Exhaling, Jopson tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut as the man works his prick, the warm flush of his mouth overwhelming all of his senses. The muscles in his stomach jump, his toes curl into the floor boards, his fingers tighten round the rail. He wants to reach for him with his other hand, sink fingers into his hair or grip his shoulder, but refrains, pressing it against his own chest instead.
Hissing through gritted teeth, it takes every ounce of will to keep his hips still when he's licked clean. Already he feels himself thickening under the touch, the tender care of Crozier's mouth. He could melt, turn into nothing at this man's feet and be content to live the rest of his days there, all of his nerve-endings sparking and spiraling warmth through every blood vessel imaginable.
There's a sigh that sounds a great deal like Francis, sir, when teeth scrape the sensitive skin at the join of his hip and his free hand falls from his chest to settle into Crozier's hair. Not gripping, not holding, simply loose and fond against his nape, easily cast off or moved. Not unlike a sated cat soaking up a sunbeam, pleased to have any attention as it drifts into the dream-like haze of summer.
His cock begins to ache anew, still erring on the side of too-sensitive, but it doesn't stop the obvious enjoyment of the man's mouth and hand on him.
Francis reaches one hand back, covers Thomas' on his own head. Doesn't stay for long, just enough to reassure him and give him silent permission to be there, to steady himself however he likes— and to show his appreciation for the contact. It makes him feel wanted, and more in just the ways that make his blood run ever-hotter.
He resettles with one hand on Jopson's side to support him, and the other teasing his prick. He takes his time worrying the bite mark into him— no stinging nips after the first warning one. Slow, heavy pressure, suckled in or with the steady clench of teeth. Every so often he sits back to admire the progress, and reward Thomas' endurance with wet kisses to his cock. The lashes with the paddle weren't his, they weren't meant to last; Thomas said so himself. This must last a little longer, then, or at least be cherished so. He doesn't want to risk the skin breaking, and he doesn't want to give him a welt that turns into a blister, so he must be careful. Spread out the pressure even in the tiny area, leave it red, then just a touch violet.
A glance up, as he presses in a firm touch with his fingers to the blooming bruise.
Thomas lets himself drown in the pleasure of it all - the hand teasing his prick to hardness all over again, the mouth working at his skin in a way that feels both erotic and raw. He doesn't consider there could be a mark - too caught up in the sensation of it until Crozier's sweet mouth returns to his cock. His glutes tense, his quads flex, his lower back arches - all just enough to show the restraint at wanting to chase the pleasure, to encourage the wet slide of lips over his skin.
Until it all stops - and is replaced instead by a bloom of pain in his hip and thigh. Small, raw, but a fair throb of something. Notice me it says, and he tips his head down, blue eyes half-lidded to gaze at his lover first. A handsome man, with intelligent blue eyes and kind mouth. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the way simply looking at him seated on the bench there makes his cock twitch and grow heavier.
The mark, though - obvious against the pale skin, skin worried and blushing violet under the pressure of his fingers.
"Thank you, sir," he whispers, awed and so strung-up at the attention. His fingers leave Crozier's hair to join the man at his thigh to press fingers over his and apply more pressure, to encourage that violet stain to turn to something like plum come tomorrow. The thought alone makes him go wet all over again, a pearl of spend to slick up Crozier's hand.
Of anything, he doesn't expect Thank you, and it squeezes at his heart. A great feeling of possessiveness comes over him, and it's all he can do to stop himself from dragging Jopson down into his lap. Instead, he leans back in and places a chaste kiss against his steward's fingers, over the fresh bruise.
Hard again already, just like he knew he would be. Crozier strokes him, thumbs over the head of his prick, spreading the slick around.
"You get so wet for me," he murmurs. "Bloody marvelous, Tom."
Content, now, to hold him by the hips with both hands, and lick his cock into his mouth. Crozier won't let him buck too hard, will keep him steady and keep him where he wants him, but he's thorough. Like everything else he does, he treats it like he's got a goal. Some sightseeing, some enjoyment; he's a man of science, or something like it, he wants to gather data about what Jopson likes best. He wants to feel for himself, taste for himself, the intensity of it, the bitterness, the heat.
Embarrassing how easily he's going to shatter apart - body already wound tight from the first and rapidly building for the second. He reaches for Crozier's shoulders the moment he's enveloped in the wet, hot heat of the man's mouth. Fingers dig into the muscle there using him to steady himself instead of the railing or the wall. Grounded and real and slowly tumbling and dissolving into someone not quite himself.
Thomas. Tom. He will be anything this man wants him to be so long as he always sounds so sweet, so adoring, as long as he can have him no matter the backdrop of it all.
"Just for you, sir," he manages, voice hitched and quiet, breathing building into little frantic pants. It's all too much - the pressure not fully released from earlier, building and building and he wants in every way to endure for a moment longer, to let this man take and take and take but -
It's embarrassing indeed when he comes hard and fast - not quite the mess from earlier but generous still. He grips Crozier's shoulders perhaps a little too hard, his spine giving way and going lax, his shoulders sagging when he knows he should stand up straight. He just needs a minute. His mind spins, his thoughts turn to nothing except the way they echo the furious beat of his heart that he swears might sound something like his Captain's name.
