Perfectly relaxed, still sleep-warm, thinking about the whole hour that Jopson has sectioned off for them. He kisses him, licks against his mouth at that nip, shifts just slightly beneath him. It feels good, his weight. His presence, the way there's no room for anything else in his awareness. The way Jopson pins his hands is interesting, it piques his curiosity, and he raises an eyebrow at him but lets him proceed.
"If you like."
A breath in, as Jopson explores. Thinks about him tipping the teacup over, but this is different. Multitudes within this young man.
"I haven't committed much thought to you and anyone else, to be clear," he offers up after a moment. "When I think of you, it's only ever with myself."
Selfish, as he said. And — to him and himself alone — a worrying admission. Surely he should occasionally be thinking of him with Jamie, too. And glancing over those thoughts now isn't unpleasant, it's just while he has the freedom for it, what's the harm? No one has to know besides him. Thinking about possessive, unwarranted things.
Jopson burns hotter with each sound Crozier makes, the hitch of his breath and the shift of his body beneath him - it's a beautiful thing to make this man feel good. He thumbs over Crozier's pulse at each wrist, applying gentle pressure still, sliding his tongue over the length of his collar bone, worrying the mark he's made beneath it. A place where it can be hidden beneath layers until it fades in a few hours - nothing permanent, nothing lasting. Nothing like the aching thing he's worked back to life in his thigh.
He nuzzles against the fair hair of his chest, scraping his teeth over his skin, flicking his tongue over a nipple before raising his head to look at the man.
"As it should be, sir," he murmurs, petting hands up his arms to gather his face and kiss him once more, hungry and slow and deep - committing the taste of him to memory again. They could have lost one another, they could have died in the collision. That's enough to warrant this, to lather in him in affection.
"I am your steward, first and foremost, Captain," he murmurs against his mouth, ducking his head after to press a kiss to his sternum, to spread his thighs and let his weight settle heavy against the man's hips.
"You rest your tired hands, sir, I'll care for you."
Teeth marks, little half-formed bruises, and Crozier imagines it's to offset the small welt on his lip. Looks like nothing, but Jopson will know; will be the only one who will. Now, he's marked for both of them, but the only one he feels is the young man pawing at him, sitting over him, caging him in.
It's very pleasant, though he thinks (not without humor) that Jopson might take mild offense at it being called pleasant, and not some stronger think. There is arousal, yes, but he has no instinct to submit. Nevertheless, he isn't made uncomfortable by the posture of it all. He likes the attention, the intimacy, even though he knows he isn't the sort to sink into it the way Jopson had when he took him over his knees.
He flexes his hands, open, closed, missing Jopson's own as he slides them away.
"No hardship to touch you," he promises, but keeps his hands where they are. For now.
Crozier's skin warms his mouth, only serves to deepen the sleep-warm blush on his cheeks. He could stay like this, perched over him and kissing every inch of him, wrapped up in furs and the scent of him. The captain could flip them, drag him away, rake hands over him, anything he wished and he wouldn't balk at the idea - the feigned control here only for show, for a moment to savor the older man beneath him. Pleasant, yes, that Crozier plays the game for now.
Palms slide along his arms again, over his shoulders, his chest, pressing nails lightly into the skin as he shimmies down once more. It's a careful grind of his rear against the man's hips, thighs spread wide and inviting the line of his prick between the clothed spread of his arse.
"I feel much the same, sir," he murmurs, sliding further down the man's body so that when he bends again it's just above his navel he kisses. "It is never any hardship to care for you."
Being asked not to just makes him want to curl his arms around him more, cradle his head, dig fingers into his hair. But he can take orders as well as give them, surely. Still. Crozier tips one knee up slightly, jostling him only enough to feel the weight of him. His skin prickles, almost like static, from the contrast of the cold air and Jopson's warm mouth.
"You're going to bend yourself in half like that," he observes. It's impressive, but because Crozier is old, he's also thinking about Jopson's spine.
(His cock doesn't share the same concern. Thickening beneath him, where he's saddled.)
"No one has ever taken such care." He flexes his hands again. He wants to kiss him. He wants to watch him suck his cock. "In any respect."
No officers' steward, no lover. This liminal space, this overlapping seam of their roles, offers something no one else has ever touched. A seam, a hidden stitch along the well-crafted uniform of the service, where they're hiding away.
"That's a shame, sir," he murmurs, heartfelt, sliding his hips away from Crozier's now even if he can feel the rise of heat beneath him. Difficult to resist rutting against it instead, chasing something else that isn't this careful and lingering affection. "You deserve even more care than this. If I could give more of myself, Captain, I would."
Francis Crozier, as gentle and thoughtful and kind as he is stern and sea-hardened. Sharp, clever, diligent. Cast off by others for the pretty lilt of his words, something Jopson likes hearing, especially wrapped around his own name. Foolish, for even his first voyage, he can see how brilliant a captain he is.
