Easily one of the most debauched things he's participated in of this decade, and it's just kissing, and they're in a tent, and he's fully clothed. Crozier kisses him, nearly gasping for how easily Thomas opens to him, how hungry he seems in response at the same time. It makes him want to lift up and get a knee on the configuration of cots, press him down, kiss him deeper, pin him there. And Jamie is licking over his neck, his jaw, putting teeth against his earlobe, all of it making every nerve ending light up like shotgun pellets hitting metal siding. Sparks, everywhere.
Jamie steals his mouth, after a moment. Francis cradles his steward's face, beautiful boy, presses fingers in his mouth. They swap again and they're still there alongside Jamie's tongue when he kisses Thomas; Francis watches this, commits it to memory, the look, the sound, the smell of everything sleep-warm coming to life.
Oh, what's the point of exploring or sailing, they could do this forever instead.
"Do we have time for me to suck your cock?"
That'll be seared into memory, too. Just where he wants it. Like a criminal being branded.
Alas.
"Not at all," Crozier says, rasped laughter in his voice. "And a heartbeat with this blanket tugged down and you'll lose all interest anyway."
Jamie groans, and not in an altogether amorous way.
"Both of you, up now."
A beautiful moment. Not ruined by its brevity. He kisses Ross' forehead, and Jopson's temple, and sits back with intent to help get everyone sorted.
Thomas can't discerne where he fits in this, only that right now it doesn't matter. Not with Crozier kissing him, the fingers in his mouth, Ross kissing him in a way that makes his toes curl against his calf. All of it so much at once, overwhelming and blissfully perfect - he's never done this before. Not with two men. Never - the threat and mess of it too difficult to cover up.
Do we have time for me to suck your cock?
Perverse that he wants to see it - even worse that he wonders how quickly his Captain would lose his resolve if they both had their mouths on him. (Even more debauched and foul. Who has he become out here on the seas? Or was he this man all along?)
"Yes, sir," he mutters, shocked back into reality when Crozier sits back. His face flushes and he peels himself from the furs, carefully placing them back round Ross. "I'll have the water ready for your shave, sit," a beat, like he realizes he shouldn't be the one giving orders. "If you wish. At the very least, Captain Ross, I'll see to you."
As exhilarating and freeing as the beautiful moment was - he feels like a madman. His mind turned over, spinning in time with the rhythm of his heart pumping too-hot blood through his veins. He's hardened some, too, but he lets the cold do some work.
"I forgot myself, my apologies, Captain."
Earnest, embarrassed, wired up tight for how easily his routine has gone off course.
"Don't apologize when we're the ones making a mess of your schedule," says Ross, stretching as he makes to get up. Slow about it, he reaches out and obliges Crozier to give him a hand. "And besides, we can blame Commander Crozier," fair play for earlier, "for not waking us sooner."
"I've woken you right on time." He threatens a pinch but doesn't follow through, since they do actually have to get to work. Helps him change, instead. Not nearly as graceful as Jopson, especially given the slightly clunky layers he's got on, but it'll do. "We'll be working on the observatory hut today, there are readings for you to go over. Not much hiking for the naturalists, so Jopson will have plenty of opportunity to catch up on anything I've robbed him of time for this morning."
"Are my lieutenants up?"
"One of them. The other will be by the time you're out."
They talk shop. Crozier declines being shaved, opts for tomorrow, continues to go over schedules and necessities while Ross undergoes — businesslike enough not to watch too closely the artful way Jopson handles it all, but there's no fooling where his gaze is fixed. Heatedly discussing the potential for volcanic drafts by the time they're heading out, like some men might invest their energy into horse racing or cricket.
A day that promises to be brutal work. At least Jopson gets to babysit Mr Hooker and one of the other surgeons who's doing diagrams and drawings of everything, and isn't asked to haul rocks or transfer samples. During midday meal, Crozier returns to shove food into his mouth and make plans to teach everyone who can't use celestial navigation tools the proper way to do it, and assigns Hooker the job of coming up with a lesson structure for anything else he's missing. He's keen on this, hoping to be at least a better sailor than a peer of his called Darwin, if not a better scientist, though it's clear the rivalry is very friendly. Tomorrow, for a lesson, everyone will be too knackered today.
The days out on the ice pass with some regularity - tough work, long hours, bitter conditions. The storm they road in on has left its mark behind, a few intensely cold fronts whipping winds over the shore. It leaves the men worn thin and exhausted most days, the camp going quiet as the night watch wake up. When Jopson lays awake, Crozier and Ross sleeping soundly pressed to either side of him, he swears he can hear the ships groaning from the distance. Impossible, but it's a haunting thing, the whistle of arctic winds.
The tent has a safe place for a canvas set up, Ross' paints left on a stool set in front of a makeshift easel. For all his self-deprecating comments about his artistry, he has a keen eye, the colors vivid. They spend portions of the night in quiet, the occasional ribbing or quiet musing about stars and rocks interrupting brushstrokes. Jopson keeps the water warm so he may clean his brush, and enjoys the view in all ways - the painting, Ross in his warm underclothes cut against the lamplight, Crozier sitting nearby with a book in hand, a warmth in his face.
It's murderously cold, but he could suffer it if life was like this on the other side of it all.
They've just come off one such night, but the day leading up to it had been easier - no dragging rocks or hiking, just spending time in the observation tent chipping at stones and talking theories, gazing up at the sky and making conjectures based on things Jopson can't understand when he stops in with warm drinks for those working. The night has set, the work ended a little earlier than usual for the evening meal - a small reprieve after a brutal week's work. They're poised in the tent exactly as he's come to enjoy.
Ross, ignoring his painting after an hour of working at it, chattering on about what Mount Erebus might look like without ice and snow atop it. Jopson's sure Crozier isn't too far away, but he's just turning in to get himself into night clothes after helping the other two men.
It takes a few moments to undo all the layers, but he finally makes it down to his shirtsleeves, pulling the fabric up and off his back. Ah, yes, his back. Healing - a few smaller, striped patches mottled green and plum and yellow, healing but taking their time among the scars from years ago. It's cold, but he bends to dig out his sweater - routine all out of sorts.
"We must determine what makes a volcano's clock tick, Frank... imagine the timing should we see one burst to life!"
Jopson shakes his head, smiling, at the fantastic dreams of the other men. They live in the stars, the waves at their heels. Thomas doesn't know where he lives, but it's pleasant here in the tide of them.
"Go and start talking to it about the politics of land ownership," he suggests. "She'll blow her top in no time."
They both know it's just pressure. They have diagrams of what could be beneath an active volcano, courtesy of thousands of years of human observation and the madness of men who've gone digging in dormant ones. A venture he finds altogether more horrifying than any potential death at sea. What if a mountain collapses on you? Just another kind of exploration to be sure, but he'll pass, if it's all the same.
Quick when he wants to be — as many years in the rigging as any other man — Crozier is handing something to Jopson. One of his own shirts (the last clean one, rowboats will come tomorrow to exchange laundry), oversized for the steward.
"This instead of your nightshirt, if you please." Jamie has a remark about this being very fetching, and Francis tells him to pipe down, you hedonist. It just makes him chuckle. "It'll be looser on your back, if you'll hold still for a while once we're rolled up."
He's had the oil in an inner pocket all day, keeping it as warm as it's going to get. They can all finish what they're up to, changing, putting things away. Ross tells a story about earning lashes with five other boys, and having really been hoping to get out of it on account of nepotism, but such favoritism was not to be. As a twelve-year-old, though, the worst of it was sitting still for so long in recovery, and then having to scrub the decks when he was too ill from wound fever to do anything else. It was on Acteon, which was always nearly sinking from rot. He and Crozier talk a little about the tide language between Martinique and Plymouth, which has something to do with the Acteon's service, probably.
