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Francis should not be here. He knows that it is unbecoming for a man of his age and station to seek out companionship in such fashion. But he is lonely and cold and since they are just a few weeks from setting off, likely soon to be lonelier and colder still. There will be no opportunity for release on Terror and should he wish to satisfy his baser urges, now is the time for it.
This is why he finds himself in the foyer of this house. It is not an ordinary bawdy house. It is more of an establishment where certain relations are permitted. A woman greets him at the door. She takes his hat and coat as she explains certain elements of protocol. There is to be no violence, unless agreed upon by both parties and heartily consented to. No money is to be exchanged, nor is there to be any coercion for any act beyond what has been offered. Here there are no whores, but likeminded folk seeking out mutual companionship. Downstairs he may mingle but he is not to touch unless invited; upstairs, he may call on anyone in any of the bedrooms but must not prevail upon them unless he is welcomed.
It is only when Francis acknowledges that he understands that she pats him on the arm and urges him on.
Francis peeks into the parlour and finds it a writhing cavalcade of flesh. Pairs – and more – couple in full view of each other. There is an ebb and flow to it, some coming, some going, with a pattern Francis cannot discern. One woman lifts her head from between her partner’s legs and beckons to him. His prick strains forward, as if to accept her invitation, but Francis’s face flames and he turns away.
This is far too bold for Francis. He goes upstairs, in search of something more private. The stairs groan under his feet, and it feels like a portend.
He finds himself at the end of a long hallway. He goes to the first door, tries it, and finds it locked. Low moans and thready gasps issue from within. For a moment, Francis leans his forehead against the rough wood and listens.
Francis hears two voices raised in a passionate duet and wonders: who is it who lies beyond the door? Did this pair meet here, as he has come, hoping to find a paramour? Will they part once it is over, never to meet again? Could there ever be more? He knows he will not find love here, but he cannot help but yearn for it all the same.
He listens for a time, until the throb of his needy flesh reminds him that he is here for more than to lurk awkwardly at a door, furtively stealing into the margins of others’ pleasure.
He tries the next door and finds it unlocked with couple therein, engrossed in one another. At the next he finds a man who sneers at him and his red face and his eager prick. He opens another to find a young lady with her skirts rucked all the way over her hips. She is touching herself with one hand and beckons to him with the other. He shakes his head, and goes to the next door. Here he finds a young man who takes a single look at the bulge in Francis’s trousers and grins like a fiend; Francis shuts the door in his face.
At the very end of the hall is a door to one last room. This is Francis’s last chance at release; if he turns away or is turned away here, there will be nothing for him but the bottom of a whisky bottle and his own spit-slicked hand.
Pathetic, but his hand quivers as he lays it atop the last knob. He ought not to open it at all. He ought to go – better to find solace in his own company than in that of a stranger. What a pitiful thing he is, to crave the touch of another so desperately that he should care little whose touch it is.
He sucks a breath through his teeth, opens the door, and does not find a stranger at all. Lying tied to the bed, naked, blindfolded, and utterly vulnerable, is James Fitzjames.
Francis ought to scorn Fitzjames’s stupidity. His brazenness. His hands are tied to the bedposts, his body splayed out and entirely open. Anyone could come through this door and have his way with the incapacitated man.
(Perhaps it is this risk that the man finds appealing. He seems to have a lunatic desire for danger, or perhaps for its glory.)
Francis cannot find it in himself to scorn the man, not when the sight of him finds Francis fully hard and aching. He stares into the room, drinking in what is displayed before him: all of Fitzjames’s supine loveliness, pale and perfect, laid out to be admired; his dark hair, pooled about his head and gleaming in the low light; his handsome pick, half-hard and resting against his thigh.
He betrays himself to find this man so lovely - this prideful, boastful, peevish animal who has never feared deriding or mocking him. For though it is so odd to see him like this, Francis knows this is Fitzjames – knows it is him, whom he loathes. Francis is a traitor to himself, but he desires Fitzjames all the same.
Fitzjames’s head lolls towards him. Francis knows Fitzjames cannot see through the blindfold, but still has to resist the urge to hide his face.
“If you like what you see, perhaps you ought to come in,” he suggests. “I can hear you loitering, you know.”
Francis ought to flee now – to shut the door and run howling into the night, away from Fitzjames and this room and this whole filthy house.
