Thomas laughs softly into the fold of his arms, accepting the teasing for what it is. He takes pride in his relentlessness, a dogged determination another commander called it, once. It's all he has in this life, really, that he can hold onto within an inch of its life. Steady, that Jopson, he's heard plenty of times.
The pressure into the knot under his shoulder blade makes him hiss, fingers curling into the sheets until it releases, and in turn he lets out a breath he's held, a pleasant and low hum when muscles relax. The bruising and welts on his back ease in their aches, too, now that they're warmed, soothed by the arnica and the gentle touches. He would take the captain's hands on him whether it hurt or not, welcoming the touch. A taste alone has made him hungry for anything he's given.
Turning his head to rest a cheek on his arms, he doesn't bother investigating the sound, simply stares across at the wooden wall of the ship, the personal effects here and there that he's well and truly familiar with.
"I truly enjoyed this evening," he says finally, quietly. "The work, of course, but - it is nice seeing something you are passionate about with my own eyes, sir, and feeling the very same wonder."
A strong young man, though he holds that strength somewhere quiet and discreet. Until one happens to run right into it, like Crozier has. Someone more aggressive or prone to back-talk would have found himself floating behind the ship on a raft tied to a rope, but Jopson has somehow managed to wind his way close not just as a steward, but as whatever this, too. A playful affair or something they'll hold onto as long as it suits them.
It would be nice if it weren't fleeting, he thinks, and then immediately sets the thought aside to be discarded. Looking into those kinds of thoughts is like looking into the sun or into a whirlpool, and he just can't permit himself.
"I suppose I do have some passion for it," he muses. The bottle is of almond oil, its mind scent apparent now; popular wit ladies' faces and sailor's hands. Good for making abused flesh feel less like dried leather. "Christ alive, I'd better, out here."
If he were a proper rubber (i'm very funny), he'd know if this was the correct medical order to put anything on, or if he's just wasting the oil. But it seems fine, the salve is dried down enough, and he doesn't want to wait around for Jopson to get too cold before he continues. The oil goes on, and he touches him more, the same careful fashion. This time he strays a little, higher on his shoulders, lower on his sides, the small of his back. Slippery and smooth.
"You're clever enough to follow anything, I think. I'm glad you see the ... odd bits of eternity in it."
"I look forward to attending when the work allows it."
Sitting out in the cold, staring up at the heavens, listening to smarter men than he discuss angles and fixed points and distances. Difficult to worry about anything else out there away from the ship under the blanket of the inky night sky. He's more at peace out at sea than he ever was at home - that's something he packs away to think on later, when he's not got broad hands rubbing almond oil into his skin.
His eyes flutter shut as the hands extend their reach, and he can imagine they're not on a ship at all. Perhaps some flat, or grand house, wherever it is that the captain spends his time on land. Both of them tucked into a bed four times as large as this, as though it's something they do all the time.
Could it be? When the ship docks, what will come of this strange and new intimacy? Will they steal kisses in the dark of London streets instead of in the Captain's berth?
"Odd bits of eternity - I like that. Seems when you're at sea you've got nothing but eternity to think on. Each direction you look, all sea. The sky a sea of its own, now with a handful of globular clusters that I can put name to, in fact."
A smile in his voice, a shift when the man's fingers glide over his side, sensitive enough he'd almost call himself ticklish. He does feel a world better already, skin of his back warmed and pliable again - but he could be content to lay here under the captain's hands for eons if time and energy allowed.
"Careful, with my eyes closed I might mistake you for a proper rubber, sir, not a Captain."
A tease, a little snort against his arm. (i'm very funny toooo).
He's mindful of how Jopson moves. (Thomas, it's ordinary, but so is Francis, and so is James, and he might give the whole thing some ribbing but he finds it all charming, ordinary men, doing these outlandish things.) A curious touch at his side, more steady to avoid feather-light tickling, trailing up, to the edge of the curve of his pectoral, back down to the cut of his hipbone, even though it puts his hand half over the waistband of his trousers.
Eternity, and the expanse of the sea, a realm where men weren't born to. Almost whimsical notions, one he doesn't voice to most people— irrelevant to his work, and against the image of professionalism he projects. Rare, to share it. Feels good to have it well received. He carefully strokes circles into the tenser parts holding the young man's tailbone together.
A huff.
"If any girl working such a job had hands like these, I reckon she'd be let go with haste."
Too broad to be a comfort for most men, and rough from labor, moving with no guidance or education at all. Crozier working off vibes alone, here, bestie.
"But I will accept your flattery anyway, as it warms my ego."
"What is my job as your Steward, sir, if not to be sure your ego is healthy and intact?"
But the man's hands are divine, sending pinprick shivers along his arms, a trickle of heat into his face as the rough hands traverses down to his hip. Crozier has strong hands, a strong build - most sailors have to be made of tough stuff to make it out here, or at least learn how to build themselves to it. He thinks of the young Mr Chambers, how the men have rallied. A job well done, he supposes.
"I much prefer these hands," he says finally, coy and lazy, but knows he should be less indulgent. Never much for sitting still, he begins to shift his weight, dislodging Crozier's hand from him no doubt as he slowly turns onto his hip, then begins the careful move of sitting up. He wants to see his face, to look him in the eye again, even if his own is flushed from the attention, from laying face down in Crozier's bed.
It's a slow journey to sitting, legs hanging over the edge of the bunk now, knees bumping alongside Crozier's.
"Let me assist in readying you for sleep, sir," he says finally, reaching to take one of the hands scented still by almond, pressing his thumb carefully into his palm, the muscle along his thumb, to his wrist. "It's late."
Late, but he still wants to be close, to touch him, soak up this moment as much as he can before he has to return to the loneliness of his own berth after such a night.
Jopson moves and Crozier lets him, even if the lingering touch of his hands suggests reluctance; they cannot stay awake indefinitely and leave them sleepless and exhausted for their shifts, that much is true. Still, he offers him points of contact as he rights himself, and after one of his hands is captured (easily, sweetly), he raises the other to cradle his steward's face, looking sunkissed despite the dreary half-light.
A thumb scrapes over his cheekbone. He knows his own complexion is comfortably heated, not quite so flushed, but he's been enjoying himself. The temperature of the berth is toastier than ordinary by sheer virtue of two people being wedged into it, but of course it's more than that, it's interest, and proximity.
"I'd like that."
