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.
Oh for shame, young Mr Jopson. Crozier teases him more with his fingers, drawing around the base of his cock, but not helping in holding him. The sight of his steward's hand on his own prick is too alluring, even though the wet pearling at the crown of it makes his teeth ache for want of taste.
"Keep my other fingers warm, then. And mind your teeth. Think you'll stay quiet then?"
More pressure at his thigh, though it's forceful teasing and not outright tissue damage. He could hurt him, but it's not about that. Never about that. Besides, if he's to give him another bruise, he wants to use his mouth.
"I always behave, sir, but you said you'd make me keep quiet. Would you deny my curiosity?"
A soft whine at the back of his throat and his prick twitches shamefully at the barest attention. He would do anything this man told him to do - if it was to sit over him like this and simply wait out his pleasure by sight alone, he would. Crozier can have him any way he wishes and he can't say no. (Doesn't want to).
Just at the press of the bruise again, he shifts his weight, just enough to keep himself upright when he moves his free hand to pluck at Crozier's wrist.
"Forgive me, I will need the practice to be certain I stay quiet for you, Captain."
And should the man allow, he draws his hand up and takes one finger into his mouth first while his other hand resumes its careful strokes.
Eyebrows quirk. Just his order wouldn't be enough to mask him? Tsk. But this is better. Much. Hearing that whine, being subject to the younger man's boldness, all of it is worth leagues of cheeky disobedience.
Thick fingers slide into his mouth, past that expressive, pretty mouth, to press gently onto the soft muscle of his tongue. His cock had been here not so long ago, and already the heat of it feels familiar. (Or so he thinks. Lurid nonsense.) Crozier wants to feel that whine.
"A shame you need to stay quiet at all." His other hand moves just a little more, encircling him at the root with thumb and forefinger, holding him while he pleases himself. "No doubt you sound as beautiful as you look. But save it all, for when only I get to hear it. Mm? Can you do that, Thomas?"
A wildly erotic thing being wanted like this - to conserve every noise he could make and save it all for the man later when they might find some privacy and solitude. It brings him embarrassingly close, thighs tensing, hips butting up against the circle of Crozier's fingers.
He hums around the Captain's thick fingers, makes certain that he tilts his head just enough so that when he makes a noise of agreement it rumbles against the slick skin. He hollows his cheeks after, sucking once but careful not to make too much noise. It's meant to keep him quiet, after all.
Jopson's hand moves erratically now between them, chasing the edge of something that's startled him with how quickly it's overcome him. He tips his head back enough so that Crozier's wet fingers slide on his lips, his chin.
"Yes, Francis," he murmurs, eyes heavy lidded and pupils blown with wanting, and though he tries his best to keep himself together, he reaches his climax hard and fast. He turns his head into Crozier's hand, parts his lips around his fingers again to quiet himself as he spills a mess on Crozier's belly and hips and his own hand.
Stunningly beautiful. It nearly takes his breath away, to get to play with him like this, to feel him respond so eagerly even though it's in such a haphazard configuration. Crozier looks up and nearly lets it all happen without considerate participation, staring at him like some addle-brained fool.
Come home with me, when it's done—
Oh, stop. What does that look like. He has so much to do, a life to shape into expected forms. They both do. And even if he had enough money to do the daftest possible thing, who wants to live in France?
"Good, good," is praise, his voice still rough despite his tension having been released. "Look at you, good boy."
In the shuddering aftermath, he slides his hand up along Jopson's cock, gently nudging fingers away to take him in hand himself, where he just holds him through all the extra shudders and flinches. The heat of him, sticky and messy, feels lovely.
Would they weren't on the sea kilometers and kilometers from home, and they were wrapped up together somewhere else where staying in bed like this all day wouldn't cost lives. Stars burst to life behind his eyelids as his hand is nudged away, finding purchase on Crozier's chest, smearing sticky mess into his skin as he tries to ground himself.
Head tipping, he pulls away from the press of Crozier's fingers and instead bullies in to kiss the man, nudging their noses together and letting it be something lingering and open-mouthed and wet. Funny, the thing squeezing in his chest in time with the electricity coursing through his veins, the man's hand bringing him to the bittersweet edge of over-sensitivity by touch alone.
Still feeling a little selfish and a protective need to keep the Captain bedbound a while longer, he slowly settles his weight back down, bringing their bodies flush as he nuzzles in to kiss him again.
"You did well, sir," he murmurs, low and a little hoarse. "I'll keep you warm until we need to clean up for the bell."
The praise isn't lost on him. Good. Good boy. Beautiful. Thomas.
"I'll applaud you for keeping quiet," he rasps, "and myself for facilitating it, is that right?"
Of doing well.
He pets Jopson for another moment, but removes his hand when it becomes inconvenient to keep it there between them; raises it to put his fingers in his own mouth this time. A sharp, technically unpleasant, but good taste, and especially satisfying after those kisses. He touches Jopson's lips after, then his nose, just enjoying him. Arms around him, then, and they settle.
