Their first tryst had started this way. Jopson reaching back to touch him. A confession had been offered then, too, but a more profound one. Crozier touches his hand, giving him a moment before he urges him to bring it up into a more neutral position again, though he stays close, keeping that contact with him there hand in hand, his other on his back.
"Just a little more," he coaxes. "And then we'll sort ourselves out."
The hand over his moves, slides a touch to the side of Jopson's face, his cheekbone. Tracing shapes. Some young men can be moved to hardness by the changing breeze, he knows, and so deliberately drawing out this encounter must be driving him mad. It only serves to wind his own arousal tighter, thinking about Jopson flushed and wanting against his own bedsheets.
"If you think I could let you go unsatisfied after this, you think me a far more noble man than is real."
Trust: he is just as preoccupied. Simply armed with more experiencing in forging ahead anyway. And so he works on that little more, determined to take care of him and do his best to prevent further irritation to his back. When the salve is no longer spreading anywhere, his touch becomes more pointed, lingers longer in inappropriate places, and he shifts his weight forward, as if to crowd him.
"How skittish does the prospect of knocked elbows make you, lad?"
Jopson’s cheeks go pink under the soft shapes Crozier maps on the high points of his cheek bones, in the lingering beyond the contours of his cheeks and jaw. His back, his sides, the dip of his lower back, the join of his thigh to his rear. The lingering brings him to the starting edge of his arousal, the flutter of warmth in his belly lighting a pretty flush down his throat.
“I am satisfied with anything you give me, sir.”
Truth in more ways than one. Easier to feel Crozier’s body heat when he leans, crowds in. Harder to resist wanting to touch him, to turn into him and bloom under him.
“Knocked elbows, even, if you’d like. We have been so close recently, though this is certainly softer than the cots at Aether. My elbows will weather on just fine, sir.”
Thomas thinks about the rails of the joined cots, the warmth of Crozier against his chest, his back, his neck. Anywhere, anything. So long as the captain is there beside him.
Cot rails and all. Aether, gone now, a name only recalled by the two of them. How strange to think of it like that— a temporary place, half-imaginary, holding so many important moments. Crozier pets him a bit more, then proceeds with the present. Not at all imaginary, this place, this ship, and his cramped but comparatively generous cabin.
"Let's see now..."
He coaxes Thomas onto his side, and fusses to shuffle down the top blanket and free it from beneath him. It's not an uncomfortable thing, but the sheets will be softer. When that's done, he encourages him to lay down on his back this time, and Francis finds himself caught with distraction for a moment, just looking at him. A hand finds his chest, admiring. Lower, to the waist of his underwear, and then over a thigh.
Why let his steward work at all? He should just be here all the bloody time.
Alright, alright. Crozier leans down, then, to remove his own boots. Perhaps Jopson is beginning to see the vision.
A time he'll absolutely cherish and look back on fondly when he feels the bitter bite of loneliness or distance. Not here on the ship, not with Crozier - but when they make it back to England, and whatever that brings with it.
He rolls onto his side as he's directed, even helps get the blanket freed from beneath him. The sheets are much softer - he should know, he cleans and presses them often. Stretched out on his back, he turns his attention to the older man, observing his face in the light, the way he moves, breathes, everything about him. There's no hiding the beginnings of his arousal, certainly not while only in his underthings, and definitely not with the soft travel of the captain's hand along his body.
Thomas reaches for the man when he leans, skirts fingertips along his cheek, his temple, through his hair. Anything he may reach and graze, even if he's nearly ready to find his hand and pull him in atop him. Anything to get him closer.
"I could have helped you with those, sir," he murmurs, fingers skirting back to his temple, thumbing at the soft skin there, then his ear lobe. "It is my duty, after all."
Sweet touches. He can feel the restraint in them, can see the way the young man's flesh responds, and it makes him ache for it all too. Madness, that the advent of their physical relationship stemmed from such barbaric punishment, that it continues to be related to it. As though the enormity of mutual want has spilled over into every possible avenue, too potent to be restrained. Finding itself in the harshness of the strap and the soothing aid of salve.
"Next time."
