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."
His breathing turns rougher as Jopson strokes him. Of course he'd be good at this, even just this. But there's art in touching another man's cock, he's had his own nearly wrenched off enough times by inexpert tumbles. He's not going to be able to watch him knit ever again without thinking about those fingers wrapped around the length of him.
"You bore it as well as you said you would." A smile for his, it's a catching, contagious thing, this delight in each other. "And you were so good for me after. Even when you were mostly asleep."
Letting Crozier coax him into bed, trusting him despite being on the very edge of consciousness. If there'd been room he would have crawled in beside him and petted his hair until he fell asleep as well, perversely proud of his steward. Switching berths for the night had to do, all wrapped up in the smell of him.
"Next time," in between quickly heating kisses, "is to be only you and I. And because you've pretended to spill a teacup or some other damned thing."
Francis releases their tangled fingers so that he can hold Thomas' face, thumb pressing over his jaw, his mouth, feeling him breathe, feeling the tender, heated blush of his lips. He caves to desire finally and flexes his other hand, at last taking Jopson's length in his grip and stroking him, still slick with remnants of oil. Fuck, it feels good. He spares a brief glance down, lets out a breath in a rush. Vulgar, beautiful, but he looks back up again.
"I am to be good for you always, sir. But I will be clumsy sometimes, spill the tea, forget one of the wrinkles on your shirt. I trust you will punish me properly.”
Jopson craves the man’s hand now, desperate for the sting of a sailor’s palm over the curve of his arse, for the low grunts of effort it will take to correct him effectively.
It’s easy to listen to Crozier’s words, a solid promise of what’s to come, but he enjoys the roughening in his breath even more, and twists his hand around the man’s thickening prick in slow, slow circles up and down, pausing at the tip where he presses the pad of his thumb against the man’s slit, massaging. In the same breath he wraps his lips around the man’s thumb, sucking at it lewdly, tongue circling the underside in time with the lazy movements of his own fingers.
Well, until he’s finally touched. He moans low and sudden around the man’s captured thumb, hips bucking shamelessly into the man’s hand, desperate for more.
“Anything you should want, sir, from me. I wish to please you.” And back down over his thumb he goes.
Jopson is so good at all times; so much that even his transgressions are marred with good intentions. Covering for a ship's boy, being a frightened one himself. Does he need to let go, to experience imperfection safely? Or is it just a love of the intensity? Crozier finds it fascinating. It makes him ache, even on top of the way his steward handles him, practiced and eager and just right to get him as hard as can be and tempt short, close pushes of his hips into that grip around him.
Crozier presses his thumb against that velvet tongue, petting him, but he has to withdraw so he can kiss him instead, push in to taste him, deep and hungry.
"I know you will," he husks in between, still working his cock, the rough texture of his palm slick with oil, and Jopson's own leaking passion. "You're a good lad. Such a good boy, Thomas."
It's so warm between them now, like they're tucked together somewhere with a roaring fire and not the coldest place in the known world. Francis kisses him, jerks him, presses into him, and as he needs some time to breath raggedly now and then, slides fingers into his steward's mouth to let him suck them just for the way he looks while he does it.
Stoicism doesn't matter when the Captain's hand is all slick and vulgar, wrapped around him and moving in a way that makes it impossible to hold still. It matters even less when he spills another generous blurt of spend into Crozier's moving hand, the desperate evidence of just how deeply praise gets under his skin.
Good boy, Thomas - is going to haunt his dreams for days and days and days now.
"Sir, you're making it so difficult to think."
No sense in speaking, not when he's offered fingers, not when he sucks them in rhythm with the way his own hand circles around the man's arousal. He wants more than a furious little handy in the back room, but this feels bigger and more profound than anything he's done before. No rough and tumble lay could even stand a chance against this. He moans, a little louder than he should be most likely, around the man's fingers, his hips bucking a little to chase some friction, chase the sensation.
"I want to see you finished, sir," he says as he pops off of the man's fingers, mouth even more red and swollen than before, almost wine colored in the dim light. "When you're ready. Anything. Anywhere."
Another twist of his hand, and a pausing, careful squeeze at the base before he lets go and reaches, palming the man's sac, waiting for the answer. He could say it would be an honor, sir, but he doesn't.
Difficult to think, mm. Crozier whispers roughly against him, that's alright, he doesn't have to think much, just feel like this, Jopson is making him feel wonderful, he hopes his boy feels good, too; wet, filthy moments just touching each other, he even presses a messy kiss to the side of his mouth while his fingers are still being suckled.
