A raise of a brow, though there's warmth in his eyes, his expression. It always comes back to the eye other men may have for him, when in fact all he can truly see is Francis Crozier. Relentless in his teasing now, it seems, relaxed by the high of their orgasms and the warmth of the haphazard bed he's made for them in the berth.
"But in seriousness, no - I'm grateful for the berth I am allowed as your steward. A privacy and privilege I do not take for granted."
Jopson pets soft lines down the side of Crozier's neck, mapping the skin there, pressing sweet little patterns into it. "The only one who will see it other than myself, Captain, is you. Put it where it pleases you most, sir."
A thrill that he may end up with a bruise somewhere even more curious than the soft flesh of his thigh. An easy thing to allow his mind to run with - and the yearning for a world where he could wear the mark proudly instead.
"And more I've yet to notice I'm sure," he teases him. "You'll have a raft of admirers wherever you go."
Aware by now that Jopson is less keen on hearing about other people, but he started it this time, and so to banter it goes. Crozier enjoys his touch, fingers along the places he might run a razor blade later (or more likely put it off until tomorrow, the boon of fair hair). He lets it be for a moment before shifting them— angling to put Thomas on his side, so that he can be the only, singular admirer for now, rucking up his borrowed shirt to expose him from throat down.
Beautiful. Even more so right now, a mess.
"Any number of places might please me."
Investigation time. He runs his hands over him, exploratory and sensual.
For the days that Crozier thought he might send him overboard in the beginning of it all. But the word relentless - the more time he spends tangled in the man's company, the more he better understands his Captain's meaning.
Jopson helps their movement, shifting to his side and finding his balance there, but also suddenly very aware of the older man's attention. A pain, being as pale as he is, the flush of their passion still hot under his skin and warming under Crozier's hands. He goes still so he can be touched and petted however the man pleases.
"Though if you send me off to a raft you might never see how long I've kept your gift, sir. I'm afraid you'd simply have to imagine it."
The occasional dip of his stomach, the flutter of his side tensing and relaxing, his body coming to life beneath Crozier's perfect hands.
Crozier touches him indulgently, in no hurry with their lusts sated, palms stroking over pale skin and dustings of dark hair. The stark contrasts of colors is lovely, a thing made more obvious by how bundled up they are even under the pole's perpetual sun. He familiarizes himself with every contour, traveling as low as he can reach without shifting his position, and occasionally leaning in to press kisses to his mouth.
He slides his fingers over his pectoral muscles, around darker peaks of his nipples, and to one side; a decision. Gently, he tips Jopson back enough to get them where they need to be. Kisses to his mouth, his jaw, down his throat, his chest. To the chosen spot, at the lowest edge of the muscle of his breast, edging towards his side. Not far enough to irritate him while moving his arm, but not front and center. He licks over it, and carefully bites down.
Jopson huffs softly, the only response to the idea of a command. He knows his place - a steward, a civilian, meant only to help with clothing and cleaning and cooking. A place he doesn't mind, truly, but he wonders if one day he will become obsolete, or if the next journey Crozier will ask for a different boy to attend him.
Difficult to imagine, what with the way the older man pets him and kisses him. It's enough to nearly lull him back into a light doze, eyes heavy and lashes a fan of dark contrasted against his cheeks. He lies where he's put, sighing at every place the man's mouth travels, not fully realizing what's to come next. It's the lack of anticipation, the surprise of it, that earns Francis a throaty moan. Maybe too loud, but with the way the ship groans as she lists to one side, it could be waved off.
His hand reaches to cradle the back of his skull, fingers scratching into the crop of hair there, grounding him so he doesn't arch up into the blunt press of teeth.
"Francis," again, another thing hissed between his teeth, though it's clear it's from the pleasure of it more than anything else.
He should reprimand him for that sound, but it's too lovely. It inspires a low hum of appreciation that's pulled from him unbidden. The both of them reacting purely on unfettered desire, if only for just a moment.
Little glamour in this, but it feels good. Soft skin beneath his mouth, and carefully, between his teeth. Like a deep kiss before it runs rougher, turning red from his attention, soon to bloom a lovely violet when it settles. Crozier (Francis, how he enjoys hearing it, disrespectful in most circumstances but cherished with a lover) keeps the mark contained and almost modest, not wanting to make Jopson genuinely uncomfortable when he next dresses, but wanting him to feel it as much as he likes throughout the coming days. Maybe a hair more than he'd like, too. Something lasting.
