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Being propositioned mid-piss is not something Cornelius Hickey was expecting to happen at Commander Fitzjames’s carnivale, but he isn’t a man to turn down a good time, even if he’s inclined to be put off by the man offering it. He can smell the alcohol radiating from Charles Frederick Des Voeux as soon as he pulls up beside Hickey, who’s taking what he thought was a private moment to relieve himself by the crates making up one of the “walls” in the tent.
“Mr Hickey,” he drawls, leaning against the crates beside him and rather shamelessly ogling his exposed manhood. “You’re not in a stable. Take it outside.” He pauses. “Unless you want that ripped off.”
That’s enough to catch Hickey’s attention, and he gives Des Voeux a sideways look, enough to see the grin settled on his face. It’s a challenge and a statement; it says, See, I’m not afraid of you sodomites. What will you do about it?
Before Hickey can respond, Des Voeux is walking away, casting a glance back before exiting the tent. Hickey swallows and looks down again as he finishes up his business. That glance back was an invitation, that much he is aware of. The interaction as a whole was an invitation, although Hickey thinks he has had better propositions than being threatened with genital mutilation.
For a moment, he considers ignoring the interaction entirely and heading back into the main tent, but then he thinks about it again. Des Voeux is far from his first choice - he isn’t a choice at all, truth be told. There are a dozen men at this party that Hickey would consider before lowering himself to the company of the snarky, quite frankly unpleasant second mate. He’s barely 20, young for his position and not exactly qualified, and Hickey imagines his efforts in sexual endeavours would probably be worth as much as his efforts towards his duties. But something stops him from heading back inside and forgetting the whole business… When will he get such a chance again? If his deductions of a planned walk-out are correct, there will be no more opportunities for sneaking away, no more dalliances to be had in dark corners. And there is a strange dreaminess about this night, the revelry and excess that they’ve all been denied for so long. If there was ever a chance to get off one last time without consequence, surely it lies in this surreal, unrestrained celebration.
And so he finds himself shoving his hands in his pockets and exiting the tent, finding a smirking Des Voeux, cigarette in hand, leaning against one of the canvas walls. Hickey has a proper chance to see his costume now - the oriental patterns of a Chinaman’s clothes, and a white caricature mask to match, pushed up on top of Des Voeux’s head instead of over his face. They’re just outside, staying close enough to continue benefiting from the light and heat of the tent, keeping at bay the cold that almost threatens to creep up on them from the surrounding ice ridges. Des Voeux does not waste his time once he realises his endeavour has been successful; he stubs his cigarette out on the ground, crushing it underfoot, then grabs Hickey by the shoulder and pulls him in. The sharp scent of alcohol makes Hickey wince slightly, but luckily, Des Voeux does not attempt to kiss him. His mouth finds its occupation instead at the skin of Hickey’s neck, sucking and nuzzling in such a way that would almost endear him if it were another man.
“I knew you’d come,” Des Voeux breathes hot against his skin. “I’ve seen how you look at some of the men. I know what you are.”
Hickey scoffs quietly but doesn’t push him away. “And how about you? Wouldn’t have had you down as a sodomite, Mr Des Voeux.”
“Fred,” Des Voeux mumbles against his neck. “You can call me Fred out here, Cornelius.”
Hickey bristles somewhat at the presumptive use of his assumed Christian name but doesn’t say anything.
“Besides,” Des Voeux mutters, moving his hips in such a way that his very apparent erection now rubs against Hickey’s thigh. “I’m not a sodomite. Not like you are.”
Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Hickey shoves a thigh rather roughly between Des Voeux’s own, giving him something to properly move against. “Right. Of course not, Fred.”
The movement of Hickey’s thigh draws a low sound from Des Voeux that is rather attractive, all things considered, and he clutches a little tighter to Hickey’s arms. “I’m… not. I don’t bugger people and I don’t get buggered.”
“What do you do, then?”
“I only use mouths, Cornelius,” he murmurs, swiping his tongue lightly against Hickey’s neck, like a promise of things to come. “That’s not sodomy, hm?”
Hickey frowns slightly as he mulls that one over. He doesn’t think Des Voeux’s logic is entirely sound here; being buggered feels good for a man if Billy is to be believed. There’s a spot, so he says, right up inside the arse that feels heavenly if a prick can reach it. Hickey does not think such a heavenly spot exists in a man’s throat. So what pleasure is Des Voeux deriving from such exploits, other than that of having a cock in his mouth? That makes him even more of a bugger in Hickey’s opinion, but he keeps it to himself. Pointing that out would only occupy Des Voeux’s mouth in a useless argument when it could be set to a far better task.
He pushes Des Voeux back slightly. “Go on then, if that’s what you want.”
Evidently unhappy at his ministrations towards Hickey’s neck being interrupted, Des Voeux frowns peevishly at him. “Go on with what?”
“On your knees.”
