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.
Impossible to think he could feel any more desire than he does now, pulled up by his captain, an order everything he could possibly want. The kiss makes the heat pooling low in his belly difficult to deny and he whines against his mouth, chasing the taste of the man's mouth in as much as he'd chased his prick moments ago.
The hands skimming his hips make for a needy shiver along his spine, provokes his skin to gooseflesh, coaxes out a sigh that is both relieved and frustrated all in one. Happy to be touched, cursed to fight the painful, weeping thing of his erection. He's in good hands, though, no doubt, and he steps out of his trousers only to seat himself in the man's lap, strong thighs bracketing the man's hips, bringing him as flush as he possibly can.
Though the desire to be touched, to come, is strong it doesn't stop the cheeky part of him that settles his bare ass against the slick line of Crozier's prick. He can't think of the possibilities and pushes them far out of his mind, else he lose control altogether. (What would it feel like, being filled by the Captain? Sitting here speared on him and warming him in a way the coal pan in his bed cannot?)
He surges forward to kiss the man without permission, uncaring as his arms wrap around his neck like some delicate lover, but he whines against his mouth again as his cock presses up against Crozier's stomach, trapped between them, messy and yearning.
"Captain," he groans, thighs flexing, hips shifting to both rub down against the man's crotch and to grind his own aching desire against his skin.
Wanton like he's rarely (never?) seen in a paramour, it almost shocks him coming from his so mild-mannered and composed steward. Staggering to think of how tightly-leashed he must keep himself to be holding onto all this intensity, this passion. Francis holds him by his hips still, the flex in his arms indicative of wanting to grab around him and pull, hold, clutch him close, but as much as he desires, he feels so fiercely about minding his injuries. Especially when he's giving him so many dotted new aches and pains in his jaw and in his knees.
Heated, claiming kisses, he chases that title in Jopson's mouth (what a time to say You can call me Francis here, but his mind is still set to boil, and there's clearly something going on with the leverage for them both anyway), the sounds he makes, welcomes it, catches all his frantic rutting, holds him as close as he can.
"Look at you." Dizzying how handsome he is like this. "How perfect you are."
Unfettered, wanting, right here in his lap. A perfect moment, even though he imagines his steward would like the moment to continue, judging by how hard he is. His own cock is on its way to softness, but still sensitive enough to enjoy-hate-both the stimulation when it happens; almost enough to make him wish he hadn't finished moments ago, to think about pouring more almond oil out, pressing fingers inside of him just enough, and then—
It's one thing, this, but it's a punishment nearly as brutal as lashing to ask a man to clean himself after earnest coupling in an environment like this. Francis has made mistakes of this nature before, and very well knows better. Still, something in him that should be well and truly spent clenches greedily at the thought. Another time, perhaps.
Crozier leans back so he can fumble the most pleasing leverage out of it, which is: one hand grips his arse, a firm globe, squeezing it with fingertips threatening the softest part of him. The other drags blunt fingernails over the arc of his hip to slide rough-textured digits around his cock, groaning at the feel of him, dripping wet and burning hot.
"I do try," he murmurs, strain in his voice as he desperately tightens every muscle in his body, fingernails digging angrily into the backs of Crozier's shoulders. He doesn't mean to, but it takes everything in him to obey, not unlike the way he'd mustered silence during his lashings. Determination and grit were never any problems of his. Not here, not with this man. "For you, sir."
But the immaculate hand round his cock almost does him in - makes him moan a little overloud, makes him jump and lean and press open-mouthed kisses against his skin that land somewhere around Francis' mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his temple.
"Please let me," he finally whimpers, hips bucking once, back into the hand at his arse and so close to things that make his mind spin with fire, then into the hand round his prick. "I don't know if - I want to be -"
Words mean nothing now, a desperate ramble of sound, plying kisses, little gasps and grunts as he tries to sate the fiery, pressurized thing in his belly full to bursting. He could be full elsewhere - a stray curiosity in his mind and it's enough to make Crozier's hand all the more slick with a generous blurt of precome. He can't imagine what he looks like, wrapped up in Crozier's arms, thighs spread over his lap, hair untamed and in his face, cheeks and cock flushed so red he'd surely not recognize himself.
Whether he's given the permission or not, it doesn't take much more before he falls apart, coming hard and fast, spilling hot and thick over the man's hand, his stomach. his whole body tenses, shudders, and he's sure he's drawn blood at the man's back.
A real blessing, that his quarters are so tucked away. As quiet and private as it gets on a ship, but even so, they're leaning on the grace of the of the ocean, the wind, the movement of the vessel, the resonating sound of every footstep and word and scrape throughout her. A soft din into which Jopson's cries are collected, and smoothed over.