Intense in his mouth, the taste not palatable but so intimate; he likes it, like pressing on a bruise (hah), like the burn of muscles after working hard. Wonderfully satisfying and primal, and best of all, the way he pulses and twitches, feeling Jopson's very heart through the tender skin and membranes of his cock. Crozier swallows him down, finding room somehow in the midst of everything already so overwhelming pleasant, to be pleased with himself that he hasn't gone rusty at it.
He feels the younger man begin to collapse, and so he straightens up (careful, gentle when he releases him), lifting his arms to welcome him back into a hold that will no doubt be a mess of limbs. His own arousal leaps back into his consciousness with sudden, bright demand, but he doesn't react to it. Maybe he'll see to it, maybe he won't. If they were more practiced together he might shove Jopson down to his knees, but he needs to check in with him.
"There we are," he murmurs. "Did so well. Come on now, let me hold you."
Every muscle in his body twitches with the stimulation, all his insides turned into little clockwork machines whirring and ticking and spinning. He doesn't feel like himself standing here - the steward gone, all work and propriety wiped away and leaving him raw and open. His body knows the work, though, settling into Crozier's lap as he's done on this very bench before, thighs on either side of him, torso pressed close, a tangling of arms around his neck or shoulders.
Crozier's arousal rests prominently against the sore cleft of his ass and he sets his weight there before letting his head fall forward, pressing their mouths together in a slow kiss, limbs heavy and head out under the stars or drifting in the waves. They fit together, easy and simple, his body already molding to the older man's.
"You're so warm," he mumbles, nuzzling lazily against his cheek. He'll please the man soon, work him out of his own arousal even if it's a new sort of pleasant to simply feel it pressing against his bare backside, nestled between with his thighs spread wide.
Somewhat distracting, the weight against him, but that, too, he sets aside. Better to have Jopson cradled in his arms, and taste him on his mouth again. He holds him, pets down his back, leaves one hand in his hair and the other slung around him. Leaning against the bolster, gazing up at him. A bloody mystery how he's stumbled to such a place. Jamie's command, the majesty of the Antarctic, and a lover like this.
"You've made me so," he tells him, pressing back, nose to nose, stealing soft kisses. An echo, of the way he told Jopson was glowing. "Thank you. Did everything just as I asked, sublimely."
Nothing for it but to hold him and kiss him, now. The pressure of his release is on the edge of fading or becoming something else, its own kind of intoxication, and he likes it just fine. Almost more powerful is the intoxication of having this creature in his lap to look after, being the one to have put him in such a state.
Tiny starbursts of sparks and embers trickle down to his fingertips, all the way to his toes, skin burning like kindling and slowly settling like a dying fire out on the ice. It doesn't leave him cold, though - Crozier's plenty warm and his own heart is only just calming itself. But it's a new feeling, this fatigue, this heaviness, this simple contentment to be held.
He nuzzles into each little kiss offered, eyes heavy lidded, sometimes even closed as he rests his forehead against the Captain's temple. If this were any other time he'd think he was drunk, drifting in and out of his mind and body, relaxing into the warm and easy floating that goes with it.
"It makes me happy to please you," he murmurs, sleepy and distant, head falling in against the crook of the man's neck. Here he can breathe him in - the spritz of some cologne, musk, sea spray, mumble little sounds of gratitude. Better than the thoughts roaming at the back of his mind that sound a lot like i care for you, i want to be here with you, please let me stay long after this ship has gone. Get it together, Jopson.
"You do please me." He holds him, pets his hair, like he's some delicate thing to be cared for. "You please me very much."
And it's true. He never expected it, would certainly never have imagined it. Crozier kisses his temple, sits with him, just soaking up his presence, the closeness, the comfort of it. The odd way it feels nearly euphoric to have put him in this state, which he has no name for. He has felt it before, in different permutations. But never quite in this way.
They are not in a private room with no duties for the rest of the week, alas. After some time and another kiss, he gently urges Jopson up.
"You mustn't catch a chill," he murmurs. "Let me."
Careful, attentive, it's his turn to dress his steward.
A smile into the crook of Crozier's neck, a soft nuzzle, sitting in the silence with him and absorbing all his warmth and tenderness. He's only just begun to drift into a light doze when his lover speaks and it leaves him the tiniest bit disoriented when he sits up, nudged out of the man's lap.
He feels the loss of the man's body against his almost instantly, deep and cutting, like he's had something of himself removed in a hurry. The instinct to do as the man tells him remains, though, and always will - the steward will never truly leave his bones, after all. Reaching for him, he twines their hands together, feeling a gut-churning need to stay close in a way he can't put words to. He can't put words to any of this that he's feeling. Euphoria? Fatigue? Joy?