Ross reaches over to turn the light off, when they're finally abed. "How come you never rub bruises off my back anymore?" he asks.
"You complain whenever you're over my knees for more than a minute."
Utter madmen, the pair of them. It makes for a light and merry room, their banter, and Jopson knows he could be content to listen to them for hours, days, even. There are no horrific weights of the world in this tent, just the understanding of three men in their position. He makes a small, frustrated sound when he can't seem to fish out his clean nightshirt - and then goes quiet when the other is handed to him.
Crozier's. He blinks, a little doe-eyed at the man, taken aback and having been lost in his own thoughts. He nods slowly, rolls his eyes at Ross.
"Of course, Captain."
And on it goes - too big, slipping annoyingly over his shoulder when he climbs into the cots between the men. He doesn't fully realize why he's been given the shirt until he's settled and Jamie laughs, bright enough to fill the room.
"My back is fine, sir. It's healing," he says on a little sigh, but he's partially masking the way the scent of the shirt makes heat rise to his cheeks. "You both require your rest if you're to be up giggling like school children for the evening."
Ross squirms and lets out a sound that's a little undignified, caught between a snort and a laugh. That pinch at his side he deserved from Crozier many, many times, this time comes from Jopson. A comment - oh indulge a little, Thomas - and further laughs as the other captain rolls onto his side to look at him in the dark.
It's a besotted kind of thought. No one wants to hear it, for it's so saccharine it can't be true, but Crozier can think it to himself and be content about it. Knowing that Jopson feels at ease enough to pinch him, knowing that Ross is delighted to have someone else to conspire with about all his notions for the world and humanity, and that he gets to be here, witnessing all of it. What other perfect is there. This'll do him, just here, in a tent.
"You sweat under your coat and then your skin dries out when it gets cold again," he murmurs as he gets situated. Up on one elbow just enough to have leverage to slide both hands under the shirt (his shirt) and Jopson's bruised back, oil warmed in his palms. The blankets cocooning them like a nest. "If something splits open you probably won't even tell anyone."
So, this is necessary. And there's the hell-worthy crime that Crozier misses touching him, that he's wanted to since it happened the last time, and it's been too long already. Too long, and he hadn't been able to do it like this, tucked under the same cover, laying side by side. Ross can barely see them in the dark, he knows, but there's enough movement and there's awareness, and it makes for something lovely to experience even simply on the sidelines.
"This is plenty restful, anyhow. Believe me."
A rejuvenating thing, this kind of connection. Ross seems to agree (Crozier knows he does), and he lays a hand on Jopson's chest, petting him slowly. His fingers toy with the collar of the shirt — Crozier's — as if a coy reminder of who it belongs to. All wrapped up in each other.
The scent of the oil hits him, could take the breath out of him for all the things his body remembers to be associated with it. More impactful, though, are Crozier's hands sliding over his back and under the shirt that smells like the man in all ways. There's no helping the little sigh in the dark, the way he holds his breath for a few seconds just soaking up the feeling of being touched by him.
"I saw McCormick for it, sir," he says finally. There's a small spot at the downward curve of his right shoulder blade that split a few days ago and has been cleaned and is healing up nicely. "He told me it is nothing of concern."
But concerning this moment? Ross' hand on his chest, Crozier's hands on his back, his own stomach doing a strange twisting at the way he's being handled from both sides. It's warm beneath the furs, warmer now with hands on him. Tentatively he reaches to touch Ross, a hand pressing to his side, curiously mapping the line of it. Ross pets up above the loose collar, fingertips sliding against the skin of his throat in a way that makes Jopson's head tip back, exposing more of his throat.
"I'll tell you a well, next time, sir. My a-"
Ross' fingers up over his chin, against his lips, gently and sweetly shushing the apology away.
Warm and low. For seeing the doctor about the cut, for letting himself be hushed, now, instead of apologize. Plenty of space for my apologies when it's a part of polite conversation, but there's no need here and now. He continues to touch him, first just petting him, spreading the slick oil to relax him, before seeking out particular spots that seem to want for attention, be it challenged patches of skin or tension just under it.
Francis, because he has little shame despite acting within its orderly lines much of time, thinks about fucking him. He thinks of sliding a hand further down, tugging his steward's knit drawers down over the curve of his rear, and delving oiled fingers in deep. He could, in this position. He could have him hitch one knee up over Jaime's hip, and then press his cock into him. He won't, won't suggest it nor yearn for it— potential mishaps are far too dire to risk. But he can't help thinking how Jopson seems made for it.
Just his touch, and it's more than enough. Down the strong column of his spine, his shoulderblades, the curve of his hipbones, the small of his back. Around his ribcage where he can reach, and the back of his neck. Slow, methodical movements. In time, he slips one hand forward. Still tucked under his own shirt on Thomas' body, he pets over his chest, and up. Cradles the swell of his pectoral muscle, squeezes gently, swipes his thumb over the nub of one nipple. He kneads there as attentively as he had on his back and shoulders, and he hears Jamie sigh with obvious desire, his own hands palming over Thomas' torso, meeting Crozier's hand with a layer of fabric between them for a moment. He drops careful, chaste kisses against the young man's throat, his jaw, his cheekbone.
Good boy, you are - and his skin feels like it lights aflame with heat, prickles at the nape of his neck, beneath every patch Crozier's hand grazes. It earns the older man a little squirm, an arch of his back, the press of his ass backwards as he absently presses into the hands on his chest, nipple turning stiff and wanting. He wants to feel him, touch him, be nearer now that he can feel the man's hands everywhere.
Never in his life would he imagine he'd be here - pressed between two men in the cozy warmth of the closest thing to a bed he's had in months. Two men he cares for. Two men that make it impossible to think clearly, overloading every sense, his body stuttering in his attempt to react. It's always been hurried fancies in cupboards or quiet, cheap rooms, or tucked into a very dark corner of a pub to find men like him.
This isn't crude, tasteless, quick. It's electric with something else that he feels afraid to name.
Instead he turns in against the chaste kisses, chasing after his own now, coaxing Ross into a sweet, soft barrage of kisses, slow and careful. He slides his own hand round the back of Ross' hip, anchoring himself on him as he shivers with the attention, stifling a moan into the other captain's mouth.
Jamie returns each sweet little kiss, tasting the low rumble of his voice on his tongue, all with the warmth of the other captain's hand beneath his own. He drags his hand away just to sneak up the front of the man's shirt, pet slowly from his chest to his navel and back, fingers brushing over Francis' with each pass, a centimeter higher on the up, a centimeter lower each time.
Impossible not to notice how Jopson responds to him. Makes something in him feel hungrier than it has any right to, not when he already has him here under his hands, against his body. Some of it is facilitated by Ross, he's certain — how could it not be, one of the most beautiful, affluent men in the bloody world sweetly touching and kissing him and coaxing him into being comfortable — but it's a jolt to his own ego, it bolsters his own particular affections. He puts his mouth over where that tiny split of skin is, linen between his mouth and the cut, and then noses higher, so he can kiss the back of his neck and the curve of his shoulder.
Feels good, doing this. He's slowly getting hard, but he's in no hurry about it. The way Jopson shifts back into him is pleasing, makes him heat up further, but he doesn't follow temptation to rut into him. Instead he continues to touch him, paying special attention to anywhere that earns more of a reaction. He plays with his chest, firm and sensual, liking the shape of him, the wiry hair, the hard buds of his nipples that he finds and tugs on gently.
The sounds, the telltale movements, just about make up for the fact that he can't actually see Jamie and Thomas kissing. Knowing they're doing it is dreadfully arousing in any event, and he can only encourage it. After reaching out to run an affectionate hand over the other captain's hip, he slides his touch down again, back on Thomas' body. He presses against his abdomen, his belly, and lower, to cup him through his pajamas. There's no pretense of rubbing his thighs, though his touch retains that steady, soothing energy as he cradles his weight of his prick.
