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Irving was in Hodgson's cabin when he first felt confident enough to broach the subject. It wasn't uncommon for whichever of Terror's lieutenants were off-duty to share a drink in the evenings, for some much-needed stress relief away from their superiors and subordinates, and a little bit of merriment besides. With Little on deck, it was just the two of them, that night, and Irving had drank just enough that his lips were loose enough to spill a thought he'd been musing on.
"George," Irving started, and Hodgson looked up with a soft noise of acknowledgement. "Have you ever noticed anything… strange about Sergeant Tozer?" He was hesitant; he was well aware that he might be laughed at for his concerns, and that was precisely why he had neglected to bring it up for so long. At the very least, he hoped that Hodgson would attempt to mask his amusement.
Hodgson raised an eyebrow. "Strange in what way?" he questioned, curiously.
Irving struggled to find the words, for a moment, before he managed to spit out, "He is… captivating—hypnotic, even—and as silver-tongued as the Devil himself," in as low of a voice he could manage. "There is something unnatural about him, George. Unearthly, even."
Hodgson blinked slowly at him. "I," he said, carefully, "have not noticed such things, no." His gaze darted away, uncomfortably, and Irving noted that his cheeks were tinged red, presumably from the alcohol—Hodgson had always been a bit of a lightweight. "What claim are you making, exactly, John?"
Irving countered his question with one of his own. "How fares your demonology, George? Have you ever studied?" he inquired, trying to keep his tone even and his thoughts centred. Even now, when he was attempting to expose Tozer's true nature to a fellow lieutenant, his mind drifted, and he cursed the foul magics that must have been at work on him. But, it was no matter—with Hodgson's help, he'd surely have the matter settled within a fortnight.
"Not particularly," Hodgson admitted, sounding sheepish and confused. He leaned forward, then, and clasped his hands together in his lap, fixing Irving with a piercingly interrogative stare. "Do you mean to tell me that you believe Sergeant Tozer to be some kind of… demonic entity?"
"I do."
Hodgson let out a nervous chuckle, and Irving's mood minutely soured. "That is— that is preposterous, I'm sorry, John, he's a ranking marine, he's never even been lashed for drunkenness, or— or anything of the sort, and, well…" He took a deep breath and went on. "Christ may have cast out demons, but they are not… particularly common in this century, are they?"
Irving ignored the clear ignorance in Hodgson's question, and instead stated bluntly, "A succubus, George. Are you familiar with the term?"
"I, ah…" Hodgson seemed mildly bewildered that the conversation was even continuing, but eventually confessed, "No."
"Wicked, seductive, evil things that prey on men—draw them in, force them to perform all kinds of horrid, sinful acts…" Irving shuddered just at the thought of it, of what he—a good, devout man of the highest order—could be made to do if he wasn't careful. "The Greek sirens were depicted as having a similar manner. And I presume you know what they were said to do to sailors, don't you?"
Hodgson swallowed, thickly; Irving placidly watched his Adam's apple jump in his throat. "I want to be clear," he said, slowly, "that I do not say this because I do not trust you. However, I find it hard to believe that Sergeant Tozer is a—a creature, on the evidence that you have so far given me, which is next to nothing."
Frustration pricked at Irving's temples. "George, this expedition has enough peril already, from the natives and that… bear," he stressed. "If Sergeant Tozer is working some kind of foul magic on me—which I believe he is—then it is imperative that he is dealt with swiftly, to ensure the wellbeing of myself and any other officers he may set his sights on. We cannot be taking any risks, not with the situation that we are presently in!"
Hodgson glanced around frantically, as if he were trying to find some crack in the wall that he could slip into and escape. Irving did not appreciate it. "It's not that I don't believe you," he emphasized once more, wringing his hands together, "it's just that I'm hearing a lot of speculation and not so many facts to support it, and if you wish to take any sort of action against him, you will need something more solid than a—a feeling."
"It is not simply a feeling," Irving insisted, indignantly. "This… sensation is unlike any sort of desire I have ever experienced—it is ungodly, and repulsive, and I shall fall prey to it if nothing is done! I could be temped into— into betraying the captain, or—"
"John," Hodgson interrupted, shakily, with a look of unease that Irving couldn't quite read into. "I think it's about time you returned to your cabin."
Irving hadn't finished his drink, but he wasn't particularly attached to it, and if Hodgson wanted him gone, then he would be gone. "Yes, I think you're right," he replied, stiffly. "Goodnight, George."
And when he stepped into the corridor, his hands were shaking.
Finding Gibson engaged in illicit activities with the caulker's mate only hardened Irving's resolve to sort out this situation of demonic interference. Gibson was a good man, and a devout Anglican to boot—the only logical explanation that Irving could come up with for such degenerate behaviour was that either Hickey possessed some devilish powers of his own, or Tozer's influence was stronger than Irving had initially thought. He wasn't sure which one would be worse—two succubi, or a single, particularly powerful, one.