God, what an offer. Anything, anywhere. Dangerous, and he touches Jopson's throat to feel the hammer of his pulse, even though he can already feel it in his cock. His own jumps in that hold, makes his breath catch. Doesn't even occur to him to be surprised that Jopson's clearly been with men before. So has he. It's a fucking blessing, isn't it, given the circumstances.
He looks at him.
"On your knees then, lad."
Will he? He shifts his weight, just barely giving him enough room to maneuver down if he decides to obey.
For a moment he imagines Crozier's fingers round his throat, the way they skirt his pulse - it's enough to draw another groan, head falling back against the wood. Jopson's a right sight - mouth and chin wet, chest flushed and heaving, a mess between his thighs and his trousers a tangle on the floor. But anything for his Captain - anything for the hand around his cock and the command in his voice.
"Yes, sir," he pants, skin alight with fire at every whisper pressed into him, the praise is everything on the lilting Irish, and he can't help but chase and hot and filthy kiss, desperate for the taste of him. He slowly sinks to his knees after, leaning in first to nuzzle against the man's belly, just above the root of his cock. He can't resist the temptation to lick a hot, wet stripe across and through the wiry thatch of hair.
Curling his hand back round the hot weight of Crozier's prick, he thumbs at his frenulum in slow circles, while he looks up at the man from his place beneath him. Wide, pale eyes, pupils blown with lust -
"Please? I would very much like to taste you, sir."
Mind-melting to see him sink down, to feel his mouth on the sensitive flesh of his belly, feel that touch to his cock coupled with the look in his steward's eyes, bright and adoring. Yes, sir, like Crozier's the only thing that matters to him. (He doesn't begrudge James the desire to marry. He understands. There's always been an understanding between them. He just can't keep up, he's not going to measure the same, he's failing at it even now—)
The only negative is the loss of Jopson's body against his own, his mouth in easy reach of his own, the feel of his stiff prick in his hand. Missing the hot, cloying proximity after just a moment of absence, he's already pressing fingers to his own mouth to clean the smear of precome from them when Jopson asks to taste him.
A very understandable desire.
He delves fingers into dark hair, gets a grip with his hand spread wide, both firm and affection at once. Guiding him without strict control— for now. Let him set the pace, and then, and then, well, they shall see. With Jopson caged between him and the wall, they're completely cut off from the rest of the ship, the Southern Sea, the bloody world. Reality. Such is the strange magic of fervent intimacy.
"Don't you finish yourself," he warns. "I want to see you."
His other hand comes down to touch his face, stroke fingers over his mouth. Helpfully guiding the blunt head of his cock, feeding him.
Dark lashes flutter as Crozier finds purchase in his hair, the fingers against his scalp, the firm pull of his hair as the weight of his palm sets in. Utterly overwhelming, all of this. He shifts his weight so he's half kneeling on his trousers to offset the cold sting of hard floor beneath. It's not enough to block it out altogether - this is where the Captain wants him, after all, and he's meant to feel all of it.
"Of course, sir," he sighs against the passing fingers, a kitten lick to the pad of one, tasting himself and the almond oil on the man's skin, just as he's offered what he truly wants to taste.
It takes very little suggestion for him to open his mouth around the head of the man's prick and suck, pressing his tongue up against the underside, cradling it in the the warm bed of his tongue before coming back up. Shallow bobs at first, little licks here and there at the tip, making messy wet noises as he hollows his cheeks out and takes him even deeper into his mouth.
He's given many frenzied quick rubs in dark corners or hurried little trysts back home, but this he takes his time with, desperate to impress, to make Crozier feel good. He moans, the loudest yet, though it's muffled by the man's cock in his mouth and the way he swallows up the sound around it.
There will always be ship's boys or dandies back in the pubs, always been hungry men at sea and on shore, but those are built out of necessity. This? He can't help but want to care for him, to see him pleased and more, and that makes all of this feel very, very different.
The heat of his mouth sears him to the core. Takes a steady, deliberate breath, keeps himself from shoving forward. Grappling with an animal thing in himself, a near-painful clash of desires, wanting to protect him, wanting to fuck the back of his throat, wanting to hear him make more prefect sounds, wanting to pull him back up for a kiss. He keeps the strong grip in his hair but doesn't direct him, lets him set the pace of it, watches the impossibly erotic sight of his cock sliding into his mouth as the feel of it sends lightning through him.