Allowing Crozier to dress him reminds him a great deal of the tent at Aether and in a way this cabin is much the same - a haven among the chaos around them. Even standing to be dressed his eyes stay heavy, the bright blue following Crozier's hands as they work each piece of clothing. They have duties to attend, work to do, but he can't seem to leave the bubble of whatever this is, hazy and warm and quiet.
"May I sit with you while you work, sir?" Soft, almost like someone asking for five more minutes of sleep. "I will be quiet, of course."
Crozier keeps so very close to him. An arm tucked around him, steadying him while he helps him into socks, trousers, when he buttons his shirt, and guides hands into coat sleeves. Murmuring praises, bestows gentle kisses.
He's already contemplating his own reluctance to part, despite the necessity, when Jopson voices his request. Crozier tucks him closer against his side, one arm around his middle. There is indeed a feeling of some gossamer thread connecting them, and parting threatens to snap it. A far too fragile, precious thing to risk, though if there is some emergency he knows it will have to be sacrificed. For now, though, they can indulge it.
"Yes," he assures him. "I'm going to ask you to drink a cup of water for me first."
And so he does, after ushering him towards his berth. He'll work in the little desk alcove instead of in the proper great cabin, as it'll be easier to shuffle into privacy if something does require the immediate opening of the door. After a moment of consideration, he fetches a pillow and a blanket and utilizes them so that Jopson doesn't have to put his knees on the wooden deck with just trousers between. Understanding the desired dynamic, instead of getting a second chair. He wants him at hand, under his hand, where he can let him rest.
Jopson fully expects to be ushered to the bench, made to lie down while the man works. That’s what it might usually look like if he were to make such a request, but it’s drinking cold water and following into the berth that changes everything.
The water nearly finished he sets the glass aside and only once Crozier settles for his work (the steward brain is fussing - get his pen, his paper, his tea - but he ignores it), he kneels beside him. The pillow helps protect his knees, his hip, as he settles on the floor but the blanket he wraps around himself, overwhelmed by the need to smother himself in the scent of his Captain.
“Just a moment like this, sir.”
Though he already sounds like he’s elsewhere, especially once he sets his cheek upon the firm, warm muscle of his thigh. A free hand skirts over the front of Croziers knee, his shin, letting the top of his boot act as a shelf to rest his hand on. Close, so he can soak up all of him while his eyes sink shut.
He does wonder if he's misread the situation, but then Jopson sinks down, and a flood of relief and pride courses through him. Crozier thinks, briefly, that he shouldn't feel this way— he shouldn't want a person, any person for any reason, sat at his feet like this, but this intimate, intense game makes it alright. Makes it good, within these roughly defined parameters. He sips some water for himself, uses a damp rag on his hands, collects the ledgers he thinks he'll need. The desk is a fine thing, comfortable, though modestly sized. It gets less use than the table in the great cabin, but it works wonders now, feeling secluded and secure with Thomas at his feet.
Crozier slides one hand over his hair, and settles it there. Easy enough to write and to shift papers with one hand, leaving the other to maintain that point of contact. Idle petting, a warm weight. Sometimes, lost in the construction of a phrasing a sentence, he rubs a point on Jopson's scalp with his thumb, thoughtful. Reports to annotate and logs to keep, notes to compile. Reams of data about magnetism to get through each day, for the paper he will have to write and submit for peer review when they return. Plenty to see to while he keeps watch over Jopson in his gentled state.
Thomas drifts pleasantly with the warm weight of Crozier at his side. With his eyes closed it’s easier to feel the sway of Terror beneath him, rocking him into a light doze where his breathing evens out, his body relaxes. The sounds of papers and the scratch of a pen, the low creak of wood as the vessel sails, the occasional muffled sound of men outside working, and the press of Crozier’s fingers against his scalp - he drifts into a light, easy sleep.
When he blinks his eyes open again, he’s lost track of time and just how long he’s sat at his Captain’s side. Coming to feels like stepping into the warm sun of spring before setting out to the arctic. Clear headed and clean air and rejuvenating. He nuzzles his face into Crozier’s hip, reaches to squeeze his knee.
“May I prepare your tea, sir?” Soft, a little sleepy, but sharper than the man he was some time ago with nothing but stars and Crozier reflected in his eye.
A tip of his head and he kisses the side of the man’s leg, lingering in the intimacy of this together.
In the grand scheme of things, Crozier gets little work done; not none, but he's preoccupied with letting arousal dissipate, and with Thomas beside him. It's an enjoyable thing, slowly letting tension drain, leaving behind calm satisfaction in its wake. He feels alert, but relaxed. And at least the work he's managed to complete is competent, clarity of mind finding him easily.
He leans back and turns just enough to attend to Jopson when his steward stirs, so that he can reach his other hand over to him, too, and cradle his face. Giving him a look, assessing how present he seems (or doesn't seem), all of it fond, gentle. So good for me.
"Would you like to?"
Feeling up to it? Crozier thinks he looks less lost in the clouds, by now. He smiles softly, a private, honest thing, and strokes his cheekbone.