He sits back, looks down at the man he's gently tousled and mussed here in the bedclothes, night shirt rucked up and the blooming, faint bruise on his fair skin. A burning thing that feels like possession licks down his spine but he quickly chokes the flame out. No, Crozier doesn't belong to him in any right, but it's pleasant to pretend. Just for now.
He shifts his weight, wedging a knee between Crozier's thighs, parting them and sliding down between. He maps kisses around his stomach, his sides, his hips. Laving his tongue over a rogue freckle or mole, dragging his teeth along the ridge of his hip bone, seeking out little scars or blemishes here and there, savoring him, free hand reaching and petting over his chest, applying the faintest pressure.
"It is an honor to care for you and serve you, sir," he whispers against the man's hip, nuzzling into the fabric of his under things, until he drags his mouth hot and open over the hard line of his cock through the cloth.
He feels a flush take his skin, emotion expressed physically that would be painfully obvious on one so pale if he weren't already turning pink from Jopson's touches and careful bites. It doesn't sound like flattery to rile him up in bed, it sounds like—
"I happen to be quite attached to yourself, Thomas," he says, To-mas, lost in himself. He gives up keeping his hands where they are, unable to stop himself from bringing them down to cradle his steward's head. One hand delves into his hair, running blunt nails along his scalp, tender. "Don't give everything away, even to me. You're worth maintaining."
It must feel good, to sear away everything and be able to trust in doing so. He can understand it in a way. But he wants him to remember that he's valued without it, too. Being a servant is simply a job, he is a person. A person Crozier has become unbearably attached to.
His breath hitches. He strokes against the young man's cheek with his other hand. Alright, alright, he gets that it's a sex thing, he isn't a child. Still. Feels important to remind him.
Funny that it isn't just a sex thing - that he would give everything in him to this man without a second thought no matter where they are, no matter what they got up to. No, it's a funny thing that makes a tangle in his chest, threatens to take breath from his lungs for the way he won't give life to what it truly is.
But Crozier says To-mas and pets through his hair and promises a delicate safety. He sighs against the outline of the man's prick, cheeks going ruddy with heat. He turns his face into the hand at his cheek, pressing his mouth to the older man's palm. Overwhelm is the only way to put it - you're worth maintaining; whatever you offer to me, I will keep safe - and to avoid facing the desperate and devoted thing that sparks to life in him he licks a hot stripe against Crozier's palm, sucks his forefinger into his mouth once. Lewd and wet, always.
"I will cherish the same, sir," he murmurs, nipping at Crozier's wrist before turning his head back into the hot line of his dick. He mouths at him even through his smallclothes, chases nibbles along the side, nosing against his sac.
"I'd like to taste you, sir," he mumbles against the damp fabric, mouth seeking out the flared head of his prick and sucking softly.
Thomas sucks on his finger, Crozier feels the soft texture of his tongue, and he thinks about what he must sound like gagging, really struggling for it; emotion seizes his chest at the same time, because he wishes he could offer genuine safety. He only has that, some metaphorical thing, because he still maintains (will always maintain) that they'll never be safe. But when this young man comes to him for attention, what he gives over to him when he does, he can hold carefully.
Thank the devil for the absurd amount of furs and mattresses piled up. Enough for him to look down without straining. He shifts, restless, but doesn't buck up. Too old to be over-eager for this, he tells himself, but the thought burns away in the face of this fire.
"That what you're after?" he traces the side of Jopson's mouth with his fingertips, intrudes on the contact between it and his covered, thickening cock. No deterrence, he just wants to feel him there, to tease him (tease them both). "This may be the most decadent I've been in my whole life, Tom."
A lie-in, getting his prick sucked by a much younger man, who he has ultimate control over. A last touch to his mouth, and he slides his hand up, a comforting thing, a permissive thing, while the other keeps its place in his hair. He could get a hard grip at any time and pull.
"As I've intended, sir," he says quietly. Decadent, relaxed, devoured, cared for. Anything to send him into the next many hours with muscles loosened and warmth kindled under his skin.
Thomas sucks softly at Crozier's fingertips, the press of them at his mouth, the disruption from seeking out his cock beneath the fabric. Though it's wildly erotic to feel both the curve of the man's fingers and the thick length of his cock in one swipe of his tongue or press of his lips. One day he'll beg the man to fuck his mouth open with his fingers alone before he swallows his prick in the dark of the berth.
Let me feel your mouth is all it takes for the sigh, for a reach of fingers up and over his hip, starting the pull of the fabric before he catches it between his teeth. He only does this so that as the fabric comes down he can nuzzle and nose in at the hardening and heated flesh beneath. Breathe hotly over him until he grows impatient, tugging it down all the way with two hooked fingers.
Hot, wet kisses start below his navel again, Thomas licking and sucking his way down hip bones to the thatch of fair, wiry hair. A breath in, the scent of sweat and musk and Francis overwhelming, coaxing a low, heady moan. A sound that rumbles and carries over into the first pass of his tongue and lips over the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
A simple act. But it's dreamlike, too. A dream, that's what you are, he might tell him. (Doesn't, of course.) Crozier drags fingernails over his scalp, gets a grip, but just holds him without jerking his head around. Grounding support for himself more than anything as Thomas gets him uncovered and stars to lick at him.