Crozier's moves over his body like he knows it too well already, the plucking over his nipples, the slow path his hand makes alongside Ross' down his belly. Ross swallows another one of the younger man's pretty gasps with a kiss, sliding his body closer, even if it means he's halfway on the cot rails. Thomas grips at the younger captain's shirt, needing to touch something, body being gently warmed, molded into their touch.
"Shhh," Jamie murmurs against the steward's mouth, tilting his head to kiss his jaw, his neck, to his shoulder where Crozier's mouth was before. "We'll take care of you, Thomas, never you mind."
There's no coherent thought that could stand a chance against the gentle, almost reverent way the hand presses around his prick. He's grateful his hips don't buck like some needy school boy, but the faintest movement of his hips, a squirm of desire, may tell all. Jopson doesn't know when Jamie's hand moved, either, the slow up and down patterns coming to an end but only as his hand slides beneath the thermal fabric of his pajamas, gently nudging between the warm weight of Crozier's palm and the stirring line of Jopson's cock.
He sighs, colored in a quiet, throaty sound. A sound that makes him arch again, wedging him perfectly between the two older men. He nearly speaks again, but Jamie beats him to the punch.
"Move me like you'd do it, Frank," a murmur in the dark, against the soft, wet spot on Jopson's shoulder. There's no doubt going to be a soft, pale bruise there in the morning.
Jamie and Francis have each had their lovers, over the years. Jamie more than him, competitively at work finding a wife, and so regularly keeping a woman— affairs, or probing about courtship. He had a boy on his uncle's expedition, Francis knows, though the young man was never invited towards anything meaningful. And though together they've tumbled paid company together, this is new. It doesn't feel like Thomas is a stand-on, or like he's some kind of bridge between them. He's here on his own merits, and no one else could fill in. Francis is glad of it.
He is envious of Jaime's bare hand on the heated, silk-soft skin of Thomas' cock, and the kisses they're afforded. But it's a pleasant kind of envy. Admiring. His own position is an enviable one in return, he feels, with his own stiffening length now pressed against the cleft of his steward's behind as he's become tucked closer and closer, the three of them shifting gradually tighter around each other.
His shirt is going to smell like Jopson, after this. Only for a little while before it's whisked away. He'll remember this, that desperate murmur, those cut-off gasps. And how beautiful, how frightening, the southern sea is.
A calloused hand curls around Jamie's, around Thomas' prick. He makes him stroke him slowly, thoroughly, the pad of his thumb sometimes stealing a caress around the tender head. Careful movement, probably too slow out of consideration for how dry it's all starting. Something that can be remedied, but he isn't in any hurry. Tomorrow will find them soon enough, there's no sense rushing into it by getting this over quicker.
The world feels hazy and warm, much like a balmy day in the West Indies, not at all like the frigid arctic, icy and treacherous. The heat against his back, the arousal pressed against his backside, makes him feel like the sun is high overhead. Comfortable, lazy, warm. He wants more - to see Crozier, kiss him, put the taste of him on his tongue all over again, but he's a good boy, will do as he's told.
That, and Jamie's hand feels overwhelmingly lovely, knowing Crozier guides it. The pesky thumb gets him though, makes him tense, arch into the knowing hands and then back onto Crozier's desire, another sigh he cuts off by biting his bottom lip. There's some help with the slide of it all, too, as he begins to go a little damp. Almost embarrassing, how easy he's worked up, just enough that Crozier's thumb brings a small spot of wet through the fabric.
"Sir," Thomas murmurs again, pawing absently now at Crozier's arm, wanting desperately to touch him. He rests his hand over the older man's wrist, feeling his pulse, imagining it under his lips instead.
Another soft kiss from Jamie, the man rising up on an elbow for better leverage and encouraging Thomas to lean back into Crozier, even a little bit.
A quiet response, an echo of yearning. Sir, a whole other color of wanting compared to the morning he'd whispered Francis. Crozier likes both, which means he's in trouble. Another few long moments, just like this, feeling him clutch at his arm and letting that damp spot become more tangible under each teasing pass of his thumb. Finally, he relents to the silent plea (and Jamie's fussing, he can just tell).
Crozier shifts his weight to let Jopson lean back against him, tucking one arm beneath him to wrap around, let him grab onto, hands tangled or just pressing into his chest and holding him close. Jamie tugs down the steward's pajama trousers enough to free his cock and expose the rest of him— though only beneath the blankets and furs, still swaddled. He reaches back, deft, and Crozier feels his gaze on him even in the dark as Ross untucks him. It nearly makes him jump, only getting out some small aborted movement before a sigh; he's lost possession of the oil bottle, but feels slick on his hard cock, and then Jamie is hitching as close to Thomas as he can, his slippery hand taking his bare prick in his grip.
"More," he beseeches them both, and Crozier closes his hand over the other man's again.
Shirt rucked up, trousers down, once again he surrenders to the perfect mess of it all. How unseemly for a steward, but that thought quickly dissolves when he hears his name on Francis' tongue. He leans into him, fumbles for his hand, twining their fingers. It's much like being at sea - where these waves will take them, he doesn't know, but he trusts the two men wrapped up in the cots with him. Above anything else.
Impossible to ignore Jamie's hand behind him, the movement and sigh behind him. The slick hand wrapped round his prick again he hisses between his teeth, scrambling to grab for more than just the man's hand. the fabric of his night shirt first, the meat of his side. His hips jump at the easy slide of their hands and it's the slick nudge of Crozier's arousal against his backside that has him reaching.
"More."
It's awkward, uncomfortable at first, but he slides a leg back between Crozier's, arches back against him to provide him a surface to rut upon if he chooses, a slot made against the round curve of his behind and between the muscle of his thighs. Everything feels sudden and warm, and as Jamie hitches forward, fingers find purchase in the man's hair, tangling, and gently tugs him in for a kiss, more heated than the last.
It is the continuation of that tangled, threeway kiss mornings ago by now; the three of them, wanton, unconcerned with anything besides finding the most pleasurable angles achievable in this less than ideal setting. (Less than ideal compared to a real bed in a room with a fire going, candles and perfume, a warm basin for after, but brilliant compared to trying to wedge anything into place in a berth or behind a rock in the snow. Worth appreciating, even with the inevitability of someone's sore elbow from the cot rails.)
Crozier helps, positioning his knee better and flexing forward. His cock slides just where Jopson is offering, and he wishes he could see it; the dark is its own kind of potent element, making everything else heightened, but his steward is so lovely and he knows the sight would be so obscene. Plenty sensation enough to feel, so imagine, to rock forward and think the head of his cock might press up against Jopson's sac if he angles it right. He can feel Ross, still covered, the hard curve of him pressed to the back of his hand.
He can kiss Thomas' shoulder and so he does, and he accepts and returns it when Jamie shifts to steal a few from him, pressed close enough to smother the steward between them. He kisses the back of his hand in Thomas' hair, he squeezes their linked hands, he murmurs half-unintelligible words of praise and endearment. A steady boil. Not yet frantic, on his account. He knows Jamie likes something drawn out as much as he likes being shoved against a wall in a hurry, and so he knows he'll want to win Thomas' climax first. Their hands on him, sharing it. Jamie tells him he's so good, so good for them both, You make Francis so happy, you know you do, and something about it—
He would never have expected it to be erotic, is all, and he can tell from the tone of the other man's voice he's doing it on purpose to rile him up, and that is erotic, too, to be known so thoroughly, to be trusted with it. This is all miserably stupid behavior, an unknown-to-science bear could tear through the camp, a storm could manifest from the ether, someone could walk too close by despite the thick layers of canvas and muffling winds. But he would lose a limb before giving it up.
