembering the taste of beer and smoke lingering on a handlebar moustache.
The next morning Stede finds a friend request and a message:
That you, Steve? Holy shit. Yeah, it’s been a minute! Of course I remember you. Looks like you’ve done alright for yourself too, although IIRC there was never much doubt about that. (Your wife is hot, BTW) You’d be interested to know both that bar and motel in Daytona have since burned down but I swear it wasn’t my fault–not the motel, anyway LOL! I’d love to see those pictures of us, if you’re ok with sharing 'em. Fondly, Jack
Stede’s finger hovers a moment over the Accept button. It feels like friending Jack might be opening a portal that should remain sealed; like entering into some unholy bargain that could blow up in unimaginable ways.
He starts to imagine some of the ways and clicks Accept.
He declines to send a wave to his newest Facebook friend, having learned the hard way that simply Is Not Done, and begins scrolling through Jack’s protected content.
There are more pictures of his dogs, some memes Stede isn’t sure he understands, a selection of profanity-laced political rants (Stede would call him a “militant liberal”), and more pictures of his husband, who apparently does not enjoy having his photograph taken.
One picture of Israel at a football game shows him wearing a red Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt, scowling and holding two middle fingers up to the camera.
Hi again, it occurs to me you might prefer I bypass social media and send you the pictures directly, as some are rather saucy 🫣. Is there an email address you could share?
Jack is online. He answers right away:
Oh yeah haha good thinking! That’s the advantage of being old…all the stupid shit we did as kids stays off the record! LOL! Send ‘em to [whippeeeez (at) gmail] (that’s with 4 e’s) Thanks buddy! Looking forward to the sauce 😋
Chapter 2
Summary:
Stede shares a cigarette and some memories with Edward
Chapter Text
Stede allows himself one cigarette a week. He shares it with Edward during their Wednesday evening rendezvous. After sex they lie in Edward’s bed together, passing the cigarette back and forth, chatting about their week, enjoying each other’s company.
Edward blows a series of perfect smoke rings. “So hey, I told Roach I’d cover for him next Wednesday night.” He passes the cigarette to Stede. “We can get together on Tuesday instead if that works for you?”
“I get to have you a day sooner?” Stede kisses the mermaid tattoo on Edward’s shoulder. “I think I can make that work. Of course, the week afterwards is going to be that much longer.”
“You’ll live. I’ll send some dick pics to tide you over.”
Stede sits up. “Speaking of dick pics… the kids found some incriminating evidence of my misspent youth last weekend. Some pictures from Spring Break my junior year.”
“Oh ho ho, that’s gonna cost you!” Although Edward hadn’t met Stede’s children, he’s heard many tales of their avarice and the considerable expense of keeping their confidence; he suspects Stede has confused extortion for bonding, but it isn’t his place to provide family counseling.
“They found some pictures of a guy I hooked up with, once upon a time. Hadn’t thought of him in years, now I can’t get him out of my mind.” He looks down at Edward and is lost for a moment in his enormous brown eyes. “I’m sorry, darling. You don’t want to hear about all this.”
“Stede. I may be your mistress” –Edward smiles at their private joke and bats his long eyelashes– “but I am also your friend. Talk to me.” He holds out his arms to Stede, who settles in comfortably.
“All right, then. So what happened was, I was supposed to go to Turks and Caicos with my fraternity but I ditched them to go to Daytona instead.”
“Ah, slumming were you?” Edward kisses his temple. “All tasted up for a bit of sweaty rough? Love that for you!”
“Something like that. I found out these brothers I hated were also going, the Badminton twins…” Stede shudders with the memory. “Long story there but anyway, my friend Jeffrey Fettering asked me last minute if I wanted to go down to Daytona with him instead and I was like yeah, fuck those guys, I’m going with Jeffrey.”
“Good man, Jeffrey.”
“Indeed. So we get there and it’s an utter madhouse. Like Lord of the Flies, but with bong hits and bikinis. And breasts! So many breasts, Edward. Just waiting to be fondled.” He makes the universal gesture for “fondle” with his hands. “You can’t even imagine.”
Edward clears his throat. “Um babe, I cut my teeth behind the bar in Nags Head. Who do you think was pouring tequila shots for you little miscreants?”
“Fair enough.”
“So what did Mary think about all this?” Edward had not met Stede's wife either, but he feels she is in many ways a kindred spirit.
“She had no idea! She was in Paris that year, having it off herself, I imagine, with some smutty-eyed Galouses-smoking Frenchman named Etienne.”
“Ooh, now he sounds hot!” Edward chuckled.