Anything he likes. Crozier just wants to get out of them, at once. But since Thomas does so like to attend to his duty, here is a compromise: Crozier stands and moves the chair away, but when he returns, he takes Jopson's hand and raises it to the fastens of his trousers. Lets him decide how much he'd like him to bare, while he unbuttons his shirt and undoes the ties at his neck. Finding himself in a surprising hurry; does he even want to bother stripping it all, or should he just crawl in and get them tangled up? Spoiled for choice, is the term. Something mildly erotic about not removing it all, but on the other hand, skin and skin, that compels.
"I've never tried to fit into one of these with anyone," he mentions, amused despite the heavy way the air seems to have gone thick and hot. "Here we are at the tip of the spear of the Discovery Service in all ways."
What a paper that would be to submit to one of the societies he's a fellow of.
Next time he undresses Francis he will take his time with it, press his mouth on each piece of flesh exposed and enjoy watching the man's body warm and come to life. Hand at Crozier's fly he's able to manage it deftly with one hand, plucking at buttons and fastenings until the trousers go slack.
"Just your trousers, sir," he murmurs, giving them a playful tug to help him step out of them. He smooths his hand up the man's belly, warm skin and coarse hair, up and down to the band of his underwear. Considers, fingers dipping into the waistband as the man had done to him.
Yes, just like this, he decides. Abandoning the warm skin beneath the waistband, he instead pets at the outside of Crozier's thigh as the trousers fall to the ground.
"We must try so we may adequately report our findings as quickly as possible. The Discovery Service would be very disappointed."
A tug at his hip, encouraging - and also quietly saying underwear on, please, just like me.
Happy to match him. Underwear, and that's all; he leaves his trousers and shirt over the back of the chair. Then he's moving to the bed, his modest bunk which houses him with a few inches to spare in deference to any captains who may have extra length in the spine. One knee on either side of Jopson's (giving himself contact with the wall, gallantly), and it's parts awkward fumbling and parts easy as breathing to be there over him, on elbows and knees.
The world doesn't end. No one bursts through the door to announce they'll be hanged for violating one of the gravest crimes outlined in the Articles. It's all fine, in fact.
(If that was going to happen, he thinks it would have been Parry, and he thinks he and Jamie would have been shot dead under a part of the wreck of the Fury.)
Francis looks at him. They're awfully close. They've been closer, in that dark tent, but they weren't facing each other. There was no lamplight. Here they are, looking at each other, so little between them, and quite illuminated. He really is beautiful. For the first time he properly wonders what in the bleeding hell Thomas is doing with him. One thing for a young man to want attention for a night or two, but this is another order of thing altogether.
With weight on one elbow, he touches his steward's face. Holds him there, stroking his cheek.
A little awkward, navigating the space and trying to make room for the older man to climb into the bed atop him. A balancing act, even with Crozier perched over him. (He could pull his legs through - get them around the man's waist and create space for him to rest among other things, but later, perhaps). This is different from before, the nearness, the light, the warmth and Thomas gazes up at him, besotted and wanting.
Hands rise to skirt Crozier's sides, petting from hip to ribs then down again, settling at his waist.
"My back is fine, sir," he murmurs, quiet and almost shy. His throat flushes, his cheeks turn a shade toward ruddy now than pink. "You can rest on me, if you'd like. It won't hurt me."
Press him down into the mattress, get them closer than even the tent could. His turn to let hands wander yet again, over the curve of Crozier's behind and back to his sides, a slow and lazy loop of touches.
"I want you to be comfortable as well, sir."
While they have the time to be comfortable. It's risky, the game they've played so far, but the door is locked and all it will take is Jopson getting up to dress - the Captain being disheveled would make sense for this hour, dressing for bed. He would take the brunt of any wave that might crash down on them for this, the sweet and filthy thing they've engaged in.
Jopson would stand at the gallows and declare himself the worst of the sodomites, shield Crozier from the sharp eye of the English.
Jopson flushes so prettily, and his touch heats Crozier's blood; he wants him so earnestly. He would never have allowed himself to entertain anything, never consider anything beyond abstract appreciation of the young man's looks, before he made it plain that he'd ferreted out he and Jamie's entanglement. Before they began testing each other with small teases. He doesn't think he could have ever predicted this even as a joke, and at times it feels as fantastical as something that might appear in the pages of the book Jopson's been reading.
