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It’s dark in the cabin. The room is almost pitch black but for a sliver of light encroaching around the edges of the cover over the Illuminator. Hickey’s grateful for it, it was difficult enough slipping through the Marine patrols to make it here, and as certain as he is that Irving is sleeping, it’s still better to have ample shadow to hide in than not.
He keeps himself tucked in a corner until his eyes adjust enough to confirm what Billy let slip. Irving’s out cold. Curled up on his side, blankets tucked under his chin, lips slightly parted, looking for all the world like a little boy and not what he is: a grown man who can’t handle his laudanum. It had only been a small dose, Billy had said. Just a little something for the chilblains. But Irving had damn near collapsed into his dinner and McDonald had commandeered Billy to help drag him back to his room and get him into bed. Hickey had immediately seen it for the opportunity it was.
Now, he simply has to work out what to do with the opportunity. He casts about the room for inspiration, and finds little. There’s something on the desk, an open book it looks like — a journal maybe. Bound to be something revealing in it, if it is. But he’d have to get someone to read it to him and Billy, useful source of information as he frequently proves himself to be, is not someone he can trust with something like this.
There’s drawers under the bed, he knows that from caulking a draft in Hodgeson’s cabin. Irving doesn’t seem the type to have valuable jewellery, probably thinks it’s sinful. And even if he did, not like there’s much Hickey could do with it.
Perhaps just the knowledge that he’s seen Irving at his most vulnerable will be prize enough. Knowing that he can reach him if he so chooses and stand over him, deciding if he lives or dies, and Irving completely none the wiser.
He’s debating pilfering the man’s telescope when Irving at last shows some sign of life. With a soft grunt he flops onto his back and Hickey freezes. Every muscle in his body tenses in anticipation of a fight, of fleeing, of launching himself at Irving knife first. Irving returns to a motionless state with nary more than a smacking of the lips.
It’s as Hickey begins to breath again that he spots it.
“Well, sir. You kept that quiet,” he says under his breath.
The blankets are obscenely tented. Even in the poor lighting, it’s obvious the man’s god has given him quite the gift.
A whisper of inspiration tickles at the back of Hickey’s mind, growing louder and louder as he takes in the ridiculous scene before him. What laudanum-haze dream is the bastard having to give him that great beast of a cockstand? It’ll be a man, of that Hickey’s certain. There’s no way a man has that many suggestions for ways to distract yourself from sinful thoughts unless he’s got a head full of them himself.
Well then. Might as well make the hypocritical bastard’s dreams come true.
He slides the blankets down and gets a proper look at the state of Irving. His nightdress is so stretched the hem falls halfway up his thighs. A sizeable patch of wet glistens in the meagre lighting, enough that Hickey’s fairly confident the man’s already spilled once at the very least. Not surprising, really, considering the bloke probably doesn’t wank at all. Hickey reaches out and gets a fistful of Irving’s bollocks through the fabric, proportionally fat things that barely fit in his hand. Christ, he must wear some sort of undergarment to keep the whole arrangement strapped down, otherwise he’d be bulging out of his uniform trousers even while soft. Hickey can’t resist a harsh squeeze, and Irving’s accompanying gasp sounds more pleasure than pain.
If there was any doubt in his mind before, it’s gone now. He’d practically be doing the miserable sod a favour.
Irving doesn’t stir at all as Hickey manoeuvres him onto his belly, nor when he hauls him up by the waist and folds his ungainly legs under him. Shoulders to the mattress and arse in the air. The whole ordeal leaves Hickey panting for breath; Irving’s only reaction is an occasional snuffle and a hint of a moan as his prick collides with the bed.
Hickey could probably cut his belly open and bleed him like a carcass and Irving wouldn’t know a thing of it.
He’s rough as he shoves Irving’s nightdress up to his hips, earning him a soft exhale. Grasping the flesh around Irving’s hips gets him an outright gasp.
It’s disgusting how soft Irving’s body is. The men’s rations have been steadily decreasing for months, they’ve all lost weight. Only those who started with an over abundance of fat are anything less than emaciated now. And here’s Irving, a man whose duties require little physical labour, still this soft about the hips. Still with a pudginess to his stomach revealing the ease of his life.
His arse is soft too, pliable as Hickey spreads him open. Only the barest hint of the particular savoury sweat found in a man’s crack, almost entirely overpowered by flowery soap. He’d been too out of it to bathe himself, surely. Maybe Billy washed him here. Changed him like a baby. Hickey cannot place the emotion this thought raises, and does not care to.
A few well aimed gobs of spit is all he’ll give Irving. The anticipation already has him half hard, a few tugs while smearing his spit over Irving’s tight little arsehole with his thumb gets him the rest of the way there. He lines himself up and pushes forward. On the first two attempts, his prick slips out of place, jabbing first Irving in his bollocks, the. again in his tailbone. As slack and useless as the rest of his muscles are, he’s a bloody vice here. For the third attempt, he hooks his thumb into Irving’s hole and tugs up like a fishhook, prising him open just enough that he can get the necessary purchase to force past the resistance.
He barely gets halfway in before he has to stop and take a moment to steady himself. Christ, it’s good to be inside a man again. It’s been two months since Billy last let him have a go, and his own hand is a sorry substitute. And Irving’s so fucking tight. It’s almost painful. Muscles in spasm from being forced open, wrapped so close around him that sinking the final couple of inches in takes what feels like an eternity.
