"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.
"Would you want to complain? I certainly don't have to spoil you again, mind you."
Crozier's hands feel lovely even through the fabric of his nightshirt. The shirt that smells every bit of the man, especially after a night wrapped up around one another. It's intoxicating, and he thinks he'll have to quietly steal this one for some time - perhaps fold it and tuck it into his pillow case for safekeeping. Return it as he did before - only when it smells nothing of the Captain.
He peppers his skin with soft kisses, his mouth, jaw, nose, throat. He should climb off of him, should move to settle beside him and coax the man into a sleepy and warm morning, but the Captain has smart eyes and smart hands. A swipe over the bruise on his thigh and his breath hitches in surprise. When it goes off the mark he reaches to catch Crozier's hand, thumbing at his wrist and tugging his hand into place over the little mark.
"Your mark is still here, sir," he says, leaning in to kiss him again.
"Complaining makes up a portion of my blood," is an Irish joke he's allowed to make because he's Irish, "it's just you're tilting me off-center to somewhere else. Sweet boy."
A bit dopey in the aftermath, and it carries through to messy, smudgy, but eager kisses, and pressing in his touch where it's directed. That little hitch of breath is everything, it makes something in him jolt with near-painful intensity. Spoiled old thing indeed, there's no way his prick will stand again, but something tempts it.
"Been too long for it to linger," he points out, practically breathing into his mouth. "Have you been worrying it, Tom?"
The idea of Jopson pressing his fingers into the bruise, drawing it out, chasing the fading feeling of it, makes him feel like the ship is moving in ways it shouldn't be. (It isn't, is it? They aren't sinking?) (Nope, fine. Christ.)
Thomas' composure goes at the joke, a huff of a laugh against the man's mouth, open and genuine, most of his refined edges lost in the warmth and intimacy of the morning. A beautiful thing, really - to feel so comfortable around someone especially in the conditions they're meant to be working in.
The mark brings the world back into stark relief, however, and he applies a little pressure over Crozier's hand, encouraging the press into the tender flesh.
"You gave me a gift, sir," he says finally, a hint of something wanting in his voice. "I was being selfish and wanted to hold to it a while longer."
Another open mouthed kiss, lazy and warm and slow, his body shivering and betraying him at the press of fingers.
Crozier pushes in, and though there's no tell under his fingers where the bruise is — didn't break the skin, didn't leave a texture he can feel — he replays it in his mind, that place where his teeth were, and he rubs at it forcefully. His other hand grips Jopson's opposite hipbone, holding him close despite the mess between them. Wants to feel more of it, more of him, the need in his voice, the weight of his arousal.
"Did you touch yourself while you toyed with it?" he asks, between wet kisses. "One hand on your cock, the other pressing in just here?"
Harder, a long stroke against skin and muscle, though he doesn't reach for his prick. He thinks about it, though, thinks about it leaving wetness on his borrowed shirt wrapped around him. Jopson, covered in him, in his clothes, in his spend, in marks he left.
There's no hiding his arousal what with the way their bodies are slotted together, and Jopson relinquishes the idea altogether and settles his weight on the man. The bite of pain beneath Crozier's fingers makes him squirm, wedging his thickening prick in against Crozier's hip bone.
"I did, sir," he sighs into every messy kiss, licking greedily into his mouth and letting his thighs spread wider. It gives Crozier's hand more freedom for one, but brings their bodies pleasantly flush. Thomas cares very little for the mess smearing on the night shirt between them, his own starting to ruck up after all their fumblings. "The night you gave it to me, and the night after, sir."
A hidden mark, a thing only they know, and that's the erotic beauty in it. Another soft gasp, sucked in between his teeth, Crozier's hand a wondrous thing.