Thomas groans at the hot slide of Crozier's prick between his thighs and he tightens them, flexes sinew and muscle to feel more of him, create friction. Anything to keep all of the heat and nearness closer and closer still. There's little room to do anything now, pressed between the two men, the sounds of their kissing so strangely erotic that another blur of precome wets the movement of Jamie's hand round him.
You make Francis so happy - and no, he doesn't know. He can't ever be certain what his captain feels. It's all new, this - pressed into makeshift beds and berths with the man and no words to describe why it makes the pathetic muscle of his heart squeeze and flip. Does he make him happy? If happiness is this, with the man's cock nudged between his thighs and his arms and mouth and everything on him, then he could take it. It would be enough.
But it sends his mind to whirling, makes heat blaze deep in his belly and his breathing goes a little shallow, little pants instead of the litany of noises he feels compelled to tamp down. (The danger of what they're doing will always be in their periphery.)
Jamie's hand moves slow, long strokes from root to tip, taking his time and grinning against Crozier's mouth each time they kiss. It's as much a game as it is a delight. Thomas can hear the way the younger captain's breathing has gone a little ragged, the way he can feel even his hardness pressed between their bodies. He drives his own hips back, chasing the press of Crozier between his thighs and against the underside of his arse - then back, driving himself into the circle of Jamie's hand, and inevitably driving Crozier's hand up and against Jamie's desire.
"Please, Francis, please..." Thomas whispers, already making a mess of Jamie's hand and beginning to turn needy, the slow burn bringing him up out of a simmer to something more frantic. He doesn't know what he's begging for, the words a response to every bit of praise he's given, and now with Jamie leaning into Crozier, speaking against the man's mouth he's been so good, Francis, your boy, hasn't he?
Jamie knows his mind as good as his own; his soul, too, something intrinsic and almost supernatural about it. (Crozier says he isn't superstitious, he's a scientist, he's not that kind of sailor, and yet he and Ross think they can read each other's minds.) Somehow, without Francis saying, he's fished out of his head that having this interpersonal progression with Thomas has made him happy. And God, it has, hasn't it. There is no pleasure like trusting someone, and they have earned something nearing it together.
Please, and his name. It makes him jerk Thomas' cock quicker, using Jamie's hand to do it, and it does feel an awful lot like their one mind is operating together this way. Such a good boy for him, and Jamie's been — well a brat, mostly, over the course of their friendship, but he adores him for it. Thomas is honey-sweet and there is biting cinnamon burnt sugar in Jamie, and he's here, something bitter, acidic, everything melting.
He could say—
A dozen stupid, suicidal things. The best, I don't want another one, the only one I've bothered with. Things he's bad at saying, that Jamie has had to wrench out of him or intuit and later demand (truthful) confirmation of. Not his place, is the thing.
What is his place: getting Thomas off, making him feel good, thrilling Jamie with the tangled intimacy of it, pressing the earnestness of his desire and his enjoyment into every touch, every inch of skin, every breath and scrape of teeth.
"There you are. Sweet boy. And you, you bloody menace."
Jamie's laugh is a breathless scrape and he follows it with Yes, yes—
Thomas can't tell their voices apart as everything in his body wires tight, burns white-hot, becomes focused on everything carnal. No thinking, no parsing their words apart only good and sweet and yes. It's not frenzied, any of it, but it feels like he's been sucked under water, pressure in his ears, in his belly, in the back of his mind.
What would life be like, existing like this? Caught between two vastly different worlds, storms of their own, these men, dragging him to and fro. They are perfect, the pair of him and he's picked apart in the onslaught of their passion - like they know he was meant to be here wrapped up with them all along.
He can't control himself when he plummets, when the mens' joined hands work him faster. A groan, first, low, and then Jamie's free hand pressing fingers to his lips to quiet him, and the feral, animal part of him wraps his lips around each one, near to gagging himself on them as he comes hard, spilling into Jamie's hand, wetting the fabric beneath Crozier's. He chases the feeling of Crozier's cock between his thighs, the tension in his body wringing him up tight, thighs clamping to create a tight, needy passage for the slick, hard line of him.
Jamie works Thomas until he stops twitching, murmuring sweet praises into Jopson's hair - shh, shh, shh, you've done so well - while Jopson sucks on his fingers to keep from making noise out into the quiet of the arctic night.
"Frank," Ross says, breathless, pulls his soiled hand free from Jopson's trousers and offers his fingers up to the other commander - cheeky, menace, a look what I brought you sort of chuckle in the dark.
Here is a problem with himself, he supposes: this should be sinful, but it feels holy. It feels sacred. Growing up he watched every countryman, every family member, negotiate with God and his tenets like a solicitor parsing wages, trying to litigate which was the right way to believe in the divine, for to pick the wrong one could lead to prosecution or death.
Just like this.
Crozier has seen no evidence of God, but he's tumbled more times than he can count, he's made lovers smile, he's been moved near to tears by emotion. Humanity is better than God, when they do good.
A lot of thinking for the animal satisfaction of making a young man spend himself. And for the equally animal enjoyment of Jamie's fingers in his mouth with that ill-tasting but deeply pleasing wetness, Thomas distilled down to the barest part of himself. When Ross' fingers are clean he presses a kiss to his steward's jaw, tells him: "You still taste good."
Hadn't gotten much, that night before the storm. But enough to recognize him again.
He lets Jopson lean back more against him, taking his weight, letting himself rock into that space between his thighs. Still not frantic, because he paws Ross forward to follow, his hand switching gears to touch him now, greeted by a low sound when he tugs at his pajama trousers to delve inside. Almost too warm between them, like he might sweat through everything. Burn through it. Sink into the ground, the ice, the permafrost.
Every nerve ending in his body sings to life even as he leans back into Crozier, melts at the very warmth of him. Jamie licks his own fingers when the older man is done, the bitter taste of the steward enough to make him hum, like a fat cat that's gotten into the cream. Easier still to chase the younger man with a kiss, his slick palm reaching between them again to pet his abdomen, to his belly, soothing.
"Thank you, sir," Thomas sighs, tilting his head into the kiss, wanting to turn and have his own, but not until both men feel the same buzzing warmth he does. It makes his thoughts go molten, a dewy summer haze in the biting cold of winter. Jamie's voice reminds him much of the sweet, sticky honey kept in the little jar by the tea set - thick and rich, and Thomas understands immediately why men and women both quiver at the knees for him.
He touches Crozier's arm, fingers slowly tracing the strong muscle of his forearm, to his wrist. Wraps his hand around Crozier's, loose, wanting to feel the way Francis pleases Jamie, learn what the man likes from his Captain. In the same note he arches into the little movements between his thighs, disregarding his own over-sensitivity. It's a striking sort of bite that keeps him present.
He wants to see both men off - it's his duty as much as it is his desire. Jamie groans, the warmth and weight of two hands enough to make him laugh a airily. He grips Thomas' side, a pretty handle made in the dip of the man's waist. Thomas in turn leans up to kiss him, lazy and hungry, chasing the taste of himself of Jamie's tongue, all the while he squeezes his hand over Crozier's.
Tucked in so close to Jopson, and pulling off a man he first fooled around with because they almost started throwing punches. Too much, too scrambled up in tension, and now he knows just how to hold his cock, just how to stroke him. He could get Ross off in a matter of heartbeats, but he wants to feel him. What other chance will he get, just so? With someone else they're both so fond of suspended between them, sharing hands and mouths and sweat and fluid. All of this will warm him through the ice for months yet.
He shows Jopson how to touch their commander. Lets him feel it all through his hand, as he mouths kisses and worries in gentle teeth marks against his shoulder, and the soft part of his ear. His cock is still so hard, and it twitches where Jopson has it held snug and possessive. His other hand, threatening to go slightly numb thanks to his arm being wrapped beneath his steward, still clutches onto him. Linked there, a precious thing.