"Ah, fuck."
Sighed out. Barely a touch so far, but everything feels superheated, like these lazy minutes have been boiling them the whole time and he's just now noticed how bloody hot it is. His cock isn't fully hard yet, age and the mileage of the past few days slowing his reaction even in the morning, but it won't be long 'til he's caught up. The heady rush of it swims heat through his blood, makes all the aching parts of him strain as though to reach out for Jopson, absurdly desirous.
"Whiling away all this time just for you," he murmurs, voice heavy. "No one else could convince me."
Another lazy swipe of his tongue along the man's half-hard prick, taking his time from root to tip. He slides his hand to the man's belly, tracing soft little lines into his skin that match the languid pace of his mouth - vertical lines for every swipe of his tongue, and gentle circles when he wraps his lips around the velvety head of his prick and does the very same with his tongue.
He raises his head, the sticky wet sounds of his lips proceeding.
"You should know that everyone sees your hard work, sir. Even Captains deserve a reprieve, of course. Though if you have other things to tend to, sir, I can certainly ready your uniform for the day."
Cheeky, really. Moreso that he mouths over the head of him again, then nuzzles downward. He could take his prick up in his hand and suck him down like he has before, but something about all of this does feel decadent and special. Well, at least before he dips his head to press an opened mouth kiss to his sac, nose bumping up against the root of him.
No, he corrects himself internally a beat later. He doesn't believe in sin. Instead he thinks of the ancient gods who named the stars, and though he doesn't believe in them either, he finds their version of piety far more relatable in this moment. To commune with gods they drank, made love, sacrificed animals, screamed at the sky. Acts like these have always been holy for anyone who mattered at all.
Crozier brushes his knuckles up against Jopson's chin while he threatens to steer their course elsewhere, lets his touch linger on his cheek when he goes back to nuzzling at the tenderest parts of him.
"No," he admits. He would not prefer that at all.
However.
"It's for you, too. If I sent you out now I'd have a lap-full of tea later."
A rough scrape of drawling banter, and a cheeky dare in it to argue. He thinks he's got Thomas' coordinates more or less settled by now. Has he?
Jopson could spend all day with Crozier petting his cheek, his chin, tangling fingers in his hair. Simple pleasures, always bringing the older man to the forefront. How ridiculous it would be to admit that though he lies between the man's thighs, tasting every intimate part of him, he'd be just as happy here being caressed and touched than anything else.
He turns his head, kissing the soft skin of Crozier's thigh, speaking against it:
"I'd make certain it was lukewarm tea at the very least, sir."
Fingers trace lines down Crozier's belly to the happy trail of fair hair, taking his time and watching closely how his skin blooms under the soft scratch of nails. He takes the man into his hand, fingers gently circling him at the base, thumbing at the underside.
"But I need nothing from you in this moment, Captain," he murmurs, wriggling to prop himself up better on his free elbow, wide eyes peering up at the man beneath him. "I want this moment to be for you."
He smiles, bows his head in spite of the flop of dark hair across his brow and takes his prick into his mouth, painstakingly slow, to the point it looks as though he can't take more but does, and swallows around the thick head of him there to prove it.
Fingers, his mouth, but more importantly, just him. Being looked at this way, and the sentiment of For you. It hooks into something in him, a soft part he only indulges in with fantasy. He could laugh at himself for how easily it's stirred to life— but a pitying laugh. You'd steal away this young man with his whole life ahead of him, Franics?
He touches Jopson's face, rubs his sideburn, tucks hair behind his ear, and then cradles him as he takes him into his mouth. It makes his breath catch, makes him reflexively tense up before melting. A heartbeat to catch up to how Jopson doesn't just bob down then up, and, oh.
Some profanity or other leaves him, a breathless, scraping sound. Too soon in the morning for this, he's going to embarrass himself. His other hand clenches in dark hair, a rough grounding in contrast to the wet, heated point of contact between them. He feels his own pulse in Jopson's mouth, steady and fast.
Their time will always be limited - a clock ticking to an end, the minutes always too short, spread thin and infrequent. Every touch, every noise, ever subtle movement Jopson commits to memory. Foolish, maybe, to want to at all. To tempt fate with a man his senior in more ways than one, but the captain melts under his touch and that alone is enough.
A low groan rumbles at the back of his throat and, therefore, around Crozier's prick. He waits, swallowing one more time around him, to see if the rough grip in his hair will dictate anything for him. Instead, he slowly bobs his head up, laving his tongue over his slit to catch his breath.
Eyes always on Crozier, a warmth blooms behind the blue. One soft breath and he returns, taking Crozier back into his mouth, pressing his tongue against the hard ridge of his prick until he has him fully engulfed again. Slow and easy, to match the sleepy warmth of their morning. Let it be languid and slow, no matter Crozier's reaction - give him something other than cold and disaster to think on, even if it's just an hour they've stolen.
