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.
A soft snort against Crozier's skin that morphs into a soft bout of laughter, a turn of his head to kiss just along his sternum. The idea of leaving makes something squeeze in his chest and it's foolish - he knows best how these sort of affairs work, but equally there is an entire ship with eyes only half turned toward the great cabin at all times. Crozier is the Captain, after all.
"A feather bed and chandelier... you would make a very generous pirate then, sir."
But it's a nice thought, a little funny, that he should be some grand prize. Hardly. The air begins to cool around them but his blood runs hot enough still to keep for a little while longer. That, and Crozier is warm in a way that he could burrow against him and find comfort for a while yet. The bitter cold will never do him in so long as this man keeps him in company.
He closes his eyes, sitting in silence with the man, listening to his heart beat. It feels like a thousand years have passed when he finally tips his head up, shifts in his place with aching thighs, just enough to kiss the man. It's slow, languid, yearning to hold onto the moment for just a little while longer. Easy to feel like he's floating, like the rock of the ship and the turn of the sky couldn't touch them here. So it's just soft, deep kisses for a moment, until he finally sighs against the man's mouth.
"A pirate that needs cleaning up," a resignation, a reluctant acknowledgement of the outside world. But still their moment - still something that can be intimate and delicate and theirs.
Eminently enjoyable to lay with someone after, to hold and be held. Not a luxury often afforded at sea, even at this rank, even with these quarters. He knows it's womanly of him to like it so, but he's never been troubled by such implications— especially not when his lover seems to like it just as much. And maybe Jopson does, at least a little, with the way he kisses his chest and stays where he is until they can't stay any longer.
Crozier takes his face in his hands for the kiss, returning it with just as much affection. He thumbs over Thomas' nose, a teasing little thing, rubs his cheek. Still somewhat kiss-bruised and hair all askew, his steward is, and it's painfully attractive. Just as much as how rigorously neat he keeps himself day to day.
A grunt that sounds like a laugh. Yes, yes, alright. He drops a kiss on the younger man's forehead, then he gets an elbow under himself, and so begins the awkward, fumbling process of getting two nude men up out of one wedged berth without agitating Thomas' back too much. No helping the way the water in the basin is stinging cold by now, but at least they're both suffering through the use of it and can have an exasperated laugh about it all. Francis remains affectionate through it, looking after him, leaving a hand on his side or his elbow as they go about cleaning off and collecting their garments.
Time feels as though it stills while they fumble around the berth, climbing from the man's lap and helping him clean up. The water's cold, something that he tries to subvert when it comes time for him to assist the captain in washing up, keeping the cloth pressed between his palms to eat up some of the chill before he wipes him down.
Wild to think that the mess he cleans is his own, spread and smeared on their skin. But thinking too long will get his blood going hot again just as he's beginning to feel it fade away from a simmer. He swipes his trousers up from the floor, stepping into them with reddened knees, fumbles for the shirtsleeves even if it makes him wince as the fabric grazes down his back.
"Let me get your night shirt, sir," he murmurs, gently prying the man's hand from his side and turning to fetch the thing. He returns quickly and efficiently as ever, and though he's playing the part of put-together steward, he certainly doesn't look it, all kiss-swollen and debauched.
"Here you are," he offers it out, already situated over his arms in such a way he can help Crozier slip into it. "I've chosen the warmer one since the bed coals have gone out by now."
Almost a little sheepish - a little embarrassed but equally knowing. The coals went out as they stoked different fires altogether. "Stands to reason you may get a few hours sleep before the first bell, sir."
It's unfair that Jopson gets to get him tucked away for bed, and Crozier can't return the favor; his steward has to put on his entire kit and walk back to his own berth. Completely unacceptable for him to do so in any kind of disarray for numerous reasons— even if nothing untoward was going on, to look so disheveled isn't becoming of anyone in the service, seaman or civilian. But he pulls the nightshirt on, allows Jopson to aid him, and then settles both hands against the younger man's chest. Just to touch him.