The tone of these moments has evolved over their weeks acclimating to each other. Combative, sarcastic, resentfully tolerant, and lately, a shifting tide of comfortable and coy. What new wind pattern joins these waters now? Crozier has complained that these moments are akin to being treated as a doll for Jopson to fuss over. Still does, now and again, just to tease him. The kind of doll a child would fling out of a pram in disgust, but Jopson is as attentive as can be.
He could rip the buttons of his shirt off, Crozier would laugh. Anything. It's a moment worth living inside of, no matter how it goes.
An unbroken loop, their bodies, with little touches even as he sits up, with their tangled hands, the one on his cheek. He tips his cheek into the touch, eyes closing at the sensation, warm skin, the rich scent of almond mingling with arnica and sea salt and ink. He presses his free hand over Crozier's, a staying motion - reluctance, shared.
Nuzzling in against his palm, it's easier to catch every note of the man, feel every little bump or callus, imagine those hands on his back, on any part of him, over and over again. He's grateful, very suddenly, for the way the captain's rolled his sleeves, because it's his mouth that can traverse the skin for some time before he has to fuss with buttons and fabric. He presses a kiss to the man's palm, then the inside of his wrist, then his forearm. Chaste, sweet things that proceed to the elbow, where he has to release the man's hands to uncuff the fabric.
He leans back, taking Francis' hand once again and pressing his thumbs into the meat of his palm, fingers following the careful path his lips traveled until he hooks a finger into the divot of his arm and tugs the fabric free, unfurling the shirstsleeve. The second is much the same, in that he plucks the man's hand up and follows the line with mouth first, then hands.
Both sleeves down he reaches forward, scooting better to the edge of the bunk, staggering their legs so he may lean closer, smooth hands down his front first, adoring and curious, even in the way he brushes the braces from his shoulders. Everything reverent and awed, undoing the buttons of the man's shirt from the bottom up.
"If there were only one start left in the sky tonight, sir, which would you choose to see?"
A small smile as he continues, taking the buttons slowly so that his fingers may gently feel and touch the man along the way.
"I know that all stars have their stories. I hear the men telling them every time the season turns, but you must have a favorite, and I admit I greatly enjoy your stories."
All the fine hairs on him stand up, a prickling of it over his skin; Francis has to take a steady breath, then let out a sigh. Whichever arm Thomas isn't occupied with, he commits to stroking the young man's face, his jaw, spreading his touch down the side of his throat. A ghost of a touch over the notch of his Adam's apple, even as he keeps himself pliable for the slow, sensual unraveling. When he begins on the buttons, Crozier steadies there with his hands circled around his biceps, both keeping him close and supporting him.
Like stitches, together. Laced.
"My stories, hm?"
As noted between them: he is awful at stories. But for Jopson, and the stars, surely he can muster something.
"Alcyone." A Greek name, offered in his somewhat hammered-out brogue, four syllables. "The brightest star in the Pleiades. Which, thousands of years ago, were the sailors' stars. 'Pleiades' means 'to sail', or it did, sometime. They would rise, and it would be the season to go out and fish. The myths ascribe this to the Seven Sisters, patron nymphs of bits of the sea, of which Alcyone was one of. Poseidon's lover and a companion of Athena."
Crozier smiles, a lopsided, unguarded thing. Is this a good story? It's a bit off. Jopson would find a far more detailed, accurate account in a book— or two or three, and surely there's one aboard somewhere with better data. Alas, here's this old man's account.
But, see—
"In Ireland, they're bad luck. They go up over the start of winter and Saint Martin's Day, and setting to sea on Saint Martin's Day risks being drowned by a ghost."
An even worse summary (of which he is omitting mention of blood sacrifice, not interested in wrangling with the subject of Catholicism nor the subject of Celtic religion that influenced it). Crozier thinks it's very funny, though.
"I've shoved off a number of times in the cold, though, and she hasn't let me be sunk yet. So I'll be glad to see her last the longest, if all the others give up."
For all that the Captain thinks he's terrible at stories, Jopson has always enjoyed them. The timbre of his voice, the way he navigates the tales, and the amusement he gets from telling most of them, well. That alone is worth its weight in the lemon juice they drink on the daily. But Thomas listens, glancing up just in time to catch the the smile on his face, earning the man an earnest, warm smile of his own. He likes this look on him most, he decides.
Fingers continue their work all the way up to the top, and when his shirt opens he presses his palm in against warm skin, the hair there, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath. Well, until he snorts at the story.
"Bad luck and you still sailed, sir? She must like you very much, your Alcyone."
Of course he did. He slides both hands under the fabric of the man's shirt, caressing his way along his collar bone, to his shoulders, where he gently pushes the fabric down, but not before tracing the lines of his shoulders beneath. He helps him out of one sleeve, then the next, taking the shirt up and folding it carefully, setting it aside.
"The men always tell the ship's boys that it's haunted, you know, so perhaps the Terror herself is Alcyone's ghost. I'll have you turn around now, sir - as you had me in the chair some days ago. Then I'll fetch you a nightshirt."
Easier when it's not about himself, directly. Aware enough to know he's still giving away this and that, his interests, the things he remembers and holds on to, but it doesn't feel like skinning himself alive if it's not a recollection of something with himself in a starring role. Insecurity or modesty or a loathing of hearing it from other men, he doesn't know. It is what it is.
Not much room for insecurity or modesty tonight. Jopson has peeled his shirt off many times now, but never like this; never with his hands pathing over his bare chest (scattered freckles and a joke of a reflection from his head, with patches in places that are both redder and whiter), sitting across from him with knees knocked, just as bare. He can't help the wanting touch of his own hands, so familiar with Jopson's back now, sliding over the contours of his chest, his belly, the dark hair a handsome contrast to his pale skin.
"Fear and darkness," he muses, of Terror and Erebus. "Very Greek of us."
Personifying everything, always. And then he makes a 'mm' sound, at the request. As if he would deny Jopson anything here and now, but moving — without doing anything mad like drag the young man forward into his lap — is so unappealing. Still, they must get on with it, and so he stands to let them adjust. As compensation, he keeps hold of one of Thomas' hands while they do so, having made an art of shuffling in the narrow space by now.
It would be easy to make this feel like every other undressing and preparation, like any other evening where he's gone to fetch shirts and coals and turn down bedsheets. The press of Crozier's hands to his arms, chest, belly - all of it stokes something low in his gut, makes the pink in his cheeks go ruddy and bloom upon his throat.
"Better still that a Greek star watches over you," he murmurs, circling and holding the man's hand until he's seated. By all means he'd promised a nightshirt, but now with his back to him, Jopson settles back down on the bed. He leans forward, grabs the seat of the chair and gives a steady pull, strength alone scooting the man and the chair back a few inches against the bed as much as he can, placing the man between his spread thighs.
