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.

James notices Sir John deteriorating after a wound in the field and has Stanley come to his quarters. Sir John is awake and writing a letter to his wife.

James looks in on his captain. He hasn't slept properly in several days. He also hasn't visited the sick bay. And he won't; he's the shepherd to the flock, but the flock can recognize when their leader is harmed, and Sir John's pride is beyond that. Since Antarctica.

James peeks in through the slats. He's quiet, but it doesn't take a lot to sneak up on John. The man's not entirely as sure of hearing as he once was, though he wouldn't admit it. James is fiercely protective of that fact.

Right now, John appears to be writing a letter, still in his waistcoat, his little fire burning low. No sleeping, which one would assume, this late.

Well, nothing for it. Day three of this, he won't stand for it any longer.

He knocks on Stanley's door. The man's face softens upon seeing James, and grows worried.

"Not me, old friend. Sir John hasn't slept a wink since the accident. Wonder if you'd do a housecall? As a favor to me?"

Stanley wouldn't deny their captain a thing, naturally, but he'd also not deny his commander. He nods, asks only for the time to get dressed and get his bag from the sick bay. In 20 minutes he's met up with James at their captain's door.

The dance they do is necessary but rote. Sir John denies needing help and James presses in every way he can which does not infringe on Sir John's authority, citing the safety of the crew, responsibility of the leader, and the general standing orders to report any ailment. Stanley stands, patient, offering blatant support when James touches on the medical risks of ignoring wounds for too long. What finally gets Sir John to aquiesce is the mention of his wife. "Lady Franklin would hate to see you suffer."

"You have me there, James." Feeling he's put up enough of a fight, he lets the two enter.

Now Sir John sits, waistcoat removed, shirtsleeve open, as Stanley cleans the wound. A long gouge along his neck, collarbone, and down his chest. James knows he's been in pain, that he can't sleep. He hasn't said so, but Sir John gets an air of dignity about him when he's hurting. He goes slower, and it gives the impression of heightened patience. But lack of sleep will kill any man, great or small, James knows.

So Stanley kneels, wiping away any hints of infection, testing parts of the still-fresh scab with clean handkerchief to see if the cloth comes away with pus or comes away clear.

Sir John leans away, exhausted. He's usually so wary of proximity. Touch of any kind unsettles him. Stanley's a rare exception; his cross attitude, practicality, lack of sentiment, all work in his favor as far as Sir John is concerned. James loves the man as he'd love any man who would save his life, but he's pleased that Sir John gets along as well.

A his, as Stanley pulls at some dead looking skin. Sir John is usually more squeamish, but his exhaustion is setting in. His head leans back, eyes closed even through the pain and discomfort. He trusts, and that, to James, is the beauty of it.

He's pulled a chair to the threshold, and sits puffing his own pipe as he watches the procedings. He's pleased that this has come together. Two of his favorite men, moving in tandem. A problem being solved. Yes, he's pleased. Crossing his legs, he nudges his toe forward so it just touches Sir John's.

His captain opens his tired eyes. He looks down at James's boot tip, then up at him. Gives what might be a smirk.

The first few days after, he relied on her, in ways he is not proud of. Her blood-soaked appearence sent a spike of fear through his heart. Stanley's immolation deadened what fear he felt, and each night— what a laughable concept, now, to call this handful of hours night just because it is the time he choses to sleep— he gets lost in a spiral of darkness of the soul. He has been scooped out, hollowed. He sometimes wishes he'd die in his sleep, because it would be so much easier than waking up and facing it over and over again.

She was the only distraction. He still didn't feel on those first few nights. But he recognized her, saw her face and knew her, when all the men around him because blurs. They had to be blurs, or he'd feel the monumental weight of how many were gone. But seeing her was a balm.

Touching her, holding her still, looking at her mouth, her poor tongue, making sure it didn't worsen day by day. It kept him feeling real. All steps he could take without the threat of numbness and despair overwhelming him. He saw her shape approach, saw her sleep in her furs, and he felt less like a gibbering maniac, and more like a sad, hopeless man.

It is terribly selfish. It is, somehow, an improvement. These things both make him feel pathetic and useless.

It takes them both those two weeks, and the improving light, to come back to being human.

He knows she's feeling the least bit better because she is, one morning he goes to check on her, simply not there. Part of him knows she should leave if she can, and part of him fears she cannot, and part of him longs for her company. Altogether he doesn't trust his own judgement on the matter.