A little breath of a laugh against Crozier's jaw, Jopson nuzzling into the warmth of him and the arms wrapped round him. He adjusts his weight to pull the thick blankets and furs up around them, goes still again with them settled, pressing a soft kiss against his chin.
"The day I don't is one you should worry," he snorts, speaking against the man's skin, unwilling to be far from him in the afterglow of their morning together. He pets Crozier's hair back from his brow, gently running fingers through it, carefully pressing fingertips against his scalp in slow, steady motions.
"You let me care for you, sir," he says quietly, nosing against his cheek. "I am grateful for that."
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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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Oh for shame, young Mr Jopson. Crozier teases him more with his fingers, drawing around the base of his cock, but not helping in holding him. The sight of his steward's hand on his own prick is too alluring, even though the wet pearling at the crown of it makes his teeth ache for want of taste.
"Keep my other fingers warm, then. And mind your teeth. Think you'll stay quiet then?"
More pressure at his thigh, though it's forceful teasing and not outright tissue damage. He could hurt him, but it's not about that. Never about that. Besides, if he's to give him another bruise, he wants to use his mouth.
rip this boomerang
A soft whine at the back of his throat and his prick twitches shamefully at the barest attention. He would do anything this man told him to do - if it was to sit over him like this and simply wait out his pleasure by sight alone, he would. Crozier can have him any way he wishes and he can't say no. (Doesn't want to).
Just at the press of the bruise again, he shifts his weight, just enough to keep himself upright when he moves his free hand to pluck at Crozier's wrist.
"Forgive me, I will need the practice to be certain I stay quiet for you, Captain."
And should the man allow, he draws his hand up and takes one finger into his mouth first while his other hand resumes its careful strokes.
bonerang
Thick fingers slide into his mouth, past that expressive, pretty mouth, to press gently onto the soft muscle of his tongue. His cock had been here not so long ago, and already the heat of it feels familiar. (Or so he thinks. Lurid nonsense.) Crozier wants to feel that whine.
"A shame you need to stay quiet at all." His other hand moves just a little more, encircling him at the root with thumb and forefinger, holding him while he pleases himself. "No doubt you sound as beautiful as you look. But save it all, for when only I get to hear it. Mm? Can you do that, Thomas?"
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He hums around the Captain's thick fingers, makes certain that he tilts his head just enough so that when he makes a noise of agreement it rumbles against the slick skin. He hollows his cheeks after, sucking once but careful not to make too much noise. It's meant to keep him quiet, after all.
Jopson's hand moves erratically now between them, chasing the edge of something that's startled him with how quickly it's overcome him. He tips his head back enough so that Crozier's wet fingers slide on his lips, his chin.
"Yes, Francis," he murmurs, eyes heavy lidded and pupils blown with wanting, and though he tries his best to keep himself together, he reaches his climax hard and fast. He turns his head into Crozier's hand, parts his lips around his fingers again to quiet himself as he spills a mess on Crozier's belly and hips and his own hand.
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Come home with me, when it's done—
Oh, stop. What does that look like. He has so much to do, a life to shape into expected forms. They both do. And even if he had enough money to do the daftest possible thing, who wants to live in France?
"Good, good," is praise, his voice still rough despite his tension having been released. "Look at you, good boy."
In the shuddering aftermath, he slides his hand up along Jopson's cock, gently nudging fingers away to take him in hand himself, where he just holds him through all the extra shudders and flinches. The heat of him, sticky and messy, feels lovely.
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Head tipping, he pulls away from the press of Crozier's fingers and instead bullies in to kiss the man, nudging their noses together and letting it be something lingering and open-mouthed and wet. Funny, the thing squeezing in his chest in time with the electricity coursing through his veins, the man's hand bringing him to the bittersweet edge of over-sensitivity by touch alone.
Still feeling a little selfish and a protective need to keep the Captain bedbound a while longer, he slowly settles his weight back down, bringing their bodies flush as he nuzzles in to kiss him again.
"You did well, sir," he murmurs, low and a little hoarse. "I'll keep you warm until we need to clean up for the bell."
The praise isn't lost on him. Good. Good boy. Beautiful. Thomas.
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Of doing well.
He pets Jopson for another moment, but removes his hand when it becomes inconvenient to keep it there between them; raises it to put his fingers in his own mouth this time. A sharp, technically unpleasant, but good taste, and especially satisfying after those kisses. He touches Jopson's lips after, then his nose, just enjoying him. Arms around him, then, and they settle.
"You run laps around the pan."
Of warming.
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A little breath of a laugh against Crozier's jaw, Jopson nuzzling into the warmth of him and the arms wrapped round him. He adjusts his weight to pull the thick blankets and furs up around them, goes still again with them settled, pressing a soft kiss against his chin.
"The day I don't is one you should worry," he snorts, speaking against the man's skin, unwilling to be far from him in the afterglow of their morning together. He pets Crozier's hair back from his brow, gently running fingers through it, carefully pressing fingertips against his scalp in slow, steady motions.
"You let me care for you, sir," he says quietly, nosing against his cheek. "I am grateful for that."
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