A nightshirt can come later. He rubs his hands together, warming them before he reaches to touch the man's back, lightly at first, running fingers along his spine, the ridges of his ribs, the curve of his scapula. He leans in, mouth falling to the man's nape as he works his thumbs into tense muscle. Each movement earns the Captain another press of lips - his shoulder, to the cap of it, to his shoulder blade, mouth slowly following the working lines of his hands.
"Forgive my forwardness, but I wanted to return your kindness."
An unexpected configuration, but it keeps Crozier from doing what he had half a mind to (drag Jopson against him the moment they were both standing), so perhaps for the best. Pacing themselves, or something of that nature; years ahead of them still, on this voyage. That they are making a commitment is an unavoidable thing.
His breath catches with the first touch of Jopson's mouth. He turns his head enough to look at him sidelong, and places one hand on a bracketing knee, squeezing him.
"There's nothing that would be too forward," he assures him, voice pitched lower from interest alone, "From you to me."
All of it is welcome. Anything Jopson would like to do to him, and anything Jopson would like done to himself. Crozier is only concerned with overstepping due to the difference in rank between them, but even there, he knows Jopson is plenty grown with an already eventful life behind him. He won't insult him by treating him like a nervous child.
"Believe it when I tell you that tending to you is as much a kindness to myself."
Everyone in this room is getting off on it and it's pretty great, actually.
The lower notes in Crozier's voice do something to him that he can't explain. He's had plenty of follies in his time, fumblings in the back of the pub or behind the school house or even in the lower decks of ships. They do what they must at sea, no less, but the man's voice makes something churn deep in him. That they're sitting so close is a mistake in some ways, for the way his thighs tense, the way his blood is rushing south to stay for wintering.
"Do you recall when I first tried to button your coat for you? I was sure you were going to have me whipped onto the foredeck for the surprise of it. We've come some ways if there are no limits to my forwardness now, sir."
He leans in, enough that his bare chest brushes the man's back as his chin perches on a shoulder, enough that his massaging hands can add weight and press into the muscles low in his back, just above his waist band.
"But I feel the same. That nothing could be too forward from you to me. "
He bows his head, presses an open mouthed kiss to the man's neck, the juncture where it curves into shoulder, all the way to the soft spot beneath his ear, nosing in against the shell of it.
"I thought about putting you on a raft to Erebus," he says, sounding fond of the memory now. "But it's as I said: relentless. No one but you could have managed it. Or this."
Different things. Being his steward, and being someone who's kissing his neck. Inhabiting the same space, yes, and they are making a dangerous tangle of it. But this whole business is dangerous; they are more likely to die in the cold and dark than they are to decide they detest each other. Even if they do detest each other, they'll have time to get over it. How strange that is. He thinks, briefly, of Jamie and Ann, and how their betrothal would go much smoother if she were to put a disguise on and sail with him. Love that endures inescapable proximity is the strongest, isn't it? It's so for the two of them. Even now he knows the other man's mind. Just where he'll be heading, depending on the weather at first bell. Just how he'll feel about it.
Crozier leans back into him deliberately, turns his face into Jopson's. Not quite kissing range, but an intimate, cloying close press. Nothing too much for the either of them. Good, this accord.
"You know I would have been sent back to you, and likely made to paddle myself for letting you bend me so easily."
Thomas snorts a little, something genuine and fond murmured into Crozier's skin where he kisses, finding new places for his mouth to land. The first few months were challenging, not knowing what might make the Captain fuss and spit and huff, if any of it would ever become routine for him. But here they are, and with Crozier leaned back into him, he loops on arm around his waist, broad palm pressed just below his ribs.
Strange that this is his Captain leaned against him, that days ago he stood across from the man defending himself and his foolishness, and now they're here, of all places.
"I'll do whatever you see fit, sir," he teases, face hot and flushed, everything warming with their cheeky contact, the dusky buds of his nipples pebbling against the rush of heat with their bodies pressed together eking out the cold air. "If suffering a night in your bed is what I deserve for my cheek then who am I to question it?"
He pets up the man's chest, over muscle, the divots of his ribs, the hair, where he simply strokes his fingers up and down along his sternum, light and absent minded. He should move, get Crozier dressed for bed, get him tucked away and warm, and yet here he is. Touching him, leaning into him, brushing his mouth against the man's temple, the high point of his cheek. He wants to kiss him properly, but that will have to wait.
A hand over Jopson's on his chest, the other still on his knee. Their position would be comical if not for the necessity of it, in this narrow space. There's plenty of room in the great cabin to tip him over the table. Maybe tomorrow.
"That what you want, to be made to suffer for it?" Makes the muscles in his abdomen clench to think of drawing Jopson forward over his knees, hand on his backside — lower than where the bruising is — and prompting that intense, devoted look in his eyes. "Explaining at first bell would no doubt be an odyssey for the both of us—"
What a time that would be.
"What I see fit. Is for you to come out from there and around so I can kiss you."
Can't lean back, scramble into the slim cot together, without hurting Jopson's back (waste all his patient work, come now). He likes this, the way they're playing and teasing, but if nothing's too forward then— here, he shifts, moving the chair, moving himself, and pulling his steward close for a hungry clash of his mouth against his.
"I wouldn't let them suspect a thing, sir," he murmurs, a little breathless, graveled, his own hunger betraying him now. How long has he stood in this room dressing this man and wondered what it might feel like to be held by him, touched, kissed? Even taking his lashings he imagined the Captain as the whip himself, and here they are, intertwined and teasing and on the edge of something already.
It stands to reason the sudden motion surprises him, but there's little resistance in the way stumbles up to his feet and surges into the kiss, utterly desperate for it since the very first brush just moments ago. He reaches for Crozier, hands scrabbling for his sides, strong arms wrapping round him. He chases the kiss, open mouthed and wanting, fingers curling, leaving a smattering of half moons across the man's back.
"Captain," he murmurs, almost plaintive, rational thought making a sad attempt to kick in but is wholly distracted by how one pull of his hands brings their bodies utterly flush, making obvious the way he's already excited from the evening, the hardening line jutting against the older man's hip. "Never mind."
And he's kissing him again, this time daring to nip and suck his bottom lip between his own.