Thomas sighs, the warm cradle of Crozier's hands enough to make him want to curl back up against him and stay there a while longer. So tender, all of it, a gentleness he could live in, had they the time for it. Romantic, in some ways, and intimate in all.
"I would like to," he says finally, looking up at him and smiling, open and genuine, the color of his eyes lighting up with it. Would that they could leave this ship for some seaside cottage where he could drag the man from his work and tug him into a thick, feather bed. They could soak one another up and listen to the sound of waves crashing on the sand.
He turns his head, kissing Crozier's wrist, nosing against the warm skin there before he reaches to tug them from his face, holding onto them as he stands. Thomas is sure he looks a sight - cheeks a warm, rosy pink and hair tousled. Preparing the tea won't take long at all, but his body has other ideas and once he's up, he carefully settles his weight on Crozier's lap. It's all a bid for closeness shown in the way he gravitates to him and kisses him softly, a sweet and chaste thing.
"Thank you," he whispers against his mouth, bumping their noses together.
His smile nearly takes Francis' breath away. Struck, to know he's the cause.
And then, once more, a lapful of a young man who's too tall to be doing this, really, but who he's in no hurry to dissuade. The chair protests but only mildly, and Crozier doesn't at all. He slings both arms low around him, and looks up to meet that soft kiss.
"Happy to oblige," he tells him, and gives him a lopsided, but very pleased smile. Parts coy and parts smitten. "I left you neglected for too long, it seems."
Notably: not a complaint. Just something he's going to take on board and remember. It isn't that he had no interest in Jopson in the time between encounters, or that he'd grown bored, or lacking in desire. Simply a lack of experience with a lover at hand this way. He and Jamie have sailed together many times, but never with the rank and privacy of this voyage— rescue missions in smaller vessels, packed to the sails with men, no sleep, constant motion. Now here he is, a commander, an acting captain, with the luxury and privilege of keeping his own schedule in his own expansive quarters. And a young man who wants him. More than he realized.
Thomas pets Crozier's cheek, thumbing over his mouth and that lopsided smile. It's a handsome thing, his smile, and he feels quite proud to have earned it here in the quiet of the man's berth. He snorts, however, a little sheepish after.
"You did not neglect me, sir," he counters, insistent, reaching to smooth a lock of hair away from his brow, tidying his own appearance by habit alone. "It was a boyish idea, perhaps, but it took hold of me."
He smooths his hand over Crozier's neck, shoulder, to the crook of his elbow, squeezing softly, still a little subconsciously needy for contact, connection. His free hand loops around Crozier's neck, keeping them close in the small quarter. They have things to do, jobs to attend, but he's still radiating with the pleasant, peaceful energy this man has left him with.
"Are you well?"
He hasn't asked it, not directly, and until now, couldn't. There's light cutting through the fog, clearing it away from the edges of his thoughts and bringing him back into himself. "I wish to help you as you have helped me, sir, if you need it."
He'll hold his hand through it, pet his hair, let him rest, anything to bring him the same peace.
His smile widens as Jopson investigates it, and he's sure it makes him look foolish. Difficult to restrain, though. It's simply the right mood for it. He smooths his hands over Jopson's back, wordlessly reassuring him that he's alright here, that his clinging is welcome. Because Crozier's certain he needs it, or he wouldn't be reaching for him this way— he's ordinarily tightly laced to his schedule, his duty. It feels good, to let him inhabit something else for a while.
"You've allowed me to shepherd you through whatever you've been feeling," he tells him, "and it's pleased me greatly. Your idea wasn't very boyish at all. A good one, rather. As ever, your timing is impeccable."
A needle to be threaded, finding an aperture for anything at sea.
"And knowing I've helped you makes it even sweeter." Here, he brings one hand forward so that he can cradle Jopson's face. "Let me continue. Let me mind you 'til you bed down."
The very thought of leaving the great cabin, leaving Crozier to do other work feels utterly impossible. He will have to, of course - they cannot simply live in this gentle sphere they've made in the last few hours. They have duties and tasks to attend to in time, and neglecting them only promises more work later.
But - later, all the same. Later still when his Captain touches him so sweetly. He tilts his head into the touch, a slow blink following. Duty be damned, he could rest here for the remainder of their night if given the chance. All of this - pleased me greatly, timing is impeccable, knowing i've helped you - he'll remember, and plaster onto the walls in the back of his mind, clinging to the warm lilt of his voice or the broad and crooked smile.
"Yes, sir," he murmurs, reaching a hand to press over Crozier's against his cheek. "Of course. Let me make your tea at the very least. I'd like to, very much."
Serving him tea, preparing it and seeing him indulge will be reward enough, wanting to somehow share the sleepy, relaxed, warm energy with him in any way he can.
Perhaps if they were somewhere stable on leave, whiling away the hours in complete privacy, he might guide him to bed and ask to take him. Slow and gentle, telling him how good he's been the whole time. But it's not to be, and the mood doesn't sink its fingers into him with those thoughts— not even when he kisses him, warm and affectionate. Crozier's content with this.