“Yeah well, there we were, me and Jeffrey Fettering, two Ivy League refugees, set adrift in this bacchanalian frenzy, completely out of our element. It was glorious!”
“Okay so how did you meet this guy–what’s his name?”
“Jack. He pissed on my shoes!”
Edward sputters. “You’re kidding?”
“No! We were at a urinal trough and very drunk. I think he turned to say something to someone standing behind me or something, but the next thing I knew my sneakers were soaked and this drunken oaf next to me was all like oops, pissed on your boots! So I slugged him. Started a dicks-out brawl right there in the men’s room! It was epic.”
“Holy shit! What a lunatic!”
“I was wasted! We all were.” Stede waves his hand. “All in good fun. So yeah, I don’t know how he found out who I was or where I was staying, but the next day I woke to find a brand-new pair of Jesus sandals hanging on my motel room door and a note on the motel stationery that said ‘Dear Steve,’--Steve with a v, for fuck’s sake!-- ‘Sorry about your shoes, these are better for the beach anyway. Jack.’ And he put his room number down because as fate would have it he was staying at the very same motel.”
“Very smooth! Not at all stalkery.”
“Oh you remember how it was at twenty! Stalking is one of the love languages.”
Edward snickers.
”So then I went to his room to thank him and he invited me in to shower with him and just like that, we were inseparable for the rest of the week.”
Edward kisses his temple again. “You slut.”
“What can I say, it was a nice pair of sandals.”
“Was he the first boy you fucked?” Edward asks.
“Oh heavens no!” Stede laughs. “But he was the first boy who fucked me.” Edward raises an eyebrow. “He was the first boy–the first person I guess–I really felt something visceral for, in my guts, like in those moments we were together I would kill or die just to touch him, you know?” He stubs out the cigarette. “Like for the first time in my life I actually understood what all those horny hair metal songs were about.”
Edward nods. “So what happened with him?’
Stede shrugs. “The week ended. I went back to my life and he went back to his. And that was that.”
“And you never stayed in touch?”
“What would be the point? I wasn’t even sure I was gay yet, and I don't know where he was on his journey either. Mary came home soon after and then we got engaged, and I managed to put the whole episode out of my mind until the kids found those pictures last weekend.”
Edward lies back and lights a fresh cigarette. He doesn't say anything for a long time.
Finally Stede speaks. “So, I looked him up on Facebook.”
Edward rolls his eyes. “Of course you did.” He blows a steady stream of smoke out of his nostrils. “Did you find him?”
“Of course I did.” Stede admits. “And he sent me a friend request.”
“Did you accept?”
“Of course I did.”
Edward scoffs. “Idiot. You’re playing with fire, you know that, right?”
Stede feigns innocence. “I don’t know what you mean. There’s no harm in reconnecting with an old friend, is there? Apparently he’s a happily married man.” He pulls Edward on top of him. His long grey curls drape around Stede’s face like a veil. “And I have more than I can handle, right here.”
“Do you love me, Stede?” Edward asks softly.
“You know I do.”
“I like to hear you say it.”
“I love you Edward.” Stede holds Edward’s face and gazes into his eyes. “Beautiful man, you are my whole heart.” He pulls Edward’s face down to kiss.
“Can you stay the night?” Edward whispers against Stede’s mouth.
“You’ll have to set the alarm for five.” Stede warns.
Edward rolls off Stede and groans. “Oh fuck that noise. How about I blow you one more time and then you can shove off, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan, darling.”
Stede ends up staying the night anyway. Edward doesn’t set the alarm.
Chapter 3
Summary:
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
--Leonard Cohen
Spring Break is over and Stede has to go home.
Notes:
Please note the rating change to Explicit and the update to the tags! Horndogs gonna horn.
Many thanks to my beta crew: Cannibalsnplaid, phoestiel, and Despising_Tories! Nobody does smut with feelings better than you.
Chapter Text
In the pre-dawn semi-darkness, as quickly and quietly as he was able, Stede pulled on his jeans and his t-shirt. He found his new gifted sandals and made it as far as the door when his bare foot connected with an empty beer can. The clatter as it fell cracked the stillness of the motel room and Stede suspected Jack had placed it there, just for this purpose, to prevent an easy getaway.
“I know you’re not leaving without saying goodbye, you chickenshit motherfucker,” Jack grumbled from the bed, his face smushed against the pillow.
“That was the plan,” Stede admitted, overwhelmed with longing to abandon every plan he ever had for his own future and go back to that bed, forever; to grab hold of Now and forget all about Then or When. “Figured it’d be easier for us both.”
“C’mere.” Jack reached out his arm. Stede dropped his sandals and curled in next to him, inhaling the delicious mixture of heavy musk, stale sweat, and sour beer that was uniquely, intoxicatingly Jack.