Mutual passionate grappling, the thread of tension having wound so cozily with their indulgent, petting touches suddenly going taught. Crozier is still careful with him, having to re-direct an initial aborted grab. Not going to hold him around his back, and so he digs the fingers of one hand into dark hair to hold his head, help press him into deeper, hungrier kisses, and the other finds his rear. Tugs him close, delighting in the feeling of his steward hard against him. It sends a jolt of arousal through him straight to already-stirring flesh, and he internally shrugs off restraint about it.
Captain. Shouldn't like that so much, but the way Jopson says it, like there's nothing he wants more than to be here doing just this, twists something in him the most correct way.
"You can tell me," he breathes in between tasting his mouth, his tongue, feeling the hard enamel of his teeth against his lips. Anything, nothing too forward. Crozier likes the way he almost bites him. He likes the taste of his mouth. He likes the feeling of the curve of his behind in his hand, the whole of him shaped so strikingly. (Ah, youth, but did Francis ever look like this? No, not quite. All a bit more square.)
Messy, eager, indulgent. Swaying just a little where they stand. He has to mind the bruising on Jopson's back, can't just shove him into the bulkhead wall. Rapidly nearing a quick pull in a closet, the very thing he thought to avoid, but he feels on edge. He feels the younger man on edge, too, and very much wants to send him over it.
Thomas groans against the older man's mouth, the fingers in his hair, the firm grip at his backside - all of it too much and not enough. The burn of wanting for so long and finally finding a way to uncork it, release the pressure and send it into a frenzy has made it hard for him to think clearly.
"I wont break, sir," he mutters against the man's mouth, this time interrupting the messy kisses by biting properly - capturing the soft flesh between his teeth and giving an insistent tug until it scrapes by the blunt edges and pops from his mouth. A second time, but this with a messy, almost desperate little keen. "I want you to touch me."
Not just his delicates and all that, no - he tugs Crozier to one side, spinning them. Thomas' land with his back flush to the bulkhead wall with a low moan of something caught between pain and helpless arousal. He'll regret it later, maybe, or perhaps they will hurt in a different way for him come morning, but for now he wants to feel it.
"I imagined it was you the whole time," he pants, palms sliding to Crozier's front, to his trousers, expertly undoing all the fastenings. He's done this many times before, after all, then utterly fumbles with his own, one hand gripping the older man's hip, the other trying to futz with his waistband. "You with the straps. Or your hands. Anything you'd choose."
A mix of instincts at first: a strong desire to keep the young man from pain, a strong desire to see just what he'll endure to please him. How badly does he want, for just kissing and petting to be not enough? Does it transcend wanting, into needing? (Stop it, he tells himself, but changes track and decides to worry about that line of thinking in the morning. Have the bloody moment.)
Like a fantasy. Thomas reaches in somewhere, grabs it. I imagined it was you. His cock jumps for it, a lewd giveaway of mirrored thoughts even if he doesn't say so aloud. He braces his hands on Jopson's hips and pushes him harder to the wooden wall, shoving against him, kissing him with proprietary eagerness, like the steward belongs to him entire. Like this is right where he should be, under his hands, telling him Anything.
"Would that have made you learn even better?" In between biting, possessive kisses. "If pushed you over the table myself and took my hand to you? If I made you count and thank me for each strike?"
Not that Jopson hasn't performed perfectly since then — and before then, aside from one incident, born of genuine fraternal love it seems — but the fantasy has clearly had them both in a grip. Crozier watches him just as closely now, eyes on his even as he reaches one hand back to find the vial of almond oil again.
"Does not every sailor learn best from their Captain?"
Crozier could be gale force winds on a stormy sea or the lightest breeze and Jopson would unfold for him as he is now, open and wanting and hungry for it. The wood of the bulkhead stings at his back, sticky still with almond oil, but the sound he grits his teeth on is obscene, the mixture of the pain with the searing press of Crozier's cock against his own, straining.
The image of Crozier's hand on him, of being pushed down over a table and handing his punishment to the captain makes him go boyishly wet in his smallclothes, a small stain starting beneath the dark trouser fabric. He leans forward into every kiss, hands scrambling now to undo his own trousers, to let them fall loose at his hips and down is thighs. And next with the older man's, taking his time to finish the the buttons, the ties, wedging his hands between them - one pulling his trousers down, the other palming over his stomach, back down to his hip.
"I would like to feel you." Feel what he's like in his hand, the weight and heat, if it's anything like he's imagined all this time. He chases the biting kisses, arching prettily against him, licking hot and hungrily into his mouth.
Jopson is beautiful, the kind that can punch the wind out of a man to look at, flushed and hard, all brushed in dark hair and strong lines. The lamp makes all the light honey yellow, turns his steward into something that he could devour like the too-sweet tea he made. He'd like to put his mouth on every part of him, leave altogether different bruises on every tender place.
So adept at undressing him. How many times has Crozier stared unfocused past his steward's shoulder, carefully not thinking about anything but business? When did that change from having to convince himself it wasn't simply uncomfortable, something for wealthy English prats who've never done their own work? Maybe it still is, and it's only Thomas Jopson he's able to tolerate it from. His cock is thick with arousal, not fully hard yet but he knows he'll get there in no time with Jopson's fingers around him.
Crozier leans enough to really crowd him, legs tangled and knocking together, as their centers of gravity shift here and there with the ocean's deep breaths, removing both hands now so he can tip oil onto his fingers. He doesn't reach back down to take Jopson's prick in hand, though he wants to. He runs the ridge of his knuckles against it instead, looking down at the outrageous sight of it, the both of them straining, the young man already wet for him. The overheated soft skin feels so good even with just that slim bit of contact.
He palms low on Jopson's belly, just over the root of his cock, spreading oil. Reaches to press their palms together, lacing fingers, spreading it that way, too.
The scent of almonds will always make him think of this moment now, bodies crowded together, a messy tangle of legs and arms as the ship sways. Almonds and sharp whisky - a thing he wants to taste on Crozier's tongue, on any part of him that the man will allow him to put his mouth. Staring down between them, flushed and panting, there's no doubting the artful way the captain's hands move, smearing slick oil on his skin, the dark trail of hair from his navel down to the root of his cock glistening, sticky.
"Sir-"
The barest touch makes everything in him sing to life and yet makes him mad for more, for the brevity of it. The man gives exactly what he intends to. He bites down on his own bottom lip, the sharp stick of teeth enough to cut through the feral, animal thing that wants nothing more than to arch into every bit of Francis' body and beg to be had.