"Very well, Jopson."
Soft and intimate. Another kiss. Maybe a few more, though eventually, he does help his steward to his feet. Keen to make sure he doesn't stumble over pillow or blanket in his dazed state, he hoists them up, ever keeping one hand on the young man. As though he might fall over, though really, it's that he's unwilling to let him go too far. Not the hard physical lead of hours before, just attention. But he does loose him for tea, and busies himself resettling his work. A knock at the door comes — speaking of impeccable timing — and for a few minutes, Crozier speaks with McMurdo about some work being done on the rigging.
After, alone again, he returns to Jopson's side, hand at the small of his back.
Making tea for the man is no grand affair, nor has it ever been, but walking through the berth and great cabin with the Captain so close - it's difficult to focus. Not distracted by carnal things or any other great feeling, but his presence just now utterly disarms him, lets his shoulders round, lets his mind wander, allowing even the most mundane task feel as though it's suspended in honey, thick and sweet and ambered.
Answering the door for McMurdo is a function of muscle memory while the water boils, and seeing him out (and latching the door) another function in a line of many. Things he's done countless hours and days at sea and have given little thought to. His body keeps the score - squared shoulder, passive face, a polite greeting, standing still near the door.
Much the same he returns to his task, and just as he reaches for the kettle, he pauses. The hand at his back, the warmth of the man's body close to his scrubs away the steward all over again like it'd been some heavy armor to don every time a bell rings or a door knocks. The water needs time to cool to a drinkable state, anyway, and so he turns into the man, nuzzling his face in against his neck, leaning into him.
"Would you like honey in your tea today, sir?"
A question he'd never bother asking otherwise, but one that gives him a few seconds more to soak up his warmth, to feel the rumble of his voice against his cheek.
A soft exhale, like a pleased laugh, when Jopson turns into him so immediately. Crozier winds his arms around him. So unlike Jamie, who will push and tease and demand, drive Francis mad— it's neither good nor bad, just different; the binding thread is this near-painful affection.
"Good for my health, isn't it?" No sweet tooth, he has, but he'll make an exception because he knows Jopson likes it, and especially likes it when he gets to finish the cup, with the lion's share of the sugar settled to the bottom. "Today, I will."
Purely for the purpose of handing it off to him when he's halfway through. Until then: he holds him, sways a little when he opts to fetch a different ledger full of notes traded between them and Erebus, and stays to hover close when Jopson moves to prepare the tea.
A sway, arms around him, the pleased sigh - Jopson could sail in these fragments for days and days. It's warm, comfortable, safe. A safety that outside of this room with its locked door could get them killed - ironic, all of it. But those thoughts go away easily as he prepares tea for Crozier, pleased to add a little honey to the concoction.
There are a dozen things he should be doing, like inventories, mending, some cleaning, and yet he feels no urgency at all. Like the driving machine somewhere inside of him has slowed to a pleasant and easy lull. Losing steam, but not to his detriment.
"I don't want be a distraction from your work, sir. I know there is plenty to be done."
If he wanted to settle back down at his feet, nuzzle into his side and thigh and close his eyes - would Crozier let him?
"Let me bring you the tea first and once you're comfortable, I'll join you."
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Hissing through gritted teeth, it takes every ounce of will to keep his hips still when he's licked clean. Already he feels himself thickening under the touch, the tender care of Crozier's mouth. He could melt, turn into nothing at this man's feet and be content to live the rest of his days there, all of his nerve-endings sparking and spiraling warmth through every blood vessel imaginable.
There's a sigh that sounds a great deal like Francis, sir, when teeth scrape the sensitive skin at the join of his hip and his free hand falls from his chest to settle into Crozier's hair. Not gripping, not holding, simply loose and fond against his nape, easily cast off or moved. Not unlike a sated cat soaking up a sunbeam, pleased to have any attention as it drifts into the dream-like haze of summer.
His cock begins to ache anew, still erring on the side of too-sensitive, but it doesn't stop the obvious enjoyment of the man's mouth and hand on him.
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He resettles with one hand on Jopson's side to support him, and the other teasing his prick. He takes his time worrying the bite mark into him— no stinging nips after the first warning one. Slow, heavy pressure, suckled in or with the steady clench of teeth. Every so often he sits back to admire the progress, and reward Thomas' endurance with wet kisses to his cock. The lashes with the paddle weren't his, they weren't meant to last; Thomas said so himself. This must last a little longer, then, or at least be cherished so. He doesn't want to risk the skin breaking, and he doesn't want to give him a welt that turns into a blister, so he must be careful. Spread out the pressure even in the tiny area, leave it red, then just a touch violet.
A glance up, as he presses in a firm touch with his fingers to the blooming bruise.
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Until it all stops - and is replaced instead by a bloom of pain in his hip and thigh. Small, raw, but a fair throb of something. Notice me it says, and he tips his head down, blue eyes half-lidded to gaze at his lover first. A handsome man, with intelligent blue eyes and kind mouth. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the way simply looking at him seated on the bench there makes his cock twitch and grow heavier.