But he crosses the threshold and shuts the door behind him.
“So you’ve decided to stay,” says Fitzjames. He adjusts himself, stretching against his restraints. He is nearly impossibly lithe; slender and powerful like some great, hunting cat. “I suppose that means you approve of me?”
Approve of him? Never. But Fitzjames is bewitching. Magnificent. Francis can hardly believe that such a paragon of beauty is real.
So beautiful – surely he could have anyone he liked, in any way he wanted. Why come here and make himself so helpless? What kind of man would debase himself like this? Would not only allow himself to be trussed up for the use of any passing stranger, but revel in it? What sort of man is Fitzjames?
No worse than Francis, who would eagerly use him as he so obviously desires to be used.
Perhaps Francis’s contemplative silence has stretched too long, for Fitzjames chuckles. “I may not be able to see you staring, but I can feel it. If you wish to touch me, you ought to do it.”
Francis does wish to touch him. Wants to put his hands all over him, know every inch of him. From where has this desire come? He has always thought Fitzjames handsome – maddeningly so, with his lovely curls and his proud mouth and his dark eyes – but never before has he been concerned that he will expire if he does not lay a hand upon him. This need is wild. Francis nearly fears it.
Francis ought not to give in to this temptation, but now Fitzjames invites him in again: “Come now – get undressed and join me. I’m rather cold and lonely. Won’t you warm me?”
This is a capital suggestion, even if Fitzjames may be as overeager in this as he is in life. Francis is out of his clothing embarrassingly quickly, leaving his dignity in a pile on the floor. He pads across the floorboards toward the bed and reaches it in a few short steps. He pauses a moment next to Fitzjames’s ready body.
Fitzjames has turned his head and their eyes would meet, were the blindfold not between them. “Come on, then.”
There is no return from this point. He may not go back from here, if he lays a finger upon the other man. If he sets foot in this torrent, he will be carried away in its surge. There will be no swimming ashore; he must ride the current wherever it takes him. He can go now, or he can stay. But a single step forward, and there will be no return.
Francis seats himself on the bed next to Fitzjames. His leg nearly touches Fitzjames’s. Even without contact, he can feel the warmth of the other man’s skin. It has been quite some time since he felt that kind of warmth.
Francis reaches out and lays his hand on Fitzjames’s chest.
The moment Francis touches him, Fitzjames jumps. Then he sighs and presses himself closer to Francis’s searching hand. Francis palms the firm planes of Fitzjames’s chest and the flat expanse of his abdomen, not yet possessing the courage to caress the other man’s prick.
“Mhm,” says Fitzjames. “A man, then, by those rough hands. I had thought so. Your stride was too heavy for a lady’s, I thought. But one cannot always tell.”
Would he have let a woman touch him like this? Francis thinks of it for a moment – of Fitzjames on his back, a woman astride those lithe hips, his cock pressing into her warmth and her wetness, her head thrown back, golden curls cascading down her back-
No, he will not think of Sophia like that, it is bad enough to think of her alone, and he does that, he does it too often, he imagines spreading her legs wide and worshipping that part of her, he will not debase her by imaging seizing her by the hair and kissing her hard as she fucks herself on Fitzjames’s prick-
Francis has both hands on Fitzjames’s body now, and they roam freely. Now that he has started, he cannot stop touching him. His desire for the other man only increases the more he attempts to sate it. He wants to touch himself already, to pull at his own prick with no small degree of desperation. But his cock will always be there for self-abuse. He will never again have the chance to caress this man.
Francis is an explorer by nature, and tonight Fitzjames is his frontier. He charts the lissome peaks and valleys of the other man’s body. He plots the beauty marks that dot Fitzjames’s skin – like stars, perhaps Francis could navigate by these. He maps the firmness of muscle and sinew as if he is attempting to commit it to memory. Perhaps he is.
“Those are strong hands,” remarks Fitzjames. “What is your profession, may I ask?”
Francis is almost tempted to smile. He has a sailor’s hands, and doubtless their specific sort of roughness is familiar to Fitzjames. They are not as rough as an AB’s, of course, but no seaman has soft hands. Francis is no exception.
His lack of response does not please Fitzjames. “Am I about to be bedded by a mute? Do you not a have a tongue, sir?”