Irving was in his cabin, then, reeling from what he'd seen and what it implied, when a knock was placed upon his door. "Come," he barked, a little more sharply than he intended, but he couldn't fault himself for being disturbed. It was not a good day to be a resident of his mind.
And, of course, to make his day infinitely worse, it was Sergeant Tozer who stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Irving leapt up from his berth and tugged down his uniform in some attempt to make himself more presentable, though he knew he still looked halfway a mess. "Sergeant," he greeted, skittishly eyeing the door behind him and trying to evaluate whether or not he could get by and escape if necessary. "I'm sure you're aware that you're not supposed to—"
Tozer thrust his arm out, revealing Irving's spyglass clutched in his hand, and Irving abruptly cut his statement short. "I'm aware, Lieutenant," Tozer informed him, with an undertone that could have been either annoyance or amusement. "Here on business, aren't I? Returnin' your property, 'n' all. Think that's an appropriate reason to find myself in officer's country."
Irving opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again. Gingerly, he took back his spyglass, ensuring that no part of his hand brushed Tozer's, and brought it close to his chest, as if he were worried that he might drop it. "Well… thank you, then, Sergeant," Irving conceded, his words clipped and stilted.
Tozer continued to stand there, cutting a fine figure in his scarlet uniform, and Irving swallowed thickly. Sweat pooled at the nape of his neck, and he resisted the urge to fidget; Tozer's mere presence seemed to raise the room's temperature, and it was becoming deeply uncomfortable. Irving didn't know why the other man remained—every moment that passed grew ever more tense, and Irving found his eyes wandering, trailing over the grooves and divots of Tozer's face with studious attention.
Eventually, Tozer broke the awkward silence by asking, "Am I dismissed, Lieutenant, or do you need somethin' else from me?" in a tone that suggested he, too, had no idea why he was still there.
Irving startled from his reverie and was immediately flooded with shame—this was exactly the sort of behaviour that he had attempted to warn Hodgson about, and here he was, simply allowing himself to fall prey to it as if he were no better than a common man. "Ah— pardon me," he apologized, hastily, with a polite nod. "You may go."
Tozer returned his nod and stepped back, catching the doorframe with one well-calloused hand—of the exact strength of his grip, Irving was unaware, but he knew its capabilities, and it was incredibly able—and drawing Irving's gaze, before his eyes snapped once more to Tozer's face. They were absurd, these thoughts that Tozer was forcing upon him, and Irving had to resist the urge to clench his fists and challenge the man right there and then.
"'Scuse me for askin'," Tozer started, a half-step from departing into the corridor, and Irving's eyebrows jumped to his hairline, "but is somethin' botherin' you, Lieutenant? You need me to put in a strong word with one of the lads, or anythin'?" His rough brogue tickled the hair on the back of Irving's neck, but Irving quickly quashed that sensation beneath a thick layer of disgust.
"No, that's quite alright, Sergeant," Irving insisted, quickly. "Only a touch of issue finding sleep—I assure you, I will visit Dr McDonald if it becomes anything of concern." There was no need to say it in as many words, he knew, but some fiendish inclination must have pushed him to it, because he could not help himself. It was simply the way that Tozer made him feel, and he could not put it down to anything except devilry.
"Right." Tozer drummed his fingertips on the wood frame, visibly processing the information that Irving had given him, and Irving barely contained a wince at his overtness. "Well. Good evenin', then, Lieutenant."
Irving muttered a similarly polite goodbye, and Tozer left, without giving him another glance. Once he was gone, Irving sat down heavily on his berth, and he barely noticed how it creaked beneath his weight. His attention was only on the spyglass in his grasp, which still held the faintest hint of Arctic chill in its metal, and the tactile memory of Tozer's hands.
Gibson had found Irving the next day and made clear his association with Hickey; the entire conversation had only thrown more tinder onto the fire of righteous rage in Irving's gut, and he had resolved that both Tozer and Hickey needed to be dealt with, and quickly, before any other men could be snared by their otherworldly charms. That, on top of his strange inclinations from his prior interaction with Tozer, had been strong enough evidence that he had decided to go right back to Hodgson, and loop Little in, as well. It was only Irving's deep respect for the chain of command that prevented him from taking his concerns directly to Captain Crozier, and so it remained with the lieutenants.
"We must do something," Irving stressed, once he had brought Hodgson up to speed with Gibson's predicament. "We cannot allow these— these foul things to continue corrupting the hearts of our men, or else we will all end up tainted, and succumbing to the sins of the flesh as if we were nothing more than animals. This expedition will be truly in jeopardy, then, and we will lose ourselves entirely if we are not careful!"