Slow and steady, until Jamie swears a desperate, rasped word, and grabs at their hands. It makes Francis exhale a laugh, feeling the impatient demand even before the shift in mood— tells him alright, alright, I've got you, don't I always, and jacks him off just the way he needs. He feels nails biting into his shoulder where Jamie scrambles a hand, polite even then, not wanting to claw at Thomas who might not appreciate it. Always goes so tense like it hurts just before. Maybe it does; Francis thinks it must just be like everything else with him, so intense, be it his intellect or his drive or his passions. In the dark he can only half-see his expression, but he knows it well anyway. Hot, wet spend in his hand, and he pulls him through those spasms, Jamie enduring it with his face buried against Thomas to help stifle himself, though he's practiced at being silent through it.
Like all his strings are cut, then. The weight of command, the demands of his station (the encroaching inevitability of failing health that he'll never speak of), he's always useless in the aftermath. But pliable, happy, euphoric. He sighs and murmurs and keens into them both, bestowing soft messy kisses, bubbling over with it.
Thomas receives Jamie as he burrows into his chest, shuddering through his climax with an intensity that suits him. Easy to feel the tension in him, the way the commander's long limbs twitch and flex, the way his body seems to be anything but his own for a few fiery moments. Impossibly erotic, the way his hands molds over Francis', how he manages to come away with a smear of the man's spend over his fingers.
His other hand wraps around Jamie, fingers diving up into his hair and cradling him into his chest, letting him find somewhere warm to fall in the aftermath of it all. His turn to murmur soft shh, shh, shh, you did very well, sir into the man's soft hair, nosing at his temple as Jamie catches his breath. Thomas can't truly settle all loose-limbed and warm until he's certain Francis has had his fill.
He grinds his bottom back against the captain, an invitation in the dark, coupled with his free hand reaching back to palm along Crozier's flank, fingers working beneath the fabric of his pajama trousers and resting there against the warm skin of his hip, petting him there, smearing the wet of Jamie's spend into his skin.
"You can, if you'd like," Thomas says quietly, head turning to try and see him in the dark where he thinks of saying chase your desire with my body. But it's no use, and keeps his other hand petting Jamie's hair while the man mouths lazy wet kisses against his collarbone. "Or would you like my hand, Francis? Anything."
Anything, and that's true, isn't it. Jopson would do anything for him, let him have anything. He imagined it was him flogging him, with the strap; he would have let Crozier push him down over the table and take his bare hand to him. He let him fuck his mouth on his knees when he was already in pain.
Doesn't need to be that way. (Though it can be, sometimes, because it's enjoyable.) They nearly kiss, almost close enough for it, cheek to cheek for a moment, scraping so near.
"Let me have you any way I asked, wouldn't you," he murmurs. Their hands are still linked and he flexes his fingers, tightens them again. Grounding them together. "Just this, Tom. You're so good, just as you are right here."
Jamie hums and nuzzles in, bumping noses and foreheads with the younger man. He slips his hand down, presses at Thomas' thighs so he can wriggle fingers in between to toy with Francis' cock where it's tucked. It makes Crozier's knee jerk in surprise, the sudden change in sensation almost ticklish. A huff of laughter, and he ducks his head against Jopson's shoulder. Mmn.
"You don't have to be noble about it," he half-drawls, a teasing, familiar complaint.
"Hardly—"
"You're just being mannerly, I know, but you make everyone who wants you wait so bloody long. I bet you ignored Thomas for ages." Jamie presses a kiss to the steward's mouth. "He did, didn't he. Do you want him to make a mess all over you now?"
"James—"
But his breath is caught on some other feeling, sparks down his spine.
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Jamie steals his mouth, after a moment. Francis cradles his steward's face, beautiful boy, presses fingers in his mouth. They swap again and they're still there alongside Jamie's tongue when he kisses Thomas; Francis watches this, commits it to memory, the look, the sound, the smell of everything sleep-warm coming to life.
Oh, what's the point of exploring or sailing, they could do this forever instead.
"Do we have time for me to suck your cock?"
That'll be seared into memory, too. Just where he wants it. Like a criminal being branded.
Alas.
"Not at all," Crozier says, rasped laughter in his voice. "And a heartbeat with this blanket tugged down and you'll lose all interest anyway."
Jamie groans, and not in an altogether amorous way.
"Both of you, up now."
A beautiful moment. Not ruined by its brevity. He kisses Ross' forehead, and Jopson's temple, and sits back with intent to help get everyone sorted.
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Do we have time for me to suck your cock?
Perverse that he wants to see it - even worse that he wonders how quickly his Captain would lose his resolve if they both had their mouths on him. (Even more debauched and foul. Who has he become out here on the seas? Or was he this man all along?)
"Yes, sir," he mutters, shocked back into reality when Crozier sits back. His face flushes and he peels himself from the furs, carefully placing them back round Ross. "I'll have the water ready for your shave, sit," a beat, like he realizes he shouldn't be the one giving orders. "If you wish. At the very least, Captain Ross, I'll see to you."
As exhilarating and freeing as the beautiful moment was - he feels like a madman. His mind turned over, spinning in time with the rhythm of his heart pumping too-hot blood through his veins. He's hardened some, too, but he lets the cold do some work.
"I forgot myself, my apologies, Captain."
Earnest, embarrassed, wired up tight for how easily his routine has gone off course.
"Have you eaten? Ah, the tea-"
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"I've woken you right on time." He threatens a pinch but doesn't follow through, since they do actually have to get to work. Helps him change, instead. Not nearly as graceful as Jopson, especially given the slightly clunky layers he's got on, but it'll do. "We'll be working on the observatory hut today, there are readings for you to go over. Not much hiking for the naturalists, so Jopson will have plenty of opportunity to catch up on anything I've robbed him of time for this morning."
"Are my lieutenants up?"
"One of them. The other will be by the time you're out."
They talk shop. Crozier declines being shaved, opts for tomorrow, continues to go over schedules and necessities while Ross undergoes — businesslike enough not to watch too closely the artful way Jopson handles it all, but there's no fooling where his gaze is fixed. Heatedly discussing the potential for volcanic drafts by the time they're heading out, like some men might invest their energy into horse racing or cricket.
A day that promises to be brutal work. At least Jopson gets to babysit Mr Hooker and one of the other surgeons who's doing diagrams and drawings of everything, and isn't asked to haul rocks or transfer samples. During midday meal, Crozier returns to shove food into his mouth and make plans to teach everyone who can't use celestial navigation tools the proper way to do it, and assigns Hooker the job of coming up with a lesson structure for anything else he's missing. He's keen on this, hoping to be at least a better sailor than a peer of his called Darwin, if not a better scientist, though it's clear the rivalry is very friendly. Tomorrow, for a lesson, everyone will be too knackered today.
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The tent has a safe place for a canvas set up, Ross' paints left on a stool set in front of a makeshift easel. For all his self-deprecating comments about his artistry, he has a keen eye, the colors vivid. They spend portions of the night in quiet, the occasional ribbing or quiet musing about stars and rocks interrupting brushstrokes. Jopson keeps the water warm so he may clean his brush, and enjoys the view in all ways - the painting, Ross in his warm underclothes cut against the lamplight, Crozier sitting nearby with a book in hand, a warmth in his face.
It's murderously cold, but he could suffer it if life was like this on the other side of it all.
They've just come off one such night, but the day leading up to it had been easier - no dragging rocks or hiking, just spending time in the observation tent chipping at stones and talking theories, gazing up at the sky and making conjectures based on things Jopson can't understand when he stops in with warm drinks for those working. The night has set, the work ended a little earlier than usual for the evening meal - a small reprieve after a brutal week's work. They're poised in the tent exactly as he's come to enjoy.