“What is there to say?” Stede whispered around the lump in his throat. “This was maybe the best week of my life. I didn’t know how else to end it.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Jack traced Stede’s lower lip with his thumb. “By the way, I lied. I’m not sorry I pissed on your shoes.”
Stede took Jack’s thumb into his mouth and nibbled gently. “You’ve marked me. I’m yours now.”
“Bullshit. What happens in Daytona stays in Daytona.” He lifted his head off the pillow. “Goddamn. You’re so pretty, you know that?” He caressed the planes of Stede’s face with his fingers and his eyes. “Never seen a dude as pretty as you. You're like one of those paintings in a museum, you know? Just put a golden halo on you and feed you to the fucking lions or something.”
Stede tried to smile at the weirdness of Jack’s appraisal, but a tear slipped out of his eye and down his nose, then another. Jack wiped them away. “Oh my god, this is exactly why I didn’t want to wake you,” Stede whimpered. "I planned to save all my crying for the journey home.”
“Ha ha, that poor bastard Jeffrey!” Jack took hold of Stede’s hand. “You wanna?” he asked softly. He turned Stede’s hand palm up and placed a kiss in the center of it. “You got time for one more?”
The corner of Stede’s mouth lifted into a crooked smile. “Yeah. Jeffrey can wait a few minutes.” he murmured. “This won’t take long.”
“Haha, Steve’s got jokes!” Jack chuckled. “Can I?” he asked with more urgency. After a pause of mutual understanding, Stede nodded. Jack kissed his open palm again, then spat into it and wrapped it around his cock.
Stede rolled Jack onto his back. He kissed Jack’s moustache, then his mouth. He worked his way down Jack’s body, committing the taste and texture of every part to his memory: the sharp stubble on his chin and neck, the tendons of his throat, the hair on his chest, the firmness of his belly, the dip of his navel. He kissed up the length of Jack’s thick cock and teased the ridge on the underside with his tongue until Jack whimpered.
Jack grabbed handfuls of Stede’s curls. “Oh fuck, baby,” he gasped. “Your mouth, baby, oh fuck.” He pulled Stede’s head up to his and roughly pushed his tongue into Stede’s open mouth. “Take off your pants,” he ordered.
“No," Stede demurred. "Let me.” He forced Jack’s arms down to the mattress. He threw his leg over Jack, straddling him, and sat back on his heels. “I want to go back to Dartmouth with the taste of your come down my throat.” He began his journey of worship again, realizing with increasing sadness that the parts he had enjoyed the most about Jack’s body were the same parts he would not find on Mary’s. Although at that moment he was not capable of coherent thought, later he would decide it wasn’t cheating on a woman to be with a man for this very reason.
When he arrived at Jack’s cock again he stopped to breathe in the moment. “You’re magnificent,” he whispered. He looked up into Jack’s eyes. “You truly are. Not just your cock, I mean, although your cock is magnificent all by itse–”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, will you stop talking and suck me already!” Jack groaned.
Without breaking his gaze, Stede opened his throat to take Jack down to the root until his nose pressed into the thatch of fragrant hair at the base. He felt Jack’s hands pushing his head down, twisting his curls to the point of pain. He closed his eyes and swallowed around Jack’s cock, shutting out all thought and emotion, delighting in the sheer sensory input. “Ohmygodtakeitbaby ohsweetjesusyourmouth ohsogoodfuckbaby” Jack babbled.
He came with a shout–“oh FUCK!” –then lay panting, his grip on Stede’s head loosened but not released.
Stede was reluctant to let go of Jack’s softening cock. His tongue stroked the slit for the last remnants of come, savoring the taste of him, the heat and texture of his skin. Jack pulled Stede’s head up and, hands on either side of his face, kissed him deeply. His fingers found the dip in the flesh that in more joyful moments formed his dimple.
Finally, Stede broke the kiss and pulled his head away; the involuntary action of a body needing to live more than a mind wanting to drown. He pressed his forehead to Jack’s, as if the vibrations inside his own mind could transfer into Jack’s, sparing them both the need for words. “Who knew Daytona was the most wonderful place on earth?” he whispered.
“Yeah, who knew,” Jack murmured. “Don’t worry, it’ll be a shithole again as soon as you leave.”
Stede rolled away from Jack and off the bed. He collected his treasured sandals and staggered to the door, his own cock so hard it was difficult to walk. He wanted to preserve that erection as long as he could, just as he wanted to preserve each moment of the past week. He’d found a brighter version of himself in Jack’s embrace, but it was a costume, and a rented one at that. He knew how fleeting the magic was, and he feared what he would remember most was knowing how soon it would be forgotten.