Little blinked, slowly. "I… I'm afraid I don't think I follow… well, anything that you've just said, John." He glanced at Hodgson for clarification, who immediately spoke up.
"John has… a theory," Hodgson explained, hastily, "that we have been infiltrated by demonic seducers posing as crewmen, and that Sergeant Tozer and Petty Officer Hickey are among them."
"I see."
"It is not a theory," Irving argued, with a tough of haughtiness. "I can feel that fiend's hellish magics at work on me, and it is imperative that we do something before we simply can't anymore." It was deeply frustrating, that both Hodgson and Little seemed to doubt him, and Irving had never felt more alone in his beliefs. They were all godly men, and yet the other lieutenants simply could not see what he did.
"By 'that fiend', you mean Sergeant Tozer?" Little questioned, slowly. His eyes flickered around the room, pensive and calculating, and Irving felt a small spark of hope that he was understanding.
"Yes." Irving tried not to sound exasperated, and failed.
Hodgson and Little exchanged a long look. Irving felt distinctly as if he were missing something.
"John, are you certain—" Hodgson started, before abruptly stopping and taking a deep breath. Then, he began once more. "On a long voyage such as ours, many men find themselves more susceptible to… temptations… that they had not considered before. And Sergeant Tozer is… not an unhandsome man, by any standard."
Irving fixed Hodgson with a stern glare. "Please, spare me your meandering words, and say what you mean to imply."
"I simply—" Hodgson faltered, awkwardly. "From where I sit, I see nothing unusual about your predicament. Loneliness is a cruel ailment, after all, and it may simply be that, considering a lack of the fairer sex among us, your mind has begun to search elsewhere." He shared another look with Little, and Irving saw red.
"George," Irving spat, through gritted teeth, "are you accusing me of sodomy?"
Hodgson's eyes widened, and he hastily insisted, "No! I'm not accusing you of anything!"
"He's only suggesting that Sergeant Tozer may simply be a man, as you are, and as a man, you are not immune to perversions," Little put in.
Irving spluttered, cheeks aflame as he was appalled that either of his closest friends would even consider such a thing. "If I were," he snapped, "a sodomite, it would certainly not be for a man as crass and low-bred as he. And I am not a sodomite!"
The room fell silent.
"There… must be something else," Irving continued, with more restraint. "For I refuse to entertain the ridiculous idea that I am harbouring such a—a weakness. I am a dutiful servant of the Lord, and the Lord, certainly, would not tempt me so."
By the way that Little and Hodgson continued looking at each other, Irving could tell that there would be no more productive end to the conversation. He stood, gave them each a curt goodnight, and excused himself, intending to put himself on his knees and stay there until his light burned no more.
After spending so much of his life at sea, Irving had become intimately familiar with the exact cadence of a seaman's boots on the deck, and how it shifted depending on the weight of the man wearing them. His attention was fixed solely on the ice around Terror, and yet it was not difficult to mentally track the men on watch by sound alone. At the very least, it was something to keep his brain occupied during the quiet night.
It followed, then, that he identified Tozer the moment the marine stepped towards him with any sort of purpose. Irving tensed, reflexively; he braced his mittened hands against the gunwale and let out a hot breath through his muffler to regain some sense of control. They weren't alone, this time, so Tozer wouldn't dare try anything—at least, Irving hoped that he wouldn't dare.
Tozer sidled up to his left shoulder, inserting himself seamlessly into Irving's peripheral vision. He rested his forearms next to Irving's hands and bent over the edge, as if he were trying to determine what the other man was so focused on. "Evenin', Lieutenant," he greeted, primly.
"Good evening, Sergeant."
"Been, ah… sleepin' any better?" Tozer asked, in a polite and conversational tone that Irving seldom heard from him. It implied a camaraderie that they did not have, and Irving was not inclined to accept it.
"No." Irving made the mistake of shooting him a pointed glare; once he had looked, he couldn't tear his eyes away. The moonlight seemed to reflect off of Tozer's eyes, ethereal and animal-like, and his stance was playful, almost taunting. Irving's gaze flickered down, and when it came back up, Tozer's face split into a smirk that simply oozed charm.
Irving had stepped into a trap, and it promptly snapped shut.
"Well, I guess there's no need botherin' the doc with somethin' that you can handle yourself, yeah?" Tozer told him, dipping into the lower register of his pleasant baritone voice. "But if you need a hand, sir, you only have to ask."
It had been a long week, and Irving forgot himself. A moment after Tozer finished his lecherous offer, Irving backhanded him squarely across the face; the direct impact was dulled by his mitten, but the force and intention were there, and Tozer staggered away from him with a hand clutching his cheek.
"Lieutenant, I—"
Irving didn't allow him to finish. "Do not," he hissed, "speak to me in that manner, Sergeant. I am a ranking officer on board this ship, and I will not entertain anything less than what I am owed."