Ross, ignoring his painting after an hour of working at it, chattering on about what Mount Erebus might look like without ice and snow atop it. Jopson's sure Crozier isn't too far away, but he's just turning in to get himself into night clothes after helping the other two men.
It takes a few moments to undo all the layers, but he finally makes it down to his shirtsleeves, pulling the fabric up and off his back. Ah, yes, his back. Healing - a few smaller, striped patches mottled green and plum and yellow, healing but taking their time among the scars from years ago. It's cold, but he bends to dig out his sweater - routine all out of sorts.
"We must determine what makes a volcano's clock tick, Frank... imagine the timing should we see one burst to life!"
Jopson shakes his head, smiling, at the fantastic dreams of the other men. They live in the stars, the waves at their heels. Thomas doesn't know where he lives, but it's pleasant here in the tide of them.
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They both know it's just pressure. They have diagrams of what could be beneath an active volcano, courtesy of thousands of years of human observation and the madness of men who've gone digging in dormant ones. A venture he finds altogether more horrifying than any potential death at sea. What if a mountain collapses on you? Just another kind of exploration to be sure, but he'll pass, if it's all the same.
Quick when he wants to be — as many years in the rigging as any other man — Crozier is handing something to Jopson. One of his own shirts (the last clean one, rowboats will come tomorrow to exchange laundry), oversized for the steward.
"This instead of your nightshirt, if you please." Jamie has a remark about this being very fetching, and Francis tells him to pipe down, you hedonist. It just makes him chuckle. "It'll be looser on your back, if you'll hold still for a while once we're rolled up."
He's had the oil in an inner pocket all day, keeping it as warm as it's going to get. They can all finish what they're up to, changing, putting things away. Ross tells a story about earning lashes with five other boys, and having really been hoping to get out of it on account of nepotism, but such favoritism was not to be. As a twelve-year-old, though, the worst of it was sitting still for so long in recovery, and then having to scrub the decks when he was too ill from wound fever to do anything else. It was on Acteon, which was always nearly sinking from rot. He and Crozier talk a little about the tide language between Martinique and Plymouth, which has something to do with the Acteon's service, probably.
Ross reaches over to turn the light off, when they're finally abed. "How come you never rub bruises off my back anymore?" he asks.
"You complain whenever you're over my knees for more than a minute."
Jamie laughs, bright.
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Crozier's. He blinks, a little doe-eyed at the man, taken aback and having been lost in his own thoughts. He nods slowly, rolls his eyes at Ross.
"Of course, Captain."
And on it goes - too big, slipping annoyingly over his shoulder when he climbs into the cots between the men. He doesn't fully realize why he's been given the shirt until he's settled and Jamie laughs, bright enough to fill the room.
"My back is fine, sir. It's healing," he says on a little sigh, but he's partially masking the way the scent of the shirt makes heat rise to his cheeks. "You both require your rest if you're to be up giggling like school children for the evening."
Ross squirms and lets out a sound that's a little undignified, caught between a snort and a laugh. That pinch at his side he deserved from Crozier many, many times, this time comes from Jopson. A comment - oh indulge a little, Thomas - and further laughs as the other captain rolls onto his side to look at him in the dark.
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It's a besotted kind of thought. No one wants to hear it, for it's so saccharine it can't be true, but Crozier can think it to himself and be content about it. Knowing that Jopson feels at ease enough to pinch him, knowing that Ross is delighted to have someone else to conspire with about all his notions for the world and humanity, and that he gets to be here, witnessing all of it. What other perfect is there. This'll do him, just here, in a tent.
"You sweat under your coat and then your skin dries out when it gets cold again," he murmurs as he gets situated. Up on one elbow just enough to have leverage to slide both hands under the shirt (his shirt) and Jopson's bruised back, oil warmed in his palms. The blankets cocooning them like a nest. "If something splits open you probably won't even tell anyone."
So, this is necessary. And there's the hell-worthy crime that Crozier misses touching him, that he's wanted to since it happened the last time, and it's been too long already. Too long, and he hadn't been able to do it like this, tucked under the same cover, laying side by side. Ross can barely see them in the dark, he knows, but there's enough movement and there's awareness, and it makes for something lovely to experience even simply on the sidelines.
"This is plenty restful, anyhow. Believe me."
A rejuvenating thing, this kind of connection. Ross seems to agree (Crozier knows he does), and he lays a hand on Jopson's chest, petting him slowly. His fingers toy with the collar of the shirt — Crozier's — as if a coy reminder of who it belongs to. All wrapped up in each other.
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"I saw McCormick for it, sir," he says finally. There's a small spot at the downward curve of his right shoulder blade that split a few days ago and has been cleaned and is healing up nicely. "He told me it is nothing of concern."
But concerning this moment? Ross' hand on his chest, Crozier's hands on his back, his own stomach doing a strange twisting at the way he's being handled from both sides. It's warm beneath the furs, warmer now with hands on him. Tentatively he reaches to touch Ross, a hand pressing to his side, curiously mapping the line of it. Ross pets up above the loose collar, fingertips sliding against the skin of his throat in a way that makes Jopson's head tip back, exposing more of his throat.
"I'll tell you a well, next time, sir. My a-"
Ross' fingers up over his chin, against his lips, gently and sweetly shushing the apology away.
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Warm and low. For seeing the doctor about the cut, for letting himself be hushed, now, instead of apologize. Plenty of space for my apologies when it's a part of polite conversation, but there's no need here and now. He continues to touch him, first just petting him, spreading the slick oil to relax him, before seeking out particular spots that seem to want for attention, be it challenged patches of skin or tension just under it.
Francis, because he has little shame despite acting within its orderly lines much of time, thinks about fucking him. He thinks of sliding a hand further down, tugging his steward's knit drawers down over the curve of his rear, and delving oiled fingers in deep. He could, in this position. He could have him hitch one knee up over Jaime's hip, and then press his cock into him. He won't, won't suggest it nor yearn for it— potential mishaps are far too dire to risk. But he can't help thinking how Jopson seems made for it.
Just his touch, and it's more than enough. Down the strong column of his spine, his shoulderblades, the curve of his hipbones, the small of his back. Around his ribcage where he can reach, and the back of his neck. Slow, methodical movements. In time, he slips one hand forward. Still tucked under his own shirt on Thomas' body, he pets over his chest, and up. Cradles the swell of his pectoral muscle, squeezes gently, swipes his thumb over the nub of one nipple. He kneads there as attentively as he had on his back and shoulders, and he hears Jamie sigh with obvious desire, his own hands palming over Thomas' torso, meeting Crozier's hand with a layer of fabric between them for a moment. He drops careful, chaste kisses against the young man's throat, his jaw, his cheekbone.
u saw nothing
Never in his life would he imagine he'd be here - pressed between two men in the cozy warmth of the closest thing to a bed he's had in months. Two men he cares for. Two men that make it impossible to think clearly, overloading every sense, his body stuttering in his attempt to react. It's always been hurried fancies in cupboards or quiet, cheap rooms, or tucked into a very dark corner of a pub to find men like him.
This isn't crude, tasteless, quick. It's electric with something else that he feels afraid to name.
Instead he turns in against the chaste kisses, chasing after his own now, coaxing Ross into a sweet, soft barrage of kisses, slow and careful. He slides his own hand round the back of Ross' hip, anchoring himself on him as he shivers with the attention, stifling a moan into the other captain's mouth.
Jamie returns each sweet little kiss, tasting the low rumble of his voice on his tongue, all with the warmth of the other captain's hand beneath his own. He drags his hand away just to sneak up the front of the man's shirt, pet slowly from his chest to his navel and back, fingers brushing over Francis' with each pass, a centimeter higher on the up, a centimeter lower each time.