Beneath his own heavy breathing he hears Irving whimper, half muffled by the pillow and sounding almost like a word. Hickey peers down at him. The one eye he can see looks to be closed. There’s no sign Irving’s at all conscious of what’s being done to him. Which is less of a shame than he’d expected. Of course, he’d love to have him when he’s awake. Flip him on his back and make him watch as he took his fill. But this is thrilling too, Irving being completely passive to Hickey’s whims. No idea at all that he’s losing his virginity.
No, he can’t wait any longer. He shoves deeper, carving out space for himself until his bony hips are flush with the cushion of Irving’s arse. As he bottoms out, Irving releases another pitiful little sound. It’s quiet, but Hickey can tell that if he were awake, he’d have yelped like a kicked dog.
“You woken up yet, sir?” he whispers.
There’s no response.
“Eye for an eye, int that what your book says?” Hickey grunt. He gives a few experimental jabs, the drag of Irving’s ring on the delicious razor edge of uncomfortable from the lack of slick. “You fucked my life up, I’m fucking you. Poetic, in a way, int it?”
He picks up his pace, and Irving sobs. This time, Hickey understands it. It’s almost completely lost in the slur of sleep and drink and pain. But it’s there.
“Please!”
Begging for it. Of course he is. Man’s probably wanted a stiff prick up his arse since his own first got hard. Maybe he’ll give him this again, when Irving’s awake. Give him a taste of his prick and all, let him find a better use for being on his knees than prayer.
A moment of inspiration strikes and he works two fingers in alongside his prick, stretching him out further. It’s a tight fit, the brutal clench of Irving’s arsehole threatening to cut off the circulation to his fingertips. The skin on his fingers is dry and rough too, and Hickey fancies he can feel it catching on Irving’s overstretched skin. He can certainly feel a wetness trickling between them that’s not his spit. He can certainly smell the tang of copper.
It’s a wonder Irving hasn’t woken fully. Just occasional pathetic sobs and whimpers, eyes staying closed all the while. There’s no argument, no complaint, none of the bullshit he’s sure the man would come out with if he were conscious. Christian forgiveness offered even as Hickey’s balls deep in him, even as his arsehole is stretched to breaking point.
Even as Hickey feels that same wetness on his fingers begin trickling down his balls.
His prick throbs as he realises just how much he could do. Just how much he could get away with. He could carve his name into his pale flesh so Irving always remembers who deflowered him, and Irving likely wouldn’t even give a peep. Drive his knife into him and cut him open here, worse than he already has. Shove his prick down Irving’s throat until he chokes on it. Irving’s dead to the world, nothing more than a hole for him to use and a body for him to defile with the same sin Irving would condemn him for. He should find a way to dose him again, next time he’s got an itch that needs scratching. His own personal whore. And Irving, going to sleep each night and wondering if he’ll wake up gaping open again.
It’s the image of how Irving will react tomorrow that finishes him, the thought of the bastard reaching between his legs and finding the source of the pain. The shame he’ll feel. The excitement. The longing for it to happen again. It has Hickey yanking his fingers free and driving his prick as deep as it’ll go, emptying himself in several hard pulses with a grunt of satisfaction. Irving’s arsehole spasms and clenches at the slight relief of no longer having to take his fingers as well, and the sensation draws Hickey’s pleasure out further. He holds himself there until he’s sure he’s emptied every last drop out of himself into Irving’s guts. Let him wake up still leaking. Blood and seed smeared all over his fat thighs. Like Stigmata, Hickey thinks to himself hazily. Impaled like his saviour. Suffering for Hickey’s sins.
A beam of light falls over Irving’s arsehole as Hickey at last eases himself free, revealing the state of it. Even a man as ignorant as Irving wouldn’t be able to mistake what’s happened here. He’s red-raw and wide open, winking spasmodically as if trying to close but unable to bear the pain of doing so. Glistening with the spend already beginning to ooze out of him. Hickey spits on it again and feels a surge of pride as the gob of it is sent neatly inside him, to mix with the rest of the mess.
As soon as Hickey’s off the bed, Irving’s knees go out from under him and he collapses into the bed with a weak moan. His brow’s furrowed, and Hickey watches him carefully to see if he wakes.
He raises a hand weakly and gropes in the air looking for comfort he’s not going to get.
“Ned…”
It’s a weak, snivelling sound. Something of betrayal in it. Hickey grins.
He wipes himself off on Irving’s sheets and imagines Billy washing them clean. He’d know immediately what the stains imply. His spiritual uplifter is as much as a sinner as the rest of them, he’d not be able to deny it.
“Thanks for the good time, sir,” he says, giving Irving’s bare arse a squeeze. “We’ll do this again, yeah?”
He’s lingered long enough. Time to make his way back to his hammock. The corridor is clear when he cracks the door open, and he creeps out as easily as he crept in. He pauses briefly outside Little’s door and wonders if the man knows that Irving’s lusting after him. Billy had let slip once that Little’s eyes occasionally lingered on Crozier’s steward at dinner. He couldn’t get it out of Billy if Jopson has shown any interest in return, but it would be fun if he did. Irving moping about Little can only make him easier to steer in useful directions; if he’s jealous of Crozier’s steward he’ll be Hickey’s for the taking. More than he already has been.