For now. If he gets much louder, Crozier will have to shove fingers in his mouth for reasons beyond erotic ones. All the same, he enjoys hearing it. Too much. Now he knows, at least, and he can shush him preemptively next time, while he tucks the memory of his desperate voice away to be savored forever. For you he says, and then it's nonsense, but Crozier is telling him it's alright, yes, yes, go on sweet boy, get it all over me—
Crozier strokes him, gasps into his mouth when he feels his climax spill over and the bite of nails into his back (his cock twitches, more painful than the tiny cut, but good too). It's a mess but it's beautiful. He looks at it, obscene, and he looks at Thomas' face, and he pets him as best he can and presses kisses to his mouth, his jaw, his cheekbone under his eye. Slowly touching him, wringing everything from him, like all of his euphoria belongs right here between them, marking them both.
If they slump over, Crozier will make sure his steward lands atop him.
The validation does everything to sooth the panic and desperation that comes after the climax, the way he seeks this man's approval before even allowing himself to settle into his own molten pleasure. He's made such a mess between them but Crozier kisses him and the mess goes away.
He's still trying to catch his breath with every kiss, every touch, still clinging to the man like he's a life raft set onto stormy waters. The world turns hazy before too long, his body and limbs heavy, his mind both here and not. He sighs, drops his head into Crozier's neck, nuzzling sweetly. He has no control over his body weight now, so when they do slump back he buries his face against the man's chest, hands feeling numbly for any purchase, and instead just tucking up against his sides.
"Thank you," he says quietly, the fatigue more present in his voice than it has been all night. He doesn't feel coherent enough to say anything else just now as he nuzzles the bare skin of the man's chest, warm and pleasant, the heart thumping against his cheek. Anything to get closer to the man, to feel him in all places and in all ways at once - maybe too greedy considering he's not moved and he feels much like a sandbag with little to no control over his body, his limbs. Just loose and heavy.
"I'll move in a moment," another mumble, his eyes fluttering shut as his breathing evens out, as his movements become a little less grabby and needy and far more soft at the edges. He can't even bring himself to say sir or Captain, but it doesn't matter right now, here here.
A blanket shaped like a fit young man. There's nothing regular about his configuration, squashed into the space, air already cooling. Crozier can't even pull a blanket up over them, so he hopes Jopson is comfortable for now. He will be plenty warmed, squashed under him as he is. A gentle mirror of posture before, one hand cradles his steward's skull, another rests near his behind, holding him close.
Seeing stars just a bit, still. Pleasant. He takes deep, slow breaths, and pets the dark, soft hair under his hand. The sticky spill between them is its own kind of pleasant as well, appealing to a part of him that isn't fit for polite society. No one can judge him within his own mind, fortunately.
"Would that I could keep you here 'til first bells," he murmurs. "In some overstuffed feather bed with a chandelier above it, like a pirate."
He's got jokes. Pirates also have the same cramped berths, or worse than that on their smaller ships a century ago, but a persistent fantasy is of the captain's berth inhabiting the whole of the great cabin.
Anyway. His mind, tired and sated, attempts to sketch a picture of Jopson as some horrible rogue sailor's prize. It is a little funny, but he finds he likes this better. It's real, and theirs.
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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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The hands skimming his hips make for a needy shiver along his spine, provokes his skin to gooseflesh, coaxes out a sigh that is both relieved and frustrated all in one. Happy to be touched, cursed to fight the painful, weeping thing of his erection. He's in good hands, though, no doubt, and he steps out of his trousers only to seat himself in the man's lap, strong thighs bracketing the man's hips, bringing him as flush as he possibly can.
Though the desire to be touched, to come, is strong it doesn't stop the cheeky part of him that settles his bare ass against the slick line of Crozier's prick. He can't think of the possibilities and pushes them far out of his mind, else he lose control altogether. (What would it feel like, being filled by the Captain? Sitting here speared on him and warming him in a way the coal pan in his bed cannot?)
He surges forward to kiss the man without permission, uncaring as his arms wrap around his neck like some delicate lover, but he whines against his mouth again as his cock presses up against Crozier's stomach, trapped between them, messy and yearning.
"Captain," he groans, thighs flexing, hips shifting to both rub down against the man's crotch and to grind his own aching desire against his skin.
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Heated, claiming kisses, he chases that title in Jopson's mouth (what a time to say You can call me Francis here, but his mind is still set to boil, and there's clearly something going on with the leverage for them both anyway), the sounds he makes, welcomes it, catches all his frantic rutting, holds him as close as he can.
"Look at you." Dizzying how handsome he is like this. "How perfect you are."