Tozer blinked. Snow clung to his eyelashes, glinting silver in the light, and Irving almost wished that the creature on the ice would appear at that moment to tear him away from the awful thoughts that Tozer was stirring. A man could not be beautiful, and certainly not a man such as Tozer.
"Yessir," was all Irving got as a response, with every emotion drawn firmly out of it, to give Irving no further insight into Tozer's psyche. The marine's face was a perfectly passive mask as he added, "'pologies, Lieutenant," and turned away, leaving Irving to his own company once more.
Irving silently cursed himself, and brought his palm down on the gunwale hard enough to smart for the rest of his watch.
Heat. Darkness. Smoke. Haze.
Irving burned.
A hand dragged through Irving's hair, gunpowder-stained and rough-edged, and tugged his head back. His legs shook, but he didn't fall. He couldn't fall. Tozer had him. Tozer was there, at his back, holding him, touching him, burning him—
Tozer's teeth scraped the side of Irving's neck, and he stopped—breathing, thinking, all of it. He simply stopped. A strangled noise escaped him, but there was no shame. He was already burning. Maybe he was already in Hell. It was darkness, and it was heat. It could have been Hell.
Being on fire didn't hurt as much as Irving thought it would.
Space shifted imperceptibly, and Tozer shoved Irving's face down into a satin pillowcase, his other hand at the curve of Irving's back, and his weight was there, blanketing him, pinning him against the bed with complete ease. Tozer pulled, and tears pooled in Irving's eyes as his head snapped up, and he gasped—he couldn't breathe, and yet… and yet…
Tozer leaned down, levelling his mouth with Irving's ear. His very presence made Irving's skin crawl, and yet his manhood was futilely straining against his trousers, trapped as it was against the mattress. "Where's your faith now, huh, Lieutenant?" Tozer growled, raw and gruff and cruel and Irving wanted nothing but more. "Givin' up already?"
Irving tried to speak, but Tozer dug his knee into the small of his back, and he moaned instead, desperate and filthy and sinful and riddled with lust. The pit of his stomach was filled with terrible, writhing things, and Irving abruptly experienced a completely foreign desire.
He wanted Solomon Tozer.
More than that, he wanted Solomon Tozer to lie with him, in the way that a man would lie with his wife on his wedding night.
And it burned, it burned so much that Irving could only whimper and writhe in Tozer's grasp and hope that he understood. Words were beyond him; the heat was frying his thoughts to ashes, and even his tears were warm.
"Don't worry," Tozer whispered in his ear, in the sultry tones of a harbour town doxy. "I'll have you worshippin' me instead by the end of the night, John."
Irving jolted awake with such force that he nearly knocked his head into the nearest wall, slick with sweat and his sheets tangled into a knot around him. On top of that, he was irritatingly sticky, and quickly discovered that he had spent himself in his sleep. It was a disturbing notion—Irving hadn't had such a thing occur since he was a boy, and he had ensured that it was entirely stamped out.
Hastily, Irving cleaned himself, and then stripped his berth and put aside the items that needed laundering. Then, he observed the time, and found it a reasonable hour—reasonable enough, at least, to find Tozer and put an end to this ridiculous spectacle of debauchery that he was being tormented with.
Irving found Tozer with a cigarette between his lips and a slouch in his spine, lazily eyeing the passers-by with not much more than a nod of acknowledgement. When he saw Irving, however, he immediately straightened, but he barely got through a curt, "Sir," before Irving was inside his space with a furious hand clutching his uniform.
"Sergeant," Irving barked, with all the tact and subtlety of a hurricane, "you and I must speak alone. Now." He couldn't resist giving Tozer a sharp tug, and relished in watching him stumble; there were a handful of witnesses, but they all quite pointedly minded their own business, and Irving was certain none of them would see anything more than a lieutenant giving a marine a stern talking-to.
Tozer righted himself, and gave Irving a deeply bewildered look as he responded, "Ah— right. Yes, Lieutenant."
Irving only checked over his shoulder to ensure that Tozer was following him. After that, he ignored him, and, blissfully, Tozer contained his obvious confusion until they were both standing in the hold, alone and away from prying eyes.
"Sir," Tozer tried again, but Irving refused to listen.
"Quiet," Irving snapped, with enough force to spit venom from behind his teeth. "I know exactly what you are, you fiend, and I will not allow you to tempt my immortal soul with your honeyed words any longer. Lieutenants Little and Hodgson are equally aware, and if necessary, we will inform the captain, and there will be severe consequences—however, because I am merciful, I am giving you this singular chance to cease all of your infernal activities on this ship, and there needn't be any further issue."
There was a beat.
