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A silence hangs heavy in the air between them. Fitzjames knows, in that small part of his brain which is still preoccupied with such things, it is impolite to make Blanky wait so long after the close of their meeting. He holds a command position, after all. Despite that, he finds he can’t bring himself to utter the dismissal. The spectre of a boat axe swings pendulously above his head.
At least there’s some reassurance to be had in the knowledge Blanky is not the kind of man to offer respect beyond his wishes; certainly not to Fitzjames. He is far too much the image of his true commander.
"Mind you," Blanky adds at length, with a smirk that quite possibly counts as insubordinate, "more'n one way to split a man in two and end with him beneath you."
The remark is so incongruous with their situation that Fitzjames almost laughs, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.
"I don't take your meaning."
"Well pardon me for assuming, Commander, but I rather thought you the type to take my meaning well."
Blanky raises an eyebrow as he leans forward, his smile rising in time with the flush which comes up James’s neck as he realises the implication. It’s not a surprise, not really - James always did have an eye for those who shared his sympathies, and there’s a twinkle in the ice master’s eye which speaks to a temperament well-suited for a tumble with his friends. It has taken a while, that is certain, but they have caught one another being chased away from Crozier’s sickbed often enough that he feels himself to have finally earnt that title.
And god, he wants such a tumble.
It’s been so long since he’s had such an opportunity that he wonders, even as he leans forward and affects a coquettish flutter of his lashes, that his seduction skills are blunted from ill use.
"It seems I need some clarification."
"Well, in that case. For sir's edification."
Shifting in his chair, Blanky lets his thighs fall loosely apart, and smiles as sharp as the bear which took his leg. Clearly James can still make himself clear enough understood. The laughter in his chest swells once more, giddy excitement at thoughts of what’s to come. Even the formal address is murmured like a scandal in itself; feeling himself blush deeper, Fitzjames wonders if he’ll ever be able to sit through another officers’ meeting knowing exactly how Blanky might treat the men he calls ‘sir’.
“I trust you’ll spare no detail,” is all he says.
Blanky swivels in his chair, leans towards James. At last, he sets down the pipe. For a moment he thinks that perhaps it’s Blanky who will be skipping the preamble, setting his mouth swiftly to other use, but no - he continues past him until their shoulders press together and he retrieves the gin decanter from the shelf behind James’s head.
“Well, were I to give you what I might, I would start by pouring a measure of this.”
What he in fact pours is almost double that, sliding it across the table and pressing it into Fitzjames’s hand. No - that doesn’t do the motion justice. Blanky settles the tumbler snug into the curve of James’s thumb, then takes his good hand and wraps his fingers about it for him. A thrill runs up James’s forearm and to his pounding heart at the feel of the rope burns against his own too-soft skin. A rougher touch and it might have been called manhandling. Fitzjames thinks, swallowing hard, that he might not mind being handled, if it were Blanky doing the handling.
“Drink it, lad,” nods Blanky, his accent thickening a little. “Might as well get rid of it before Frank wakes. Get some use of it while we can.”
James drinks. It stings in the back of his nose, sweet juniper berries almost making him sneeze. His blood quickens fast with the alcohol.
“I’ll need you in my lap, o’ course. Not got the purchase I might once have, what with this.”
With a wry twist of his lip, Blanky drums his wooden peg upon the ground. The leather straps flex and tighten around the movement of his thigh; Fitzjames didn’t realise himself to be watching, but now he’s aware of it he finds it nigh on impossible to stop. Once upon a time he knew a man, an intimate companion only in the biblical sense, who had a whole suit made of such bands of leather, barely covering what they were designed to tantalise and reveal. Tom Blanky would look well in such a thing. The straps framing his chest and about his waist would make quite the picture even - perhaps especially - absent his jacket, his shirt.
"The mind turns unnatural," he murmurs, echoing Blanky's earlier turn of phrase. "Christ, Tom, the things I've been thinking -"
"Nought more natural. Be a dear, won't you?"
"What do you need?"
