||[Oct. 26th, 2004|07:34 pm]
Whole lotta labia.
|[||how ya feelin'?
A little something for my Laura. I ran it through a spellcheck but it could still use a Mistress o' Grammar if one would like to come forth. We all know about my comma issues.
Title: Of Oil And Inkwells (expect the title to change. nothing's grabbed me yet)
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: Not mine. Made it all up.
Summary: Sometimes you should wait to be invited. Never know what you might walk in on.
“Tom. Was there something I could help you with?”
Tom’s voice is nearly the boyish stutter he grew out of years ago as he says “No.. 'M sorry sir. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I’ll be going.”
The sight of Jack reclining against the back of his chair, his breeches undone and his hand stroking his erection in the afternoon air had been the last thing Tom expected when he knocked and entered. Now he tries not to blush as he turns to leave.
Jack drapes the tails of his shirt over himself and speaks quickly. “No, I’m sorry. My apologies Tom, I’m afraid so long away from home makes me bold in my personal moments.”
“I understand sir, I do.”
“Of course you do, my boy. You’re bunked next to the midshipmen.” They both chuckle but the mood is still tense and neither one of them laughs as hard as they could. “I wonder at times how I could ever have thought I was getting away with anything. From where you are you can hear every move they make and yet they think they’re being so quiet and moving with such stealth. Still, I don’t begrudge them a little comfort in the night. There’s many a night I’d have been glad of a touch that wasn’t my own just for the novelty and the closeness of another.”
Somehow Jack finds it in himself to blush, though it’s the memories of Stephen spread beneath him clutching Jack’s hands and muttering fevered wishes featuring Tom’s mouth that provide the flush rather than any sheepishness over his own desires.
Tom blushes as well though for him it’s the not-distant memories of his own hand, his own fantasies, and the way Jack’s neck looks against the ruffles of his shirt. The captain looks so nervous, his face creeping red and his forehead sweating. Tom’s mind is racing with thoughts of how uncomfortable Jack looks. Of how embarrassed. Of how Tom might save this moment by letting Jack know that his needs are understood. Tom thinks that if he makes himself complicit in the moment it will help Jack not be so ashamed.
“Perhaps sir,” and here he places his hand over Jack’s on the table, “Perhaps the midshipmen have the right idea. Perhaps only a fellow sailor can understand the kind of touch that’s necessary.”
Jack stares at the hand over his own, at the hair curling over the cuff and the way those long fingers wrap over his big meaty paw and gives a little secret smile before looking up, a picture of mortified innocence.
“If I were one of the oldsters you would think nothing of it, would you?”
“You wouldn’t think me weak.”
“No. Perhaps there would be some taunting at dinner when next you were invited. But at that moment? No, I’d most likely turn my back and leave.” Tom begins to think he might be pushing his luck and starts to trail his fingers off of Jack’s when Jack interrupts him, turning his hand over and clutching at Tom’s fingers.
Tom sees his eyes widen and thinks Jack might be scandalized, hopes he isn’t. Jack’s eyes widen at the possibility that after years of pondering and fantasizing he might finally know the feel of those long, slim fingers around him.
Tom is thinking how something that started so simply, with a need to calm the Captain’s embarrassment, might now lead him to a fulfillment so fantastical he hasn’t even brought the dream of it on board; but left it instead in gritty, cheap rooms rented by the hour. “Yes, most likely I’d leave. Unless I didn’t. Unless I stayed. Unless I moved into the empty cabin and put my hand over his and let him know he shouldn’t be ashamed.” Tom’s false bravado pinkens his ears.
Jack can’t resist a wicked half-grin. “Would you then? I would wish myself decades younger right now, Tom. And not the Captain, above such flagrance.”
“You shouldn’t be ashamed either, sir.” Tom’s hand, the one not clutched in Jack’s grip, makes a trailing motion down the front of Jack’s shirt, settling finally over the fabric, over the flesh, over Jack. Jack gasps at the contact and Tom thinks he’s caught his captain by surprise for once.