So soon after? As though he couldn't get enough. Floating pleasantly and bringing himself off, agitating that bruise while his rear was still warmed over by Crozier's sternly attentive palm. Profoundly gratifying to hear, and equally arousing; if he were twenty years younger he'd be shoving his cock into the split of Jopson's rear. (If he were twenty years younger, they wouldn't be doing this at all.)
"Show me how," he bids him, as he begins to gather up the shirt tails and move them away so that he can see the steward's stiff length. "While I touch you there, show me how you touch yourself. Make a mess all over me. And then I'll give you another one to keep."
The same place, or another spot. He'll decide when they get up. For now, he wants this: Jopson over him, finding that perfect shuddering height.
Electricity shoots down his spine, bringing a full flush to his cheeks that spreads down his throat. He must look absolutely lewd this way, perched over Crozier, mouth swollen and pink, hair mussed from sleep. It's a nice thought, though, that he might be something that he enjoys looking at even in the dim light of the berth.
"Of course," he whispers, chasing a kiss first, wanting and sweet all at once. Shirtsleeves rucked up, he reaches down between them and manages to free himself from his underthings. He's already half-hard and when he takes himself into the circle of his own fingers, he sighs, head tipping back and eyes closing.
"May I make a confession, sir?" He begins to stroke himself slowly, taking his time with it, making sure he covers every inch with each pass. "I imagine it's your hand most often, not my own. Not like our first night together."
That alone makes his prick twitch, bringing it to life.
A vision like on a church ceiling, the fantastic ones in the lovely European mainland, not like the dour chapels of England and Ireland. Jopson should have a gold disc painted behind his head, tipped back in delight as it is, the split of his shirt exposing his chest and his throat, ending with the sight of his cock clutched in his elegant hand. Crozer digs his thumb into the spot where the bruise was.
"Perhaps it should have been my hand," he muses. "In your berth, making you keep quiet."
With his other hand, he seeks teasing touches; brushes his knuckles against the tender weight of his stones, only gently. His cock is as attractive as the rest of him, which is absurd. Not the sort of thing that anyone should find attractive or unattractive, an unsightly appendage to be chipped off of ancient statues and covered on medieval paintings. But here it is, handsomely extended over his hand.
"It would be rude to deny the Captain should he attend my berth, sir," he laughs, a little airy as Crozier's hands wander. "It could be very important indeed."
The press of a thumb makes stars burst behind his eyes, a brilliant shock of pain that makes the muscle of his thigh tense, flex. His breath catches at the back of his throat, hand still working himself over. The proximity of Crozier's hand to his aching and weeping prick is enough to speed his touch, to imagine the calluses on the older man's hands, remember how it felt in that frenzied first moment together. Or at Aether, an arm around his waist and hand round his cock.
No one warned him that life at sea could be this passionate and potent.
"How would you keep me quiet, sir?" Even now, flushed and beginning to feel the edge of desperation radiate through his veins, he finds a way to be cheeky. And perhaps cheekier still to bow his head and chase the man for another kiss.
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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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Crozier's hands feel lovely even through the fabric of his nightshirt. The shirt that smells every bit of the man, especially after a night wrapped up around one another. It's intoxicating, and he thinks he'll have to quietly steal this one for some time - perhaps fold it and tuck it into his pillow case for safekeeping. Return it as he did before - only when it smells nothing of the Captain.
He peppers his skin with soft kisses, his mouth, jaw, nose, throat. He should climb off of him, should move to settle beside him and coax the man into a sleepy and warm morning, but the Captain has smart eyes and smart hands. A swipe over the bruise on his thigh and his breath hitches in surprise. When it goes off the mark he reaches to catch Crozier's hand, thumbing at his wrist and tugging his hand into place over the little mark.
"Your mark is still here, sir," he says, leaning in to kiss him again.
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A bit dopey in the aftermath, and it carries through to messy, smudgy, but eager kisses, and pressing in his touch where it's directed. That little hitch of breath is everything, it makes something in him jolt with near-painful intensity. Spoiled old thing indeed, there's no way his prick will stand again, but something tempts it.