His frown deepens into a scowl. “I prefer to be on the receiving end of such things. I didn’t come out here to freeze the skin off my knees for you, Cornelius.” He manages to spit Hickey’s name out like it’s a bad taste each time he says it.
“Oh c’mon, Fred. Help a man out.” Hickey tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “Look. If you give it me first, I’ll do you next. Hm?”
Des Voeux hesitates, his eyes flickering towards the light and noise of the tent and then back again. Hickey can almost see Des Voeux’s mind whirring, no doubt rifling through a roster of other names he could potentially seek his delights from tonight. Clearly, he comes up short because he huffs a truly world-weary sigh and gives Hickey a pointed look before rather gracelessly dropping to his knees. “Fine. But don’t try anything funny. Or try and run off without giving me mine. Or I’ll make good on that promise from earlier and rip it off you.”
Hickey shrugs, knowing better than to argue with a man whose teeth are so close to one's nether regions. “How obliging of you.”
“Well don’t feel too special. It’s not like I’m letting you fuck me.”
“It still counts as fucking when it’s in your throat, Fred,” Hickey points out, deadpan.
Glaring up at him, Des Voeux elects not to respond to that and instead gets to work on tugging Hickey’s trousers open. For the second time that night, his prick is exposed to the scrutinising eyes of Charles Des Voeux, though he is much prouder of it now, standing firm and flushed and not in the act of urination. And despite all his posturing, Hickey notices the way Des Voeux’s eyes alight on it, with all the interest and desire of a practised sodomite. Then, he wets his lips and, without much more fanfare, takes Hickey between them.
His movements are lazy and vaguely disinterested to begin with, light flicks of the tongue and half-hearted sucks, as though he’s in protest of having to assume this role. But it feels good enough, with it having been so long since Hickey’s prick knew any attention other than his own reliable hand. Leaning his head back, he sighs quietly, losing himself in the feeling. He begins to drift off into his head, feeling almost dizzy with it; the hazy, smoky light, the muffled sounds of raucous voices and music from inside the tent, the heat, and Des Voeux's mouth around his prick. Eventually, he begins to get a little more purposeful, and when Hickey decides to push the mask out of the way and slide a hand into Des Voeux's hair, he’s rewarded with a real suck and Des Voeux taking him further into his throat with an ease usually reserved for dockside whores.
“Jesus, Fred,” Hickey mutters, tugging at his hair a little rougher than he needs to. “You're getting desperate for it aren't you?”
Des Voeux pulls off just long enough to sneer at him, “And you're the one who let me drag you out here where anyone could see us. I'm not the only desperate one, Cornelius.”
Hickey huffs and ignores him, having no good response except another sharp tug of his hair. He wouldn't admit it if his life depended on it, but he is starting to feel a little desperate himself. It's been a long time, too long since Billy, and his cock is starting to ache a little with its need for release. He can feel it starting to leak, even with the wetness of Des Voeux's mouth, and he knows from the way Des Voeux's brow creases a little that he can taste what’s starting to spill from it.
As he keeps watching Des Voeux work his cock, he fancies he sees a sort of change come over him. The crease in his forehead clears, and the vague look of distaste he's had ever since dropping to his knees starts to ease. He curls his tongue in a new way that has Hickey hissing and clutching onto his hair even tighter.
“Christ, Fred. Keep that up and I won't last.”
Des Voeux groans around him suddenly, looking up with a heat in his eyes that Hickey is sure wasn't there before - though it is hard to tell in the weak light spilling from the tent behind them. He pulls away from Hickey's prick, panting slightly.
“Um, God, yes… I want to taste it.” He gasps slightly after saying this as if he's surprised by the words coming from his own mouth. Hickey is surprised, too, given how put upon Des Voeux had acted at assuming this position in the first place. All pretences are gone now, it seems. As he suspected, Des Voeux is every inch a real Molly.
Smirking slightly, Hickey pulls at his hair again, then uses his grip to push Des Voeux’s head down further. Part of him still expects resistance, but instead, Des Voeux’s eyelashes flutter and he groans around him as Hickey slides deeper into his throat. The tightness and heat are pure bliss, and Hickey has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to suppress a moan. It certainly feels good to have tamed this man so effectively with only his prick, he thinks. It’s a familiar feeling; Billy had been all his after their first time together. It had been quite remarkable, actually, how quick the turnaround had been that first evening; quietly slipping down to the hold, whispering sharply that they had to be quick, no messing around. And then, just like now, it was as if a change had come over Billy as soon as he’d pressed into him, until he was gasping and covering his mouth to muffle his cries, begging for him not to stop. After that, it was like Billy could never get enough of him, could never be fucked enough, could never get his prick deep enough inside him. Now, with Des Voeux acting much the same way as he swallows him down, Hickey is beginning to believe that his tool must have some above-average quality to it. Or perhaps, more cynically, an eternity locked in ice on a cramped-up ship lowers one’s standards.