"I… think I'm missin' somethin', Lieutenant," Tozer said, slowly. "What are you accusin' me of bein', here?" And Irving could see no deception in his face—he appeared genuine, at least on the surface, but he was disinclined to trust that. His instincts had been so unreliable as of late, after all.
Irving decided to put it into words, regardless. "A demon, Sergeant. A sinful tempter and tormentor of men, who has been working his dark magics upon me for far too long—I am not having it, not anymore, so I urge you to let me be at once, for I am a well-studied follower of Jesus Christ and—"
Tozer didn't let him finish his tirade. He stepped forward, brow furrowed thoughtfully, and then slid into Irving's space, consuming his words with an open-mouthed kiss and bracing him with one firm arm at his back.
"Mmph!" Irving's eyes blew wide with shock, and his train of thought stuttered to a complete halt, rendering him helpless as Tozer manoeuvred him against the nearest wall. Tozer broke the kiss, then, and flashed him a devious smirk before diving back in.
For a moment, Irving considered using the Lord's name in vain. The revelation that had come upon him, carried by the skilful lips and tongue of a marine sergeant, was stronger than a flood, and he was to be utterly and completely ruined by it. And perhaps being damned wouldn't be so terrible, if Tozer was to be the one to escort him to the flames.
After all, he was already burning.
And his hands were clean—he was only the victim of a wicked, supernatural seduction, nothing more. A sodomite of his own volition, Irving could never be.
Irving tilted his head. It was the first movement he made, and it was the final crack that broke the dam.
Tozer licked into Irving's mouth, suddenly—likely encouraged by that touch of reciprocation—and Irving's body jolted unpleasantly. His mouth was being assaulted by wet heat, while his skin was pricked by Tozer's beard, and the unfamiliarity and wrongness of it all was enough to bring such tension to his frame that Tozer pulled away.
"Lieutenant—"
"John," Irving corrected, his voice barely a croak. His boldness appalled him and thrilled him all at once; it was undoubtedly strange.
"John," Tozer repeated, and his Christian name in that rough brogue instantly drove all the blood in Irving's body in the most un-Christian direction. "You alright? I'll stop, if you—"
"No!" Irving yelped, far louder than he intended, and both of them froze, momentarily. When no sound came from the deck above, Irving continued, in a deliberate whisper. "I mean— yes, I'm alright, Sergeant, I'm simply… unfamiliar."
"Good." Tozer gave him a genuine smile, and Irving's heart skipped a beat. "Y'know, if you're allowin' me to call you John, you ought to be callin' me Solomon. Feels wrong to hear 'Sergeant' in the dark like this, besides."
Irving swallowed thickly, and murmured, "Solomon," to test the taste of it on his tongue.
"That's it."
"Would you—" Irving hesitated, looking up into Tozer's sharpshooter's eyes, and feeling rather pierced by them. A knot of sludge-like feelings had composed itself in the pit of Irving's stomach—disappointment, self-hatred, disgust, shame, and more besides—but it was not enough, not any longer. The forbidden fruit had touched his lips, and just as Adam had given in to temptation, so did he.
The first man on Earth had fallen prey to sin, and he had been a perfect creation of God's own hands. How could Irving, born of flesh as he was, and one of so many, have ever considered himself above such things? It was perhaps even blasphemous, as if Irving was implying that he was better than the Lord's flawless man by striving to resist all temptation.
Only Jesus Christ had proved himself to be entirely without fault—had not Thomas doubted, and Peter denied, and others fallen asleep in the garden when they were instructed to keep watch?
And John Irving was certainly not Christ. The very idea of such a claim revolted him. Thus, in his transgression, he was only giving himself up to be what the divine creator had constructed him to be—an ordinary man, made of flesh and blood and sinful desires, and perhaps to deny sin was to deny the Lord's love and forgiveness, as well.
"Would you kiss me again, Solomon?"
Tozer did not reply with words, but he replied with his mouth nonetheless. The second kiss was softer than the first, shocking Irving once more at the tenderness with which Tozer embraced him—as if he were a maiden on her wedding night, utterly unexposed to the ways of intimacy. Irving flushed as he realized that it wasn't an entirely incorrect assumption to make; he could count the number of women he had ever kissed on one hand, and all with incredible chastity.
This was very, very different. Irving felt as if he were some precious porcelain thing, cradled in Tozer's calloused palms, while he fumbled awkwardly with his own hands for something to hold onto. Irving felt Tozer's smirk against his lips, before Tozer let one hand go to gently guide one of Irving's to the curve of his hip. Irving grasped him firmly, perhaps desperately, and Tozer broke the kiss to chuckle.
"Sorry, 'm sorry," Tozer apologized, hastily, through his gruff laughter. "I'm not laughin' at you, I swear. Just— y'know, never thought this was how my day was goin' to end up goin'." He gave Irving's cheek an affectionate pat, which made Irving feel very small and his trousers feel very tight. "But, be honest, John—when you said 'unfamiliar'… have you ever done anythin' like this before? With anyone?"