Where'd you learn this? Oh, a bad question, for all his attempted teasing about Phillips and Hooker; it tempts both protective greed and interest. He would like to watch Jopson do this to Jamie. He would like Jopson not to ever touch anyone else ever again. Like sailing, he's chided himself before about conflicting desires. Winds and waves at odds.
But it really is an exquisite thing, this. Finely tuned as in everything else Jopson does, be it mending or sucking his cock. It tilts Crozier's whole world sideways, and he's proper hard now in the hot, wet confines of his mouth. Slowly pulling him to some other plane of existence as his hand flexes in his hair, gripping, relaxing, gripping again, but not directing him. Just a weighted hand resting on the wheel, letting the ocean take him where it wills.
Which is: here, on the floor of his berth, with his clever, handsome steward. Erotic tension insists he spur things faster but he resists it, instead allowing his head to drop back for a moment. The bulkhead ceiling, as ever, and his vision kaleidoscopes pleasantly before he can't take it anymore. He has to see him, and so he levers up just enough on one elbow. The sight of it again jolts sensation to new intensity, and his cock twitches where Jopson has him held captive.
The barest hints of Crozier's urgency do nothing to make him work faster. The hand in his hair coaxes a soft, low noise - any touch by the captain would do in this moment, feeling more connected than just his mouth and handle circled around the older man's prick. He smooths his free hand along Crozier's hip, pressing slow circles into the skin with the equally slow rise and fall of his head.
His eyes flutter open when Crozier sits up, meeting his gaze as he indulges himself by hollowing his cheeks, adding more pressure as he bobs on the upstroke. He pops off the man's prick, mouth pinkened and wet, laves his tongue again over the head of him.
"Alright, Captain?"
Softer than it should be for such an erotic moment, especially under any other circumstance they'd turn this into a frenzied sort of finish. Another pet over his hip, other hand pumping his cock once, spit slick and hard.
"I enjoy helping your relax, sir," he murmurs, then licks the man back into his mouth, slow and steady.
Rumbled affection. Alright, indeed, bloody tart even looking up at him with that lazy look. Time for frenzy, and for pulling him over his knees, and for this. Slow and indulgent in every sense, dragging from sleepy to lightning-crackling awake. Crozier's touch roams over his jaw while he sucks him, touches his mouth as he takes him back in, before it returns to his hair to cradle him. He doesn't dare flex up, too invested in letting Jopson have his way, and in letting himself be swept into it.
The ship his half-crippled, the ice is deadly, Jamie is beside himself. They may die out here, to a man. He can think of none of it. Doesn't exist at all.
(Captain is erotic. He likes it, but he'd like to hear Francis too. He puts it away.)
Thomas hums around the man's hardened prick, a low rumbling thing at the back of his throat as he takes him in as far as he can. He gives up holding him, letting his mouth act as the guide so that he can palm at the man's sac, slow and heavy, everything about it simply in favor of coaxing the man to a pleasant end.
It's funny to think about what this might look like were they not men tied to this boat, and they'd simply met in some back room of a tavern. Maybe it would be a small room in a hostel, maybe they'd be in some fine apartment, or an office. (Maybe they'd be in Ireland - lush and beautiful and warm, the music of Francis' voice as natural there as anything.)
He gives him a soft squeeze, then back to the base of his cock, and a squeeze there - all careful and heavy handed petting now to match the languid bob of his head, where he can feel every flex of Crozier's fingers in his hair, sending sparks down his spine.
His breath catches when Thomas attends lower, sensitive there as expected, everything about it sending heated sparks through him, from his core up his spine and into dazzling things all in his head. He flexes, shifts his weight, restless as pressure builds, but still doesn't force Jopson into anything. Where might he force him, anyway? He's already taking him so deep he can feel the crown of his cock press into the back of his throat, as though he were molded for him there.
Nails drag over his scalp. He wants to reach down to take his hand, but he'd have to let up off his elbow and lose the view. After, then.
After, creeping quickly. Like a sudden turn in the tide, a vortex, pulling him. Tension mounts in him, a key tightening a crank. It wants for the frantic pace they're setting aside, but to give this melting up would be a tragedy. Crozier breathes in, out in a shiver, and he wonders what he feels like in Jopson's mouth— can he tell how close he is, how a rough touch would bring him over? He lets him decide, with an adoring pet, if he's going to follow that or draw him out longer. It's his jaw, and all.
The nails make him shiver, encourage him to squeeze the man again, pressing the pad of his thumb up along the underside of his cock. He can feel the impatience, the way the man's muscles twitch and flex, knows the telltale signs already after the handfuls of their encounters. The details will always matter, especially where Francis Crozier and his pleasure is concerned.
On his last move, he pulls away from the man's prick, but he doesn't idle. Instead he shifts his weight, enough to slide up onto his knees again and splay across the man's thighs. A little clumsy, but he hadn't thought of this part before. He braces himself with one hand and leans forward, kissing Francis hard and slow. And all the while he reaches between them and begins to stroke him off, a squeeze on the up and down, a thumb over his crown, the wet slide of skin on skin.