He looked back at Jack. The sun had risen behind the blackout curtains and a strip of light bisected Jack’s torso, illuminating his flesh like golden marble. Stede was overcome with some aching emotion that was too sharp to be love, but still too tender to be lust. He wanted to say so much at that moment but he did not trust himself to speak.
A ghost of sadness crumpled Jack’s face for a moment before it rearranged itself into its usual smirk. He winked. “So long, Steve,” he muttered thickly, then he rolled over to the other side of the bed, his back to the door.
Stede barely managed to close the door behind him before he could no longer contain his tears.
Chapter Text
From: Stede Bonnet [[email protected]]
To: Jack Rackham [[email protected]]
Hi!
Here are those photos. I supposed by today’s standards they are pretty tame, but my children were shocked (and I dare say impressed) to see how well I could execute a keg stand!
The pictures of you are lovely. I especially like the one of us sharing the joint; it encapsulates the mood I remember of our time together, which remains one of the best weeks of my life. But it is hard, isn’t it, to imagine ever having been so young, even when sifting through a box of the evidence.
Enjoy!
Warmly,
SMB
Attachments
“Hey babydoll, check this out!” Jack thrusts his iPhone into Izzy’s line of sight, disregarding the stack of term papers he’s attempting to grade.
“What’s all this then?” Izzy peers at the phone over the rim of his spectacles. “Oh my word. Who is this golden god?” He takes the phone from Jack’s hand, removes his glasses, and pinches out the photo to scrutinize the image in further detail.
The screen displays a photo of a Jack taken years before Izzy had met him. He is wearing a snug yellow tank shirt trimmed with green piping, the logo for “Brooks Brothers Alligator Farm” silk-screened across the front. His hands are pressed against the doorjamb over his head, making his biceps bulge and his shirt ride up to reveal his taut, tanned belly. The hunger in his eyes for whomever was on the other side of the camera is evident; even though Izzy has shared this man’s bed for more than a decade, he feels a twinge of voyeurism knowing that hunger was not meant for him.
“That’s your old man, from spring break my junior year,” says Jack proudly. “Right before I got scouted by the Bengals. Wasn’t I a sweet piece of ass?”
“You still are.” Izzy declares. “Good lord, did you always have that moustache?”
Jack laughs. “Yep, sure did, I was born with it!”
“My god,” Izzy marvelled. “You look like the Brawny paper towel man posing for Playgirl!”
“I still have those abs.” Jack squeezes the soft layer of flesh on his midriff. “Down here, somewhere.”
Izzy smiles and pokes at his husband’s belly. “I prefer the late model Rackham, thank you very much.” He swipes through the images. “Oh, hello , who do we have here?” He holds up a photo of a blond boy dancing on a stage, face and arms raised to receive a shower of liquid most likely water, his nipples pointing sharply through the wet fabric of his t-shirt. Dollar bills were floating in the air around him and a few had fallen around his sandaled feet.
“Ah. Yeah.” Jack’s smile turns wistful. “That was Stede.”
“Steve?”
“Nah, Stede. With a D. Like a horse.”
“What the fuck kind of posh twat name is ‘Stede’?”
“Good name for a posh twat.” Jack shakes his head with the memory. “When he cut loose, though… he really fucking cut loose.”
Izzy gasps in mock horror and clutches imaginary pearls on his bare chest. “Did you have relations?”
Jack smirks. “And how.”
“Good for you, love.” Izzy fist bumps Jack. He enjoys hearing stories of Jack’s wild exploits from the years before they met; memories of Thatcher’s reign of terror, as well as the culture of shame enforced by Section 28, had left an indelible stain on his own formative experiences. “He looks like the wanker from ‘Pretty in Pink’,” Izzy observes. “Always wanted to bend that one over a stack of social registers.”
“Wanna see what he looks like now?” Jack pulls his laptop from the nightstand and unlocks the screen. It is already open to Stede’s profile on Facebook, which Izzy notes with suspicion.
“So, you’ve friended this Mr. Stede Bonnet,” he says evenly.
Jack shrugs. “He just reached out to me, out of the blue, to say he’d found those old pictures.”
Izzy raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I see.”
“Yeah, I’d forgotten all about him,” Jack insists.
“Did you now.” Izzy suspects Jack may be lying but decides not to press the issue. He and Jack don’t own each other; while their marriage isn’t by definition an open one, neither of them are inclined to enforce strict rules of fidelity.