Briefly, he hears himself—
Internally. (Externally, low, indulgent sounds.) A series of cold-toned accusations. That this is the sort of thing punishable by execution. That he is abusing his rank in the most foul way. He has had this young man beaten, and he still bears the lurid bruises, and here he is gaining more on his knees for his captain's base pleasure.
He'd go to hell for sure, if hell were real.
Crozier rubs against the side of Jopson's face, a tender thing in contrast to the unavoidable filth of having his cock sucked. He runs blunt fingernails over the fur of his sideburn. Until he has to draw that hand away and brace it on the edge of the cupboard beside them, steadying himself. The sea is not churning badly, but he feels as though it might as well be, some storm brewing in him.
"Doing so well," he tells them, a rough, breathless rasp.
If Thomas could bottle the sounds Crozier makes and save them for a later time he would. Heat surges down his spine with every one of them, which only serves to increase the way he moves and takes the man deeper into his mouth. The hand resting in his hair serves only as a tease, a curious thing he wants to buck against, tempt the man into doing more with what he's taken. Every touch - cheek, to sideburn, and beyond - coaxes with it low, throaty hums.
He's impossibly hard, too - painful, actually, since he can't touch himself. He wouldn't dare after Crozier's order anyway, but he hooks a free hand at the back of the man's thigh, stabilizing himself, pressing nails into the skin there.
An obedient steward, he rarely pushes back in matters he does not have his hand in, that he does not have a right to influence. But he isn't just a steward here, is he, with the captain's prick in his mouth? So unable to help the rebellious burn in his belly, he pulls off of the man and against the tug of fingers in his hair, mouth red and wet. Looking up at Crozier from beneath dark lashes, he huffs.
"Thank you, Captain," murmured low, voice a feral, graveled slurry of sound. He sits back on his heels a little, more pressure beneath the man's hand that draws a pleasant little grunt. But he isn't away long, and makes a lewd display of slurping the man's prick back into his mouth and as deep as he can take him.
Francis isn't a young man anymore — not yet old, not in the way Jamie likes to play at him being (a scant four years difference, but he's been 'my old man' since they were midships) — and expects this to take a minute longer than is going to be comfortable for his steward's knees. Not that he'd let him up sooner anyway, with how he's acting, like he won't make it 'til the morning without being manhandled somehow. Still. He could nearly laugh at himself when he realizes how on edge he is. What is it? Quality of the work at hand, or the feeling of being wanted so badly?
Jopson leans back, and he gets the idea. That deep voice that Crozier wants to make deeper, rough from the exertion. He guides him just a little once he's back inside, lets him work out if he's going to choke or not, and then starts to hold him there. Only a heartbeat, dragging him down, letting him ease off. A steady transition into giving him what he's been asking for, what Crozier wants anyway. For a moment they're in some other world where this is a part of a steward's duties, and Jopson is performing it with the same steadfast devotion as laundry.
"Do you want to take it all?" A pause, holding him almost all the way off of his cock with a harsh grip in his hair. So near to being over the edge.
His jaw aches, protests against all the work that's been done between the kisses, fingers, and the thick heat of Crozier's prick. He would gladly stay on his knees until they bled, let him have his way with his mouth and anything else he should like if that's what he ordered. Anything and everything - honest and earnestly promised to his Captain, his Commander. The man who sees him above all else, who always manages to find the man beneath the title of steward.
That's more special than anything the Royal Navy could offer him in return for setting sail on Terror.
Pulled on and off, the noises that tumble out of him are uncontrolled, desperate things. Low, low rumbles, a hitched moan, and wet suction as he wraps his lips around the head of the man, laving his tongue over it pleased to find the faintest hints of his passion there, waiting. He stares up at Crozier, eyes a little watery but wide and fiery all the same.
"I need to take it all," he says, straining against Crozier's hand so he can speak. He'll adjust - and even if he doesn't it will be temporary, but deserved. "I'm ready, sir. Please."
Another kitten lick at his slit, watching the man's cock ache and twitch.
If he wasn't about to spend all over his steward's face, he thinks he could do this forever. Feed him his cock over and over, indulge in that clever, hungry mouth, listen to the low sounds of desperate need. Caught like this on his knees, all flushed red and wanting. He can only imagine how badly Thomas aches himself; he can't quite see, but he wonders if his cock is leaking, dripping on the deckboards and his own tangled trousers.