If Francis speaks, his accent will give him away. To prove that he is intact, however, he leans forward and draws the flat of his tongue over one of Fitzjames’s nipples. He sucks on it, hints at his teeth, and the other man cries out.
“Good Christ. Well, I suppose you have proved that you do have one and I – ah! – am pale to think how else you might please to use it.”
Never did Francis ever think that Fitzjames could enjoy the use of his tongue. Thus far, Francis has only ever employed his tongue against Fitzjames to exchange conversational broadsides with his fellow officer. And Francis will not endanger himself now by speaking. There are other ways he could put his tongue to use, however.
Francis leaves a trail of licks and kisses across Fitzjames’s chest, hardly daring to believe the low gasps he earns. He reaches his sternum, then descends, drawing a path downwards, towards his goal. He stops just below his navel. The man grunts at this, obviously in the expectation of more. Francis will give it to him, but not yet.
He has to stretch, but he mouths at the inside of one of Fitzjames’s thighs, and then the other. He is satisfied to see the man’s legs trembling, and shocks himself with how much he wants to see Fitzjames undone.
Fitzjames is fully hard now, though neither of them have touched his prick. (What an eager fellow he is!) It is a fine one, of good size, and well-proportioned, standing tall and proud from its bed of dark curls. Francis likes the sight of it more than he should. Francis delights in the idea of caressing it, and reaches forward to stroke just the tips of his fingers from root to tip.
Fitzjames shudders, and Francis finds himself grinning. He places a kiss at the base of Fitzjames’s cock, by way of an apology to the poor, neglected thing.
“Not only a mute, but a tease,” says Fitzjames. His voice is near a pant and his bound hands flex. “Come now, don’t taunt me. It is hardly honourable to tease when I am at your mercy.”
Francis gives a dark chuckle at the idea of that.
“I’m pleased to know my discomfort is entertaining to you, you brute.” There is no real vitriol in it. Fitzjames seems pleased to be discomforted.
Francis straightens up, placing a hand on Fitzjames’s knee. He finds that Fitzjames’s legs part readily for him, welcoming in his strange and searching hand. How curious it is that Fitzjames trusts him as a stranger, but not as himself.
(There will be time to dwell on that later. Perhaps, like a seeled hawk, Fitzjames trusts only when he cannot see.)
He wraps his hand around the root and gives a little squeeze. Fitzjames grunts and tenses against his restraints as if to pull away, so Francis then begins to work him in slow, lazy strokes. Francis’s motion is unhurried, hardly the desperate and guilty way in which he usually frigs his own prick. His work earns him a low, contented sigh. Fitzjames has relaxed against the mattress, open and yielding; Francis is glad for it.
“Rough and clever hands – I would know what trade it is that has given you such a marvelous grip as this. Won’t you tell me?”
Fitzjames’s own trade, of course. But Francis says nothing. His reticence seems not to irk Fitzjames, but to intrigue him. Now he struggles against his bindings in eagerness, as he cocks his head this way and that.
“Won’t you?” he repeats. Of course Fitzjames would jabber as much now as he would over dinner – Francis wonders if the man even talks in his sleep. “Or are you determined to leave me wanting?”
Fitzjames receives no answer, no warning before Francis takes the man’s cock in his mouth. He swears viciously as Francis suckles at the head of his prick. Francis half-expects to feel a hand in his hair, pushing him closer – but Fitzjames’s hands are tied, of course.
Francis keeps his hand on Fitzjames’s shaft as he lavishes attention upon the tip. He is rewarded for his diligence with a series of moans of increasing volume and desperation. He bobs up and down like a whore working hard for her coin, and Fitzjames writhes and twists under him.
“Christ,” whispers Fitzjames, when he is capable of something other than profanity. “You’re a remarkable fellow, aren’t you?”
Francis laughs, with Fitzjames’s prick in his mouth, that this man would ever think that of him.
His jaw begins to ache after a few minutes, but Francis pays this little mind, not with this hot, twitching flesh in his mouth. He lets himself drool all over the man, until Fitzjames’s cock is slick with saliva. When Francis releases it in favour of stroking his own, his grip is wet.
Fitzjames gives a quiet oath, and thrusts himself eagerly into Francis’s mouth; Francis has to use the other arm to pin him to the bed lest he choke on Fitzjames’s member. That would be a rather ignominious way to die, he thinks.