Now would be time for them to rest, to tuck themselves into their berths and wake up in the morning as Captain and Steward, where he will dutifully stand and dress him and prepare tea and bring his meals. Ever at the man's side, and here he is before him in the late hours, strong and handsome in a way that makes his gums ache for the want of him.
The permission helps - the little encouragement - and he tips his head back to rest against the wood of the wall, eyes heavy lidded and focused on Crozier's face, studying it in this moment of power and surrender, in every way he'd imagined the man would look, pressed and close.
"I would like this," he murmurs, gaze not unlike the one he'd had bent over at the table. Not unlike some kind of starving prey animal, desperate and wanting. He moves his free hand, sliding down his own belly first to drum up some of the slick oil, then curls his long fingers around his captain's cock. Slow, almost like something would snatch him away, but only with him in his grip does he thumb over the head with a slick, wet thumb. The other hand - perfectly oiled and twined with Crozier's, squeezes their hands, resists the temptation to tug it somewhere on his body for more more more.
The sight of Jopson's hand between them tempts his gaze, but it's only a brief detour, fixing instead on his eyes. That look, the look that set them on fire when they'd been in a kindling holding pattern, and Crozier stares back at him, just as possessing. More, even. His expression flinches when Jopson takes him in hand, clear enjoyment, hot and straining in his grip. He presses their joined hands against his steward's shoulder, folding them together.
A touch that's as deft as doing up buttons, stitching split seams, sliding a razor along his throat. His cock throbs in that touch, and Crozier drags his own barely-there touch along the side of Jopson's prick. Pressed together as they are, nothing slips away comically. Perhaps a miracle, or just their physical forms desperate for the contact.
"Yes."
He tips his head up, looks at him. A little breathless. He presses a kiss to his mouth, helpless against making it deeper, squeezing their linked hands as he does it. A gentle, but firm clasp of teeth around his lip before he pulls back.
"Your hands are to my liking. Your touch is to my liking." In a small, delicate contrast to the sweating, pulsing heat between them, he rubs a tiny circle with one thumb against Jopson's. "You held so still and quiet, while it was happening. Thinking about it being me. I know it's for the best, men in our position. But I thinking about hearing you."
Pride blooms hot in his chest, watching the way Crozier flinches, the way the older man's body responds to his touch. Gratifying and utterly bewitching that he has any kind of sway over the Captain at all, feeling powerful now under his praise and pleasure. Lost in his thoughts the brush against his own weeping erection makes him shiver, coupled with the soft brush of a thumb, he sighs, squirms a little.
A grin, cheeky, knowing.
"I was hoping you'd be thinking about me, sir," he murmurs, low and warm. The oil makes it easy for him to stroke long fingers from root to tip, following the throbbing vein on the underside of his prick. "I thought about your hand the whole time, what it would feel like instead of the strap. I thought about it that night when you saw to my back - it hurt badly, but under your hand it was a tremendous thing."
He could have whipped him again there, even as a boy, and he'd have blossomed to life under it. Jopson leans into the little kiss, moaning low when the blunt drag of teeth catches his lip. It's well and truly cherry red from kissing, from biting, his mouth a swollen thing he leans in to press against Crozier's once more.
"I won't be so quiet next time, sir," he murmurs, another soft stroke of his fingers, up and down again. "I don't want to be."
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Thomas laughs softly into the fold of his arms, accepting the teasing for what it is. He takes pride in his relentlessness, a dogged determination another commander called it, once. It's all he has in this life, really, that he can hold onto within an inch of its life. Steady, that Jopson, he's heard plenty of times.
The pressure into the knot under his shoulder blade makes him hiss, fingers curling into the sheets until it releases, and in turn he lets out a breath he's held, a pleasant and low hum when muscles relax. The bruising and welts on his back ease in their aches, too, now that they're warmed, soothed by the arnica and the gentle touches. He would take the captain's hands on him whether it hurt or not, welcoming the touch. A taste alone has made him hungry for anything he's given.
Turning his head to rest a cheek on his arms, he doesn't bother investigating the sound, simply stares across at the wooden wall of the ship, the personal effects here and there that he's well and truly familiar with.
"I truly enjoyed this evening," he says finally, quietly. "The work, of course, but - it is nice seeing something you are passionate about with my own eyes, sir, and feeling the very same wonder."
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It would be nice if it weren't fleeting, he thinks, and then immediately sets the thought aside to be discarded. Looking into those kinds of thoughts is like looking into the sun or into a whirlpool, and he just can't permit himself.
"I suppose I do have some passion for it," he muses. The bottle is of almond oil, its mind scent apparent now; popular wit ladies' faces and sailor's hands. Good for making abused flesh feel less like dried leather. "Christ alive, I'd better, out here."
If he were a proper rubber (i'm very funny), he'd know if this was the correct medical order to put anything on, or if he's just wasting the oil. But it seems fine, the salve is dried down enough, and he doesn't want to wait around for Jopson to get too cold before he continues. The oil goes on, and he touches him more, the same careful fashion. This time he strays a little, higher on his shoulders, lower on his sides, the small of his back. Slippery and smooth.
"You're clever enough to follow anything, I think. I'm glad you see the ... odd bits of eternity in it."
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Sitting out in the cold, staring up at the heavens, listening to smarter men than he discuss angles and fixed points and distances. Difficult to worry about anything else out there away from the ship under the blanket of the inky night sky. He's more at peace out at sea than he ever was at home - that's something he packs away to think on later, when he's not got broad hands rubbing almond oil into his skin.
His eyes flutter shut as the hands extend their reach, and he can imagine they're not on a ship at all. Perhaps some flat, or grand house, wherever it is that the captain spends his time on land. Both of them tucked into a bed four times as large as this, as though it's something they do all the time.
Could it be? When the ship docks, what will come of this strange and new intimacy? Will they steal kisses in the dark of London streets instead of in the Captain's berth?
"Odd bits of eternity - I like that. Seems when you're at sea you've got nothing but eternity to think on. Each direction you look, all sea. The sky a sea of its own, now with a handful of globular clusters that I can put name to, in fact."
A smile in his voice, a shift when the man's fingers glide over his side, sensitive enough he'd almost call himself ticklish. He does feel a world better already, skin of his back warmed and pliable again - but he could be content to lay here under the captain's hands for eons if time and energy allowed.
"Careful, with my eyes closed I might mistake you for a proper rubber, sir, not a Captain."
A tease, a little snort against his arm. (i'm very funny toooo).
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Eternity, and the expanse of the sea, a realm where men weren't born to. Almost whimsical notions, one he doesn't voice to most people— irrelevant to his work, and against the image of professionalism he projects. Rare, to share it. Feels good to have it well received. He carefully strokes circles into the tenser parts holding the young man's tailbone together.