"The coals always go out," he says, wry. "Alas, physics. But I've survived each time."
A warm treat when bedding down, but it fades. No need to worry, especially when the tradeoff is so good. His turn, then, to help get him into his uniform coat, slow and careful.
"Wait for a moment."
His hair. Crozier fetches his comb and reaches up, still careful. Not as practiced as Jopson is — which is sometimes curious, he suspects such degree of grooming isn't actually standard and he's just a certain way about it all — but getting him in reasonable order is only fair.
Quiet, almost awed at the way the captain still wants to touch him now after their little tryst has ended. The weight of them there, the heat - it's all pleasant in a way that only adds to the sort of dream-like hue everything has now, even with the sharp point of reality at the edge.
Crozier reaches up and it's absent the way he reaches for his sides, fingers pressing up along his ribs as though steadying him, but truthfully just to touch him while the moment still lingers between them. It will be broken soon enough.
"I've to be up an hour or so before the bell, sir, but I will of course do my best."
A pause, fingers hesitating, and he reaches one last time for the man's wrist, plucking hand from its work so he may press a faint kiss to the inside pulse. Also so he may steal the comb away should the man let him.
"But you need far more rest than I do. You've a crew to command at first light and it is my duty above all else to see you are ready to meet the day come morning."
Putting the comb away, adjusting his own coat, even raising a hand to gently brush his own hair from his forehead as he always does. Awkward, to have to part after the nearness and intimacy of it all.
"Thank you, sir," seems adequate enough to say everything he can't truly put words to.
Impossibly sweet, that touch to his pulse. Crozier lets him have his way, because of course he's right, and he has to admit to himself that he likes how professional Jopson is. Despite how wildly unprofessional they've been for the past hour.
Near the door, he touches Jopson's chin. Again, in that way he did when he first tipped his head up. He looks at him for a moment, and then kisses him.
A wonderfully good boy. An unbelievably stubborn steward. And very patient, to be putting up with these frivolous extra touches and wasted minutes when they should be having things quick and rough and scurrying apart after. It means something to him, and he's grateful, even if the younger man is just indulging him. He seems to have enjoyed himself at least, and that makes Francis feel content with it all.
The touch under his chin will always be the thing he thinks most fondly of - the way he's kept his eyes off the floor, drawn him in, refocused him. What better to focus on than the captain himself. The kiss, however, takes him aback. His eyes flutter closed and he leans into it just enough before they part.
He's slow to open his eyes after, to take in the man's face, to even think about taming the heat in his own cheeks. But in the end he smiles, all the warmth flooding into the pale blue of his eyes. A little nod of his head.
"Of course. Sleep well, Captain."
With another little nod he slips out, shutting the door behind him, and disappearing back to his berth.
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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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"A feather bed and chandelier... you would make a very generous pirate then, sir."
But it's a nice thought, a little funny, that he should be some grand prize. Hardly. The air begins to cool around them but his blood runs hot enough still to keep for a little while longer. That, and Crozier is warm in a way that he could burrow against him and find comfort for a while yet. The bitter cold will never do him in so long as this man keeps him in company.
He closes his eyes, sitting in silence with the man, listening to his heart beat. It feels like a thousand years have passed when he finally tips his head up, shifts in his place with aching thighs, just enough to kiss the man. It's slow, languid, yearning to hold onto the moment for just a little while longer. Easy to feel like he's floating, like the rock of the ship and the turn of the sky couldn't touch them here. So it's just soft, deep kisses for a moment, until he finally sighs against the man's mouth.
"A pirate that needs cleaning up," a resignation, a reluctant acknowledgement of the outside world. But still their moment - still something that can be intimate and delicate and theirs.