The mark, though - obvious against the pale skin, skin worried and blushing violet under the pressure of his fingers.
"Thank you, sir," he whispers, awed and so strung-up at the attention. His fingers leave Crozier's hair to join the man at his thigh to press fingers over his and apply more pressure, to encourage that violet stain to turn to something like plum come tomorrow. The thought alone makes him go wet all over again, a pearl of spend to slick up Crozier's hand.
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Hard again already, just like he knew he would be. Crozier strokes him, thumbs over the head of his prick, spreading the slick around.
"You get so wet for me," he murmurs. "Bloody marvelous, Tom."
Content, now, to hold him by the hips with both hands, and lick his cock into his mouth. Crozier won't let him buck too hard, will keep him steady and keep him where he wants him, but he's thorough. Like everything else he does, he treats it like he's got a goal. Some sightseeing, some enjoyment; he's a man of science, or something like it, he wants to gather data about what Jopson likes best. He wants to feel for himself, taste for himself, the intensity of it, the bitterness, the heat.
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Thomas. Tom. He will be anything this man wants him to be so long as he always sounds so sweet, so adoring, as long as he can have him no matter the backdrop of it all.
"Just for you, sir," he manages, voice hitched and quiet, breathing building into little frantic pants. It's all too much - the pressure not fully released from earlier, building and building and he wants in every way to endure for a moment longer, to let this man take and take and take but -
It's embarrassing indeed when he comes hard and fast - not quite the mess from earlier but generous still. He grips Crozier's shoulders perhaps a little too hard, his spine giving way and going lax, his shoulders sagging when he knows he should stand up straight. He just needs a minute. His mind spins, his thoughts turn to nothing except the way they echo the furious beat of his heart that he swears might sound something like his Captain's name.
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He feels the younger man begin to collapse, and so he straightens up (careful, gentle when he releases him), lifting his arms to welcome him back into a hold that will no doubt be a mess of limbs. His own arousal leaps back into his consciousness with sudden, bright demand, but he doesn't react to it. Maybe he'll see to it, maybe he won't. If they were more practiced together he might shove Jopson down to his knees, but he needs to check in with him.
"There we are," he murmurs. "Did so well. Come on now, let me hold you."
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Crozier's arousal rests prominently against the sore cleft of his ass and he sets his weight there before letting his head fall forward, pressing their mouths together in a slow kiss, limbs heavy and head out under the stars or drifting in the waves. They fit together, easy and simple, his body already molding to the older man's.
"You're so warm," he mumbles, nuzzling lazily against his cheek. He'll please the man soon, work him out of his own arousal even if it's a new sort of pleasant to simply feel it pressing against his bare backside, nestled between with his thighs spread wide.
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"You've made me so," he tells him, pressing back, nose to nose, stealing soft kisses. An echo, of the way he told Jopson was glowing. "Thank you. Did everything just as I asked, sublimely."
Nothing for it but to hold him and kiss him, now. The pressure of his release is on the edge of fading or becoming something else, its own kind of intoxication, and he likes it just fine. Almost more powerful is the intoxication of having this creature in his lap to look after, being the one to have put him in such a state.
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He nuzzles into each little kiss offered, eyes heavy lidded, sometimes even closed as he rests his forehead against the Captain's temple. If this were any other time he'd think he was drunk, drifting in and out of his mind and body, relaxing into the warm and easy floating that goes with it.
"It makes me happy to please you," he murmurs, sleepy and distant, head falling in against the crook of the man's neck. Here he can breathe him in - the spritz of some cologne, musk, sea spray, mumble little sounds of gratitude. Better than the thoughts roaming at the back of his mind that sound a lot like i care for you, i want to be here with you, please let me stay long after this ship has gone. Get it together, Jopson.
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And it's true. He never expected it, would certainly never have imagined it. Crozier kisses his temple, sits with him, just soaking up his presence, the closeness, the comfort of it. The odd way it feels nearly euphoric to have put him in this state, which he has no name for. He has felt it before, in different permutations. But never quite in this way.
They are not in a private room with no duties for the rest of the week, alas. After some time and another kiss, he gently urges Jopson up.
"You mustn't catch a chill," he murmurs. "Let me."
Careful, attentive, it's his turn to dress his steward.
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He feels the loss of the man's body against his almost instantly, deep and cutting, like he's had something of himself removed in a hurry. The instinct to do as the man tells him remains, though, and always will - the steward will never truly leave his bones, after all. Reaching for him, he twines their hands together, feeling a gut-churning need to stay close in a way he can't put words to. He can't put words to any of this that he's feeling. Euphoria? Fatigue? Joy?
Allowing Crozier to dress him reminds him a great deal of the tent at Aether and in a way this cabin is much the same - a haven among the chaos around them. Even standing to be dressed his eyes stay heavy, the bright blue following Crozier's hands as they work each piece of clothing. They have duties to attend, work to do, but he can't seem to leave the bubble of whatever this is, hazy and warm and quiet.