Izzy scrolls through Stede’s facebook photo album. “Looks like he’s got a nice family.” His eyes crinkle. "Hmm, think his wife knows? She has to, yeah? No straight man over 40 wears jeans that tight.” He scrutinizes the images of Stede’s children. “Well, the girl is his, that’s for sure. Can’t say for certain about the boy, though.”
Jack chuckles at Izzy’s commentary. He loves this salty little man so much it’s stupid.
Izzy closes the laptop and continues his perusal of the older pictures on Jack’s phone. He finds the photo of Jack holding the joint to Stede’s lips, and zooms in on the unblemished flesh of Jack’s left arm. ‘That was from before the accident, yeah?” he asks softly. Jack nods. “Such a bright young thing.” Izzy muses.
Jack ruminates briefly on the future he’d mapped out before the fire that had destroyed his NFL ambitions, a future in which he would not have met Izzy, then waves off the concern. “I’d say your boy did all right for himself.”
“I dare say he has at least seventy-five percent fewer traumatic brain injuries.” Izzy never hesitates to voice his criticisms about American football, despite–or perhaps because of–Jack’s high school coaching career. Jack rolls his eyes and mutters don’t go there, unwilling to be pulled into their familiar argument for which there was no resolution.
Izzy flicks to the next picture. “Oh my,” he breathes. “Did you take this?”
The boy, Stede, lay sleeping on a motel room bed, a study of shadows and tones in violet light, the sweetness of his expression indicating untroubled dreams. His hands were tucked beneath his cheek, and the sheet over his hips was low enough to reveal a whisper of pubic hair. Distant neon lights outside the window were reflected on surfaces in the background of the frame, providing enough contrast to balance the darkness, but not enough to pull focus from the subject.
Jack has a twinge of guilt; what seemed intimate then feels predatory in hindsight. “Oh, yeah. I was just messing around. Looks kinda rapey now, I guess, but he wasn’t mad about it.”
“Oh no, not that,” Izzy reassures him, “I mean this is a stunning photograph! Did you set this up?”
“Nah, I was just capturing what was there.” He props his chin on Izzy’s shoulder. “Ok maybe I did pull the sheet down a little, you know, kind of a tribute to Annie Leibovitz.”
“The death of Chatterton, as shot by Robert Mappelthorpe.” Izzy snorts. “Brilliant.” He turns his head to nuzzle Jack’s cheek. “Didn’t know you had the eye.”
“Aw, thanks, baby.” Jack glows with the praise. “You really think it’s that good?”
“I do think so.” Izzy says. “I think you have a real gift. Always thought so.” He nods. “Yeah, a knack for…” he waves his hand, trying to think of the words, “...visual poetry? Is that a thing?”
“It is if you say it is, Professor Hands.”
Izzy kisses Jack’s cheek and retrieves his red pen from where it fell under his pillow. “Right then, break time is over,” he announces. “Gotta get back to these papers.” He jerks his head to the dogs in their crates by the door. “Go on, take the girls out for walkies.”
At the sound of the word “walkies,” Anne and Mary leap up from their beds, tails wagging, and trot out of the room.
Jack swings his long legs out from under the duvet and pulls on sweatpants. “Why, you want a minute alone to wank over that picture of Stede?” he jokes.
“The only thing I want to wank over is my gorgeous husband when he comes back from walking the dogs.” Izzy replaces his glasses on his nose, and peers up at Jack over the rims. “And bring me a cuppa, would you, love?”
“Anything for you, babydoll.”
From: Jack Rackham [[email protected]]
To: Stede Bonnet [[email protected]]
Howdy Stede,
Thanks for sending those pictures! What a great find. My husband Izzy says you look like the rich prick from a John Hughes movie, but in a good way! LOL
Cheers,
Jack
Notes:
The "tribute to Annie Leibovitz" is in reference her famous nude portraits of David Cassidy, which obliterated his teen idol image and rewired my brain. Here is a blog post about it while I try to dig up the actual pictures, which currently seem to be locked down by copyright protections.
Thanks as always to my betas Cannibalsnplaid and phoestiel! And thank you for reading!
Chapter 5
Summary:
Alma makes a decision and worlds collide.
Notes:
Now with a Spotify playlist!
Tags updated! CW for internalized homophobia and implied racism.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
the fam
AL: Will everyone be home for dinner tonight? I have an announcement! 🎉
LOU: I think I know! 😎
AL: Shut up Looser no you don't
MOM: Yes of course sweetheart! How exciting!
DAD: Shall I bring the champers? 🍾
LOU: Hmmmmm should you be drinking in your condition? 🤰🏼
AL: STFU LOOSER
Alma defers telling her news all through dinner, dimpling sweetly.