A huff.
"If any girl working such a job had hands like these, I reckon she'd be let go with haste."
Too broad to be a comfort for most men, and rough from labor, moving with no guidance or education at all. Crozier working off vibes alone, here, bestie.
"But I will accept your flattery anyway, as it warms my ego."
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But the man's hands are divine, sending pinprick shivers along his arms, a trickle of heat into his face as the rough hands traverses down to his hip. Crozier has strong hands, a strong build - most sailors have to be made of tough stuff to make it out here, or at least learn how to build themselves to it. He thinks of the young Mr Chambers, how the men have rallied. A job well done, he supposes.
"I much prefer these hands," he says finally, coy and lazy, but knows he should be less indulgent. Never much for sitting still, he begins to shift his weight, dislodging Crozier's hand from him no doubt as he slowly turns onto his hip, then begins the careful move of sitting up. He wants to see his face, to look him in the eye again, even if his own is flushed from the attention, from laying face down in Crozier's bed.
It's a slow journey to sitting, legs hanging over the edge of the bunk now, knees bumping alongside Crozier's.
"Let me assist in readying you for sleep, sir," he says finally, reaching to take one of the hands scented still by almond, pressing his thumb carefully into his palm, the muscle along his thumb, to his wrist. "It's late."
Late, but he still wants to be close, to touch him, soak up this moment as much as he can before he has to return to the loneliness of his own berth after such a night.
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A thumb scrapes over his cheekbone. He knows his own complexion is comfortably heated, not quite so flushed, but he's been enjoying himself. The temperature of the berth is toastier than ordinary by sheer virtue of two people being wedged into it, but of course it's more than that, it's interest, and proximity.
"I'd like that."
The tone of these moments has evolved over their weeks acclimating to each other. Combative, sarcastic, resentfully tolerant, and lately, a shifting tide of comfortable and coy. What new wind pattern joins these waters now? Crozier has complained that these moments are akin to being treated as a doll for Jopson to fuss over. Still does, now and again, just to tease him. The kind of doll a child would fling out of a pram in disgust, but Jopson is as attentive as can be.
He could rip the buttons of his shirt off, Crozier would laugh. Anything. It's a moment worth living inside of, no matter how it goes.
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Nuzzling in against his palm, it's easier to catch every note of the man, feel every little bump or callus, imagine those hands on his back, on any part of him, over and over again. He's grateful, very suddenly, for the way the captain's rolled his sleeves, because it's his mouth that can traverse the skin for some time before he has to fuss with buttons and fabric. He presses a kiss to the man's palm, then the inside of his wrist, then his forearm. Chaste, sweet things that proceed to the elbow, where he has to release the man's hands to uncuff the fabric.
He leans back, taking Francis' hand once again and pressing his thumbs into the meat of his palm, fingers following the careful path his lips traveled until he hooks a finger into the divot of his arm and tugs the fabric free, unfurling the shirstsleeve. The second is much the same, in that he plucks the man's hand up and follows the line with mouth first, then hands.
Both sleeves down he reaches forward, scooting better to the edge of the bunk, staggering their legs so he may lean closer, smooth hands down his front first, adoring and curious, even in the way he brushes the braces from his shoulders. Everything reverent and awed, undoing the buttons of the man's shirt from the bottom up.
"If there were only one start left in the sky tonight, sir, which would you choose to see?"
A small smile as he continues, taking the buttons slowly so that his fingers may gently feel and touch the man along the way.
"I know that all stars have their stories. I hear the men telling them every time the season turns, but you must have a favorite, and I admit I greatly enjoy your stories."
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Like stitches, together. Laced.
"My stories, hm?"
As noted between them: he is awful at stories. But for Jopson, and the stars, surely he can muster something.
"Alcyone." A Greek name, offered in his somewhat hammered-out brogue, four syllables. "The brightest star in the Pleiades. Which, thousands of years ago, were the sailors' stars. 'Pleiades' means 'to sail', or it did, sometime. They would rise, and it would be the season to go out and fish. The myths ascribe this to the Seven Sisters, patron nymphs of bits of the sea, of which Alcyone was one of. Poseidon's lover and a companion of Athena."
Crozier smiles, a lopsided, unguarded thing. Is this a good story? It's a bit off. Jopson would find a far more detailed, accurate account in a book— or two or three, and surely there's one aboard somewhere with better data. Alas, here's this old man's account.
But, see—
"In Ireland, they're bad luck. They go up over the start of winter and Saint Martin's Day, and setting to sea on Saint Martin's Day risks being drowned by a ghost."
An even worse summary (of which he is omitting mention of blood sacrifice, not interested in wrangling with the subject of Catholicism nor the subject of Celtic religion that influenced it). Crozier thinks it's very funny, though.
"I've shoved off a number of times in the cold, though, and she hasn't let me be sunk yet. So I'll be glad to see her last the longest, if all the others give up."
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Fingers continue their work all the way up to the top, and when his shirt opens he presses his palm in against warm skin, the hair there, feeling the rhythm of his heart beneath. Well, until he snorts at the story.
"Bad luck and you still sailed, sir? She must like you very much, your Alcyone."
Of course he did. He slides both hands under the fabric of the man's shirt, caressing his way along his collar bone, to his shoulders, where he gently pushes the fabric down, but not before tracing the lines of his shoulders beneath. He helps him out of one sleeve, then the next, taking the shirt up and folding it carefully, setting it aside.
"The men always tell the ship's boys that it's haunted, you know, so perhaps the Terror herself is Alcyone's ghost. I'll have you turn around now, sir - as you had me in the chair some days ago. Then I'll fetch you a nightshirt."
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Not much room for insecurity or modesty tonight. Jopson has peeled his shirt off many times now, but never like this; never with his hands pathing over his bare chest (scattered freckles and a joke of a reflection from his head, with patches in places that are both redder and whiter), sitting across from him with knees knocked, just as bare. He can't help the wanting touch of his own hands, so familiar with Jopson's back now, sliding over the contours of his chest, his belly, the dark hair a handsome contrast to his pale skin.
"Fear and darkness," he muses, of Terror and Erebus. "Very Greek of us."
Personifying everything, always. And then he makes a 'mm' sound, at the request. As if he would deny Jopson anything here and now, but moving — without doing anything mad like drag the young man forward into his lap — is so unappealing. Still, they must get on with it, and so he stands to let them adjust. As compensation, he keeps hold of one of Thomas' hands while they do so, having made an art of shuffling in the narrow space by now.