Eager, too eager by far, but Fitzjames finds he really hasn't the strength of will to care for appearances when there is so little pretense between them. Blanky reads it plain.
"Ready to please, aren't you? Sit a little closer."
"Your lap?"
He blushes at his own words, a heat which deepens as he sees the stirrings of Blanky's own readiness. In answer, Blanky simply laughs. It does nothing to hide the way his hand twitches over his thigh.
"Christ, boy, I'll not be cruel. Open you first for me, ease that sweet cunt 'til you're weeping for it, and not from the eyes, sir, 'least not all."
Were it not for the cold James might be in that state already. As it is, the desire builds first in his chest, stoking a fire which creeps ever lower to strain against his breeches. He stands and repositions himself upon the table, all too aware of the way this new arrangement leaves his prick that much nearer Blanky's mouth. It's not what he expects nor most desires from their assignation. This doesn't stop him from stiffening further at the thought.
“Once you’re good and ready, I’ll let you take my lap. Have you take what you’re given, and if you work hard, you’ll take what you like. Might not be the stallion I once was, mind, but I’m sure you’ll make a fine jockey.”
His hands are trembling, James realises, fumbling at the fastenings of his jacket. With a light chuckle, Blanky leans up to help him. Undresses him not with the attentiveness of a steward, but with a manner that reminds James of a nursemaid, brusque in the affection of it, doing it not by deference but because James is unable to rise to the task himself. He swallows hard.
So close together, now, that he can feel Blanky’s breath upon him. As the final button comes free the heel of Tom’s hand presses firm against his trousers, the bulge of his straining prick. James yelps, and though he does his best to swallow the sound, finds he is unable to stay silent. Blanky grins and continues speaking in the same even, conversational manner.
"Course, that's just how it might be for me."
There is no coquetry this time in James’s confusion.
"What do you mean?"
"Crew has to know their claim to you come one thing or t'other."
The implication knocks the breath from Fitzjames as soundly as any Chinese bullet. Heat flares, blood split between his flushed cheeks and filling cock so fast it leaves his lungs empty and gasping. He grips the table edge, white-knuckled, to steady himself against the dizziness. All at once the room is too hot. His jacket slips from his shoulders, thudding soft against the table as he scrambles to remove his breeches, his prick springing proudly free from his smalls.
Blanky gives an appreciative hum at the sight. As he carries on speaking James watches him uncover his own cock, half-hard in his fist. Lord, it is a beautiful sight; as sturdy as the rest of him. Even without his one leg, Blanky is solid, steady. James whines behind bitten lips at the need to be filled by him. Behind his back, he scrabbles blindly at his coat.
"Don't even have to be me,” Blanky tells him. “Like as not it won't be, not when it comes to it. Might be Frank. He's got a yard on him and no mistake, thick as a lady's fist. Settle all your arguments then, he would; stop up that mouth of yours and set it to good use."
For all his boastful stories, Fitzjames doesn't have the words to object. He suspected that Crozier might share their tendencies regarding his fellow men, but never paid it much mind - an unwise impossibility at best. Now James watches Blanky frig himself lazily and knows all at once he is speaking from experience. Another whimper falls from his lips.
He finds in the folds of his coat the thing he had been searching for - a small bottle of oil, faintly scented, which he packed to use upon his hands to keep the skin from splitting. This, he decides, is a much finer purpose for the thing. Slowly he pushes himself forward until his arse hangs free of the table, and he can reach easily down to prepare himself. Blanky grunts his approval at the show.
"Course, you ought be his already."
"And we ought be home last Christmas," retorts James, biting back the urge to whine his desire at the thought of Francis taking him as thoroughly as Blanky is offering to. Lord above knows he's thought about it often enough in the fraught moments of their meetings, the split seconds before Crozier's fist comes swinging. A second finger, now, scissoring apart. He groans. Thick as a lady’s fist. Blanky snorts in amusement.
"Too deep in his cups to have offered such a thing, no doubt. I'll say a lot of things for Frank, but he never did know what's in front of him."