Jack’s eyes fall shut and his mouth drops open. For once there is no comment on his tongue, there is only shocked silence.
Tom’s hand curves around the shape of Jack under the cloth and he squeezes lightly. “You’re the captain, Sir, but even so you’re human. You mustn’t think yourself above the needs of the flesh. And you more so than others need a clear head.”
Jack finally finds his tongue and his voice is surprisingly only slightly dry when he speaks. “Oh Tom, you do too much. But oh, thank you. Sometimes these thoughts in my head, the images I see behind my eyelids, sometimes they stay with me, waking or sleeping, and this is all that sends them away.”
Tom’s mouth is next to Jack’s ear now, his fingers squeezing and releasing, not even stroking yet, just feeling the outlines of Jack and listening to the slight hitch in his voice. Tom would never tell Jack but this is hardly the first time he’s done this. Tom would never tell Jack about the rent boys who come to his rooms in Portsmouth and answer to any name he gives them. Tom would never tell Jack any of the images that stay behind his own eyelids. Which is a shame, of course, because Jack would be only too happy to help.
“Tell me, Sir. It will never leave this room; never leave this moment. Know that you are free to tell me anything you wish to free your mind.”
Jack licks his lips and tries not to think about how close Tom’s neck is and how another centimeter with his tongue would put it against Tom’s skin. “When I was a midshipman myself there was a boy my age, also a mid. Michael. That was his name. He would touch me like you are now. He would stroke me and whisper in my ear. And when we grew older sometimes he would…..” Jack’s voice trails off and the flush creeps higher on his face.
Tom sees the redness on Jack’s throat, feels it in Jack’s ears, and knows that his Captain is censoring himself again. “Tell me, Sir. Tell me about him.” As punctuation Tom’s hand slides down, then up again, only once. Clutching again, his thumb against the contour of the head Tom waits for Jack’s response.
Jack’s breath catches in his throat and there is a strangled gasp before he speaks again in short stuttered gasps. “On shore, when we had money, we would rent a room. There would be drinks. Cards. When we were alone Michael would –“ Jack swallows and thinks about the risk he’s taking. “He would spread me beneath him. He would take me. I would spend myself feeling him move inside me. The memory of it haunts me, Tom.”
It is a moment of strength unrivaled in his career as Tom’s hand does not still following this revelation.
The vivid image of Jack’s naked back below him burns for an instant in his eyes. Tom hears the voice of his first schoolmaster, the same voice that caught him sleeping on watch one night and covered him in a blanket rather than report him, “Well. In for a penny, in for a pound, eh boy?”
“I can imagine, Sir, that such things would haunt you. I can imagine that you would be tormented by the memory with no hope of release. I can imagine that your only hope would be if I were to spread you over this table and take you myself, isn’t that so, Sir?”
The second after that statement is endless.
Tom doesn’t take a breath. But he also doesn’t move his hand, doesn’t move his mouth from next to Jack’s ear, doesn’t unlace his fingers. He counts his heartbeat. He watches Jack’s pulse in his neck. He waits.
In a voice so telling that Tom can almost see the eyebrows rise on Jack’s forehead Jack says, “I imagine that would be my only hope, Tom.”
“Well then, Sir. I think you should probably undress and make yourself ready, don’t you?” It is clearly not a question.
Jack waits until Tom’s hand is pulled away before he pushes the chair back. He doesn’t think about Killick’s tut-tutting, he just pulls his boots off and tosses them to the door of the sleeping cabin. His breeches follow and now he is standing there in nothing more than his open shirt.
Tom has taken his coat and draped it over the back of a chair. He has rolled his sleeves up, exposing his forearms. His eyes glitter and the look of nervous concentration on his face is in perfect counterpoint to the press of his erection against his breeches. Jack stares for a long moment and knows that he should feel bad for any connivance that went into this, but he just can’t find it in himself. Devoted Tom here to help the Captain with his wanton needs and ready to take the lead. How can Jack feel bad about this? How can he regret any slight of tongue or subterfuge?