Silliness. He drags his tongue over it, presses his thumb in to admire the mark, and gives his nearest nipple a playful kiss.
A perfect mix between the bite of pain and the bloom of something warm and sensual, he'll look fondly at the bruise each morning when he dresses. It helps to know it's Crozier's mouth that brought it, this claiming little thing, makes warmth spread under his skin. He gently drags his nails along the man's scalp, up and down from the crown of his head to his nape, though there's the tiniest press harder when the kiss leaves one nipple peaked and cool.
"I will cherish it, sir," he says, voice a little airy, hand sliding from his hair to beckon him up to kiss him again. Thomas selfishly steals a series of small ones, tasting the remnants of them both on his tongue and lips. He'll feel guilty once the day begins and he sees all they have left in disarray beyond two locked doors, but for now he wants to savor this.
Terror is dangerous. The sea moreso. They're lucky they're just tired and worried and not frozen somewhere deep beneath the icy black. He rolls onto his back in the small space, gently nudging the older man to rest atop him now as they had been when they woke, regardless of the way their nightclothes are mussed and dirtied.
"A few more minutes and I'll be up to make your tea, sir," comes in a low voice, pleasantly warm and sated.
It looks incredibly charming on him. Crozier might like to see him fully dressed, but with his layers all split open, waistcoat perhaps half done, the bruise exposed; serving tea, leaning over his mending, with the display. His. His steward, his young lover, his confidant here on Terror, bearing his marks.
Alright, alright, that's enough nonsense.
Jopson is so easy to kiss, and hold, and he's more than happy to do that for those few more minutes. When it's time to get moving he gets up along with him— he'll leave him be for his steward duties, aware of how keen he is on them, but it'll be a joint effort to pack away their sordid nest and clean sticky skin.
Before they stitch themselves into being proper sailors again, Crozier catches him with one hand on his waist, and brings him in for a firm kiss. After, he shifts, and presses a chaste one to his forehead as well.
Thomas never fancied himself the kissing sort, certainly not with the hurried trysts and fumblings he's had with other men. Even as a boy, when doe-eyed girls would walk with him home from lessons and might try and cheekily catch him with a peck or two he'd wrinkled his nose at it. But here in the fading warmth of the berth he's happy to kiss and kiss and kiss if it means they can hold onto this moment a little longer.
But reality arrives and they're both up preparing for the day now in a different way. He's just finished up the last of his own buttons when he's pulled in. And fool that he is lingers in the kiss, allows his eyes to close to the one at his forehead, indulges in the strange patter of his heart before he tells himself to breathe.
He could be a kissing sort for this, definitely.
"My pleasure, sir," he murmurs, reaching to smooth his palms over the older man's shirt front, affectionate and caring. "The tea's ready - go have a cuppa, sir, and I'll return with breakfast and any reports made overnight."
Hands linger, pet over his captain's chest one more time before he tugs away and slips out into the great cabin, then out into the corridors, disappearing as he closes the door behind himself.
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no subject
A raise of a brow, though there's warmth in his eyes, his expression. It always comes back to the eye other men may have for him, when in fact all he can truly see is Francis Crozier. Relentless in his teasing now, it seems, relaxed by the high of their orgasms and the warmth of the haphazard bed he's made for them in the berth.
"But in seriousness, no - I'm grateful for the berth I am allowed as your steward. A privacy and privilege I do not take for granted."
Jopson pets soft lines down the side of Crozier's neck, mapping the skin there, pressing sweet little patterns into it. "The only one who will see it other than myself, Captain, is you. Put it where it pleases you most, sir."
A thrill that he may end up with a bruise somewhere even more curious than the soft flesh of his thigh. An easy thing to allow his mind to run with - and the yearning for a world where he could wear the mark proudly instead.
no subject
Aware by now that Jopson is less keen on hearing about other people, but he started it this time, and so to banter it goes. Crozier enjoys his touch, fingers along the places he might run a razor blade later (or more likely put it off until tomorrow, the boon of fair hair). He lets it be for a moment before shifting them— angling to put Thomas on his side, so that he can be the only, singular admirer for now, rucking up his borrowed shirt to expose him from throat down.
Beautiful. Even more so right now, a mess.
"Any number of places might please me."
Investigation time. He runs his hands over him, exploratory and sensual.
no subject
For the days that Crozier thought he might send him overboard in the beginning of it all. But the word relentless - the more time he spends tangled in the man's company, the more he better understands his Captain's meaning.