Please rings around in his head, to a hot spike downward, like too much whiskey.
"Such a good boy," sounds rougher than he expects it to.
A testament to how powerfully the encounter has riled him up, he knows he won't need any quick jerks from his hand to finish, the tension in him so wound, nerves jumping up to meet every tiny stimulation. He pushes back into Jopson's mouth and holds him there, staring down, watching it. Not interested in letting himself slip away somewhere and forget just whose mouth he's fucking into. It being this young man, his steward, who he should be ashamed of exploiting, but who is so dedicated to pleasing him, sets some previously untouched thing inside of him aflame. You should be ashamed of yourself colliding with It's familiar and I understand him, for his own loyalty to a man who outranks him. Not the same, and yet, there's latticework that connects it all, their world out here away form land and normal society, where bonds are made of something else entirely. Everything must be desperate, always a brutal honest hidden in one crack or the other.
It feels unbelievable. It feels like being spun glass on the edge of shattering. And then he does, hitting his climax and spilling into his steward's mouth in tense, hot pulses that shock him. Little sound from him, so well-practiced at keeping quiet on a ship or in a room where visitors aren't permitted in polite society, but the staggered, half-choked sound of his breath is loud in the small cabin.
Thomas' eyes water at the edges as Crozier fucks into his mouth but he takes it, willing his jaw to drop farther, his throat to open, to take anything and everything the man has seen fit to give him. To be called a good boy by his Captain makes him impossibly messy, cock weeping in little pulses with how badly he, too, needs release. But he was told not to finish - told to wait and with every muscle he can rally, he plans on following his orders.
The hand hooked at the back of Crozier's knee slides up, up, up, gripping the bare globe of his ass, kneading it as he's held down on the man's dick as he comes. Too many things to focus on to prevent the groans and whimpers of someone in utter paradise for the way the man's hot seed scalds at his throat, the back of his tongue. He breathes heartily through his nose as the man comes, tense and choked as he is. Only when he's sure the man's spilled all he has, he bobs his head back down then pops off of him, head tilted back, eyes closed blissfully as he swallows, a perfect view for the man above him to watch his adam's apple work in his throat.
"Thank you, Captain," said with a voice gone a little hoarse, a little breathless. His own dick hurts so bad and his knees have gone numb and he could die a happy man like this, tasting the sweat and spend of the one he adores so much he would stay like this for hours if he commanded it. He licks his lips, absently pushes his hair out of his face before reaching for Crozier's hand, linking their fingers.
"I would like to kiss you, sir," he murmurs, looking up at him with wide, blue eyes. He must look a mess - face flushed and brow sticky, lips plump and swollen from being so over worked. "Please, may I?"
He wants to be touched, really, or fucked, or anything that he man might see fit as a way for him to finish. He's already making a mess on the floor boards and in the fabric of his trousers as it is - something he'll have to deal with after all of this is said and done. But he only wants what the Captain will give him - and so he does as any good boy should - exactly as he's told. Nothing more, nothing less.
He sees sun dogs; patches of light that can't be contained even when crushed from all sides. The relief of it leaves him dazzled, hyper-sensitive, and his thoughts are out on low tide for a moment before they finally come back to shore, lured by Jopson's voice.
Their hands are linked. He squeezes his steward's hand, fierce and affectionate. Hazy still in an afterglow but returning to himself, and the desire (as profound as arousal, sometimes) to be a reciprocal lover. Suddenly he is impossibly hungry for Thomas to reach the same end, and to like it just as much. He wants to kiss him and— yes, brilliant.
"Come to me." Probably a mad scramble. Francis tucks his other hand under Thomas' bicep to help haul him to his feet, still mindful of the bruises on his back. (A thousand things to remember on a ship, he can remember that one, and rank it high enough to never lose sight.) Once he's up, he catches him in a kiss. He tastes himself, he tastes the boy, desire and sweat and remnants of tea and something only him.
They are one, collective, ridiculous mess. He steps back (really, just turns, there's no room) to sit on the bed, and holds Jopson there, standing, with hands on his hipbones. A lean, skimming one hand down to help him out of the puddle of his trousers (his own are caught below his middle, neither on nor lost), and with one foot free he can coax him to straddle his lap. His cock is beautiful, ruddy and straining, and he has to look at it. Has to feel it again, in his hand, and pressed against his middle.