"We've time to get there," he assures him in a murmur.
Let it all melt together, just for tonight.
And so, after tracing his thumb over Thomas' mouth, he kisses him. Slow, as if they never have before. At an angle new to them, in a position knitted closer than anything they've yet had. If he sinks down onto him, let it be through this, through mapping each other and drawing closer as they go on.
The bunk gradually feels less cramped and more like a cozy, secret cradle. The light feels less exposing and more like a gold blanket to warm them. Francis thinks he must look ridiculous, pale skin going almost too pink when he flushes, whatever thing in his blood that made his hair bright red as a boy still showing up in his complexion. When he shifts his weight, his knee moves against the side of Thomas' leg, and that, too, is a kind of caress.
The world quiets around them, Terror seemingly careful as she parts the seas, the tosses and turns minimized to a lazy rocking. Crozier burns hot like one of his famed stars in the sky and just like in the tent, pressed together close, he wants to frame this moment. Seize it and hold it close for the impossible intimacy of it.
The kiss takes the air out of his lungs and one of his roaming hands reaches to smooth over Crozier's shoulder, not pulling or squeezing, just resting there, hooked under his arm just as a gentle anchor in the bobbing of the sea. He arches just enough to sweetly chase the kiss, slow and languorous. What would it be like to stay like this all night and wake in the morning, tangled and warm and cramped but perfectly happy?
A sigh against Crozier's mouth, a bumping of their noses, another soft and slow kiss. He shifts one leg, just enough to press back into the brush of the man's knee, enough to keep points of contact in all places, to feel him in every way he can.
"Francis," he says quietly against the man's mouth - not desperate or heated or the slurring of lust, but more soft, yearning. He opens his mouth to say something again, finds he can't put words to the overwhelm of what he's feeling, and simply kisses him again.
He wants the taste of him, even neutral like this, dinner and tea distant memories, to be familiar; he wants to get to a place where the flex of his tongue is one he can anticipate, he wants to have bumped into each tooth. A fine grain of knowing, like the exact curves and dips of a coastline, mapped with perfect, attentive detail.
He tips his head down so that Jopson doesn't have to stretch up to meet him, and gradually, the rest of him sinks down, too. Careful so that they're each comfortable, and so that no one ends up with anything pinched or knocked into. Far easier when he's only half-paying attention to it, too wrapped up in the sensations of kissing him. No hurry, no more end goals to reach, just this.
His name, on his mouth. This too has a taste. Francis sighs, welcoming it, and shares his understanding through that kiss. When they connect fully there's no way to hide how aroused they are, aligned just so, and it makes him draw in a deeper breath. Mn.
"Perhaps I'll keep this study to myself," he murmurs.
Jopson threads his arms around Crozier, one round his back, the other reaching through to touch his cheek, his chin, in the moments they aren't kissing. A need to be close, tangled, touching at all costs. The man's weight against his body draws a soft sigh, as though this is indeed what he's wanted for as long as he's known the man. (It is).
Fingers twine Crozier's hair, petting back the fair strands so that he and nuzzle softly against his cheek, his temple, mouthing softly at the man's jaw while he speaks. He wants to taste the curl of his accent, the deep rumble of his voice, the movement of his jaw, his mouth. He smiles against the man's skin, free hand running soft, delicate lines up the captain's back.
The way they slot together so perfectly means there is no hiding. Not here in the warm light of the berth, on the gently rocking Terror. The door is locked, the sheets are warm, and there are no witnesses but the pair of them. A low hum, a dull ache deep in his belly, his growing arousal no hidden thing now - nothing hidden, not here in the light.
"I will support you in all things, Captain," he murmurs, light and amused against Francis' mouth. "This study will be ours just as Aether was."
Another kiss, lingering and sweet, like Francis Crozier is all he needs to breathe in his moment.
One hand cradles Jopson's head, a perfectly fine place to keep one arm out of the way; his other pets his chest, or holds his weight up a little, or slides down to his side. Like waves going in and out, sometimes they grow more heated, and sometimes it fades to all sweet, comforting little things.
Ours.
Why does that pull at something in his chest so very—
(He knows why. But he can't look at it.)