Irving glanced away, not wanting to meet Tozer's eyes. "Ah—"
Tozer grasped Irving firmly by the elbows and gently shook him, startling him enough to make him reflexively look back. "It's fine if you haven't," Tozer assured him, with defensive ferocity. "I won't tease, not unless you want me to. Just need to know, 'cause if it's your first time, I don't want to hurt you or anythin'." He glanced down, pointedly, towards Irving's groin, and Irving's face turned tomato-red. "Especially if you're wantin' to do more than eat my face."
"Yes. No. No, I've never," Irving squeaked, and he cringed at how pathetic it sounded. "But, yes, I want— I don't know what, I just want." The last sentence came out in a single breath, and he anxiously searched Tozer's face to gauge his response. After the briefest pause, he timidly added, "Please?"
Tozer grinned. "Well, if the lieutenant orders…" he teased, confidently ruffling a hand through Irving's hair and leaving it there as a pleasant, warm weight on the back of Irving's head. Then, his jovial expression darkened slightly, and he promised, huskily, "You're goin' to have a damn good first time."
A full-body shudder wracked Irving's frame at those words, and before he could stop himself, he said again, "Please."
"Good boy."
Irving choked on his own spit.
Tozer's smile only widened at that—and without wasting any more time, he dropped to his knees, and raised a singular eyebrow. Irving gave him a shaky nod, and though he was only vaguely familiar with the implications Tozer was making, simply the sight of him on his knees was stirring sensations in his gut that he'd never known before.
"Now, here's what I'm thinkin'," Tozer told him, as his fingers found the buttons of Irving's trousers, and Irving's breath hitched. "I'm goin' to suck your cock, an' then I'm goin' to bend you over one of these crates 'n' bugger you until you can't move. Sound alright?"
All Irving could manage was an appalled, "Solomon," which only made Tozer laugh again.
"I'm goin' to need a 'yes' or a 'no', John." Tozer's fingers played at the curves of Irving's hips, gently tugging his underclothes out of the way in a manner that did not make it any easier for Irving to think.
"Oh— ah, yes, Solomon, goodness, please." He felt exposed, flayed and laid bare, and even more so once his manhood was freed from its fabric confines, already shamefully stiff and leaking from their prior activities. Irving's chest heaved; he struggled to contain himself, to keep himself from making any loud sounds or reacting in a way that Tozer might not want, and it was frustratingly difficult when he had no idea what to expect.
"Relax," Tozer instructed him, his voice dipping into a lower, soothing bass. "An' stick your fancy necktie in your mouth if you're havin' trouble bein' quiet." Then, he took the base of Irving's shaft in his hand and guided his mouth to the tip, which he gave a slow, tantalizing lick.
Irving bit the side of his hand to stifle a gentle cry; any touch against his manhood was so overwhelmingly foreign to him that even something so brief made his knees shake. Tozer seemed to notice that, and gave him a moment to steady himself before he leaned forward again and took Irving properly into his mouth. Irving's mind blanked.
Tozer then did… something with his tongue that turned every single thought in Irving's mind to dust, and Irving could only weakly choke back a moan in response. Tozer's thumb rubbed gentle circles into the sensitive flesh as he slowly worked his jaw down the length of Irving's shaft, coaxing more tentative noises from Irving's throat; the all-consuming wet warmth of Tozer's mouth made Irving's hips buck before he could stop himself, and Irving immediately froze, hastening to apologize and trying to pull back.
"Solomon, I—"
But Tozer didn't let him go, and simply gave his best attempt at a smile before swallowing the rest of Irving's manhood in a single, smooth motion.
Irving's eyes blew open wide with stunned arousal, spluttering awkwardly around his broken moans. He'd assumed it was an exaggeration, the one time he'd overheard a description of an act like this. The gag reflex would have surely made it impossible, or so he'd thought—clearly, he'd been wrong.
He could have stayed there forever, consumed by the heat of Tozer's body, if it had been possible. Unfortunately, Irving had never allowed himself the chance to build up any stamina in the relevant department, and so the combined sight and sensation of Terror's marine sergeant taking his shaft into his throat was enough to make him spend only a moment later.
Tozer's Adam's apple bobbed, drawing Irving's eye as he swallowed all of his seed. Then, he slid off of Irving's manhood and licked his lips clean; he met Irving's gaze and the heat there was nearly tangible, almost enough to warm the Arctic air. "Good?" he questioned, voice audibly raspy.
"Yes— yes, goodness," Irving breathed, chest heaving. "Was it— did you— did it… taste… good?" He cringed at his words the moment they were out of his mouth, but Tozer just looked amused.