"Francis," he hums into the kiss, chasing after his tongue, the taste of him shortly after, losing all train of thought.
A sharp gasp when he pulls away and seems decisive about it, because of course he'll let Jopson do as he wishes, but the absence is an immediate sting—
The kiss is welcome. He returns it, almost bruising, so hungry for him as he scrabbles hands over his chest, is sides. Crozier can't help the immediate, instinctive hitch upward into the touch on his cock, wet from the younger man's mouth and now grasped so eagerly in his hand. He's so on edge.
His breath catches when he tastes his own name on Jopson's mouth. He wants to know Jopson is hard, too, he wants to crush his body down against his, rut them together, but he wants to let it just be this, too. In the end he lets Jopson have his way, and tumbles into it. He tells him how good he feels one last time before climax finds him, a quick choked-off sound and then going quiet, his features knitted together. Long pulls, surprising him with it, pulsing over Jopson's hand and his own belly, a mess, throbbing in that perfect grip and sending him reeling in a spill of stars behind his eyes.
Jopson leans into the kiss, willing his mouth to go sore and red and swollen from it, but knowing he'll have to be mindful after. Cool his lips with ice and water, bundle up like it's from the cold. Easy enough, even if he wants to feel Crozier's lips on his own for days - if that were an option.
His hand goes sticky and warm and he continues to stroke him through the heat of his climax, slowing only when some of the tension leaves the man's body. He slowly releases him, hand sliding through the mess to stroke over his belly, collect some of the mess around his fingers. The first thing he wants is to lick his fingers clean, but opts not to - this isn't about his own wants and desires. He leans and kisses him again, nipping at his tongue, at his mouth. He can let his own arousal settle, deal with it later.
"Lie back," he murmurs against his lips, bumping their noses together. "Let me lie with you for a moment."
He needs to clean the mess on both him and Crozier, but that can wait. He can sop up the mess with their nightshirts if he must, but for now he leans forward, chasing a sweet series of kisses instead of anything more.
No he isn't. He's got more self control than all that. (Usually.) Crozier hums something, low and unintelligible but agreeing; he slides his touch all over Jopson, wherever he can reach, just holding him, petting him, tipping up into his kisses and returning them. Loopy, swimming in the pond of euphoria that lingers in the aftermath.
"You'll turn me to some spoiled old thing," he murmurs after a while, hands on Jopson's hips, his thighs. He understands if he'd like to put off his own pleasure, but he wants it from him, too. Testing the waters. "And I won't be able to complain at all."
He thumbs over where the bruise he'd left him might be; out of sight at this angle, and perhaps he's off by a few inches while petting blindly, but the intent is clear. Thinking about it, and him, even while his mind is in a hazy fog.
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Perfectly relaxed, still sleep-warm, thinking about the whole hour that Jopson has sectioned off for them. He kisses him, licks against his mouth at that nip, shifts just slightly beneath him. It feels good, his weight. His presence, the way there's no room for anything else in his awareness. The way Jopson pins his hands is interesting, it piques his curiosity, and he raises an eyebrow at him but lets him proceed.
"If you like."
A breath in, as Jopson explores. Thinks about him tipping the teacup over, but this is different. Multitudes within this young man.
"I haven't committed much thought to you and anyone else, to be clear," he offers up after a moment. "When I think of you, it's only ever with myself."
Selfish, as he said. And — to him and himself alone — a worrying admission. Surely he should occasionally be thinking of him with Jamie, too. And glancing over those thoughts now isn't unpleasant, it's just while he has the freedom for it, what's the harm? No one has to know besides him. Thinking about possessive, unwarranted things.
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He nuzzles against the fair hair of his chest, scraping his teeth over his skin, flicking his tongue over a nipple before raising his head to look at the man.
"As it should be, sir," he murmurs, petting hands up his arms to gather his face and kiss him once more, hungry and slow and deep - committing the taste of him to memory again. They could have lost one another, they could have died in the collision. That's enough to warrant this, to lather in him in affection.
"I am your steward, first and foremost, Captain," he murmurs against his mouth, ducking his head after to press a kiss to his sternum, to spread his thighs and let his weight settle heavy against the man's hips.
"You rest your tired hands, sir, I'll care for you."
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It's very pleasant, though he thinks (not without humor) that Jopson might take mild offense at it being called pleasant, and not some stronger think. There is arousal, yes, but he has no instinct to submit. Nevertheless, he isn't made uncomfortable by the posture of it all. He likes the attention, the intimacy, even though he knows he isn't the sort to sink into it the way Jopson had when he took him over his knees.
He flexes his hands, open, closed, missing Jopson's own as he slides them away.
"No hardship to touch you," he promises, but keeps his hands where they are. For now.
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Palms slide along his arms again, over his shoulders, his chest, pressing nails lightly into the skin as he shimmies down once more. It's a careful grind of his rear against the man's hips, thighs spread wide and inviting the line of his prick between the clothed spread of his arse.