"Perhaps I'll try behind him, then," James laughs. It comes out a little breathless as the burn of a third finger gives way to slow, heated pleasure. The pace of Blanky’s hand about his prick quickens.
"Perhaps you will. He'll like that, but that's not for you to think about now. No, lad, the real test comes at the crew. Did not I tell you, boy, they need some relief from that darkness? It'll not be all of them, but it could be any. Tozer, like enough - strapping army lad like him knows how to take it, and to give it out."
Fitzjames groans. Wordlessly, he hands Blanky the oil, watching his mouth go slack with pleasure as it smooths the motion of his cockhead through his fist.
“Speaking from experience, are you?” he manages, eyes sparkling. “I should have expected you to have him on his knees. Can only polish his gun so often without it going off.”
Blanky moans low in his throat. The flushed head of his prick appears and disappears, tantalising. James cannot stand the waiting. As he draws his fingers free he cries out, a soft, desperate sound of want, far too empty.
"You'll have him red as his jacket with a mouth on you like that."
Cursing fondly under his breath, James lets himself fall forward, braced high on his knees above Blanky’s lap. Another drizzle of oil. He pushes Blanky’s hand away and indulges in a few long, filthy pulls at his prick before lining him up with his entrance. Slowly, muscles trembling with the effort, he begins to sink down, feeling the stretch within him, the burning of blood-hot flesh. Though his unbandaged fingers are gripping the chair almost tight enough to splinter, Blanky manages to grin as he replies.
"Perhaps it'll be Irving."
The laugh which rises in Fitzjames' chest leaves him as a gasp, so overwhelmed by the feeling of Blanky pressing inside him that he can hardly speak.
"Lad's got a prick, don't he?"
"I'm not,” he stammers, the twin feelings of mirth and desire robbing him of his tongue, “not certain he'd know what to do with it."
“But you do. Christ, James, that’s it - take it all in, now.”
Tears come to James’s eyes as he moans, and does exactly that. His thighs tremble and his chin falls forward upon his chest, muttering curses. Blanky grunts approvingly. For a moment, James simply sits, gathering his breath and letting out a soft, breathless giggle. It’s met by a sideways grin from Blanky.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“I haven’t even begun.”
Slowly, James begins to rock his hips, Blanky moving into him and withdrawing in soft, shallow thrusts. It’s been too long; he’s out of practice, coming to an abrupt halt once or twice as he bumps his nose or chin against the top of Blanky’s head. Still, there’s a rhythm to everything aboard ships, even to something as unmoving as ice. James settles into his pattern, takes Blanky deeper, encouraged by the quiet grunts and sighs the ice master lets out with every snap of his hips. In response, James hears himself whimpering. Christ, but he hasn’t been so full in months. He’d almost forgotten how good it feels.
A tremor runs through him, a shuddering jolt of pleasure as Blanky’s swollen cockhead grazes against the bundle of nerves deep inside him. The sound James makes is almost a sob. Instantly Blanky brings up his bandaged hand to James’s back, pressing firm and caring against him, gentling him, like you might a skittish horse or wounded dog.
"That's a good lad. Hush, now. There. My boys know how to take a cock."
It’s the first compliment directed his way since Franklin’s death, and James really does sob, now, a hysterical thing edged with laughter. His face grows heated enough that he might melt the ice on his own, if Blanky were just to take him as a figurehead.
"Please,” he gasps. Blanky grins, never once letting up his steady, ever-deepening movements. His hips trace circles on the seat of his chair. Bandaged fingers against James’s hip, he reaches up his good hand to brush away the strands of hair falling over his face. His thumb lingers in the swell of James’s lip. It takes all of his self possession not to open for it, suckle on the digit like a child; to let Thomas fill him from both ends, rob him of speech and take him for pleasure. His stiff cock is smearing liquid onto the front of Blanky’s shirt.
"Sweet lad, aren't you?"
"Christ, please."
"Speak when you're spoken to, or I'll have you over my knee," Blanky tells him, so conversational and matter-of-fact that it makes Fitzjames bark out a laugh, even as his cock jerks, thin fluid dripping from him at the thought of it. Be a good boy, count them out - thirty lashes for sodomy, if you're good I'll give it to you.