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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."
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"You bore it as well as you said you would." A smile for his, it's a catching, contagious thing, this delight in each other. "And you were so good for me after. Even when you were mostly asleep."
Letting Crozier coax him into bed, trusting him despite being on the very edge of consciousness. If there'd been room he would have crawled in beside him and petted his hair until he fell asleep as well, perversely proud of his steward. Switching berths for the night had to do, all wrapped up in the smell of him.
"Next time," in between quickly heating kisses, "is to be only you and I. And because you've pretended to spill a teacup or some other damned thing."
Francis releases their tangled fingers so that he can hold Thomas' face, thumb pressing over his jaw, his mouth, feeling him breathe, feeling the tender, heated blush of his lips. He caves to desire finally and flexes his other hand, at last taking Jopson's length in his grip and stroking him, still slick with remnants of oil. Fuck, it feels good. He spares a brief glance down, lets out a breath in a rush. Vulgar, beautiful, but he looks back up again.
"No one else needs to hear you. Just me."
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Jopson craves the man’s hand now, desperate for the sting of a sailor’s palm over the curve of his arse, for the low grunts of effort it will take to correct him effectively.
It’s easy to listen to Crozier’s words, a solid promise of what’s to come, but he enjoys the roughening in his breath even more, and twists his hand around the man’s thickening prick in slow, slow circles up and down, pausing at the tip where he presses the pad of his thumb against the man’s slit, massaging. In the same breath he wraps his lips around the man’s thumb, sucking at it lewdly, tongue circling the underside in time with the lazy movements of his own fingers.
Well, until he’s finally touched. He moans low and sudden around the man’s captured thumb, hips bucking shamelessly into the man’s hand, desperate for more.
“Anything you should want, sir, from me. I wish to please you.” And back down over his thumb he goes.
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Crozier presses his thumb against that velvet tongue, petting him, but he has to withdraw so he can kiss him instead, push in to taste him, deep and hungry.
"I know you will," he husks in between, still working his cock, the rough texture of his palm slick with oil, and Jopson's own leaking passion. "You're a good lad. Such a good boy, Thomas."
It's so warm between them now, like they're tucked together somewhere with a roaring fire and not the coldest place in the known world. Francis kisses him, jerks him, presses into him, and as he needs some time to breath raggedly now and then, slides fingers into his steward's mouth to let him suck them just for the way he looks while he does it.
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Good boy, Thomas - is going to haunt his dreams for days and days and days now.
"Sir, you're making it so difficult to think."
No sense in speaking, not when he's offered fingers, not when he sucks them in rhythm with the way his own hand circles around the man's arousal. He wants more than a furious little handy in the back room, but this feels bigger and more profound than anything he's done before. No rough and tumble lay could even stand a chance against this. He moans, a little louder than he should be most likely, around the man's fingers, his hips bucking a little to chase some friction, chase the sensation.
"I want to see you finished, sir," he says as he pops off of the man's fingers, mouth even more red and swollen than before, almost wine colored in the dim light. "When you're ready. Anything. Anywhere."
Another twist of his hand, and a pausing, careful squeeze at the base before he lets go and reaches, palming the man's sac, waiting for the answer. He could say it would be an honor, sir, but he doesn't.
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God, what an offer. Anything, anywhere. Dangerous, and he touches Jopson's throat to feel the hammer of his pulse, even though he can already feel it in his cock. His own jumps in that hold, makes his breath catch. Doesn't even occur to him to be surprised that Jopson's clearly been with men before. So has he. It's a fucking blessing, isn't it, given the circumstances.
He looks at him.
"On your knees then, lad."
Will he? He shifts his weight, just barely giving him enough room to maneuver down if he decides to obey.
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"Yes, sir," he pants, skin alight with fire at every whisper pressed into him, the praise is everything on the lilting Irish, and he can't help but chase and hot and filthy kiss, desperate for the taste of him. He slowly sinks to his knees after, leaning in first to nuzzle against the man's belly, just above the root of his cock. He can't resist the temptation to lick a hot, wet stripe across and through the wiry thatch of hair.
Curling his hand back round the hot weight of Crozier's prick, he thumbs at his frenulum in slow circles, while he looks up at the man from his place beneath him. Wide, pale eyes, pupils blown with lust -
"Please? I would very much like to taste you, sir."