"I feel much the same, sir," he murmurs, sliding further down the man's body so that when he bends again it's just above his navel he kisses. "It is never any hardship to care for you."
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"You're going to bend yourself in half like that," he observes. It's impressive, but because Crozier is old, he's also thinking about Jopson's spine.
(His cock doesn't share the same concern. Thickening beneath him, where he's saddled.)
"No one has ever taken such care." He flexes his hands again. He wants to kiss him. He wants to watch him suck his cock. "In any respect."
No officers' steward, no lover. This liminal space, this overlapping seam of their roles, offers something no one else has ever touched. A seam, a hidden stitch along the well-crafted uniform of the service, where they're hiding away.
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Francis Crozier, as gentle and thoughtful and kind as he is stern and sea-hardened. Sharp, clever, diligent. Cast off by others for the pretty lilt of his words, something Jopson likes hearing, especially wrapped around his own name. Foolish, for even his first voyage, he can see how brilliant a captain he is.
He sits back, looks down at the man he's gently tousled and mussed here in the bedclothes, night shirt rucked up and the blooming, faint bruise on his fair skin. A burning thing that feels like possession licks down his spine but he quickly chokes the flame out. No, Crozier doesn't belong to him in any right, but it's pleasant to pretend. Just for now.
He shifts his weight, wedging a knee between Crozier's thighs, parting them and sliding down between. He maps kisses around his stomach, his sides, his hips. Laving his tongue over a rogue freckle or mole, dragging his teeth along the ridge of his hip bone, seeking out little scars or blemishes here and there, savoring him, free hand reaching and petting over his chest, applying the faintest pressure.
"It is an honor to care for you and serve you, sir," he whispers against the man's hip, nuzzling into the fabric of his under things, until he drags his mouth hot and open over the hard line of his cock through the cloth.
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"I happen to be quite attached to yourself, Thomas," he says, To-mas, lost in himself. He gives up keeping his hands where they are, unable to stop himself from bringing them down to cradle his steward's head. One hand delves into his hair, running blunt nails along his scalp, tender. "Don't give everything away, even to me. You're worth maintaining."
It must feel good, to sear away everything and be able to trust in doing so. He can understand it in a way. But he wants him to remember that he's valued without it, too. Being a servant is simply a job, he is a person. A person Crozier has become unbearably attached to.
His breath hitches. He strokes against the young man's cheek with his other hand. Alright, alright, he gets that it's a sex thing, he isn't a child. Still. Feels important to remind him.
"Whatever you offer to me, I will keep safe."
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But Crozier says To-mas and pets through his hair and promises a delicate safety. He sighs against the outline of the man's prick, cheeks going ruddy with heat. He turns his face into the hand at his cheek, pressing his mouth to the older man's palm. Overwhelm is the only way to put it - you're worth maintaining; whatever you offer to me, I will keep safe - and to avoid facing the desperate and devoted thing that sparks to life in him he licks a hot stripe against Crozier's palm, sucks his forefinger into his mouth once. Lewd and wet, always.
"I will cherish the same, sir," he murmurs, nipping at Crozier's wrist before turning his head back into the hot line of his dick. He mouths at him even through his smallclothes, chases nibbles along the side, nosing against his sac.
"I'd like to taste you, sir," he mumbles against the damp fabric, mouth seeking out the flared head of his prick and sucking softly.
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Thank the devil for the absurd amount of furs and mattresses piled up. Enough for him to look down without straining. He shifts, restless, but doesn't buck up. Too old to be over-eager for this, he tells himself, but the thought burns away in the face of this fire.
"That what you're after?" he traces the side of Jopson's mouth with his fingertips, intrudes on the contact between it and his covered, thickening cock. No deterrence, he just wants to feel him there, to tease him (tease them both). "This may be the most decadent I've been in my whole life, Tom."
A lie-in, getting his prick sucked by a much younger man, who he has ultimate control over. A last touch to his mouth, and he slides his hand up, a comforting thing, a permissive thing, while the other keeps its place in his hair. He could get a hard grip at any time and pull.
"Let me feel your mouth."
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Thomas sucks softly at Crozier's fingertips, the press of them at his mouth, the disruption from seeking out his cock beneath the fabric. Though it's wildly erotic to feel both the curve of the man's fingers and the thick length of his cock in one swipe of his tongue or press of his lips. One day he'll beg the man to fuck his mouth open with his fingers alone before he swallows his prick in the dark of the berth.
Let me feel your mouth is all it takes for the sigh, for a reach of fingers up and over his hip, starting the pull of the fabric before he catches it between his teeth. He only does this so that as the fabric comes down he can nuzzle and nose in at the hardening and heated flesh beneath. Breathe hotly over him until he grows impatient, tugging it down all the way with two hooked fingers.
Hot, wet kisses start below his navel again, Thomas licking and sucking his way down hip bones to the thatch of fair, wiry hair. A breath in, the scent of sweat and musk and Francis overwhelming, coaxing a low, heady moan. A sound that rumbles and carries over into the first pass of his tongue and lips over the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
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"Ah, fuck."