For dessert Mary brings out the requested Fudgie the Whale cake. After everyone is served, Alma stands and taps her butter knife on her water glass. “So I've made my decision about college,” she announces. “And it’s NOT fucking Dartmouth!”
Stede and Mary act offended. “But dear, nine generations of Allambys and Bonnets…” Mary tries not to smile.
Alma rolls her eyes. “Oh please. You've still got Mister Heir Apparent Clown Boy over there for your bullshit legacy tradition!” She inclines her head towards her brother. “It’s probably the only way he’d get into college anyway.”
Louis shrugs. “I might not even go to college,” he remarks around a mouthful of ice cream.
Mary is alarmed. “Of course you're going to college!”
“But what if I don't? Can I get Grandfather’s money in cash instead?”
Stede puts down his fork. “No you cannot,” he says sternly. “The will is airtight.” Ask me how I know, he thinks.
“I'm just kidding!” Louis laughs. “But, seriously, maybe…”
Alma clears her throat. “Hey! Back to me!”
“So sorry, sweetheart,” Stede consoles. “As you were saying?”
Alma beams with excitement. “I've decided on the University of South Florida!”
“South Florida?” Stede sputters. “Isn't that very far away?”
“Also, isn't that a state school?” Mary asks with suspicion.
“Oh don't be such a snob, Mom! They have an amazing interdisciplinary oceanography program.”
Louis nods sagely, as if he knows what that means.
She pulls up her iPad, the browser already open to the USF Department of Ocean Studies page. “There's even a concentration in history and archaeology, as well as chemistry, biology, and conservation!”
“You want to study ocean archaeology?” Louis pipes up. “Isn't that, like, literally underwater basket weaving?” Stede and Mary stifle their laughter.
“Shut up Looser!” Alma snaps. She holds her iPad out to Stede. “Look Dad, it's so cool. They study ecosystems formed around shipwrecks and–”
Louis quips, “You know, they made up that whole blue diamond thing in the Titanic just for the movie–”
“LOUIS I SWEAR TO GOD!”
Stede takes the iPad. “That sounds fascinating, sweetheart.” He starts to scroll down the page, reading the department information. “Gosh! Imagine declaring your major as a freshman!”
Mary smirks. “It's a whole different world now, Stede. Kids don't want to dick around on Daddy's dime for six or seven years anymore.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Is that what you did, Dad?” asks Louis.
“No! It wasn't seven years. Five, tops.”
“Actually it was more like eight,” Mary mutters. Louis and Alma giggle behind their hands.
Stede pretends to ignore them and continues to peruse the department website. He finds the list of instructors. The professor of marine biology, named Nathaniel Buttons, appears to have a seagull on his head.
“Look, they've got a bird guy!” exclaims Stede. Mary tsks and shakes her head.
The professor of oceanic archaeology is named Israel B. Hands. Mary points to the picture. “He looks like a pirate, doesn't he? With that tattoo on his face?”
“Yeah, he does, kinda!” Alma and Louis agree.
It takes Stede a moment to realize why that name and face are so familiar.
It's Jack's husband.
Time stops as his world skews fifteen degrees. Should he say anything? What could he possibly say?
Hey, I fucked that guy’s husband a million years ago when I wasn’t that much older than you are now! Small world, huh, kids?
Mary gives him a strange look. He quickly irons the shock from his features. “This is so exciting,” Stede enthuses. “We're so proud of you.”
“Yes, exciting news!” Mary echoes. “But, um, when do you expect to hear from your other schools?”
Alma narrows her eyes. “There are no other schools, Mother. I've already accepted. This August I'm moving to Tampa!”
Louis sits up with a sudden thought. “Hey, when you leave, can I have your car?”
From: Stede Bonnet [[email protected]]
To: Jack Rackham [[email protected]]
In recent "how on earth is this my life?" news, it seems your husband's newest student at USF is my daughter Alma! 🤯 She's very excited about the program and we are all thrilled for her.
(Of course I haven't told her anything about my family's connection to yours. I'm not even sure if I should be telling you, but how can I not?)
-SMB
From: Jack Rackham [[email protected]]
To: Stede Bonnet [[email protected]]
Ummmmmm yeah, don't know what to say about this. 🤔
Except maybe see ya soon, I guess?
Don't worry, I won't mention anything to Iz about it yet.
-J
ps- wtf does the M stand for???
“So, Alma has decided on a college! She's going down to Florida, if you can believe it. Her mother still hasn’t come round to the idea, though.” Stede laughs. “Imagine that. My little girl is leaving for college already.”
Edward is quiet.
“Or soon. We’ll still have the summer with her.”