“It would be wise, Sir, if you were to move the maps to a safer spot. And didn’t I say you should make yourself ready? Sir?”
Jack gives a little shiver and thinks about how completely insubordinate that “Sir” sounds on Tom’s lips. Tom’s thread of control is so thin, Jack could end this with a court martial and hanging at any moment, but for now they both entertain the pleasant fiction of the tables turning and Jack obeys Tom by bundling the charts and putting them on his personal desk, stopping to pluck the jar of lamp oil from it’s drawer beneath the bed before he goes back to the table.
Tom is momentarily flummoxed. He’s done this before, of course, but the mechanics of the preparation have never been his concern. The rent boys were always ready, always wet, that’s what he paid them for. He stares at the oil, at Jack’s fingers still holding it.
For the first time since Tom walked in Jack is nervous that he might leave without any relief for either of them. That can’t happen. Jack’s voice is quiet and soothing as he sits back down in his chair. “I’m to make myself ready you said.” Jack’s fingers are broad against the lid, and as they dip into the oil they are magnified against the glass until Tom can see the torn cuticles against his fingernails. Oil drips from them onto the table and across Jack’s bare legs as he spreads them and his fingers slip from sight. His eyes lose their focus and his breathing speeds up and he turns to stare at Tom.
Tom’s hand his pressed against his own groin as he watches Jack’s fingers dip again into the oil and then down to press into himself. The minutes move past Tom and are lost in the small groans from Jack’s throat and the sweat against Jack’s upper lip. Finally he says “Are you ready then?” And at Jack’s nod he says, “Then close the oil.”
Jack’s fingers slip against the lid and he smiles slightly at the sound of authority in Tom’s voice again.
“Now, over the table, palms flat against it.”
Jack isn’t smiling now. He isn’t doing anything but what Tom says. But to save them time he takes the liberty of spreading his legs slightly. Tom’s footsteps come closer and stop behind him and for the first time since this began Jack feels vulnerable under Tom’s eyes. After so long without feeling anything but the table underneath his hands he feels Tom’s palm against his shoulder blade, warm and solid and calming. A moment after he feels the fingers of Tom’s other hand stroke over his thigh, over his buttock, against his entrance.
With no warning, with no preamble, Tom slides one finger deep inside Jack, trusting that he’d been telling the truth when he said he was ready. He pushes at Jack’s shirt, exposing his back and the reality is every bit as heart stopping as his earlier vision of it had been. He strokes his finger deep, and then another finger, and listens to Jack’s gasps become moans become gasps again.
Three fingers now and the twist of his hand as he pushes in has Jack pushing back against Tom’s hand. Even this is too slow for Jack’s heated needs and he finds himself spreading his legs wider, knowing that Tom will be unable to resist the temptation.
He’s right, of course, and Tom’s hand leaves Jack’s back to unbutton his breeches and bring his own cock into the air. He slicks it with the oiled fingers of his other hand and holding it against Jack he says “You’d best be truly ready, Sir.”
Jack’s eyes squeeze tight enough to make them water as he feels Tom slide into him slowly. So slowly. Too slowly. ‘He’s worried about hurting me,’ Jack thinks and with a moan he pushes himself back against Tom. Begs with his hips.
Tom picks up his speed and now with one hand against Jack’s back and another on Jack’s hip he slides against Jack’s aching tightness and nearly weeps with the pleasure of it.
In the mirror shine of the table Jack can see Tom’s face above him. Tom’s face so deep in concentration and every ounce of pleasure etched in the space between his eyebrows. Tom’s teeth have closed over his own lower lip and they are pinching tighter than mere concentration warrants.
Clinging to the table, pushing back into Tom, Jack’s right arm reaches back to find Tom’s thighs against his own. Jack’s fingernails dig in slightly, raking up Tom’s thigh and clutching into his hip. “Tom.”