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"Better still that a Greek star watches over you," he murmurs, circling and holding the man's hand until he's seated. By all means he'd promised a nightshirt, but now with his back to him, Jopson settles back down on the bed. He leans forward, grabs the seat of the chair and gives a steady pull, strength alone scooting the man and the chair back a few inches against the bed as much as he can, placing the man between his spread thighs.
A nightshirt can come later. He rubs his hands together, warming them before he reaches to touch the man's back, lightly at first, running fingers along his spine, the ridges of his ribs, the curve of his scapula. He leans in, mouth falling to the man's nape as he works his thumbs into tense muscle. Each movement earns the Captain another press of lips - his shoulder, to the cap of it, to his shoulder blade, mouth slowly following the working lines of his hands.
"Forgive my forwardness, but I wanted to return your kindness."
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His breath catches with the first touch of Jopson's mouth. He turns his head enough to look at him sidelong, and places one hand on a bracketing knee, squeezing him.
"There's nothing that would be too forward," he assures him, voice pitched lower from interest alone, "From you to me."
All of it is welcome. Anything Jopson would like to do to him, and anything Jopson would like done to himself. Crozier is only concerned with overstepping due to the difference in rank between them, but even there, he knows Jopson is plenty grown with an already eventful life behind him. He won't insult him by treating him like a nervous child.
"Believe it when I tell you that tending to you is as much a kindness to myself."
Everyone in this room is getting off on it and it's pretty great, actually.
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"Do you recall when I first tried to button your coat for you? I was sure you were going to have me whipped onto the foredeck for the surprise of it. We've come some ways if there are no limits to my forwardness now, sir."
He leans in, enough that his bare chest brushes the man's back as his chin perches on a shoulder, enough that his massaging hands can add weight and press into the muscles low in his back, just above his waist band.
"But I feel the same. That nothing could be too forward from you to me. "
He bows his head, presses an open mouthed kiss to the man's neck, the juncture where it curves into shoulder, all the way to the soft spot beneath his ear, nosing in against the shell of it.
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Different things. Being his steward, and being someone who's kissing his neck. Inhabiting the same space, yes, and they are making a dangerous tangle of it. But this whole business is dangerous; they are more likely to die in the cold and dark than they are to decide they detest each other. Even if they do detest each other, they'll have time to get over it. How strange that is. He thinks, briefly, of Jamie and Ann, and how their betrothal would go much smoother if she were to put a disguise on and sail with him. Love that endures inescapable proximity is the strongest, isn't it? It's so for the two of them. Even now he knows the other man's mind. Just where he'll be heading, depending on the weather at first bell. Just how he'll feel about it.
Crozier leans back into him deliberately, turns his face into Jopson's. Not quite kissing range, but an intimate, cloying close press. Nothing too much for the either of them. Good, this accord.
"Careful now, or I'll keep you here again."
Less asleep this time.
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Thomas snorts a little, something genuine and fond murmured into Crozier's skin where he kisses, finding new places for his mouth to land. The first few months were challenging, not knowing what might make the Captain fuss and spit and huff, if any of it would ever become routine for him. But here they are, and with Crozier leaned back into him, he loops on arm around his waist, broad palm pressed just below his ribs.
Strange that this is his Captain leaned against him, that days ago he stood across from the man defending himself and his foolishness, and now they're here, of all places.
"I'll do whatever you see fit, sir," he teases, face hot and flushed, everything warming with their cheeky contact, the dusky buds of his nipples pebbling against the rush of heat with their bodies pressed together eking out the cold air. "If suffering a night in your bed is what I deserve for my cheek then who am I to question it?"
He pets up the man's chest, over muscle, the divots of his ribs, the hair, where he simply strokes his fingers up and down along his sternum, light and absent minded. He should move, get Crozier dressed for bed, get him tucked away and warm, and yet here he is. Touching him, leaning into him, brushing his mouth against the man's temple, the high point of his cheek. He wants to kiss him properly, but that will have to wait.
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Lad, honestly.
A hand over Jopson's on his chest, the other still on his knee. Their position would be comical if not for the necessity of it, in this narrow space. There's plenty of room in the great cabin to tip him over the table. Maybe tomorrow.
"That what you want, to be made to suffer for it?" Makes the muscles in his abdomen clench to think of drawing Jopson forward over his knees, hand on his backside — lower than where the bruising is — and prompting that intense, devoted look in his eyes. "Explaining at first bell would no doubt be an odyssey for the both of us—"
What a time that would be.
"What I see fit. Is for you to come out from there and around so I can kiss you."
Can't lean back, scramble into the slim cot together, without hurting Jopson's back (waste all his patient work, come now). He likes this, the way they're playing and teasing, but if nothing's too forward then— here, he shifts, moving the chair, moving himself, and pulling his steward close for a hungry clash of his mouth against his.
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It stands to reason the sudden motion surprises him, but there's little resistance in the way stumbles up to his feet and surges into the kiss, utterly desperate for it since the very first brush just moments ago. He reaches for Crozier, hands scrabbling for his sides, strong arms wrapping round him. He chases the kiss, open mouthed and wanting, fingers curling, leaving a smattering of half moons across the man's back.
"Captain," he murmurs, almost plaintive, rational thought making a sad attempt to kick in but is wholly distracted by how one pull of his hands brings their bodies utterly flush, making obvious the way he's already excited from the evening, the hardening line jutting against the older man's hip. "Never mind."
And he's kissing him again, this time daring to nip and suck his bottom lip between his own.
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Captain. Shouldn't like that so much, but the way Jopson says it, like there's nothing he wants more than to be here doing just this, twists something in him the most correct way.
"You can tell me," he breathes in between tasting his mouth, his tongue, feeling the hard enamel of his teeth against his lips. Anything, nothing too forward. Crozier likes the way he almost bites him. He likes the taste of his mouth. He likes the feeling of the curve of his behind in his hand, the whole of him shaped so strikingly. (Ah, youth, but did Francis ever look like this? No, not quite. All a bit more square.)
Messy, eager, indulgent. Swaying just a little where they stand. He has to mind the bruising on Jopson's back, can't just shove him into the bulkhead wall. Rapidly nearing a quick pull in a closet, the very thing he thought to avoid, but he feels on edge. He feels the younger man on edge, too, and very much wants to send him over it.