"Been too long for it to linger," he points out, practically breathing into his mouth. "Have you been worrying it, Tom?"
The idea of Jopson pressing his fingers into the bruise, drawing it out, chasing the fading feeling of it, makes him feel like the ship is moving in ways it shouldn't be. (It isn't, is it? They aren't sinking?) (Nope, fine. Christ.)
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The mark brings the world back into stark relief, however, and he applies a little pressure over Crozier's hand, encouraging the press into the tender flesh.
"You gave me a gift, sir," he says finally, a hint of something wanting in his voice. "I was being selfish and wanted to hold to it a while longer."
Another open mouthed kiss, lazy and warm and slow, his body shivering and betraying him at the press of fingers.
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"Did you touch yourself while you toyed with it?" he asks, between wet kisses. "One hand on your cock, the other pressing in just here?"
Harder, a long stroke against skin and muscle, though he doesn't reach for his prick. He thinks about it, though, thinks about it leaving wetness on his borrowed shirt wrapped around him. Jopson, covered in him, in his clothes, in his spend, in marks he left.
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"I did, sir," he sighs into every messy kiss, licking greedily into his mouth and letting his thighs spread wider. It gives Crozier's hand more freedom for one, but brings their bodies pleasantly flush. Thomas cares very little for the mess smearing on the night shirt between them, his own starting to ruck up after all their fumblings. "The night you gave it to me, and the night after, sir."
A hidden mark, a thing only they know, and that's the erotic beauty in it. Another soft gasp, sucked in between his teeth, Crozier's hand a wondrous thing.
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"Show me how," he bids him, as he begins to gather up the shirt tails and move them away so that he can see the steward's stiff length. "While I touch you there, show me how you touch yourself. Make a mess all over me. And then I'll give you another one to keep."
The same place, or another spot. He'll decide when they get up. For now, he wants this: Jopson over him, finding that perfect shuddering height.
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"Of course," he whispers, chasing a kiss first, wanting and sweet all at once. Shirtsleeves rucked up, he reaches down between them and manages to free himself from his underthings. He's already half-hard and when he takes himself into the circle of his own fingers, he sighs, head tipping back and eyes closing.
"May I make a confession, sir?" He begins to stroke himself slowly, taking his time with it, making sure he covers every inch with each pass. "I imagine it's your hand most often, not my own. Not like our first night together."
That alone makes his prick twitch, bringing it to life.
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A vision like on a church ceiling, the fantastic ones in the lovely European mainland, not like the dour chapels of England and Ireland. Jopson should have a gold disc painted behind his head, tipped back in delight as it is, the split of his shirt exposing his chest and his throat, ending with the sight of his cock clutched in his elegant hand. Crozer digs his thumb into the spot where the bruise was.
"Perhaps it should have been my hand," he muses. "In your berth, making you keep quiet."
With his other hand, he seeks teasing touches; brushes his knuckles against the tender weight of his stones, only gently. His cock is as attractive as the rest of him, which is absurd. Not the sort of thing that anyone should find attractive or unattractive, an unsightly appendage to be chipped off of ancient statues and covered on medieval paintings. But here it is, handsomely extended over his hand.
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The press of a thumb makes stars burst behind his eyes, a brilliant shock of pain that makes the muscle of his thigh tense, flex. His breath catches at the back of his throat, hand still working himself over. The proximity of Crozier's hand to his aching and weeping prick is enough to speed his touch, to imagine the calluses on the older man's hands, remember how it felt in that frenzied first moment together. Or at Aether, an arm around his waist and hand round his cock.
No one warned him that life at sea could be this passionate and potent.
"How would you keep me quiet, sir?" Even now, flushed and beginning to feel the edge of desperation radiate through his veins, he finds a way to be cheeky. And perhaps cheekier still to bow his head and chase the man for another kiss.
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rip this boomerang
bonerang
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