"May I sit with you while you work, sir?" Soft, almost like someone asking for five more minutes of sleep. "I will be quiet, of course."
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He's already contemplating his own reluctance to part, despite the necessity, when Jopson voices his request. Crozier tucks him closer against his side, one arm around his middle. There is indeed a feeling of some gossamer thread connecting them, and parting threatens to snap it. A far too fragile, precious thing to risk, though if there is some emergency he knows it will have to be sacrificed. For now, though, they can indulge it.
"Yes," he assures him. "I'm going to ask you to drink a cup of water for me first."
And so he does, after ushering him towards his berth. He'll work in the little desk alcove instead of in the proper great cabin, as it'll be easier to shuffle into privacy if something does require the immediate opening of the door. After a moment of consideration, he fetches a pillow and a blanket and utilizes them so that Jopson doesn't have to put his knees on the wooden deck with just trousers between. Understanding the desired dynamic, instead of getting a second chair. He wants him at hand, under his hand, where he can let him rest.
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The water nearly finished he sets the glass aside and only once Crozier settles for his work (the steward brain is fussing - get his pen, his paper, his tea - but he ignores it), he kneels beside him. The pillow helps protect his knees, his hip, as he settles on the floor but the blanket he wraps around himself, overwhelmed by the need to smother himself in the scent of his Captain.
“Just a moment like this, sir.”
Though he already sounds like he’s elsewhere, especially once he sets his cheek upon the firm, warm muscle of his thigh. A free hand skirts over the front of Croziers knee, his shin, letting the top of his boot act as a shelf to rest his hand on. Close, so he can soak up all of him while his eyes sink shut.
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He does wonder if he's misread the situation, but then Jopson sinks down, and a flood of relief and pride courses through him. Crozier thinks, briefly, that he shouldn't feel this way— he shouldn't want a person, any person for any reason, sat at his feet like this, but this intimate, intense game makes it alright. Makes it good, within these roughly defined parameters. He sips some water for himself, uses a damp rag on his hands, collects the ledgers he thinks he'll need. The desk is a fine thing, comfortable, though modestly sized. It gets less use than the table in the great cabin, but it works wonders now, feeling secluded and secure with Thomas at his feet.
Crozier slides one hand over his hair, and settles it there. Easy enough to write and to shift papers with one hand, leaving the other to maintain that point of contact. Idle petting, a warm weight. Sometimes, lost in the construction of a phrasing a sentence, he rubs a point on Jopson's scalp with his thumb, thoughtful. Reports to annotate and logs to keep, notes to compile. Reams of data about magnetism to get through each day, for the paper he will have to write and submit for peer review when they return. Plenty to see to while he keeps watch over Jopson in his gentled state.
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When he blinks his eyes open again, he’s lost track of time and just how long he’s sat at his Captain’s side. Coming to feels like stepping into the warm sun of spring before setting out to the arctic. Clear headed and clean air and rejuvenating. He nuzzles his face into Crozier’s hip, reaches to squeeze his knee.
“May I prepare your tea, sir?” Soft, a little sleepy, but sharper than the man he was some time ago with nothing but stars and Crozier reflected in his eye.
A tip of his head and he kisses the side of the man’s leg, lingering in the intimacy of this together.
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He leans back and turns just enough to attend to Jopson when his steward stirs, so that he can reach his other hand over to him, too, and cradle his face. Giving him a look, assessing how present he seems (or doesn't seem), all of it fond, gentle. So good for me.
"Would you like to?"
Feeling up to it? Crozier thinks he looks less lost in the clouds, by now. He smiles softly, a private, honest thing, and strokes his cheekbone.
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"I would like to," he says finally, looking up at him and smiling, open and genuine, the color of his eyes lighting up with it. Would that they could leave this ship for some seaside cottage where he could drag the man from his work and tug him into a thick, feather bed. They could soak one another up and listen to the sound of waves crashing on the sand.
He turns his head, kissing Crozier's wrist, nosing against the warm skin there before he reaches to tug them from his face, holding onto them as he stands. Thomas is sure he looks a sight - cheeks a warm, rosy pink and hair tousled. Preparing the tea won't take long at all, but his body has other ideas and once he's up, he carefully settles his weight on Crozier's lap. It's all a bid for closeness shown in the way he gravitates to him and kisses him softly, a sweet and chaste thing.
"Thank you," he whispers against his mouth, bumping their noses together.
He'll get up for the tea in a moment.
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And then, once more, a lapful of a young man who's too tall to be doing this, really, but who he's in no hurry to dissuade. The chair protests but only mildly, and Crozier doesn't at all. He slings both arms low around him, and looks up to meet that soft kiss.
"Happy to oblige," he tells him, and gives him a lopsided, but very pleased smile. Parts coy and parts smitten. "I left you neglected for too long, it seems."