Still, he needs to check. So he asks around, and eventually some blurred shape tells him she went out to the ice, and she's still out there.

He gets into some slops and goes out, and finds this is true. She's sitting in her great fur coat, a hundred feet out. Why so far? His mind automatically goes through the words for arm, leg, hand, foot, head. It is a jolt; he feels like he hasn't had thoughts in an eternity.

As he gets closer he notices slight movement. She's sitting on her knees, mittened hands in her lap. Rocking, gently, back and forth. He comes up behind her and greets her gently. He's always worried that he is intruding. Always he feels this way, can't seem to shake it.

She looks up. She doesn't smile, but he feels like he knows her expression. Recognition. Seeing his face, when everything around is a blur.

"Cold?" He asks.

She shakes her head, the tiniest hint. No. Her expression is tight. He remembers a word. Hopes he understands how to use it.

"A'nirnaqpa?" He asks.

She takes a beat, then she nods. The smallest movement, not pausing her back and forth. Distracting from the pain, he thinks. He has nothing else for her; she accepted laudanum once or twice, but not during the day, when she wants to be awake. He thinks about leaving. He doesn't want to disturb her.

It must be written on his face, because as he's turned slightly away, she's reached out and taken his sleeve. When he turns back she's looking at him, eyes open, head slightly to one side.

"I can stay?"

She nods again. And does it more dramatically, for his benefit. Tears prickle at her eyes. Dangerous. She pulls her hood closer. But she doesn't let go of his sleeve.

"Okay. I'll stay."

She gets off her knees and settles onto crossed legs. He does the same, sitting next to her. Leaning in to her furs. She leans back in to him. After a beat she starts her rocking. Much more gently, to not disturb him.

He'll have to get up soon. The ice is already starting to steal the warmth through his trousers. The cotton does so little. He wriggles. Thinks about how he should apologize.

Without warning she's wrapping an arm around him and tugging him. Up, over. Until he's on her lap. The fur is warmer than the ice.

"O-oh. Oh." She realized what his problem was right away. He blushes. Imagines the dirty poems he knows. Blushes more.

But then she's rocking again, arms around him like he's a huge plush toy. Now she is humming, too. The quietest hum, he can barely hear it, barely feel it, but it's there. It's like her voice is warming him.

Francis spends a lot of time staring out of windows, searching some distant, imaginary horizon. James allows it for propriety's sake, but it does drive him a bit loony. He's on London for a few months, that's all, and he's taken another commission, and he wants them to enjoy what time they have.

You're always halfway across the world, and you're calling me distant?

James comes up behind him.

I'm the one globetrotting, yet it seems that I'm always the one chasing you.

Francis stiffens. He's exhausted. But when he turns, and his tired eyes meet James, it still has the same effect. He still feels want. Need. Francis's gaze warms him on even the coldest nights. He wants to return the favor while he's here, no matter how reticent the old man gets.

He takes Francis's hand in his, holding eye contact. He brings Francis's fingertips to his lips, just barely brushes skin against skin.

"You press on these bruises on purpose," Francis accuses, voice gravely, low. He's not moving away, despite his frown. He does tug against Jame's grip.

"Don't you like my fingers?" James asks, holding tight. He kisses knuckles gently.

"You know I do. I know what you're doing, James."

James smiles.

He reaches for Crozier's other wrist. The one where there is no hand. And it is a testament to what they've been through, that Francis allows it. James dusts a kiss over where the wrist ends, uneven where joint was cut and healed on the shale. He is gentle. He is loving.

"I love all parts of you," James mutters against the skin.

Francis rolls his eyes. But… he blushes a bit, too. It is hard to hide, with his complexion.

He looks like he is about to complain, so James holds his own hand up. Like a princess- like a queen.

Francis doesn't talk about these things— he doesn't want conversations. He is impatient, cranky, and often rude. But he is still a man of work, service, respect. So he does his duty. Takes James's hand, holds those long, strong fingers, and brings them to his lips.

"That's more like it, love."

"You cannot give me a single easy night, can you James?"

"Francis, I'd give you anything you asked. I'd let you fuck me with this-"

"James." Francis shies away from such lewd talk, but his blush deepens.

He raises his eyebrows pointedly. But the bait was successfully taken. Francis doesn't sigh, or turn away. He holds James's gaze.

James rewards him by bringing his hand to Francis's face, running his fingers allong his cheek, before pressing his thumb between the lips. Deeper, into the warm, wet space that opens readily for him.

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.