Crozier is hard, maybe not all the way but certainly enough to be getting on with when it's just kisses and laying against someone, and he knows Jopson is too. Impossible not to know, pressed together nearly grinding. Every breath and shift teases more, and be both wants to escalate and leave it be. The feel of it suits the precarious space they've wedged themselves into, like these are the mechanics they're meant to be engaging in. A lovely feeling, but one that threatens to open up yet another deeper, hungrier maw of want.
"And what do you want, Thomas?" a sweet kiss to the side of his mouth, after a deep, plundering one. "You support me in all things. What of yourself?"
They could have been quick and filthy about this - a rutting of bodies, a feverish tangle of limbs, a hunger and fire in desperate need of being sated. Instead they’re this - teetering on the line of want and comfort, lazy and deep kisses that speak of deeper desire than they’re both acting on.
His hands roam as they kiss, along his side, his hip, his back, a soft tangle in his hair. Between breaths he traces his fingers along the man’s brow, the bridge of his nose, over his lips, mapping every part of him so as to memorize it. Foolish, all of it. Sailors are never long for commitment. Never married to anything but the sea. They will dock and go their ways but for now, he desperately wants to imagine they won’t.
He doesn’t speak it out loud. Just looks up at Crozier. You make him happy, Jamie told him in the dim light of the tent. That is all he could want, however fleeting.
He thumbs idly over the man’s bottom lip, admiring him in a breath of silence. His body burns for him, but he’s sure the fire in his chest burns brighter, hotter.
“I am quite happy here on Terror, sir. I have everything I need.”
Not the answer for the question he’d been asked, but genuine all the same.
A part of this puzzle, of the world. From anyone else, Crozier might think he was brushing off the question— an absurd thing to do, given their current configuration. What do you want, the both of them nearly nude, turning each other's mouths bruised-red, cocks hard and straining side by side through flimsy drawers. I'm happy with my job, sir.
It goes so deep, doesn't it. The way he finds his happiness through taking care of someone. How much he must get out of how they've found themselves, an agreeable affair in addition to the post at which he excels. He wonders: if he pushed him for an answer, what might tumble out? A confession that he wants his prick sucked or some heretofore unknown odd fetish, or would he plead that he has it, just like this?
Would he be happier with Ross, being one of the officer stewards on Erebus tending to their breathtakingly beautiful and brilliant commander instead? But no, even as he wonders, he thinks No, he wouldn't. Doesn't know why he thinks that. Greed, perhaps. Selfishness to hope that it's him, even though he must commit himself to remaining open to any weather as it comes. (If Miss Cracroft doesn't agree, then what? Will there be someone else Jamie has selected, will he be told to find someone now or have every door forever sealed, or—)
Francis would like very much for this to be everything he needs. It feels like a betrayal to think that. Jamie doesn't need to hear it, though.
He's been staring at him for too long.
"Feels like you might need something else, too."
He could kick himself for how thick with emotion his voice sounds when he's trying to make a lewd joke, incline his hips down to rock into his steward's arousal. C'mon, Crozier.
The silence between them is a comfortable, easy thing. Jopson thumbs softly over Crozier's chin, memorizing the lines of his face up close and in the light like this. Just a gentle brush of skin and the man's weight across him - like they were meant to stay like this, glued together, for how right it all feels.
There's something behind the blue of the man's eyes in the warm light, and he wonders if he looked closed enough if he might catch the thoughts racing in the man's mind. Francis deserves a life at sea and free exploration. Imagines him on a sloop, sailing on warm seas and exploring what the world has to offer, with neither crew nor navy watching over his shoulder, waiting for him to slip up.
The roll of hips brings him back to his own body, unable to withhold the low groan as their shared arousal becomes more and more obvious. It doesn't deafen him to the emotion in Crozier's voice - thick, intense, whatever it is. Jopson huffs softly and slides a hand against the man's nape, tugging him in for one soft kiss. A quiet way to sooth what lies behind the lilt of his accent.
"I do."
An arch of his back, careful beneath the man, but enough to grind their erections together, slow and sure.
"I suspect you need something as well, Captain," he murmurs, forgetting the burning thing in his chest and instead leaning up to nip at the man's mouth. There's time to parse apart that feeling later, and time only for the burn of their bodies now.