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Crozier takes his face in his hands for the kiss, returning it with just as much affection. He thumbs over Thomas' nose, a teasing little thing, rubs his cheek. Still somewhat kiss-bruised and hair all askew, his steward is, and it's painfully attractive. Just as much as how rigorously neat he keeps himself day to day.
A grunt that sounds like a laugh. Yes, yes, alright. He drops a kiss on the younger man's forehead, then he gets an elbow under himself, and so begins the awkward, fumbling process of getting two nude men up out of one wedged berth without agitating Thomas' back too much. No helping the way the water in the basin is stinging cold by now, but at least they're both suffering through the use of it and can have an exasperated laugh about it all. Francis remains affectionate through it, looking after him, leaving a hand on his side or his elbow as they go about cleaning off and collecting their garments.
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Wild to think that the mess he cleans is his own, spread and smeared on their skin. But thinking too long will get his blood going hot again just as he's beginning to feel it fade away from a simmer. He swipes his trousers up from the floor, stepping into them with reddened knees, fumbles for the shirtsleeves even if it makes him wince as the fabric grazes down his back.
"Let me get your night shirt, sir," he murmurs, gently prying the man's hand from his side and turning to fetch the thing. He returns quickly and efficiently as ever, and though he's playing the part of put-together steward, he certainly doesn't look it, all kiss-swollen and debauched.
"Here you are," he offers it out, already situated over his arms in such a way he can help Crozier slip into it. "I've chosen the warmer one since the bed coals have gone out by now."
Almost a little sheepish - a little embarrassed but equally knowing. The coals went out as they stoked different fires altogether. "Stands to reason you may get a few hours sleep before the first bell, sir."
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"The coals always go out," he says, wry. "Alas, physics. But I've survived each time."
A warm treat when bedding down, but it fades. No need to worry, especially when the tradeoff is so good. His turn, then, to help get him into his uniform coat, slow and careful.
"Wait for a moment."
His hair. Crozier fetches his comb and reaches up, still careful. Not as practiced as Jopson is — which is sometimes curious, he suspects such degree of grooming isn't actually standard and he's just a certain way about it all — but getting him in reasonable order is only fair.
"You're to catch a few hours, too, lad."
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Quiet, almost awed at the way the captain still wants to touch him now after their little tryst has ended. The weight of them there, the heat - it's all pleasant in a way that only adds to the sort of dream-like hue everything has now, even with the sharp point of reality at the edge.
Crozier reaches up and it's absent the way he reaches for his sides, fingers pressing up along his ribs as though steadying him, but truthfully just to touch him while the moment still lingers between them. It will be broken soon enough.
"I've to be up an hour or so before the bell, sir, but I will of course do my best."
A pause, fingers hesitating, and he reaches one last time for the man's wrist, plucking hand from its work so he may press a faint kiss to the inside pulse. Also so he may steal the comb away should the man let him.
"But you need far more rest than I do. You've a crew to command at first light and it is my duty above all else to see you are ready to meet the day come morning."
Putting the comb away, adjusting his own coat, even raising a hand to gently brush his own hair from his forehead as he always does. Awkward, to have to part after the nearness and intimacy of it all.
"Thank you, sir," seems adequate enough to say everything he can't truly put words to.
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Near the door, he touches Jopson's chin. Again, in that way he did when he first tipped his head up. He looks at him for a moment, and then kisses him.
A wonderfully good boy. An unbelievably stubborn steward. And very patient, to be putting up with these frivolous extra touches and wasted minutes when they should be having things quick and rough and scurrying apart after. It means something to him, and he's grateful, even if the younger man is just indulging him. He seems to have enjoyed himself at least, and that makes Francis feel content with it all.
"Goodnight, Tomás."
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He's slow to open his eyes after, to take in the man's face, to even think about taming the heat in his own cheeks. But in the end he smiles, all the warmth flooding into the pale blue of his eyes. A little nod of his head.
"Of course. Sleep well, Captain."
With another little nod he slips out, shutting the door behind him, and disappearing back to his berth.