Sighed out. Barely a touch so far, but everything feels superheated, like these lazy minutes have been boiling them the whole time and he's just now noticed how bloody hot it is. His cock isn't fully hard yet, age and the mileage of the past few days slowing his reaction even in the morning, but it won't be long 'til he's caught up. The heady rush of it swims heat through his blood, makes all the aching parts of him strain as though to reach out for Jopson, absurdly desirous.
"Whiling away all this time just for you," he murmurs, voice heavy. "No one else could convince me."
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Another lazy swipe of his tongue along the man's half-hard prick, taking his time from root to tip. He slides his hand to the man's belly, tracing soft little lines into his skin that match the languid pace of his mouth - vertical lines for every swipe of his tongue, and gentle circles when he wraps his lips around the velvety head of his prick and does the very same with his tongue.
He raises his head, the sticky wet sounds of his lips proceeding.
"You should know that everyone sees your hard work, sir. Even Captains deserve a reprieve, of course. Though if you have other things to tend to, sir, I can certainly ready your uniform for the day."
Cheeky, really. Moreso that he mouths over the head of him again, then nuzzles downward. He could take his prick up in his hand and suck him down like he has before, but something about all of this does feel decadent and special. Well, at least before he dips his head to press an opened mouth kiss to his sac, nose bumping up against the root of him.
"Would you prefer that, Captain?"
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No, he corrects himself internally a beat later. He doesn't believe in sin. Instead he thinks of the ancient gods who named the stars, and though he doesn't believe in them either, he finds their version of piety far more relatable in this moment. To commune with gods they drank, made love, sacrificed animals, screamed at the sky. Acts like these have always been holy for anyone who mattered at all.
Crozier brushes his knuckles up against Jopson's chin while he threatens to steer their course elsewhere, lets his touch linger on his cheek when he goes back to nuzzling at the tenderest parts of him.
"No," he admits. He would not prefer that at all.
However.
"It's for you, too. If I sent you out now I'd have a lap-full of tea later."
A rough scrape of drawling banter, and a cheeky dare in it to argue. He thinks he's got Thomas' coordinates more or less settled by now. Has he?
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He turns his head, kissing the soft skin of Crozier's thigh, speaking against it:
"I'd make certain it was lukewarm tea at the very least, sir."
Fingers trace lines down Crozier's belly to the happy trail of fair hair, taking his time and watching closely how his skin blooms under the soft scratch of nails. He takes the man into his hand, fingers gently circling him at the base, thumbing at the underside.
"But I need nothing from you in this moment, Captain," he murmurs, wriggling to prop himself up better on his free elbow, wide eyes peering up at the man beneath him. "I want this moment to be for you."
He smiles, bows his head in spite of the flop of dark hair across his brow and takes his prick into his mouth, painstakingly slow, to the point it looks as though he can't take more but does, and swallows around the thick head of him there to prove it.
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He touches Jopson's face, rubs his sideburn, tucks hair behind his ear, and then cradles him as he takes him into his mouth. It makes his breath catch, makes him reflexively tense up before melting. A heartbeat to catch up to how Jopson doesn't just bob down then up, and, oh.
Some profanity or other leaves him, a breathless, scraping sound. Too soon in the morning for this, he's going to embarrass himself. His other hand clenches in dark hair, a rough grounding in contrast to the wet, heated point of contact between them. He feels his own pulse in Jopson's mouth, steady and fast.
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A low groan rumbles at the back of his throat and, therefore, around Crozier's prick. He waits, swallowing one more time around him, to see if the rough grip in his hair will dictate anything for him. Instead, he slowly bobs his head up, laving his tongue over his slit to catch his breath.
Eyes always on Crozier, a warmth blooms behind the blue. One soft breath and he returns, taking Crozier back into his mouth, pressing his tongue against the hard ridge of his prick until he has him fully engulfed again. Slow and easy, to match the sleepy warmth of their morning. Let it be languid and slow, no matter Crozier's reaction - give him something other than cold and disaster to think on, even if it's just an hour they've stolen.
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But it really is an exquisite thing, this. Finely tuned as in everything else Jopson does, be it mending or sucking his cock. It tilts Crozier's whole world sideways, and he's proper hard now in the hot, wet confines of his mouth. Slowly pulling him to some other plane of existence as his hand flexes in his hair, gripping, relaxing, gripping again, but not directing him. Just a weighted hand resting on the wheel, letting the ocean take him where it wills.
Which is: here, on the floor of his berth, with his clever, handsome steward. Erotic tension insists he spur things faster but he resists it, instead allowing his head to drop back for a moment. The bulkhead ceiling, as ever, and his vision kaleidoscopes pleasantly before he can't take it anymore. He has to see him, and so he levers up just enough on one elbow. The sight of it again jolts sensation to new intensity, and his cock twitches where Jopson has him held captive.
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His eyes flutter open when Crozier sits up, meeting his gaze as he indulges himself by hollowing his cheeks, adding more pressure as he bobs on the upstroke. He pops off the man's prick, mouth pinkened and wet, laves his tongue again over the head of him.