👁️👁️
Feels good, doing this. He's slowly getting hard, but he's in no hurry about it. The way Jopson shifts back into him is pleasing, makes him heat up further, but he doesn't follow temptation to rut into him. Instead he continues to touch him, paying special attention to anywhere that earns more of a reaction. He plays with his chest, firm and sensual, liking the shape of him, the wiry hair, the hard buds of his nipples that he finds and tugs on gently.
The sounds, the telltale movements, just about make up for the fact that he can't actually see Jamie and Thomas kissing. Knowing they're doing it is dreadfully arousing in any event, and he can only encourage it. After reaching out to run an affectionate hand over the other captain's hip, he slides his touch down again, back on Thomas' body. He presses against his abdomen, his belly, and lower, to cup him through his pajamas. There's no pretense of rubbing his thighs, though his touch retains that steady, soothing energy as he cradles his weight of his prick.
🙅
"Shhh," Jamie murmurs against the steward's mouth, tilting his head to kiss his jaw, his neck, to his shoulder where Crozier's mouth was before. "We'll take care of you, Thomas, never you mind."
There's no coherent thought that could stand a chance against the gentle, almost reverent way the hand presses around his prick. He's grateful his hips don't buck like some needy school boy, but the faintest movement of his hips, a squirm of desire, may tell all. Jopson doesn't know when Jamie's hand moved, either, the slow up and down patterns coming to an end but only as his hand slides beneath the thermal fabric of his pajamas, gently nudging between the warm weight of Crozier's palm and the stirring line of Jopson's cock.
He sighs, colored in a quiet, throaty sound. A sound that makes him arch again, wedging him perfectly between the two older men. He nearly speaks again, but Jamie beats him to the punch.
"Move me like you'd do it, Frank," a murmur in the dark, against the soft, wet spot on Jopson's shoulder. There's no doubt going to be a soft, pale bruise there in the morning.
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He is envious of Jaime's bare hand on the heated, silk-soft skin of Thomas' cock, and the kisses they're afforded. But it's a pleasant kind of envy. Admiring. His own position is an enviable one in return, he feels, with his own stiffening length now pressed against the cleft of his steward's behind as he's become tucked closer and closer, the three of them shifting gradually tighter around each other.
His shirt is going to smell like Jopson, after this. Only for a little while before it's whisked away. He'll remember this, that desperate murmur, those cut-off gasps. And how beautiful, how frightening, the southern sea is.
A calloused hand curls around Jamie's, around Thomas' prick. He makes him stroke him slowly, thoroughly, the pad of his thumb sometimes stealing a caress around the tender head. Careful movement, probably too slow out of consideration for how dry it's all starting. Something that can be remedied, but he isn't in any hurry. Tomorrow will find them soon enough, there's no sense rushing into it by getting this over quicker.
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That, and Jamie's hand feels overwhelmingly lovely, knowing Crozier guides it. The pesky thumb gets him though, makes him tense, arch into the knowing hands and then back onto Crozier's desire, another sigh he cuts off by biting his bottom lip. There's some help with the slide of it all, too, as he begins to go a little damp. Almost embarrassing, how easy he's worked up, just enough that Crozier's thumb brings a small spot of wet through the fabric.
"Sir," Thomas murmurs again, pawing absently now at Crozier's arm, wanting desperately to touch him. He rests his hand over the older man's wrist, feeling his pulse, imagining it under his lips instead.
Another soft kiss from Jamie, the man rising up on an elbow for better leverage and encouraging Thomas to lean back into Crozier, even a little bit.
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A quiet response, an echo of yearning. Sir, a whole other color of wanting compared to the morning he'd whispered Francis. Crozier likes both, which means he's in trouble. Another few long moments, just like this, feeling him clutch at his arm and letting that damp spot become more tangible under each teasing pass of his thumb. Finally, he relents to the silent plea (and Jamie's fussing, he can just tell).
Crozier shifts his weight to let Jopson lean back against him, tucking one arm beneath him to wrap around, let him grab onto, hands tangled or just pressing into his chest and holding him close. Jamie tugs down the steward's pajama trousers enough to free his cock and expose the rest of him— though only beneath the blankets and furs, still swaddled. He reaches back, deft, and Crozier feels his gaze on him even in the dark as Ross untucks him. It nearly makes him jump, only getting out some small aborted movement before a sigh; he's lost possession of the oil bottle, but feels slick on his hard cock, and then Jamie is hitching as close to Thomas as he can, his slippery hand taking his bare prick in his grip.
"More," he beseeches them both, and Crozier closes his hand over the other man's again.
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Impossible to ignore Jamie's hand behind him, the movement and sigh behind him. The slick hand wrapped round his prick again he hisses between his teeth, scrambling to grab for more than just the man's hand. the fabric of his night shirt first, the meat of his side. His hips jump at the easy slide of their hands and it's the slick nudge of Crozier's arousal against his backside that has him reaching.
"More."
It's awkward, uncomfortable at first, but he slides a leg back between Crozier's, arches back against him to provide him a surface to rut upon if he chooses, a slot made against the round curve of his behind and between the muscle of his thighs. Everything feels sudden and warm, and as Jamie hitches forward, fingers find purchase in the man's hair, tangling, and gently tugs him in for a kiss, more heated than the last.
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Crozier helps, positioning his knee better and flexing forward. His cock slides just where Jopson is offering, and he wishes he could see it; the dark is its own kind of potent element, making everything else heightened, but his steward is so lovely and he knows the sight would be so obscene. Plenty sensation enough to feel, so imagine, to rock forward and think the head of his cock might press up against Jopson's sac if he angles it right. He can feel Ross, still covered, the hard curve of him pressed to the back of his hand.
He can kiss Thomas' shoulder and so he does, and he accepts and returns it when Jamie shifts to steal a few from him, pressed close enough to smother the steward between them. He kisses the back of his hand in Thomas' hair, he squeezes their linked hands, he murmurs half-unintelligible words of praise and endearment. A steady boil. Not yet frantic, on his account. He knows Jamie likes something drawn out as much as he likes being shoved against a wall in a hurry, and so he knows he'll want to win Thomas' climax first. Their hands on him, sharing it. Jamie tells him he's so good, so good for them both, You make Francis so happy, you know you do, and something about it—
He would never have expected it to be erotic, is all, and he can tell from the tone of the other man's voice he's doing it on purpose to rile him up, and that is erotic, too, to be known so thoroughly, to be trusted with it. This is all miserably stupid behavior, an unknown-to-science bear could tear through the camp, a storm could manifest from the ether, someone could walk too close by despite the thick layers of canvas and muffling winds. But he would lose a limb before giving it up.
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You make Francis so happy - and no, he doesn't know. He can't ever be certain what his captain feels. It's all new, this - pressed into makeshift beds and berths with the man and no words to describe why it makes the pathetic muscle of his heart squeeze and flip. Does he make him happy? If happiness is this, with the man's cock nudged between his thighs and his arms and mouth and everything on him, then he could take it. It would be enough.
But it sends his mind to whirling, makes heat blaze deep in his belly and his breathing goes a little shallow, little pants instead of the litany of noises he feels compelled to tamp down. (The danger of what they're doing will always be in their periphery.)
Jamie's hand moves slow, long strokes from root to tip, taking his time and grinning against Crozier's mouth each time they kiss. It's as much a game as it is a delight. Thomas can hear the way the younger captain's breathing has gone a little ragged, the way he can feel even his hardness pressed between their bodies. He drives his own hips back, chasing the press of Crozier between his thighs and against the underside of his arse - then back, driving himself into the circle of Jamie's hand, and inevitably driving Crozier's hand up and against Jamie's desire.