Jopson helps their movement, shifting to his side and finding his balance there, but also suddenly very aware of the older man's attention. A pain, being as pale as he is, the flush of their passion still hot under his skin and warming under Crozier's hands. He goes still so he can be touched and petted however the man pleases.
"Though if you send me off to a raft you might never see how long I've kept your gift, sir. I'm afraid you'd simply have to imagine it."
The occasional dip of his stomach, the flutter of his side tensing and relaxing, his body coming to life beneath Crozier's perfect hands.
no subject
Not that Jopson is a seaman or an officer.
(Yet. :( )
Crozier touches him indulgently, in no hurry with their lusts sated, palms stroking over pale skin and dustings of dark hair. The stark contrasts of colors is lovely, a thing made more obvious by how bundled up they are even under the pole's perpetual sun. He familiarizes himself with every contour, traveling as low as he can reach without shifting his position, and occasionally leaning in to press kisses to his mouth.
He slides his fingers over his pectoral muscles, around darker peaks of his nipples, and to one side; a decision. Gently, he tips Jopson back enough to get them where they need to be. Kisses to his mouth, his jaw, down his throat, his chest. To the chosen spot, at the lowest edge of the muscle of his breast, edging towards his side. Not far enough to irritate him while moving his arm, but not front and center. He licks over it, and carefully bites down.
no subject
Difficult to imagine, what with the way the older man pets him and kisses him. It's enough to nearly lull him back into a light doze, eyes heavy and lashes a fan of dark contrasted against his cheeks. He lies where he's put, sighing at every place the man's mouth travels, not fully realizing what's to come next. It's the lack of anticipation, the surprise of it, that earns Francis a throaty moan. Maybe too loud, but with the way the ship groans as she lists to one side, it could be waved off.
His hand reaches to cradle the back of his skull, fingers scratching into the crop of hair there, grounding him so he doesn't arch up into the blunt press of teeth.
"Francis," again, another thing hissed between his teeth, though it's clear it's from the pleasure of it more than anything else.
no subject
Little glamour in this, but it feels good. Soft skin beneath his mouth, and carefully, between his teeth. Like a deep kiss before it runs rougher, turning red from his attention, soon to bloom a lovely violet when it settles. Crozier (Francis, how he enjoys hearing it, disrespectful in most circumstances but cherished with a lover) keeps the mark contained and almost modest, not wanting to make Jopson genuinely uncomfortable when he next dresses, but wanting him to feel it as much as he likes throughout the coming days. Maybe a hair more than he'd like, too. Something lasting.
Silliness. He drags his tongue over it, presses his thumb in to admire the mark, and gives his nearest nipple a playful kiss.
no subject
"I will cherish it, sir," he says, voice a little airy, hand sliding from his hair to beckon him up to kiss him again. Thomas selfishly steals a series of small ones, tasting the remnants of them both on his tongue and lips. He'll feel guilty once the day begins and he sees all they have left in disarray beyond two locked doors, but for now he wants to savor this.
Terror is dangerous. The sea moreso. They're lucky they're just tired and worried and not frozen somewhere deep beneath the icy black. He rolls onto his back in the small space, gently nudging the older man to rest atop him now as they had been when they woke, regardless of the way their nightclothes are mussed and dirtied.
"A few more minutes and I'll be up to make your tea, sir," comes in a low voice, pleasantly warm and sated.
no subject
Alright, alright, that's enough nonsense.
Jopson is so easy to kiss, and hold, and he's more than happy to do that for those few more minutes. When it's time to get moving he gets up along with him— he'll leave him be for his steward duties, aware of how keen he is on them, but it'll be a joint effort to pack away their sordid nest and clean sticky skin.
Before they stitch themselves into being proper sailors again, Crozier catches him with one hand on his waist, and brings him in for a firm kiss. After, he shifts, and presses a chaste one to his forehead as well.
"Thank you, Thomas."
no subject
But reality arrives and they're both up preparing for the day now in a different way. He's just finished up the last of his own buttons when he's pulled in. And fool that he is lingers in the kiss, allows his eyes to close to the one at his forehead, indulges in the strange patter of his heart before he tells himself to breathe.
He could be a kissing sort for this, definitely.
"My pleasure, sir," he murmurs, reaching to smooth his palms over the older man's shirt front, affectionate and caring. "The tea's ready - go have a cuppa, sir, and I'll return with breakfast and any reports made overnight."
Hands linger, pet over his captain's chest one more time before he tugs away and slips out into the great cabin, then out into the corridors, disappearing as he closes the door behind himself.