Werewolf's One

30's, black/white mixed race, USA. And... aromantic? I say it to be visible! The internet is a diverse place if we let it be.

I love hurting the characters. Abuse, injuries, blood, open wounds, extended periods of pain, long-term captivity, period-typical surgery. It's so beautiful. <3 My cuteness aggression makes me want to hunt them through the woods and keep them locked in my basement. I'm also really into playing around with gender, dark themes, gross stuff, and all sorts of AUs.

Do I "ship"? To where? xD I'll ship anyone with anyone and I love rare pairs.

I love learning, I love reading, I love history, and sometimes I'll write a fic with historic background. I am here to play with these TV show characters like little dolls and put them in my saw traps. I generally disrespect most polar explorers and I don't think we as a fandom space owe anything to the especially imperialist ones (which a great many of them were). I don't think talking about history, current events etc hinders my enjoyment of the show and fictional characters, so I do.

Thomas is holding a handful of his captain's laundry and leans up against the door, ready to slide it open. The impulse comes so naturally to him he almost doesn't realize what he was about to do. He's got the linen sheets tight against his chest, one hand splayed against the wooden slats, ready to slide it open without even a knock.

It's remarkably late. This is his last errand, which he's put off because he's aware of Crozier's odd hours. It comes with the odd drinking. But this would have been a breech of social and professional protocol worse than anything he'd done since— well, since then, when Crozier showed his stripes as someone who would not hesitate to punish such things. His back itches. His cheeks redden.

He's pushing himself away from the door, taking a moment to clear his head, his mind weak because of its need for sleep— how he wishes he could do without completely— when he hears it.

The slightest exhale. It's not a moan. It's not anything, it's just breathing.

But Thomas knows his captain's breathing. He knows that breath was not meant to be heard.

He does not hesitate to peek thru the slats. He knows which ones have the best view into the man's private cabin. He knows his back is protected, the room empty behind him. It's dark, blue shadows hide all.

Except for what's lit by dim candle in the captain's quarters.

Crozier's standing, mostly undressed. Nightshirt, trousers— he sleeps in them more often then not, neglects proper nightclothes— open. Wonderfully open. Crozier makes no effort to hide himself.

Thomas's red blush travels from his cheeks to the rest of his face, his neck, his ears, his chest, like a dry field catching fire. He holds his breath and looks again.

His captain holds his mostly soft member in his hands. He's almost completely soft, a valiant effort of puffing up his piece takes him nowhere near a full stand. But the expression on his face tells Thomas this feels quite good. He toys with the head, still sheathed in foreskin, lets out the smallest, quietest breath. Thomas is filled with envy. He imagines himself, drunk and whiskey-soft, and those deft, skilled fingers (for they are skilled at this task even so intoxicated) dancing along, coaxing pleasure.

His affliction is the opposite of his captain's— the blood rushes and pushes him to a half-stand at the thought, and he feels disgust. Disgust that he might so imagine himself in such a place of vulnerability.

He doesn't turn away, though. He watches.

Crozier's head rolls back. He doesn't look at peace. Maybe he wishes he could get hard, spill his seed, and find relaxation there. But then his other hand comes up and rubs his own neck, and he sighs, working in tandem. Relaxation will be had.

Thomas watches for a few minutes, and then a few minutes longer. Perhaps ten, fifteen go by, watching the secret, sensuous show Crozier doesn't know he's put on, until he's painfully tight in his drawers. He needs to calm down. He baits himself with consolations; Crozier won't come like this, he is not going to miss much, he can imagine more once he's in bed, imagine Crozier's hands on him again. Anything to make himself believe he should turn away and get back to work, come back in ten minutes and shuffle about and make noise before knocking loudly on the door.

He turns away—

A shadow in the doorframe.

Two sets of guilty eyes meet, for a split second. It's dark, but the man's a familiar silouhette. His First Lieutenant's anxious inhale of breath is familiar to Thomas.

Blush erupts in his skin like he's literally caught aflame. The implications, of them both standing there, in perfect stillness, perfect silence. One cannot accuse without the other turning the story right back around…

But Thomas will always be on the losing end of that gambit. He thanks God for the shadows and scant moonlight to cover his red cheeks. He pulls his laundry closer to himself. Makes for the door.

Little looks for a moment like he won't move— like he wants to say something— an accusation, or apology?

But he stands aside.

Frightened, he retreats into a flight of fancy. Images a version of events where he is but one part in a well-oiled machine. He arrives to the scene which someone else has called in. There are beat cops buzzing the area like flies, unrolling crime scene tape, flashbulbs clicking as evidence is gathered. The tinny voices of at least three radios can be heard in any given moment. Boots on the ground. Eyes on the scene. His partner, George, sees him coming, immediately makes a beeline to intercept. Their boss, Edward, presses a hand to his chest, and he knows he needs to see then, because they want to hold him back. They'll let him look, because it's important, this is a moment that will hold great meaning for all of them, for their whole precinct. When they pull up the sheet he won't believe his eyes, and George and Edward will have the authority and clarity to pull him away, curb his emotional reaction and push him toward whatever path is most ethical.

But it's just him. Water from last night's rain drips from the gutters onto the trash in the alley, and it is the only sound besides the sound of his own breathing. He is alone.

He crouches down and wraps his arms around his knees, like a child. Heedless of his coat touching the filthy ground, vagely wet from rain that doesn't clean, just soaks into the trash. His senses have left him and his mind is empty. He stares at the body like a child might, like it could decide to stop the blinkless, battered charade, get up and explain itself.

It has his face. It took him a split second to see it. He doesn't spend much time looking in the mirror. But you can't forget your own face, and the dead man looks just like him. The lighting is beautiful, cloudy late afternoon, still smells like rain, thunder rumbles in the distance. He has a perfect view. The man is on his back, shabby clothes, black slacks, coat appropriate for the weather.

Sullen, perturbed, a toddler holding back a tantrum, he reaches out with his pen. Lifts the man's collar. There's blood.

The feeling of dread swells, but when it plateaus he doesn't scream or cry or laugh. He cannot imagine having any more force to change the tide of whatever is about to happen. He's watching a sad film. He can't talk to the screen and make the characters leave before it's too late. It's already too late. He waits for the story to unfold, as the light starts to dim around him.