Whatever it is you need to give, I will hold for you.
He can't say things like that.
(Because—
simply can't.)
Instead he sighs, feeling like a teakettle venting steam. Jopson makes him want to unclip the leash on his patience, and bring him back to where they were that first encounter, with his steward on his knees. But this is better, no matter how slow. Something important lurking in the shared looks and trapped touches.
"And doesn't it just work out," he husks against his cheekbone, "that I have everything I need right here."
He can't say things like that, but he can say this, and make it filthier and hope that it's good enough. Good enough, that he and Jamie have what they have in between where duty takes them. Good enough, that he is trying to marry a girl for razor's edge of convenience and safety instead of love. Crozier is good at good enough. He has made it work for everything in his life, and here he is now—
Exactly where he wants to be. He could wish for nothing more.
He kisses him more, and manages to wedge just enough leverage on one elbow and knee to slide his hand between them. Doesn't do more than cover the stiff curve of Jopson's arousal with his palm, doesn't rut down or grab him. Just holds there, and gives him something to press against.
The boyish, desperate version of himself would cling to this - reach for Francis' face and ask him to say it again, over and over, so he can make sense of what it means beneath the layers of lust and want. The man, the steward, the committed guardian of this man knows better than to beg for truth in a moment of whimsy and want. But he'd be stupid to ignore the way the air feels a little heavier, that their touches and gazes mean something else.
Maybe he's being too much of a romantic, wanting what he isn't sure is there, or isn't sure he can have. But it feels real now, and even if it isn't the idea that this man needs him at all is worth it.
"I will always be at your side should you need me," he groans into one of the kisses. No honorific here, no proprieties, even if Crozier has done something to knock his senses out of place. To make his words too loose on the tongue, the pressure in his chest spilling over, a wisp of something he has to tamp back down.
There's little time for thought on it, his Captain's hand already encouraging the roll of his hips, slowly arching to apply more pressure, slow and sure. He will never say aloud he preferred as they were, tangled and pressured and cramped, hips flush to hips. Everything Francis wants to give him he will take, without complaint, without fuss. It will always be enough.
He smooths his hands along the man's arm, following it between them only to divert to his hip then along his spine.
"I wish to make you feel pleasure, too, sir," he murmurs, leaning to kiss his chin, his jaw. "Both of us, together."
He has to kiss him. For always, and for how good he feels. For how scalding hot he is even through the fabric of his undergarment. To be wanted so much, to have his own wanting welcomed and grabbed at greedily, is heady. You're just having an affair, he reminds himself, but that sensible voice is far away, now, and it gives up being heard right away.
"Alright."
Economical agreement. He can do that. Another fawning pet over him, and then he's shifting his weight, withdrawing his hand. They could, perhaps, find an alignment of bodies for hands between them to make work of it that way, but he has a better idea. Something unbearably sweet about Jopson wanting it together, pleading away from being serviced first.
He knows the compartments beneath the bunk well. Only one false start, discarding a bottle of violet water back into the drawer with its fabric scrap stuffing to keep things from knocking about while she ship moves. Successfully captured is a bottle of olive and clove oil, not as expensive as the almond from before, but more practical (and obvious) in its use. He spills it on his hand, and then reaches back between them. This time he undoes the tie and slides fingers around the length of Jopson's prick, no shyness there at all. Francis can't help but look down, even though the sight is mostly obscured. He gives him a loving stroke, and then repeats the process for himself. Hard and obscene, they lay against each other with nothing but hot skin and oil, and even a poorly envisioned upside-down sight is a lurid one that will be burned into his memory. To say nothing of the feel of it.
Rubbing against each other now is a different experience, free of anything that will chafe, or catch. This would be a fine time for someone to fire a gun on deck.
Crozier's hand round him will always be a divine shock to his senses, sending white-hot sparks down his spine and flooding his body with warmth. Difficult to ignore it, the lewd image of the man's slick hand between them and even he steals a look when he can and not bump the captain's. Who is also looking down between them at the mess of his prick and the oil.