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The only negative is the loss of Jopson's body against his own, his mouth in easy reach of his own, the feel of his stiff prick in his hand. Missing the hot, cloying proximity after just a moment of absence, he's already pressing fingers to his own mouth to clean the smear of precome from them when Jopson asks to taste him.
A very understandable desire.
He delves fingers into dark hair, gets a grip with his hand spread wide, both firm and affection at once. Guiding him without strict control— for now. Let him set the pace, and then, and then, well, they shall see. With Jopson caged between him and the wall, they're completely cut off from the rest of the ship, the Southern Sea, the bloody world. Reality. Such is the strange magic of fervent intimacy.
"Don't you finish yourself," he warns. "I want to see you."
His other hand comes down to touch his face, stroke fingers over his mouth. Helpfully guiding the blunt head of his cock, feeding him.
"You may. Go on."
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"Of course, sir," he sighs against the passing fingers, a kitten lick to the pad of one, tasting himself and the almond oil on the man's skin, just as he's offered what he truly wants to taste.
It takes very little suggestion for him to open his mouth around the head of the man's prick and suck, pressing his tongue up against the underside, cradling it in the the warm bed of his tongue before coming back up. Shallow bobs at first, little licks here and there at the tip, making messy wet noises as he hollows his cheeks out and takes him even deeper into his mouth.
He's given many frenzied quick rubs in dark corners or hurried little trysts back home, but this he takes his time with, desperate to impress, to make Crozier feel good. He moans, the loudest yet, though it's muffled by the man's cock in his mouth and the way he swallows up the sound around it.
There will always be ship's boys or dandies back in the pubs, always been hungry men at sea and on shore, but those are built out of necessity. This? He can't help but want to care for him, to see him pleased and more, and that makes all of this feel very, very different.
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Briefly, he hears himself—
Internally. (Externally, low, indulgent sounds.) A series of cold-toned accusations. That this is the sort of thing punishable by execution. That he is abusing his rank in the most foul way. He has had this young man beaten, and he still bears the lurid bruises, and here he is gaining more on his knees for his captain's base pleasure.
He'd go to hell for sure, if hell were real.
Crozier rubs against the side of Jopson's face, a tender thing in contrast to the unavoidable filth of having his cock sucked. He runs blunt fingernails over the fur of his sideburn. Until he has to draw that hand away and brace it on the edge of the cupboard beside them, steadying himself. The sea is not churning badly, but he feels as though it might as well be, some storm brewing in him.
"Doing so well," he tells them, a rough, breathless rasp.
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He's impossibly hard, too - painful, actually, since he can't touch himself. He wouldn't dare after Crozier's order anyway, but he hooks a free hand at the back of the man's thigh, stabilizing himself, pressing nails into the skin there.
An obedient steward, he rarely pushes back in matters he does not have his hand in, that he does not have a right to influence. But he isn't just a steward here, is he, with the captain's prick in his mouth? So unable to help the rebellious burn in his belly, he pulls off of the man and against the tug of fingers in his hair, mouth red and wet. Looking up at Crozier from beneath dark lashes, he huffs.
"Thank you, Captain," murmured low, voice a feral, graveled slurry of sound. He sits back on his heels a little, more pressure beneath the man's hand that draws a pleasant little grunt. But he isn't away long, and makes a lewd display of slurping the man's prick back into his mouth and as deep as he can take him.
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Francis isn't a young man anymore — not yet old, not in the way Jamie likes to play at him being (a scant four years difference, but he's been 'my old man' since they were midships) — and expects this to take a minute longer than is going to be comfortable for his steward's knees. Not that he'd let him up sooner anyway, with how he's acting, like he won't make it 'til the morning without being manhandled somehow. Still. He could nearly laugh at himself when he realizes how on edge he is. What is it? Quality of the work at hand, or the feeling of being wanted so badly?
Jopson leans back, and he gets the idea. That deep voice that Crozier wants to make deeper, rough from the exertion. He guides him just a little once he's back inside, lets him work out if he's going to choke or not, and then starts to hold him there. Only a heartbeat, dragging him down, letting him ease off. A steady transition into giving him what he's been asking for, what Crozier wants anyway. For a moment they're in some other world where this is a part of a steward's duties, and Jopson is performing it with the same steadfast devotion as laundry.
"Do you want to take it all?" A pause, holding him almost all the way off of his cock with a harsh grip in his hair. So near to being over the edge.