"Alright, Captain?"
Softer than it should be for such an erotic moment, especially under any other circumstance they'd turn this into a frenzied sort of finish. Another pet over his hip, other hand pumping his cock once, spit slick and hard.
"I enjoy helping your relax, sir," he murmurs, then licks the man back into his mouth, slow and steady.
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Rumbled affection. Alright, indeed, bloody tart even looking up at him with that lazy look. Time for frenzy, and for pulling him over his knees, and for this. Slow and indulgent in every sense, dragging from sleepy to lightning-crackling awake. Crozier's touch roams over his jaw while he sucks him, touches his mouth as he takes him back in, before it returns to his hair to cradle him. He doesn't dare flex up, too invested in letting Jopson have his way, and in letting himself be swept into it.
The ship his half-crippled, the ice is deadly, Jamie is beside himself. They may die out here, to a man. He can think of none of it. Doesn't exist at all.
(Captain is erotic. He likes it, but he'd like to hear Francis too. He puts it away.)
"You feel good, Thomas."
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It's funny to think about what this might look like were they not men tied to this boat, and they'd simply met in some back room of a tavern. Maybe it would be a small room in a hostel, maybe they'd be in some fine apartment, or an office. (Maybe they'd be in Ireland - lush and beautiful and warm, the music of Francis' voice as natural there as anything.)
He gives him a soft squeeze, then back to the base of his cock, and a squeeze there - all careful and heavy handed petting now to match the languid bob of his head, where he can feel every flex of Crozier's fingers in his hair, sending sparks down his spine.
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Nails drag over his scalp. He wants to reach down to take his hand, but he'd have to let up off his elbow and lose the view. After, then.
After, creeping quickly. Like a sudden turn in the tide, a vortex, pulling him. Tension mounts in him, a key tightening a crank. It wants for the frantic pace they're setting aside, but to give this melting up would be a tragedy. Crozier breathes in, out in a shiver, and he wonders what he feels like in Jopson's mouth— can he tell how close he is, how a rough touch would bring him over? He lets him decide, with an adoring pet, if he's going to follow that or draw him out longer. It's his jaw, and all.
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On his last move, he pulls away from the man's prick, but he doesn't idle. Instead he shifts his weight, enough to slide up onto his knees again and splay across the man's thighs. A little clumsy, but he hadn't thought of this part before. He braces himself with one hand and leans forward, kissing Francis hard and slow. And all the while he reaches between them and begins to stroke him off, a squeeze on the up and down, a thumb over his crown, the wet slide of skin on skin.
"Francis," he hums into the kiss, chasing after his tongue, the taste of him shortly after, losing all train of thought.
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The kiss is welcome. He returns it, almost bruising, so hungry for him as he scrabbles hands over his chest, is sides. Crozier can't help the immediate, instinctive hitch upward into the touch on his cock, wet from the younger man's mouth and now grasped so eagerly in his hand. He's so on edge.
His breath catches when he tastes his own name on Jopson's mouth. He wants to know Jopson is hard, too, he wants to crush his body down against his, rut them together, but he wants to let it just be this, too. In the end he lets Jopson have his way, and tumbles into it. He tells him how good he feels one last time before climax finds him, a quick choked-off sound and then going quiet, his features knitted together. Long pulls, surprising him with it, pulsing over Jopson's hand and his own belly, a mess, throbbing in that perfect grip and sending him reeling in a spill of stars behind his eyes.
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His hand goes sticky and warm and he continues to stroke him through the heat of his climax, slowing only when some of the tension leaves the man's body. He slowly releases him, hand sliding through the mess to stroke over his belly, collect some of the mess around his fingers. The first thing he wants is to lick his fingers clean, but opts not to - this isn't about his own wants and desires. He leans and kisses him again, nipping at his tongue, at his mouth. He can let his own arousal settle, deal with it later.
"Lie back," he murmurs against his lips, bumping their noses together. "Let me lie with you for a moment."
He needs to clean the mess on both him and Crozier, but that can wait. He can sop up the mess with their nightshirts if he must, but for now he leans forward, chasing a sweet series of kisses instead of anything more.
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He's going to fall back asleep.
No he isn't. He's got more self control than all that. (Usually.) Crozier hums something, low and unintelligible but agreeing; he slides his touch all over Jopson, wherever he can reach, just holding him, petting him, tipping up into his kisses and returning them. Loopy, swimming in the pond of euphoria that lingers in the aftermath.
"You'll turn me to some spoiled old thing," he murmurs after a while, hands on Jopson's hips, his thighs. He understands if he'd like to put off his own pleasure, but he wants it from him, too. Testing the waters. "And I won't be able to complain at all."
He thumbs over where the bruise he'd left him might be; out of sight at this angle, and perhaps he's off by a few inches while petting blindly, but the intent is clear. Thinking about it, and him, even while his mind is in a hazy fog.
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rip this boomerang
bonerang
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