Notably: not a complaint. Just something he's going to take on board and remember. It isn't that he had no interest in Jopson in the time between encounters, or that he'd grown bored, or lacking in desire. Simply a lack of experience with a lover at hand this way. He and Jamie have sailed together many times, but never with the rank and privacy of this voyage— rescue missions in smaller vessels, packed to the sails with men, no sleep, constant motion. Now here he is, a commander, an acting captain, with the luxury and privilege of keeping his own schedule in his own expansive quarters. And a young man who wants him. More than he realized.
"You're well?"
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"You did not neglect me, sir," he counters, insistent, reaching to smooth a lock of hair away from his brow, tidying his own appearance by habit alone. "It was a boyish idea, perhaps, but it took hold of me."
He smooths his hand over Crozier's neck, shoulder, to the crook of his elbow, squeezing softly, still a little subconsciously needy for contact, connection. His free hand loops around Crozier's neck, keeping them close in the small quarter. They have things to do, jobs to attend, but he's still radiating with the pleasant, peaceful energy this man has left him with.
"Are you well?"
He hasn't asked it, not directly, and until now, couldn't. There's light cutting through the fog, clearing it away from the edges of his thoughts and bringing him back into himself. "I wish to help you as you have helped me, sir, if you need it."
He'll hold his hand through it, pet his hair, let him rest, anything to bring him the same peace.
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"You've allowed me to shepherd you through whatever you've been feeling," he tells him, "and it's pleased me greatly. Your idea wasn't very boyish at all. A good one, rather. As ever, your timing is impeccable."
A needle to be threaded, finding an aperture for anything at sea.
"And knowing I've helped you makes it even sweeter." Here, he brings one hand forward so that he can cradle Jopson's face. "Let me continue. Let me mind you 'til you bed down."
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But - later, all the same. Later still when his Captain touches him so sweetly. He tilts his head into the touch, a slow blink following. Duty be damned, he could rest here for the remainder of their night if given the chance. All of this - pleased me greatly, timing is impeccable, knowing i've helped you - he'll remember, and plaster onto the walls in the back of his mind, clinging to the warm lilt of his voice or the broad and crooked smile.
"Yes, sir," he murmurs, reaching a hand to press over Crozier's against his cheek. "Of course. Let me make your tea at the very least. I'd like to, very much."
Serving him tea, preparing it and seeing him indulge will be reward enough, wanting to somehow share the sleepy, relaxed, warm energy with him in any way he can.
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"Very well, Jopson."
Soft and intimate. Another kiss. Maybe a few more, though eventually, he does help his steward to his feet. Keen to make sure he doesn't stumble over pillow or blanket in his dazed state, he hoists them up, ever keeping one hand on the young man. As though he might fall over, though really, it's that he's unwilling to let him go too far. Not the hard physical lead of hours before, just attention. But he does loose him for tea, and busies himself resettling his work. A knock at the door comes — speaking of impeccable timing — and for a few minutes, Crozier speaks with McMurdo about some work being done on the rigging.
After, alone again, he returns to Jopson's side, hand at the small of his back.
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Answering the door for McMurdo is a function of muscle memory while the water boils, and seeing him out (and latching the door) another function in a line of many. Things he's done countless hours and days at sea and have given little thought to. His body keeps the score - squared shoulder, passive face, a polite greeting, standing still near the door.
Much the same he returns to his task, and just as he reaches for the kettle, he pauses. The hand at his back, the warmth of the man's body close to his scrubs away the steward all over again like it'd been some heavy armor to don every time a bell rings or a door knocks. The water needs time to cool to a drinkable state, anyway, and so he turns into the man, nuzzling his face in against his neck, leaning into him.
"Would you like honey in your tea today, sir?"
A question he'd never bother asking otherwise, but one that gives him a few seconds more to soak up his warmth, to feel the rumble of his voice against his cheek.
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"Good for my health, isn't it?" No sweet tooth, he has, but he'll make an exception because he knows Jopson likes it, and especially likes it when he gets to finish the cup, with the lion's share of the sugar settled to the bottom. "Today, I will."
Purely for the purpose of handing it off to him when he's halfway through. Until then: he holds him, sways a little when he opts to fetch a different ledger full of notes traded between them and Erebus, and stays to hover close when Jopson moves to prepare the tea.
"Would you like to pull a chair in for yourself?"
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A sway, arms around him, the pleased sigh - Jopson could sail in these fragments for days and days. It's warm, comfortable, safe. A safety that outside of this room with its locked door could get them killed - ironic, all of it. But those thoughts go away easily as he prepares tea for Crozier, pleased to add a little honey to the concoction.
There are a dozen things he should be doing, like inventories, mending, some cleaning, and yet he feels no urgency at all. Like the driving machine somewhere inside of him has slowed to a pleasant and easy lull. Losing steam, but not to his detriment.
"I don't want be a distraction from your work, sir. I know there is plenty to be done."
If he wanted to settle back down at his feet, nuzzle into his side and thigh and close his eyes - would Crozier let him?
"Let me bring you the tea first and once you're comfortable, I'll join you."
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