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"I wont break, sir," he mutters against the man's mouth, this time interrupting the messy kisses by biting properly - capturing the soft flesh between his teeth and giving an insistent tug until it scrapes by the blunt edges and pops from his mouth. A second time, but this with a messy, almost desperate little keen. "I want you to touch me."
Not just his delicates and all that, no - he tugs Crozier to one side, spinning them. Thomas' land with his back flush to the bulkhead wall with a low moan of something caught between pain and helpless arousal. He'll regret it later, maybe, or perhaps they will hurt in a different way for him come morning, but for now he wants to feel it.
"I imagined it was you the whole time," he pants, palms sliding to Crozier's front, to his trousers, expertly undoing all the fastenings. He's done this many times before, after all, then utterly fumbles with his own, one hand gripping the older man's hip, the other trying to futz with his waistband. "You with the straps. Or your hands. Anything you'd choose."
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Like a fantasy. Thomas reaches in somewhere, grabs it. I imagined it was you. His cock jumps for it, a lewd giveaway of mirrored thoughts even if he doesn't say so aloud. He braces his hands on Jopson's hips and pushes him harder to the wooden wall, shoving against him, kissing him with proprietary eagerness, like the steward belongs to him entire. Like this is right where he should be, under his hands, telling him Anything.
"Would that have made you learn even better?" In between biting, possessive kisses. "If pushed you over the table myself and took my hand to you? If I made you count and thank me for each strike?"
Not that Jopson hasn't performed perfectly since then — and before then, aside from one incident, born of genuine fraternal love it seems — but the fantasy has clearly had them both in a grip. Crozier watches him just as closely now, eyes on his even as he reaches one hand back to find the vial of almond oil again.
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Crozier could be gale force winds on a stormy sea or the lightest breeze and Jopson would unfold for him as he is now, open and wanting and hungry for it. The wood of the bulkhead stings at his back, sticky still with almond oil, but the sound he grits his teeth on is obscene, the mixture of the pain with the searing press of Crozier's cock against his own, straining.
The image of Crozier's hand on him, of being pushed down over a table and handing his punishment to the captain makes him go boyishly wet in his smallclothes, a small stain starting beneath the dark trouser fabric. He leans forward into every kiss, hands scrambling now to undo his own trousers, to let them fall loose at his hips and down is thighs. And next with the older man's, taking his time to finish the the buttons, the ties, wedging his hands between them - one pulling his trousers down, the other palming over his stomach, back down to his hip.
"I would like to feel you." Feel what he's like in his hand, the weight and heat, if it's anything like he's imagined all this time. He chases the biting kisses, arching prettily against him, licking hot and hungrily into his mouth.
"Please, sir."
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So adept at undressing him. How many times has Crozier stared unfocused past his steward's shoulder, carefully not thinking about anything but business? When did that change from having to convince himself it wasn't simply uncomfortable, something for wealthy English prats who've never done their own work? Maybe it still is, and it's only Thomas Jopson he's able to tolerate it from. His cock is thick with arousal, not fully hard yet but he knows he'll get there in no time with Jopson's fingers around him.
Crozier leans enough to really crowd him, legs tangled and knocking together, as their centers of gravity shift here and there with the ocean's deep breaths, removing both hands now so he can tip oil onto his fingers. He doesn't reach back down to take Jopson's prick in hand, though he wants to. He runs the ridge of his knuckles against it instead, looking down at the outrageous sight of it, the both of them straining, the young man already wet for him. The overheated soft skin feels so good even with just that slim bit of contact.
He palms low on Jopson's belly, just over the root of his cock, spreading oil. Reaches to press their palms together, lacing fingers, spreading it that way, too.
"Show me what you'd like, Thomas. Go on."
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"Sir-"
The barest touch makes everything in him sing to life and yet makes him mad for more, for the brevity of it. The man gives exactly what he intends to. He bites down on his own bottom lip, the sharp stick of teeth enough to cut through the feral, animal thing that wants nothing more than to arch into every bit of Francis' body and beg to be had.
Now would be time for them to rest, to tuck themselves into their berths and wake up in the morning as Captain and Steward, where he will dutifully stand and dress him and prepare tea and bring his meals. Ever at the man's side, and here he is before him in the late hours, strong and handsome in a way that makes his gums ache for the want of him.
The permission helps - the little encouragement - and he tips his head back to rest against the wood of the wall, eyes heavy lidded and focused on Crozier's face, studying it in this moment of power and surrender, in every way he'd imagined the man would look, pressed and close.
"I would like this," he murmurs, gaze not unlike the one he'd had bent over at the table. Not unlike some kind of starving prey animal, desperate and wanting. He moves his free hand, sliding down his own belly first to drum up some of the slick oil, then curls his long fingers around his captain's cock. Slow, almost like something would snatch him away, but only with him in his grip does he thumb over the head with a slick, wet thumb. The other hand - perfectly oiled and twined with Crozier's, squeezes their hands, resists the temptation to tug it somewhere on his body for more more more.
"Is this - to your liking, sir?"
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A touch that's as deft as doing up buttons, stitching split seams, sliding a razor along his throat. His cock throbs in that touch, and Crozier drags his own barely-there touch along the side of Jopson's prick. Pressed together as they are, nothing slips away comically. Perhaps a miracle, or just their physical forms desperate for the contact.
"Yes."
He tips his head up, looks at him. A little breathless. He presses a kiss to his mouth, helpless against making it deeper, squeezing their linked hands as he does it. A gentle, but firm clasp of teeth around his lip before he pulls back.
"Your hands are to my liking. Your touch is to my liking." In a small, delicate contrast to the sweating, pulsing heat between them, he rubs a tiny circle with one thumb against Jopson's. "You held so still and quiet, while it was happening. Thinking about it being me. I know it's for the best, men in our position. But I thinking about hearing you."
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A grin, cheeky, knowing.
"I was hoping you'd be thinking about me, sir," he murmurs, low and warm. The oil makes it easy for him to stroke long fingers from root to tip, following the throbbing vein on the underside of his prick. "I thought about your hand the whole time, what it would feel like instead of the strap. I thought about it that night when you saw to my back - it hurt badly, but under your hand it was a tremendous thing."
He could have whipped him again there, even as a boy, and he'd have blossomed to life under it. Jopson leans into the little kiss, moaning low when the blunt drag of teeth catches his lip. It's well and truly cherry red from kissing, from biting, his mouth a swollen thing he leans in to press against Crozier's once more.
"I won't be so quiet next time, sir," he murmurs, another soft stroke of his fingers, up and down again. "I don't want to be."
i'm gonna kms over my own weird typos
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