"Please, Francis, please..." Thomas whispers, already making a mess of Jamie's hand and beginning to turn needy, the slow burn bringing him up out of a simmer to something more frantic. He doesn't know what he's begging for, the words a response to every bit of praise he's given, and now with Jamie leaning into Crozier, speaking against the man's mouth he's been so good, Francis, your boy, hasn't he?
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Please, and his name. It makes him jerk Thomas' cock quicker, using Jamie's hand to do it, and it does feel an awful lot like their one mind is operating together this way. Such a good boy for him, and Jamie's been — well a brat, mostly, over the course of their friendship, but he adores him for it. Thomas is honey-sweet and there is biting cinnamon burnt sugar in Jamie, and he's here, something bitter, acidic, everything melting.
He could say—
A dozen stupid, suicidal things. The best, I don't want another one, the only one I've bothered with. Things he's bad at saying, that Jamie has had to wrench out of him or intuit and later demand (truthful) confirmation of. Not his place, is the thing.
What is his place: getting Thomas off, making him feel good, thrilling Jamie with the tangled intimacy of it, pressing the earnestness of his desire and his enjoyment into every touch, every inch of skin, every breath and scrape of teeth.
"There you are. Sweet boy. And you, you bloody menace."
Jamie's laugh is a breathless scrape and he follows it with Yes, yes—
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What would life be like, existing like this? Caught between two vastly different worlds, storms of their own, these men, dragging him to and fro. They are perfect, the pair of him and he's picked apart in the onslaught of their passion - like they know he was meant to be here wrapped up with them all along.
He can't control himself when he plummets, when the mens' joined hands work him faster. A groan, first, low, and then Jamie's free hand pressing fingers to his lips to quiet him, and the feral, animal part of him wraps his lips around each one, near to gagging himself on them as he comes hard, spilling into Jamie's hand, wetting the fabric beneath Crozier's. He chases the feeling of Crozier's cock between his thighs, the tension in his body wringing him up tight, thighs clamping to create a tight, needy passage for the slick, hard line of him.
Jamie works Thomas until he stops twitching, murmuring sweet praises into Jopson's hair - shh, shh, shh, you've done so well - while Jopson sucks on his fingers to keep from making noise out into the quiet of the arctic night.
"Frank," Ross says, breathless, pulls his soiled hand free from Jopson's trousers and offers his fingers up to the other commander - cheeky, menace, a look what I brought you sort of chuckle in the dark.
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Just like this.
Crozier has seen no evidence of God, but he's tumbled more times than he can count, he's made lovers smile, he's been moved near to tears by emotion. Humanity is better than God, when they do good.
A lot of thinking for the animal satisfaction of making a young man spend himself. And for the equally animal enjoyment of Jamie's fingers in his mouth with that ill-tasting but deeply pleasing wetness, Thomas distilled down to the barest part of himself. When Ross' fingers are clean he presses a kiss to his steward's jaw, tells him: "You still taste good."
Hadn't gotten much, that night before the storm. But enough to recognize him again.
He lets Jopson lean back more against him, taking his weight, letting himself rock into that space between his thighs. Still not frantic, because he paws Ross forward to follow, his hand switching gears to touch him now, greeted by a low sound when he tugs at his pajama trousers to delve inside. Almost too warm between them, like he might sweat through everything. Burn through it. Sink into the ground, the ice, the permafrost.
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"Thank you, sir," Thomas sighs, tilting his head into the kiss, wanting to turn and have his own, but not until both men feel the same buzzing warmth he does. It makes his thoughts go molten, a dewy summer haze in the biting cold of winter. Jamie's voice reminds him much of the sweet, sticky honey kept in the little jar by the tea set - thick and rich, and Thomas understands immediately why men and women both quiver at the knees for him.
He touches Crozier's arm, fingers slowly tracing the strong muscle of his forearm, to his wrist. Wraps his hand around Crozier's, loose, wanting to feel the way Francis pleases Jamie, learn what the man likes from his Captain. In the same note he arches into the little movements between his thighs, disregarding his own over-sensitivity. It's a striking sort of bite that keeps him present.
He wants to see both men off - it's his duty as much as it is his desire. Jamie groans, the warmth and weight of two hands enough to make him laugh a airily. He grips Thomas' side, a pretty handle made in the dip of the man's waist. Thomas in turn leans up to kiss him, lazy and hungry, chasing the taste of himself of Jamie's tongue, all the while he squeezes his hand over Crozier's.
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He shows Jopson how to touch their commander. Lets him feel it all through his hand, as he mouths kisses and worries in gentle teeth marks against his shoulder, and the soft part of his ear. His cock is still so hard, and it twitches where Jopson has it held snug and possessive. His other hand, threatening to go slightly numb thanks to his arm being wrapped beneath his steward, still clutches onto him. Linked there, a precious thing.
Slow and steady, until Jamie swears a desperate, rasped word, and grabs at their hands. It makes Francis exhale a laugh, feeling the impatient demand even before the shift in mood— tells him alright, alright, I've got you, don't I always, and jacks him off just the way he needs. He feels nails biting into his shoulder where Jamie scrambles a hand, polite even then, not wanting to claw at Thomas who might not appreciate it. Always goes so tense like it hurts just before. Maybe it does; Francis thinks it must just be like everything else with him, so intense, be it his intellect or his drive or his passions. In the dark he can only half-see his expression, but he knows it well anyway. Hot, wet spend in his hand, and he pulls him through those spasms, Jamie enduring it with his face buried against Thomas to help stifle himself, though he's practiced at being silent through it.
Like all his strings are cut, then. The weight of command, the demands of his station (the encroaching inevitability of failing health that he'll never speak of), he's always useless in the aftermath. But pliable, happy, euphoric. He sighs and murmurs and keens into them both, bestowing soft messy kisses, bubbling over with it.
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His other hand wraps around Jamie, fingers diving up into his hair and cradling him into his chest, letting him find somewhere warm to fall in the aftermath of it all. His turn to murmur soft shh, shh, shh, you did very well, sir into the man's soft hair, nosing at his temple as Jamie catches his breath. Thomas can't truly settle all loose-limbed and warm until he's certain Francis has had his fill.
He grinds his bottom back against the captain, an invitation in the dark, coupled with his free hand reaching back to palm along Crozier's flank, fingers working beneath the fabric of his pajama trousers and resting there against the warm skin of his hip, petting him there, smearing the wet of Jamie's spend into his skin.
"You can, if you'd like," Thomas says quietly, head turning to try and see him in the dark where he thinks of saying chase your desire with my body. But it's no use, and keeps his other hand petting Jamie's hair while the man mouths lazy wet kisses against his collarbone. "Or would you like my hand, Francis? Anything."
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Doesn't need to be that way. (Though it can be, sometimes, because it's enjoyable.) They nearly kiss, almost close enough for it, cheek to cheek for a moment, scraping so near.
"Let me have you any way I asked, wouldn't you," he murmurs. Their hands are still linked and he flexes his fingers, tightens them again. Grounding them together. "Just this, Tom. You're so good, just as you are right here."
Jamie hums and nuzzles in, bumping noses and foreheads with the younger man. He slips his hand down, presses at Thomas' thighs so he can wriggle fingers in between to toy with Francis' cock where it's tucked. It makes Crozier's knee jerk in surprise, the sudden change in sensation almost ticklish. A huff of laughter, and he ducks his head against Jopson's shoulder. Mmn.
"You don't have to be noble about it," he half-drawls, a teasing, familiar complaint.
"Hardly—"
"You're just being mannerly, I know, but you make everyone who wants you wait so bloody long. I bet you ignored Thomas for ages." Jamie presses a kiss to the steward's mouth. "He did, didn't he. Do you want him to make a mess all over you now?"
"James—"
But his breath is caught on some other feeling, sparks down his spine.
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