The feel of those fingernails, the sound of his name, and Tom pushes forward once, fast, hard and Jack’s arms shoot out to brace himself. His wrist catches the candlestick, which topples and sends the candle and stick rolling into the inkwell. The inkwell falls sideways and the deep blue spreads across the table, thick and slow. Oceans of it pool against the sides of the candlestick, against Jack’s arms, against the lip of the table, and as Tom’s rhythm steadies again the ink laps in waves like the sea.
Jack feels the slip and push of Tom entering him as he presses himself back, meeting Tom’s thighs with his own. He remembers that fevered thrust of Tom’s and wonders if he can call it up again. With one ink-smeared hand he reaches back again. He slaps his hand against the side of Tom’s thigh, gripping at it, digging his fingernails in, pulling back so that he leaves a blue mark of his own hand scored deeply with the white lines of his fingernails. He’ll be scrubbing the ink from his nails for days, but he hardly cares now. Not now. Not now that Tom is falling forward against Jack’s back.
Tom’s left hand leaves Jack’s shoulder as he falls and slaps down on top of Jack’s own hand, curling his fingers against Jacks and clutching as he sobs. His forehead is against Jack’s right shoulder and he is moaning now, wailing nearly. His sobs rack in time with his thrusts and Jack thinks of the noise. His right hand, still wet with ink, clutches at Tom’s hair, pulling his mouth down against Jack’s shoulder and holding it there.
Finding his mouth covered by Jack’s shoulder Tom feels free now to give quiet screams, to mutter his pleasure into Jack’s flesh. He pushes harder now, knowing not that Jack likes it, knowing only that he needs it like this. Needs it fast and rough. His forearm slides in the ink and it is only the tension of his hand in Jack’s that gives him the leverage to keep the strokes as hard as he needs them.
Knowing that Tom will keep his head still, will keep his mouth pressed against his shoulder blade, Jack releases Tom’s hair and clutches again at his hip. He curls his fingers against Tom’s buttock, feeling it tense under his fingers as Tom pushes into him, urging him on. With the press of his fingernails he is able to speed Tom’s thrusts and with the slap of his hand again he is able to solicit a guttural grunt into his shoulder blade. Jack moves Tom like this, directing him, steering him, angling him almost until Tom is raking across the center of his pleasure with every stroke and Jack is nearly sobbing himself.
Tom’s thrusts are growing fiercer now, losing their smoothness, and he knows he won’t last much longer. The feel of Jack’s fingernails in his skin is a pleasure he hadn’t even thought to ask for and when Jack finally not only digs in but rakes up again Tom pushes forward once, twice, and then with the third he bites down and screams his release into Jack’s flesh.
The bite is what Jack needed, the feel of those teeth in his skin and the sweet burn of it. He pushes himself down and against the table and the feeling of his teeth against his lips, holding them closed, are the only things that keep Jack from screaming himself as he spasms against his own thighs. When Tom’s teeth pull loose from his shoulder Jack almost whimpers and as the blood rushes back into the skin he feels it throb with his racing pulse. Tom’s forehead is against him now, Tom’s breath on his back, and Jack nearly laughs but stops himself in time.
Tom pulls himself free and with one hand he slips himself back into his breeches, buttoning them awkwardly. His left hand stays twisted with Jack’s, unable to let go. He feels Jack’s forehead drop onto his wrist, heavy and hot, his own face still pressed into Jack’s back. He wonders at how Jack will explain the ink to Killick but his speeding heart won’t let him focus on where the rags might be, of how to mop at it, of anything but laying here for just a moment longer.
“I don’t know how to say thank you, Tom. I would never have found it in myself to ask, but you’ve given me exactly what I so needed.” Jack wants to press a kiss to Tom’s forearm but stops himself.
“Sir, I assure you, you were not alone in having your needs met. And with all due respect, you didn’t need to ask, it was I who made the proposition, it was my idea.”
Tom can’t see Jack’s face now. He can’t see Jack’s smile grow broad. And if he can feel the muscles of Jack’s cheek tighten against his arm he doesn’t know the reason. He only knows that he was able to help his Captain and himself and hopes he might have the chance again some day.
Jack can’t read Tom’s mind, which is a shame, of course, because Jack would be only too happy to help.