The hot slide of their bodies alone is nearly enough to make him furious with hunger and wanting. Groaning low against Crozier's mouth before kissing him again, desperate to taste him and more desperate still to muffle himself. The berth is a secure one, but it is still a ship, after all, and not some fortress. (How is he ever going to be able to return to normal life after this? What will he do with the pressure behind his ribs that doesn't have a home except here where he relieves it with kisses and touches and quiet moments and this.)
He pets down Crozier's chest, his sides, his hips, until he finds purchase against the meat of his behind, palming the muscle there and holding him firm as he slow arches up, grinding their slick cocks together, keeping contact both on the rise and the descent.
"Sir," he pants against the man's jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Another roll of his hips, and he kisses him again through it, licking hot into his mouth, trying to chase the telltale taste of him and feel utterly consumed by the man atop him.
Whatever small doubts he may have had — is this the right move, he did opt to leave their drawers on when he gave him the reins — are burned away at Jopson's reaction. He feels it even before the young man moves, some surge of energy in him pushing up, up, into his very spirit, stoking his own fire to scorching levels. They're going to burn the ship again this way, have to flood her to just to put them out.
Crozier rocks down into him, making electric sparks go off behind his closed eyes. They are some electromagnetic experiment, shooting out blinding colors and fireworks. It's less tight then fucking between Jopson's thighs on the ice, but it's so much more present, and the feel of being able to get his weight so rough against him, the feel of their stiff cocks sliding against each other, is all mind-melting. So much more than he's had in months, and made yet more still by all these particular considerations they've been making for one another.
"Sweet boy," he returns, barely able to get any words out, too busy catching sounds from Jopson's. Helping him muffle it all, helping himself stay quiet, and just feeling. He can't get enough. "So good for me, Tom."
Thomas holds onto the man as long as he can, fingers gripping at the muscle of his rear a little too tight with every slide, encouraging more pressure, more feeling, more of everything that's shared between them. Crozier calls him sweet boy and Tom and he can think of nothing more than the way their bodies press together, the way they kiss, the way the muffle one another and swallow up all the sweet sounds of pleasure.
Impossible to stay quiet, this sensation new and electrifying, the slide of their hard pricks too perfect to put words to.
"I try... to be good for you," he pants into the man's mouth, chasing kisses and arching up into the man, meeting his hips every time he bears down against him. It's impossible to tell what of the wet is the oil or the mess he's sure he's making between them. How could he not be wet with the want of him, body begging for more, more, more.
He releases the man's arse, mapping up his back, his sides, tangling their arms just long enough to get around them. He wraps his arms around his neck instead, kissing him hard and bruising, dragging his teeth along the man's bottom lip as he arches up against him again, creating a slow and steady rhythm rutting against him.
"You are," he promises him, earnest praise, practically sharing breath with him. "You are, Thomas."
Good for him. Always, he says, and Crozier can't help deny that it makes him feel impossibly hotter. Any brakes thoroughly off. Thomas gets so wet, he's never tumbled a man who leaks so much before the pinnacle, and it's wildly erotic. It makes everything slip so much easier, but it makes him want to lick it off of him, too. He wants to feel it all over his chest, wants to feel it pulsing out of him around his cock.
Just as good, this, because nothing else is possible; the way they're pressed together is practically fucking already. Francis angles up a bit, able to get more weight on his knees so he can grind down just that little bit more. He drags Jopson's outside knee up with one hand, giving them both more room, torquing his body a degree. They fit together even closer, and the slide of hot, hard flesh against each other makes his breath catch. If he were twenty years younger, he might have yelped.
The shift in their positions leaves his voice caught up in his throat, a hitching gasp cut short. He keeps his knee hiked up, pressing into the older man's side as they grind together like this, slick and lewd and utterly perfect. He holds onto his shoulders, his back, no doubt leaving little marks there as he arches up again, dragging their cocks together and encouraging the man to answer back with his own movements.
It's overwhelming, his mind's gone warm and foggy, the affirmations enough to make him moan lowly against his mouth without even the hitch of his hips. It won't be long - he can feel the beginnings of the wire deep in his belly beginning to wind up, strain. The way Crozier moves over him, their pricks slotting together slick and hot, makes it impossible to think of anything else.
"Thank you, sir," he breathes, licking at the man's lips, leaning his head to kiss him again and again between the rocking of his hips. His thighs will burn in the morning, his core will be tight and sore - a pleasant reminder of this moment together. It could only be made better if they were actually fucking, if he could feel stretched and full and complete with Crozier's weight atop him.