"Hah, not really," Tozer answered, with a shrug. "'s not about the taste. I liked it, though, if that's what you're askin'." He briefly rubbed the hinge of his jaw, a thoughtful expression pulling at his features, and then stood, letting out a soft groan as he pushed himself to his feet. "Still want mine inside you, or was that more than you were expectin'?"
Irving's breath caught. "I—I had a dream," he confessed, absentmindedly; he didn't know what brought it to his lips, but he couldn't take it back. "You… you laid with me as if we were husband and wife. And I… liked it, very much."
That disturbed Tozer's suave confidence, and he openly gaped back at Irving. "You didn't tell me," he murmured, "that you were a romantic, John." There was an odd twist in his tone that plucked Irving's heartstrings, and he was immediately swamped with regret.
"I apologize," Irving responded, breathlessly. "I don't mean— that is, I wasn't intending—"
"Didn't mean that as a bad thing," Tozer clarified, quickly, cutting him off. "Could use a little more romance in my life, if I'm bein' honest." He leaned in close, taking hold of Irving's still-bare hips to bring them together. "An' I'd be delighted to wife you, if that's what you're lookin' for."
Irving made an indescribably pathetic noise, because he couldn't bear to say 'please' yet another time. "What do I— what am I supposed to— Solomon, I—"
"Shh, sweetheart," Tozer cooed, patronizingly, and Irving choked back a desperate whimper; his manhood twitched, as well, despite its softness. "That's it. Good boy. Just let me take care of you, yeah?" His expression was desperately soft, and Irving's eyes watered.
He'd only ever known Tozer as a rough-edged marine, and perhaps a cunning seducer—he never would have guessed that he was hiding such a caring soul, and that it would, in turn, cause him to react in such a way. And, for a moment, he imagined a different life, where he was not a man, and Tozer did not serve at sea, and the brief yearning that clawed at him was so pure that it hurt.
"I need you to turn around for me, alright?"
Irving did as he was told without hesitation, and bit back a moan as Tozer's palm landed squarely in the centre of his back, gently guiding him down to lay flat over a nearby crate. It was so deeply vulnerable; Tozer could have easily pinned him down, there, and Irving wouldn't have been able to shove him away. But Tozer's touches remained simply tender, intent on wringing every ounce of pleasure from Irving's body by caressing him like a precious thing, and Irving whimpered into his fist.
Tozer rubbed soothing circles into Irving's back as he tugged his trousers out of the way; Irving then heard more rustling of fabric and so assumed that Tozer was doing the same to himself. "Bloody hell," Tozer muttered to himself, trailing a finger over the curve of Irving's backside, and Irving shivered at the touch. "Has anybody ever told you what a fine arse you've got, John?"
"Ah— no," Irving admitted, sheepishly, and he was glad that Tozer could no longer see his face.
"Damn shame," Tozer replied, and Irving caught the tell-tale sound of him spitting on his hand before he continued. "You're doin' me a real honour by lettin' me be the first to jab a prick in it. If only we were back in England, I'd spread you out nice an' pretty on a real bed, whatever your lieutenant's wages could afford, 'n' take my sweet time workin' you open on my fingers, lettin' you make all your pretty noises while gettin' you ready to take my cock…"
Tozer's saliva-slick fingertips teased at the rim of Irving's hole as he fantasized aloud, and Irving momentarily grimaced at the strange sensation. True to his word, Tozer did take his time allowing Irving to adjust to being touched, but once a digit slipped inside, it was all military precision and efficiency, punching directly into Irving's guts and making him writhe beneath Tozer's fingers.
"We've been missin' too long already," Tozer murmured, after a moment of only their breathing penetrating the silence, "but if I don't bugger your brains out right now, I'll throw myself down the bloody fire hole."
Irving wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment. Tozer's fingers were not unpleasant inside of him, but he was quickly discovering that they were not enough. He needed more, deeper—some base instinct was egging him on, driving him to this unholy desire to find some fulfillment that only Tozer's manhood could give him. And, eventually, Tozer pulled his digits out, and spat on them once more.
"You're bein' quiet," Tozer commented, in a low voice. "Are you—"
Irving cut him off, saying, in the strongest voice he could manage, "Sergeant Tozer, if you do not get on with it this second, I will see that you are court-martialed at the earliest convenience."
Tozer snorted a surprised laugh. "Alright, alright," he grumbled, and the affection in his tone made Irving's heart flutter. Then, unceremoniously, he pressed himself up against Irving's hole, and without asking again, began to work himself inside.
Irving winced as a twinge of pain shot up his spine, but he gritted his teeth together, and it quickly faded into a vague discomfort wreathed in liquid pleasure. He held one hand against his mouth to muffle his gasps, which quickly turned into shameful moans, tearing themselves from his chest as if they were desperate beasts, aching to be set free.