Never before has he found pleasure in this act. He has not done it often, and never except in the hope of reciprocation. But now he is overjoyed to lavish attention on Fitzjames’s eager cock. Perhaps it is the wonderful sensation of it all that has Francis so enraptured; the feeling of a hard, dripping cock in his mouth, while the man who owns it squirms in pure delight at Francis’s ministrations.
“God,” gasps Fitzjames. “Jesus God, man – that’s-”
The broken groans of Fitzjames’s pleasure send a renewed flush into Francis’s cheeks and a rush into his aching prick. Francis can think of no sweeter music than the solo cadenza of Fitzjames’s rapture.
(Francis will realize, later, that it is not merely the feel of Fitzjames, nor his sounds, nor his taste nor his smell that Francis savoured so well, but the miraculous closeness afforded by their posture. That Francis would not have been able to luxuriate in such closeness with any other man remains a troubling issue.)
This is good, but Francis wants more. The heavy feeling of Fitzjames’s prick in his mouth has him thinking of how good it would feel elsewhere. Does Francis dare? He knows how, though he is lately out of practice. Eagerly swallowing Fitzjames’s cock is damning enough – does he dare to damn himself further?
He casts his gaze upwards, and finds within reach a small bottle, presumably of oil. A good omen, that – as if the very room wishes for this act as much as Francis does.
Francis parts reluctantly with Fitzjames’s cock, the other man’s member falling heavily from Francis’s mouth. The wonderful thing still jabs resolutely upward, a delicious sight: red, glistening with spit, and seeking further attention.
Fitzjames gives a disappointed huff as Francis rises from the bed. “You don’t dare to leave me now, do you?”
By way of answer, Francis gives the man’s shoulder a comradely pat: no, I am staying here.
He uncorks the bottle with his teeth as he sits back down. Fitzjames’s cocks his head, obviously listening for a clue as to what Francis plans. Francis grins, though Fitzjames is blind to it. He was named a tease, and so he will be one – he works as quietly as he can, to give Fitzjames as few signs as possible.
“A creature of mystery, aren’t you? What are you doing now? Are you touching yourself?”
Francis hums, neither an affirmation nor a denial. He has poured a generous amount of oil into his palm and is working it over his fingers. Getting up on his knees, he reaches around to find his entrance. Even the brush of his own finger against the furled hole is enough to make him gasp.
“Damn you, what are you-” begins Fitzjames, but then there is a quiet but humiliating squelch, and it becomes all too obvious what Francis is doing. A wicked smile appears on Fitzjames’s face. “Ah. Good Lord. Lucky me. What an obliging fellow you are. I had not expected-”
To quiet him, Francis seizes his prick in one greasy hand as he opens himself up with the other. He works himself slowly, tight with nerves and lack of practice. His own prick, practically shrieking at his neglect, prompts him to seek out that small spot within his body that will bring him pleasure and hopefully ease his way.
He cries out, unwittingly, as his finger prods it ungently. Fitzjames, lazily rolling his hips to meet Francis’s hand, laughs. “You have a voice after all, it seems. Delightful. Go on – I would hear it again.”
Francis drops onto Fitzjames’s body, his cheek mashed up against Fitzjames’s chest. He pants, hot and wet, against him. He is quite sure he looks ridiculous, bent over Fitzjames’s form and waving his freckled arse in the air, but there is no one to see him now.
He can feel Fitzjames’s heart hammering against his cheek. Francis is nearly overwhelmed by it all – the man’s rich smell, his cologne and his sweat, the low hum of his voice, the thrumming of his heart and his contented sighs, the velvet feel of his cock in Francis’s palm, even the salty taste of him.
Francis is now loose with anticipation, two fingers searching inside himself. He adds a third easily and his body welcomes the strain. He groans against Fitzjames’s skin.
“Yes,” murmurs the other man. “Do that again.”
Strange that Fitzjames would ask to hear his voice, when anything Francis ventures is usually met with a sneer. Then again, he is not asking for Francis to speak. So Francis moans, loud and long. His tongue darts out to lick the beaded sweat from Fitzjames’s chest. Francis is desperate for the taste of him.
Fitzjames’s prick is leaking in Francis’s hand. “I hope you do not delay in readying yourself, sir,” he says. “I am not sure how much longer I will last under your assaults.”