"Stede,” Edward says carefully. “Do you think it's weird that I've watched your children grow up and I've never met them?”
“Hmf.” Stede has been dreading this conversation but he knows it’s overdue, as his public reasons for remaining closeted vanished when his father's will passed out of probate. He stubs out his cigarette and draws shapes in the ashtray with the ground-out filter.
Edward pushes on. “Stede. Do your kids even know about me?”
“They know that their mother and I have an understanding, yes…”
“But do they know about me? Edward Teach?” He plucks the flattened filter from Stede's fingers and presses them to the eagle tattoo on his chest. “Their father's lover for the past however many years?”
“I didn't think you wanted them to know about you.”
“Don't throw this back on me, mate.”
Stede sighs heavily. “Look, Mary and I agreed that we would keep our love lives separate from our family life. She has her … dalliances, and I get to be with you. That’s good, isn’t it?”
Edward says nothing.
“They don't know she's sleeping with Doug, if that's any consolation.”
“You know what, Stede, it's really fucking NOT, because they still know him .”
“Of course they know him, Edward, he’s a teacher at their school!”
Edward lays down in silence, his back to Stede.
Stede reaches out to trace the skull on Edward’s back with a gentle fingertip. “I'm not ashamed, if that's what you're thinking.”
“And why would I think that, hmm?”
“You know why.” He pulls Edward’s naked body against him, and wraps his arms around him, touching as much of Edward’s skin as he can with his own, regretting how much of his father's homophobia and bigotry did not die along with him. He doesn't know what that hateful old bastard would have despised more: that his only son and heir to the Bonnet business empire was gay, or that he was hopelessly in love with an Indigenous-Jewish man.
“Edward. You are my heart. You are my life.” He strokes Edward's hair to the side and kisses down his long neck. He admires the tattoos decorating Edward’s body, as overcome with desire, every time, as he had been the first. “We wrote our names on each other, in permanent ink.”
Edward snorts. “The fuck does that even mean?”
“I don't know,” he admits. “It sounded good in my head.” He continues kissing Edward’s shoulder, then around to the back of his neck, and nibbles the skin there to make Edward tremble. “Do you want me to stay the night?” he murmurs against Edward’s warmth, hoping that Edward might punish his fecklessness by sending him away.
“Don't care.” Edward mutters thickly. “Suit yourself.” But his hands hook beneath Stede's knees to pull his thighs around Edward’s hips.
Stede rolls over on Edward, pressing him down against the mattress. “Do you want this?” he whispers, trailing kissing all the way down the ridge of his spine. “Do you?”
Edward grunts affirmatively into the pillow.
“What do you want me to do, darling?” Stede asks. “Do you want me to kiss you here?” He laps at the dimples on the small of Edward's back. “Do you want my mouth on you?” He moves his lips down the swell of Edward’s buttock. “Can I taste you, my darling?”
Edward writhes beneath him.
“What do you want, Edward? Tell me.” I’ll do anything you want, he thinks desperately. Anything at all, short of introducing you to my kids.
Children, meet your new mommy! He's much prettier than the old one, don't you think?
“I want you to… hhhuhhh….” Edward groans.
“What, Edward?”
“I want your tongue in me.”
Stede parts Edward’s cheeks and draws his tongue down the length towards his hole. “Like this?”
“Yes, oh God, oh my God, like that.” Stede runs his tongue around the furl. “Oh sweet fucking Christ! Just like that, baby, just like that.”
He begins to introduce a finger but Edward reaches down to swat his hand away. “No fingers yet,” Edward pants. “Just your tongue.”
“Yes, my love,” Stede whispers, and pushes his tongue into Edward, gently at first, but more firmly to match the increasing intensity of Edward’s vocalized pleasure. He starts to reach under Edward's hips towards his cock, but again Edward pries his hands off.
“I said not yet!” Edward growls. “You just keep that tongue right where it is. Just like that, oh my God! Just like that.” He turns his head slightly on the pillow to look down at Stede. “And don't you fucking touch yourself either.”
Stede plants his hands firmly on Edward’s buttocks and grips the flesh hard enough to bruise, as his tongue plunges inside Edward, again and again. His jaw begins to ache; he knows he could make quick work of this if he were allowed to use his hands. Although Stede enjoys having Edward like this, he wonders if Edward favors this approach as a means to make Stede stop talking.
“Can I now, darling?” Stede begs. “Can I please touch you now?” I'm the one with my tongue up his ass and I'm still the one begging, he thinks.
“Mmmfh,” moans Edward into his pillow.
Stede can't help himself. “Is that a yes, then?” he teases.
“YES!” Edward roars. “Fucking touch me!” He lifts his head, looks back, and winks at Stede. “Please.”