"Yes," he manages, once the wave of desire subsides enough for speech. "I'll - I'll take it, all of it, all of them."
"That's right. And won't I be proud, when you do. Watching the mess you let them make of you."
Fitzjames shudders and doubles his efforts, burying his face against Blanky's neck in a desperate bid to muffle the flow of curses he can no longer contain. With this extra point of contact he has no need to brace himself with both hands, and makes no hesitation in curling a fist about his prick, thrusting between his own grip and the hot stretch of Blanky driving into him, again, again, the ocean waves crashing in his head and he laughs, stifled by cloth, giddy with pleasure.
“Fuck me, lad, you’ll kill an old man,” groans Blanky, gripping his hips tight and thrusting into him as hard as his one leg allows. “I’ll not last at this rate.”
“You said,” James grits out, cut off by a particularly deep thrust which makes him moan into Blanky’s ear, “you said I was good.”
“And right I was. Christ, boy, that’s it- just like that, there’s a good boy, like that-”
Blanky leaves a blue streak of curses in the air as he spends, spilling hot inside Fitzjames with a shudder. He whines at the sensation of being filled, so flushed with desperate want he almost burns with it.
The angle isn't right. He can feel his crisis building just out of reach, Blanky driving deep within him but it isn't enough. He straightens up, biting his lip to muffle himself as he arches his back and braces both hands against the table and there, there. He can’t reach for his prick now without losing his balance and even the thought almost drives him to madness. Flushed and weeping, just as Blanky said, eyes brimming with overwhelming need, his cock fat and dripping steadily as he hits that place inside of him, taking his pleasure from Blanky’s prick. It’s not enough, still not enough. James abandons all pretense at quieting himself and lets the words slip free, a senseless babbling stream of pleas and curses that resolves into outright begging.
"Christ, Tom - please, let me, let me, I'm good- I promise-"
The embarrassment of the words does almost as much to drive him to the peak as Blanky’s hand around his prick does, stroking him slow and gentle, thumb pressing up against the underside of the head.
"That's right, you've earned it - that's right, good boy, spill for me now, son. Spend for your old Tom, hm?"
Helpless, James obeys.
For an instant his world goes whiter than the ice. When he comes back into himself Blanky is grinning, wiping his hands clean with a pocket handkerchief. He steadies James as he moves away, mewling softly at the empty feeling as Blanky’s cock leaves him. For a long moment they simply stare at each other, Blanky swaying in his chair as James balances unsteadily on the table, half clothed. Something unexpectedly light bubbles up in James’s chest. He thinks he might be able to contain at least this, but then a wry smile tugs up one corner of Blanky’s mouth, and he’s done for.
The laughter comes on so strong it knocks him flat, leaves him gasping for breath as he sprawls over the full table, hardly caring in the moment for the fact he eats there, works there. He can’t remember the last time he felt such mirth, felt free to laugh, even in this place, this awful place. Perhaps this is the holiness they speak of, the calm before death claims you. If so, James thinks it must be worth it. It's several minutes before he gathers the presence of mind to catch his breath, in which time Blanky manages to clean himself off entirely and set his clothing completely to rights; longer still until he opens his mouth to speak, at which point Blanky mutters "Jesus, I always thought that shagging your brains out was metaphorical" and he's gone again. Eventually, though he stumbles on every word, he manages to get a sentence out.
"What would- what would Francis- Christ, Tom, I keep picturing him walking through that door, seeing us- the look on his face!"
"Don't know which of us he'd murder first," replies Blanky, a grin spreading across his face as the same laughter creeps over him, "or if he'd ask us to go another round."
"Well he's too late. He'd need to give me another hour at least,” James says, waving a hand as he wipes the tears of laughter from his eyes. Blanky chuckles.
"No stamina, you young things."
There’s nothing but fondness in his tone. With a firm tug, Blanky hauls James upright and claps him affectionately on the shoulder.
"Come on, then, lad. Let's get you cleaned up."