With a grunt, Francis lifts himself from James’s chest. He ought to be ready by now; and if he is not, he is unafraid of the pain. He wants that lovely prick inside him, and he wants it now, the fact that it’s Fitzjames’s be damned, that he will have to sit across from him in Erebus’s great cabin and know that he was desperate to bugger himself on Fitzjames’s cock, while the other man snaps and snipes at him-
Francis growls, throws his leg over Fitzjames’s body, and sits down. There is some resistance, of course, the burning ache Francis has not forgotten. But to be filled like this is pure bliss.
“Fuck,” hisses Fitzjames the moment he enters Francis. He strains against his bindings, tossing his head so violently that for a moment Francis worries he will dislodge his blindfold. “Fuck, that’s – God, you’re – that feels-”
Fitzjames won’t praise him for his true merit, but he will praise Francis for this. Francis gives a low, wild laugh at the ridiculousness of it.
Francis starts with a cautious rocking motion, slow and careful, but even this is enough to have Fitzjames convulsing as if in a fit. At once the man is pleading for more, for it to be faster, harder, and Francis cannot stop grinning. He feels no small degree of pride in this; though it has been quite some time since Francis last partook in this act, he still manages to get a man gasping and begging under him.
(Would any person who had come through the door have been able to undo Fitzjames thus? Francis hopes not.)
Francis settles into a firm rhythm – enthusiastically welcomed by the groaning Fitzjames – putting his left hand on the other man’s chest and taking his own drooling cock in his right. In one hand, he feels the insistent throb of his own body, under the other, the wild thundering of Fitzjames’s heart.
He hisses out a gasp, nearly a word, almost betraying himself.
At this sound Fitzjames’s hands buck against their bindings. Francis imagines what those big, strong hands would do if they were free. He imagines them grasping his thighs, to anchor their bodies together; or perhaps roaming his back, to pull him close; or even on his prick, to pleasure Francis as Francis pleasures him.
“Is it good?” asks Fitzjames. “Does it feel good for you?”
Of course it does. Francis gives a grunt that serves as a confirmation.
“Are you touching yourself?”
He is so full of questions! Francis confirms this with another grunt. He presses harder against Fitzjames’s chest in a futile attempt at knocking the speech right out of the man.
Francis is far from leaning his whole weight into Fitzjames, but still the other man gasps. “Christ, you’ve some heft. You could crush me,” he remarks. The way he says it suggests the idea appeals to him.
Francis digs his nails into Fitzjames’s skin, earning him another gasp: don’t try me – I might, if I so please.
Fitzjames’s mouth is open and he wets his lips with his tongue. Francis wonders what it would be like to lean forward press his own mouth into Fitzjames’s – would his tongue be as quick and clever between Francis’s lips as it is between Fitzjames’s own?
He finds himself rutting against Fitzjames faster at the very idea of a kiss. Rather foolish, that with Fitzjames buried to the hilt inside him that Francis should be so excited by the mere thought of his lips.
“God, yes, you remarkable man, don’t stop, that’s – Christ, who are you, to be so – fuck, I-” Fitzjames cannot seem to finish a sentence.
He thinks, absently, of removing Fitzjames’s blindfold and forcing him to see who it is who pleasures him so well. But the idea of watching the bliss go out from his face, to be replaced by horror, or disgust, is too much. Francis will not bear Fitzjames’s scorn if he can avoid it. And he can avoid it now – he may have the pleasure without the shame. When else will that be true?
He brings his body down on Fitzjames’s, hard, and gives a choked moan when this new angle is enough to knock the breath right out of him. Fitzjames moans, too, Francis’s pleasure echoed back to him.
“Christ, you – I want to touch you,” gasps out Fitzjames. “Let me, let me, please.”
When Francis makes no response, Fitzjames gives a desperate command:
“Untie me, untie me, I must touch you.”
There is no danger in that, Francis thinks. Fitzjames might know him by sight, but he will not by touch. So long as he keeps the blindfold on, Francis is safe. He stops moving long enough to make quick work of the knots the bind Fitzjames’s wrists to the bedposts. These are no sailor’s knots, and Francis works them loose quickly.