Christ, I love you.
Still licking, Stede presses a knuckle to the skin above his balls; when Edward finally comes, wailing, his cock untouched, Stede feels a sense of accomplishment, like he's completed a project.
He is not a fucking project. What is wrong with me?
Edward rolls over on his back and regards the semen cooling on his sheets and belly. “Damn. Didn't think this through.”
“I've got you, darling.” Stede picks a T-shirt off the floor and wipes his skin clean; he purrs with contentment as he’s caressed by the cloth.
I don't deserve this beautiful man. He loves me and I don't understand why.
Edward opens his eyes to watch Stede attend to aftercare ministrations. “Is that my fucking Smiths T-shirt?” he asks. Stede chuckles and nods. “Makes a great cum rag. Should let Morrissey know.”
“I'll change the sheets before I go, so you won't have to sleep on that.”
Edward shifts himself up on his elbow. “So you're not staying, then?" His dreamy expression hardens into a glare. "Jesus Fucking Christ, you're infuriating."
Stede shakes his head. “I’m not sure I deserve to.”
I know I don't deserve to.
Edward swipes across his eyes with frustration. “Oh now you can fuck right off with that,” he snaps. “Don't even get me started on who deserves what.”
“I'm sorry,” Stede whispers.
“Fuck off,” Edward hisses. He rolls over, his back firmly to Stede. “I can change my own goddamn sheets.”
Stede gazes at his back, unable to leave the unspoken accusations unanswered. “Edward, please be patient with me. I swear to you, I love you the best I can.”
“Well then, do better.” He turns his head, his reddened eyes seething with dark fire. “DO BETTER.” He yanks the blanket over his head, dropping a curtain on their quarrel.
Stede slips out of bed and walks to the bathroom. He stares at himself, full of so much shame and self-loathing he wants to smash the mirror. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why does he put up with my nonsense? He won't tolerate this forever. He brushes his teeth, retrieves fresh sheets from the linen closet, and returns to the bed.
He gathers Edward to him; his body tenses up inside his blanket cocoon, but he does not pull away from the embrace. “Why are you still here?" he mumbles.
“I brought you some sheets. Can’t leave you lying in your own filth.” Stede tries for a small joke, but Edward is not having it.
“Fine. Leave ’em and get out.”
Stede dresses in silence. At the bedroom doorway he looks back to see if Edward has emerged from beneath his blanket yet. He has not.
“I don’t want to be like this,” he says.
“THEN DO BETTER.”
Stede steps into his car and turns on the ignition. “Even the Losers” by Tom Petty is playing; it's too much on the nose. He switches off the radio and drives home in silence, the unshed tears blurring his vision.
He sits in his driveway and orders an arrangement of green carnations and blue forget-me-nots to be delivered to Edward’s bar the next day. He hopes the flowers are able to say on his behalf what he still can't manage to say for himself:
I'm not strong enough to be the man you want.
I'm not brave enough to be the man I need.
I'm a weak-hearted, soft-handed, lily-livered little rich boy, and that's all I'll ever be.
I don't deserve you.
💜Edward💜
ur an idiot 😞
I know 🥺
the flowers are beautiful
youre beautiful
youd save $$ on flowers if u werent such an idiot
you deserve flowers always regardless of my idiocy
JFC FUCK OFF WITH DESERVE !!
im trying
Notes:
Thank you to my most excellent beta team: yaz113, Cannibalsnplaid, despising_tories, and phoestiel!
And thank YOU for reading!
yaz113 on Chapter 1 Sun 05 Jan 2025 09:45PM UTC
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wasabi_poptart on Chapter 1 Wed 08 Jan 2025 03:16AM UTC
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zstraps on Chapter 1 Wed 09 Jul 2025 03:57PM UTC
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wasabi_poptart on Chapter 1 Thu 10 Jul 2025 10:40AM UTC
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carolinelamb on Chapter 2 Mon 30 Dec 2024 04:15PM UTC
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wasabi_poptart on Chapter 2 Mon 30 Dec 2024 10:46PM UTC
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yaz113 on Chapter 2 Mon 06 Jan 2025 01:13AM UTC
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wasabi_poptart on Chapter 2 Wed 08 Jan 2025 03:17AM UTC
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zstraps on Chapter 2 Wed 09 Jul 2025 04:00PM UTC
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phoestiel on Chapter 3 Tue 31 Dec 2024 11:17PM UTC
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wasabi_poptart on Chapter 3 Wed 01 Jan 2025 03:19AM UTC
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carolinelamb on Chapter 5 Sat 01 Feb 2025 03:52PM UTC
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