He loosens one arm around the man's shoulders. It's a little awkward, the way he reaches between them, but he presses his hand over both of their wet pricks - something for his Captain to fuck into that feels warm and snug, even if it is just a press of a hand to his own belly.
Crozier drags Jopson up into ever movement, straining for it, not caring at all about what it'll feel like in the morning; this is rough work, this life. Something always aches anyway. Be worth it, this time, not just from hitting a knee on a desk when the ship lurches.
"I can feel you getting so tense." Can he. He thinks so. It's a thrilling thought, even before Jopson winds a clever hand between them. His own cock twitches, and he's sure his steward will be able to feel it— against his fingers, against his prick.
There's nothing artful to it. They're rutting frantically together in a cramped space, and any description of it to a third party would be unbearably lewd and brutish. But if feels so intimate, so connected, so significant. They're facing each other and they're holding each other close and precious. Like they're doing something soft, and loving, and not risking bruised hipbones and stones. It's a wonder Crozier's elbow hasn't slipped. But it won't. He wants to see him off, wants to feel him climax, watch it on his face, and feel how wet he makes it between them.
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"Just a little more," he coaxes. "And then we'll sort ourselves out."
The hand over his moves, slides a touch to the side of Jopson's face, his cheekbone. Tracing shapes. Some young men can be moved to hardness by the changing breeze, he knows, and so deliberately drawing out this encounter must be driving him mad. It only serves to wind his own arousal tighter, thinking about Jopson flushed and wanting against his own bedsheets.
"If you think I could let you go unsatisfied after this, you think me a far more noble man than is real."
Trust: he is just as preoccupied. Simply armed with more experiencing in forging ahead anyway. And so he works on that little more, determined to take care of him and do his best to prevent further irritation to his back. When the salve is no longer spreading anywhere, his touch becomes more pointed, lingers longer in inappropriate places, and he shifts his weight forward, as if to crowd him.
"How skittish does the prospect of knocked elbows make you, lad?"
Considering. Will they both fit.
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“I am satisfied with anything you give me, sir.”
Truth in more ways than one. Easier to feel Crozier’s body heat when he leans, crowds in. Harder to resist wanting to touch him, to turn into him and bloom under him.
“Knocked elbows, even, if you’d like. We have been so close recently, though this is certainly softer than the cots at Aether. My elbows will weather on just fine, sir.”
Thomas thinks about the rails of the joined cots, the warmth of Crozier against his chest, his back, his neck. Anywhere, anything. So long as the captain is there beside him.
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Cot rails and all. Aether, gone now, a name only recalled by the two of them. How strange to think of it like that— a temporary place, half-imaginary, holding so many important moments. Crozier pets him a bit more, then proceeds with the present. Not at all imaginary, this place, this ship, and his cramped but comparatively generous cabin.
"Let's see now..."
He coaxes Thomas onto his side, and fusses to shuffle down the top blanket and free it from beneath him. It's not an uncomfortable thing, but the sheets will be softer. When that's done, he encourages him to lay down on his back this time, and Francis finds himself caught with distraction for a moment, just looking at him. A hand finds his chest, admiring. Lower, to the waist of his underwear, and then over a thigh.
Why let his steward work at all? He should just be here all the bloody time.
Alright, alright. Crozier leans down, then, to remove his own boots. Perhaps Jopson is beginning to see the vision.
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A time he'll absolutely cherish and look back on fondly when he feels the bitter bite of loneliness or distance. Not here on the ship, not with Crozier - but when they make it back to England, and whatever that brings with it.
He rolls onto his side as he's directed, even helps get the blanket freed from beneath him. The sheets are much softer - he should know, he cleans and presses them often. Stretched out on his back, he turns his attention to the older man, observing his face in the light, the way he moves, breathes, everything about him. There's no hiding the beginnings of his arousal, certainly not while only in his underthings, and definitely not with the soft travel of the captain's hand along his body.
Thomas reaches for the man when he leans, skirts fingertips along his cheek, his temple, through his hair. Anything he may reach and graze, even if he's nearly ready to find his hand and pull him in atop him. Anything to get him closer.