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That's more special than anything the Royal Navy could offer him in return for setting sail on Terror.
Pulled on and off, the noises that tumble out of him are uncontrolled, desperate things. Low, low rumbles, a hitched moan, and wet suction as he wraps his lips around the head of the man, laving his tongue over it pleased to find the faintest hints of his passion there, waiting. He stares up at Crozier, eyes a little watery but wide and fiery all the same.
"I need to take it all," he says, straining against Crozier's hand so he can speak. He'll adjust - and even if he doesn't it will be temporary, but deserved. "I'm ready, sir. Please."
Another kitten lick at his slit, watching the man's cock ache and twitch.
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Please rings around in his head, to a hot spike downward, like too much whiskey.
"Such a good boy," sounds rougher than he expects it to.
A testament to how powerfully the encounter has riled him up, he knows he won't need any quick jerks from his hand to finish, the tension in him so wound, nerves jumping up to meet every tiny stimulation. He pushes back into Jopson's mouth and holds him there, staring down, watching it. Not interested in letting himself slip away somewhere and forget just whose mouth he's fucking into. It being this young man, his steward, who he should be ashamed of exploiting, but who is so dedicated to pleasing him, sets some previously untouched thing inside of him aflame. You should be ashamed of yourself colliding with It's familiar and I understand him, for his own loyalty to a man who outranks him. Not the same, and yet, there's latticework that connects it all, their world out here away form land and normal society, where bonds are made of something else entirely. Everything must be desperate, always a brutal honest hidden in one crack or the other.
It feels unbelievable. It feels like being spun glass on the edge of shattering. And then he does, hitting his climax and spilling into his steward's mouth in tense, hot pulses that shock him. Little sound from him, so well-practiced at keeping quiet on a ship or in a room where visitors aren't permitted in polite society, but the staggered, half-choked sound of his breath is loud in the small cabin.
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The hand hooked at the back of Crozier's knee slides up, up, up, gripping the bare globe of his ass, kneading it as he's held down on the man's dick as he comes. Too many things to focus on to prevent the groans and whimpers of someone in utter paradise for the way the man's hot seed scalds at his throat, the back of his tongue. He breathes heartily through his nose as the man comes, tense and choked as he is. Only when he's sure the man's spilled all he has, he bobs his head back down then pops off of him, head tilted back, eyes closed blissfully as he swallows, a perfect view for the man above him to watch his adam's apple work in his throat.
"Thank you, Captain," said with a voice gone a little hoarse, a little breathless. His own dick hurts so bad and his knees have gone numb and he could die a happy man like this, tasting the sweat and spend of the one he adores so much he would stay like this for hours if he commanded it. He licks his lips, absently pushes his hair out of his face before reaching for Crozier's hand, linking their fingers.
"I would like to kiss you, sir," he murmurs, looking up at him with wide, blue eyes. He must look a mess - face flushed and brow sticky, lips plump and swollen from being so over worked. "Please, may I?"
He wants to be touched, really, or fucked, or anything that he man might see fit as a way for him to finish. He's already making a mess on the floor boards and in the fabric of his trousers as it is - something he'll have to deal with after all of this is said and done. But he only wants what the Captain will give him - and so he does as any good boy should - exactly as he's told. Nothing more, nothing less.
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Their hands are linked. He squeezes his steward's hand, fierce and affectionate. Hazy still in an afterglow but returning to himself, and the desire (as profound as arousal, sometimes) to be a reciprocal lover. Suddenly he is impossibly hungry for Thomas to reach the same end, and to like it just as much. He wants to kiss him and— yes, brilliant.
"Come to me." Probably a mad scramble. Francis tucks his other hand under Thomas' bicep to help haul him to his feet, still mindful of the bruises on his back. (A thousand things to remember on a ship, he can remember that one, and rank it high enough to never lose sight.) Once he's up, he catches him in a kiss. He tastes himself, he tastes the boy, desire and sweat and remnants of tea and something only him.
They are one, collective, ridiculous mess. He steps back (really, just turns, there's no room) to sit on the bed, and holds Jopson there, standing, with hands on his hipbones. A lean, skimming one hand down to help him out of the puddle of his trousers (his own are caught below his middle, neither on nor lost), and with one foot free he can coax him to straddle his lap. His cock is beautiful, ruddy and straining, and he has to look at it. Has to feel it again, in his hand, and pressed against his middle.
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