Unfettered, wanting, right here in his lap. A perfect moment, even though he imagines his steward would like the moment to continue, judging by how hard he is. His own cock is on its way to softness, but still sensitive enough to enjoy-hate-both the stimulation when it happens; almost enough to make him wish he hadn't finished moments ago, to think about pouring more almond oil out, pressing fingers inside of him just enough, and then—
It's one thing, this, but it's a punishment nearly as brutal as lashing to ask a man to clean himself after earnest coupling in an environment like this. Francis has made mistakes of this nature before, and very well knows better. Still, something in him that should be well and truly spent clenches greedily at the thought. Another time, perhaps.
Crozier leans back so he can fumble the most pleasing leverage out of it, which is: one hand grips his arse, a firm globe, squeezing it with fingertips threatening the softest part of him. The other drags blunt fingernails over the arc of his hip to slide rough-textured digits around his cock, groaning at the feel of him, dripping wet and burning hot.
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But the immaculate hand round his cock almost does him in - makes him moan a little overloud, makes him jump and lean and press open-mouthed kisses against his skin that land somewhere around Francis' mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his temple.
"Please let me," he finally whimpers, hips bucking once, back into the hand at his arse and so close to things that make his mind spin with fire, then into the hand round his prick. "I don't know if - I want to be -"
Words mean nothing now, a desperate ramble of sound, plying kisses, little gasps and grunts as he tries to sate the fiery, pressurized thing in his belly full to bursting. He could be full elsewhere - a stray curiosity in his mind and it's enough to make Crozier's hand all the more slick with a generous blurt of precome. He can't imagine what he looks like, wrapped up in Crozier's arms, thighs spread over his lap, hair untamed and in his face, cheeks and cock flushed so red he'd surely not recognize himself.
Whether he's given the permission or not, it doesn't take much more before he falls apart, coming hard and fast, spilling hot and thick over the man's hand, his stomach. his whole body tenses, shudders, and he's sure he's drawn blood at the man's back.
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For now. If he gets much louder, Crozier will have to shove fingers in his mouth for reasons beyond erotic ones. All the same, he enjoys hearing it. Too much. Now he knows, at least, and he can shush him preemptively next time, while he tucks the memory of his desperate voice away to be savored forever. For you he says, and then it's nonsense, but Crozier is telling him it's alright, yes, yes, go on sweet boy, get it all over me—
Crozier strokes him, gasps into his mouth when he feels his climax spill over and the bite of nails into his back (his cock twitches, more painful than the tiny cut, but good too). It's a mess but it's beautiful. He looks at it, obscene, and he looks at Thomas' face, and he pets him as best he can and presses kisses to his mouth, his jaw, his cheekbone under his eye. Slowly touching him, wringing everything from him, like all of his euphoria belongs right here between them, marking them both.
If they slump over, Crozier will make sure his steward lands atop him.
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He's still trying to catch his breath with every kiss, every touch, still clinging to the man like he's a life raft set onto stormy waters. The world turns hazy before too long, his body and limbs heavy, his mind both here and not. He sighs, drops his head into Crozier's neck, nuzzling sweetly. He has no control over his body weight now, so when they do slump back he buries his face against the man's chest, hands feeling numbly for any purchase, and instead just tucking up against his sides.
"Thank you," he says quietly, the fatigue more present in his voice than it has been all night. He doesn't feel coherent enough to say anything else just now as he nuzzles the bare skin of the man's chest, warm and pleasant, the heart thumping against his cheek. Anything to get closer to the man, to feel him in all places and in all ways at once - maybe too greedy considering he's not moved and he feels much like a sandbag with little to no control over his body, his limbs. Just loose and heavy.
"I'll move in a moment," another mumble, his eyes fluttering shut as his breathing evens out, as his movements become a little less grabby and needy and far more soft at the edges. He can't even bring himself to say sir or Captain, but it doesn't matter right now, here here.
"Just another minute."
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Seeing stars just a bit, still. Pleasant. He takes deep, slow breaths, and pets the dark, soft hair under his hand. The sticky spill between them is its own kind of pleasant as well, appealing to a part of him that isn't fit for polite society. No one can judge him within his own mind, fortunately.
"Would that I could keep you here 'til first bells," he murmurs. "In some overstuffed feather bed with a chandelier above it, like a pirate."
He's got jokes. Pirates also have the same cramped berths, or worse than that on their smaller ships a century ago, but a persistent fantasy is of the captain's berth inhabiting the whole of the great cabin.
Anyway. His mind, tired and sated, attempts to sketch a picture of Jopson as some horrible rogue sailor's prize. It is a little funny, but he finds he likes this better. It's real, and theirs.
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