Fitzjames sits up at once, quickly enough to unbalance Francis. He leans back against the headboard and grips Francis by the hips to drag him close. At this, Francis has to swallow a cry. He knows, now, of the dizzying pleasure afforded by touching this man; he had not anticipated that it would be equally glorious to be touched by him. His rhythm stutters a moment at even the simple sensation yielded by Fitzjames’s clutching grasp.
Fitzjames’s hands make their own explorations of Francis’s body. Francis is surprised by his silence. Do I disappoint you? he wants to ask. Did you expect to find me something else?
His fears evaporate like dew in the summer sun at a single sound from Fitzjames. He growls, low in his throat, before groaning out his praise. “God. You’re – magnificent.”
No one has ever called Francis magnificent.
“I knew you would be like this,” he says. He draws one hand down Francis’s front, dips below the navel, and tangles his fingers in the hair that halos Francis’s prick. Francis is still pulling himself off, still rutting down eagerly on Fitzjames’s prick. Now, Fitzjames’s hips thrust up more aggressively as he uses his grip on Francis’s waist for leverage. “No reedy boy. Every inch a man, to be sure.”
He pulls Francis close, presses their temples together. He buries his face in Francis’s hair and breathes deep, humming in obvious delight. “You will not tell me, I know, you strange thing,” he says. Both arms are around Francis, and he digs his nails into Francis’s back. Francis yelps. “But I would know what you look like. What colour is your hair? Your eyes?”
Oh, that Fitzjames would see him, and still desire him!
Francis cannot allow it, but he can still imagine it. Together, in his berth on Terror, Fitzjames sprawled out beneath him, watching him with eyes full of dark delight. A shame, that Francis cannot see his eyes now. He knows the full force of their angry glare. Surely they burn as hot with desire as they do with fury.
“Let me hear your voice at least. Please,” says Fitzjames. He tilts his head up, as if to meet Francis’s gaze. He is pleading, and Francis likes the sound of it. “Please.”
Francis’s movements are haphazard as he leans forward and moans into Fitzjames’s ear. His cock is dripping. He skirts the precipice of his climax, but he would have Fitzjames there first.
Fitzjames is panting now, and has begun to babble, as loquacious now as he is at the dinner table, but far less composed: “God, yes – fuck – feels so good – don’t stop, Christ, you’re good, and I-”
Fitzjames’s own peak seems to take him by surprise. He arches off the bed and scrabbles at Francis’s back, crying out so loud Francis swears he hears the timbers of the house groan. Though he is near incoherent with his own pleasure, Francis manages a dark grin, to know that of anyone who could have done it, it is Francis Crozier that has so debauched the pride of the Royal Navy.
Fitzjames’s seed, hot and sticky, begins to leak from Francis’s body, but Francis is unmerciful, driving his body down hard on Fitzjames’s until he mewls for clemency for his softening prick. After a moment, he slips from Francis’s body in a messy rush of seed, spit, and oil. It feels filthy; Francis cannot think of anything that could feel better.
After gulping down a few fortifying breaths, Fitzjames manages to consider Francis’s persisting condition. “Did you come?” When Francis shakes his head and grunts out a denial, Fitzjames reaches for his prick. “Are you close?”
This gets Fitzjames a nod. He lays his hand upon Francis’s. “Let me, then,” he says. He uses both hands to pry open Francis’s grip. “Let me.”
Francis surrenders the most delicate part of him somewhat reluctantly, but chokes out a desperate groan when Fitzjames’s clever fingers begin their work upon him. To be touched like this is exquisite; Francis doubts he will last much longer.
Fitzjames nestles his head, blindfold and all, into the crook of Francis’s neck. “Christ,” he says. “A titan of a man, you are. You must be the envy of your peers.”
Francis gives a throaty laugh at the idea of being the envy of anyone.
“If you should let me have you again, I would honour this lovely beast,” he says. He pumps hard at Francis’s cock. Francis pulls the other man’s hair in one hand and bruises his grip into Fitzjames’s shoulder with the other. “Would you like that?”
Francis grunts an affirmative.
“Mhm,” he says. He mouths at Francis’s neck, letting out a muffled laugh when he bites down and Francis startles. This is vengeance, perhaps – Francis’s grip has marked him, and now he will mark Francis. “You would, hm? I’d be happy to service such an instrument. Suck this cock as diligently as you did mine. Lick your seed off the tip, swallow it down. Would you like to me to?”