Tozer let out a low groan and halted briefly, panting heavily and bracing his hands on either side of Irving's body. "Jesus Christ," he swore, "you're tight." Then, once he'd presumably caught his breath, he rolled his hips once, and Irving's entire body seized.
Eyes wide in ecstasy, Irving asked, "Is it— is it always like this?"
"No." He could hear Tozer's grin as he repeated the motion, and Irving nearly bit through his tongue. "I'm just a damn good lay. An' it's goin' to get better, once I've warmed you up a bit." His next couple of thrusts had a bit more force behind them, and Irving was slowly dragged into the rhythm, which was not unlike the rocking of a ship on the waves.
Then, Tozer grasped Irving's hips in both hands, and shoved. With that motion, his manhood struck a spot so deep inside of him that even Irving himself had been unaware of its existence, and Irving saw the stars as clearly as if he'd been standing on the ship's deck. Tears flooded down Irving's cheeks as Tozer hammered into him again, and again, and again, and the ecstasy was indescribable, nearly unbearable.
"Sol— Solomon," Irving whimpered. Every point of contact between their bodies was scalding to Irving's skin, lighting up his nerves with electric pleasure, and Irving's thoughts raced uncontrollably, unable to produce anything coherent with the force of Tozer's presence consuming him. And this was in the dark, rat-infested hold of an ice-locked ship—if they ever had a chance to lie together in a real, warm bed, Irving thought the experience might make his heart give out.
"John," Tozer returned, gruff and breathless, and he pitched a sigh. "Christ. I'm close, but— don't want to make a mess of you, so. Sorry 'bout this, sweetheart." And an instant later, Irving was cold and empty and choking on air, reeling as if he'd been stabbed, only able to hear Tozer's muffled moan as he spilled into his own hand. It sounded an awful lot like a repetition of Irving's Christian name, and Irving's head spun.
"Solomon," Irving whined once more, and Tozer was on him again in an instant, readjusting his clothes to some semblance of decency for him and leading him back to his feet.
"I've got you, love, I've got you." Tozer's voice was low in his ear, low enough that Irving thought he might have hallucinated the affectionate word in the centre. The marine steadied him, then turned him around, manhandling him easily as he set about making them both presentable. Irving simply let him do it, too overwhelmed to speak. "Feelin' okay? Nothin' hurts?"
Dumbly, Irving managed to nod.
Tozer regarded him more carefully, with a concerned furrow to his brow. "You sure? 'Cause I really don't want to find out you lied to me from a cat o' nines."
Irving opened his mouth to reassure him, hastily, but it was a long moment before any words came out. He couldn't quite find the ones that he was looking for, so he said the first thing that came to his mind, instead. "You… you are truly not a demonic creature after all," he blurted, and Tozer blinked.
"Guess not." He shrugged. "You seemed pretty convinced, though. What'd I do to change your mind?"
The answer was there, the moment Irving needed it. "This ecstasy that you've shown me," he breathed, and for a moment, the creaking of the ship was silent, and it was only them, alone. "Such pleasure… it could only be a gift from our heavenly father. Man is, after all, His perfect creation." It was so simple, and yet so pivotal. Irving felt as if he were a new man entirely, in the wake of this revelation.
Tozer chuckled, and clapped Irving on the shoulder. "Well, if you're preachin', still, then you must be feelin' alright. I wouldn't go speakin' a sermon on that topic at Sir John's divine service, though—not everyone's as eager to find somethin' holy in a man's cock up his arse as you, sweetheart." He winked, and Irving flushed. "But as much as I'd love to chat with John, the newly-baptized sodomite, someone's probably lookin' for Lieutenant Irving."
Panic suddenly gripped Irving's chest, and he hastened to the foot of the ladder without a second thought. "Oh— oh, we've been gone far too long, haven't we? I should—"
"Wait." Tozer stepped towards him, and Irving fell silent. Tenderly, Tozer lifted a hand and ran it through Irving's hair, returning it to its proper position. Irving caught his gaze, and melted. "There. Now you don't look like you were just blowin' me in a cupboard."
"Could I?" Irving asked, before he could stop himself.
"What?"
"I'd like to try," Irving explained, hastily, "and you didn't seem to detest my… company." He wrung his hands together, nervously, dreading Tozer's response. "But if this was simply a one-time occurrence, and I've misunderstood, then that is perfectly—"
Tozer's hand caught his lapel and tugged, and in an instant, they were locked in a passionate embrace that stole the air right out of Irving's lungs. It lasted only a moment, but Irving could have lived in it forever, and when Tozer broke away, he leaned over to Irving's ear and murmured, "I promised I'd wife you, didn't I? And I keep my promises, John."
Irving's heart skipped a beat. "Please."