He sighs softly and looks back down at the dark little head bobbing between his thighs. Thinking of Billy makes both his chest and his stones tighten, and he isn’t sure how long he’ll last. It doesn't help that Des Voeux is more enthusiastic now than Hickey's ever seen him about anything, making little pleasured sounds of his own that send delightful vibrations around Hickey’s cock. It’s not unlike how Billy used to treat him, and that thought pushes him even closer to the brink. Perhaps in some way, his body associates thoughts of Billy with the action of spending itself in one end or the other, and the memories bring his orgasm on like a reflex. This thought occupies him so that he almost forgets that he should warn his partner of the oncoming emissions, and he just manages to gasp out a “Fred, I’m spending, swallow it…” before the act completes itself. Unprepared for it, Des Voeux pulls off slightly, coughing and gagging a little, then gasping as he sees the majority of Hickey’s seed spilling down his shaft or dripping down to the ice underneath them. Whilst Hickey is still riding out the wave of his release, Des Voeux lurches forward and begins to lap up what’s running down his spent prick, and he hisses at the overuse.
“Watch it,” he mutters.
“Whatever you want,” Des Voeux gasps with an urgency that makes Hickey pause and look down. He’s working along the shaft whilst looking up almost reverently, swallowing after each lick as if savouring the taste. “I would gladly swallow down anything that came from your cock, Cornelius.”
Hickey grimaces slightly at the implications of that but doesn't comment. He also doesn't comment on how Des Voeux seems to be enjoying the taste of this far too much for someone who claims not to be a sodomite. Once his prick has been thoroughly cleaned off, he's glad to tuck it back away - they're close enough to the tent that the cold isn't a problem, but it's still not exactly comfortable, especially when Des Voeux’s spit starts to cool on his skin. As he's buttoning himself back up, he's distracted by the sight of Des Voeux lowering himself further down to the ground and attempting to lick up the few drops of spend that have dripped there.
“Fred, stop that,” he frowns, nudging him with his toe. “Your tongue'll freeze to the ice.”
Des Voeux’s head jerks up and he nods, straightening up on his knees. “Yes, sir, of course.”
Sir? Had he heard that correctly? Blinking, he frowns down to ask, but Des Voeux is already occupied again, his robe hiked up and a hand shoved down his trousers, furiously tugging at himself. Surprising, given how insistent he had been that Hickey return the favour equally, but Hickey won’t complain. He’d privately decided a while ago that only Billy would ever be afforded the privilege of his throat, and he isn’t going to compromise on that for any threat that might get thrown at him. He watches as Des Voeux shifts forward, clutching at Hickey’s thigh and looking up at him still with that distant adoration, panting heavily.
“Please, Cornelius,” he gasps, and that’s different too, now, the way he says his name. No longer spitting it out like it’s nasty, he speaks it slowly, carefully, as if he wants to savour the feeling on his tongue, like he would hold Hickey’s name there forever if he could. “Please, I can’t, I need to…”
“You don’t need my permission, Fred,” he mutters. The pride he felt earlier is quickly dissipating now that he’s relieved, being replaced by a creeping disgust at the way the man at his feet is writhing and nuzzling against his thigh. “Go ahead.”
As soon as he speaks the words, Des Voeux’s body jerks like a puppet on a string, and he whines somewhat pathetically as he spills into his hand. “Oh, thank you, thank you…” He gives a last heaving breath before relaxing against Hickey’s leg, whispering quiet praises that Hickey can only half make out. After a few minutes of this, he grimaces and gives another light kick.
“Come on now, Fred, get up. It’s getting cold, let’s get back inside.”
Des Voeux scrambles to his feet, nodding. “Yes, yes, inside. Let’s get inside.”
Rolling his eyes a little, Hickey gestures backwards. “You go ahead. I want a smoke first.” To his relief, Des Voeux does so, although he gives Hickey a somewhat wistful glance backwards as he leaves, as though he wishes he was staying. Truthfully, Hickey does not want a smoke that badly, but he’s perturbed by the way Des Voeux has been looking at him since he came, all doe-eyed and sappy. If he’d known he would be the type to get clingy after a quick fuck, he wouldn’t have bothered.
And something else troubles him too, as he takes out a cigarette and lights it. Yes, sir, of course. Likely he had misheard - but if he hadn’t, what could possibly have driven a mate to call him sir? No fuck could be good enough for that, he thinks. But this night is not normal in any way - inside the tent behind him, officers are getting drunk and singing, revelling, playing at games just like common sailors. Perhaps that is all it is.
In a few minutes, he will turn to re-enter the tent and find it shut, and soon the festivities will become a nightmare as hellfire rains upon them. His encounter with Des Voeux will become meaningless; but tonight is a portent of what is to come, and Charles Des Voeux is one too.