Francis growls again.
Fitzjames grins, showing all his white teeth. They are crooked; a charming imperfection. Without a thought, Francis leans forward and kisses him. The gesture obviously surprises Fitzjames, but the other man welcomes him in, eagerly returning the kiss.
The moment he does, Francis comes – he spurts all over Fitzjames’s hand. When he tries to pull away, Fitzjames anchors his other hand in his hair and goes on kissing him until he has wrung every last drop of pleasure from Francis’s cock.
For a moment, they lie quiet and sated. The room feels very small, made up of nothing but heat and their combined breathing. Francis’s spend is dripping down Fitzjames’s abdomen, Fitzjames’s leaking out of Francis’s body.
Then Fitzjames lifts his face and Francis realizes he is asking to be kissed again. Francis thinks it best not to allow it. He leans his forehead against Fitzjames’s instead. The other man makes a low noise in his throat and searches out Francis’s mouth with his own. When Francis pulls back, Fitzjames’s arms fall limply to the bed, releasing Francis from his embrace.
Francis lurches off the bed in search of something with which to clean himself up. He hobbles toward the washbasin near the curtained window, and finds a cloth. He has dampened this and is just reaching behind himself to wipe Fitzjames from his heated flesh, when:
“F-Francis?”
The cloth falls to the floor with a wet slap, and Francis turns to see Fitzjames watching him. His cock still glistens with oil and Francis’s seed is still splattered across his belly. His loosened blindfold hangs limply around his neck.
He wears an expression of pure shock. There is no disgust yet, but Francis knows it will come. He would ordinarily savour Fitzjames’s discomfort, except now it is at Francis’s expense.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. “Francis-” begins Fitzjames, in a tone Francis does not expect. It is very nearly pitying, which is so much worse.
Francis holds up his hand. “Don’t.”
Fitzjames frowns – obviously, he does not like receiving this order. “Francis-” he tries, for a third time.
“Christ, just don’t look at me like that.”
“How else should I look at the man who has just bedded me?”
Francis flinches, and says nothing. He goes to the pile of his clothes, and pulls them on as fast as he can. Fitzjames’s uncovered gaze follows him, and after a moment he speaks.
“You knew. You knew at once and you still let me-”
“You feel as though I took advantage.”
“Should I feel some other way?”
“I did not take anything that was not freely offered. You invited me in, to make use of your body as I saw fit.”
“Had I known it was you I would have-”
“Spurned me at the door, no doubt.”
Fitzjames seems to have no response to that. He rises from the bed, keeping a healthy distance from Francis as he goes to a chair at the corner of the room. Francis, in the middle of pulling on his rumpled clothes, realizes that Fitzjames had taken care to fold his clothes neatly, and place them there, out of harm’s way – why? So that he might still be free of crease or wrinkle on his way home from this filthy house?
Francis swallows a wild laugh, and lets Fitzjames dress in peace. But the moment he sees Fitzjames pull a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and begin to polish the buttons on his waistcoat, Francis laughs aloud, all bitter scorn. It is for himself, that he could ever be so foolish as to entertain the remotest possibility that the prissy, pretty Fitzjames would ever desire him, knowing who he is.
At this Fitzjames raises his head. “You find this… amusing?”
Francis snorts, not with humour, but with sour anger.
“You find me amusing?” he snarls, now.
Francis’s pride does not allow him to tell Fitzjames the truth: that it is Francis who is amusing, and pathetically so. Were Francis a better man, he would assure Fitzjames that it is not he who is the object of Francis’s scorn, but Francis himself.
Francis is not a better man, and so he says nothing. At this tacit affirmation Fitzjames bites the inside of his mouth. Fitzjames’s dark gaze is flinty, and bright gunpowder sparks of fury glitter there. For a moment, he says nothing at all. When he finally speaks, his tone is wicked.
“I am glad, then, to be amusing to you, Captain Crozier,” he spits, as he folds the handkerchief and stows it in his pocket. “Glad that I might serve, and then be amusing. If you have taken from me all you wish, I shall trouble you no longer. Good night, sir.”
He marches to the door, wrenches it open, and then slams it shut behind him, leaving Francis alone with his scorn, his shame, and his bitter disappointment.