verlier
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Summary
Sol's never given a cis guy head before. Maybe his roommate Ned will let him practice.
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Ned asks Sol if he can watch him jerk off
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Solomon leans back against the gunwale, elbows up, tobacco smoke warming his throat and his chest against the cold arctic night. He lets his eyes drift shut and languidly tilts his head back as he slowly exhales, smoke mingling with the mist that envelops himself and the lieutenant. He can feel Edward’s eyes on him. It’s now or never.
He turns a heavy-lidded gaze on Edward, whose dark, wide eyes are fixed steadily on his mouth. “Warms a man up, on a night like this,” Solomon all but purrs, nodding to Edward’s pipe. Casual as anything, he adds, “Could kiss you for it, I swear.”
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“What are you going to do with me, Jopson?” Hickey asks. Thomas despises the hint of mirth creeping into his voice. “Tie me up and flog me again?”
In response, Thomas wrenches the brace from Hickey’s grasp. With practiced ease, he ties Hickey’s hands behind his back, the knot tighter than perhaps necessary.
“No,” Thomas says, giving the knot one finishing tug. “You’d like that too much.”
“And you wouldn’t?
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Little started to rise, winced, as though he were dizzy, and then froze at the sight of his own hand upon the railing of the sledge, the dirt and grime encrusted on his fingers and beneath his nails. He touched the fraying cuff of his sleeve as Goodsir leaned over to inspect the bandages, and then something seemed to occur to him. Faltering, he asked, “How long has it been since we set out from Greenhithe?”
“Greenhithe?” The surgeon echoed, in quiet horror.
A whole bloody lifetime, he thought. “Three years.” Solomon had lost track of the days, but Little himself had read aloud the date of their execution before the gallows. “It’s May. Of 1848.”
When Tommy Armitage knocks the last three years of memories from Lieutenant Little’s head, Solomon Tozer finds himself the linchpin in an elaborate ruse to convince Little that he joined their mutiny willingly.