"I could have helped you with those, sir," he murmurs, fingers skirting back to his temple, thumbing at the soft skin there, then his ear lobe. "It is my duty, after all."
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"Next time."
Anything he likes. Crozier just wants to get out of them, at once. But since Thomas does so like to attend to his duty, here is a compromise: Crozier stands and moves the chair away, but when he returns, he takes Jopson's hand and raises it to the fastens of his trousers. Lets him decide how much he'd like him to bare, while he unbuttons his shirt and undoes the ties at his neck. Finding himself in a surprising hurry; does he even want to bother stripping it all, or should he just crawl in and get them tangled up? Spoiled for choice, is the term. Something mildly erotic about not removing it all, but on the other hand, skin and skin, that compels.
"I've never tried to fit into one of these with anyone," he mentions, amused despite the heavy way the air seems to have gone thick and hot. "Here we are at the tip of the spear of the Discovery Service in all ways."
What a paper that would be to submit to one of the societies he's a fellow of.
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"Just your trousers, sir," he murmurs, giving them a playful tug to help him step out of them. He smooths his hand up the man's belly, warm skin and coarse hair, up and down to the band of his underwear. Considers, fingers dipping into the waistband as the man had done to him.
Yes, just like this, he decides. Abandoning the warm skin beneath the waistband, he instead pets at the outside of Crozier's thigh as the trousers fall to the ground.
"We must try so we may adequately report our findings as quickly as possible. The Discovery Service would be very disappointed."
A tug at his hip, encouraging - and also quietly saying underwear on, please, just like me.
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The world doesn't end. No one bursts through the door to announce they'll be hanged for violating one of the gravest crimes outlined in the Articles. It's all fine, in fact.
(If that was going to happen, he thinks it would have been Parry, and he thinks he and Jamie would have been shot dead under a part of the wreck of the Fury.)
Francis looks at him. They're awfully close. They've been closer, in that dark tent, but they weren't facing each other. There was no lamplight. Here they are, looking at each other, so little between them, and quite illuminated. He really is beautiful. For the first time he properly wonders what in the bleeding hell Thomas is doing with him. One thing for a young man to want attention for a night or two, but this is another order of thing altogether.
With weight on one elbow, he touches his steward's face. Holds him there, stroking his cheek.
"Is your back alright like this?"
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Hands rise to skirt Crozier's sides, petting from hip to ribs then down again, settling at his waist.
"My back is fine, sir," he murmurs, quiet and almost shy. His throat flushes, his cheeks turn a shade toward ruddy now than pink. "You can rest on me, if you'd like. It won't hurt me."
Press him down into the mattress, get them closer than even the tent could. His turn to let hands wander yet again, over the curve of Crozier's behind and back to his sides, a slow and lazy loop of touches.
"I want you to be comfortable as well, sir."
While they have the time to be comfortable. It's risky, the game they've played so far, but the door is locked and all it will take is Jopson getting up to dress - the Captain being disheveled would make sense for this hour, dressing for bed. He would take the brunt of any wave that might crash down on them for this, the sweet and filthy thing they've engaged in.
Jopson would stand at the gallows and declare himself the worst of the sodomites, shield Crozier from the sharp eye of the English.
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"We've time to get there," he assures him in a murmur.
Let it all melt together, just for tonight.
And so, after tracing his thumb over Thomas' mouth, he kisses him. Slow, as if they never have before. At an angle new to them, in a position knitted closer than anything they've yet had. If he sinks down onto him, let it be through this, through mapping each other and drawing closer as they go on.
The bunk gradually feels less cramped and more like a cozy, secret cradle. The light feels less exposing and more like a gold blanket to warm them. Francis thinks he must look ridiculous, pale skin going almost too pink when he flushes, whatever thing in his blood that made his hair bright red as a boy still showing up in his complexion. When he shifts his weight, his knee moves against the side of Thomas' leg, and that, too, is a kind of caress.
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The kiss takes the air out of his lungs and one of his roaming hands reaches to smooth over Crozier's shoulder, not pulling or squeezing, just resting there, hooked under his arm just as a gentle anchor in the bobbing of the sea. He arches just enough to sweetly chase the kiss, slow and languorous. What would it be like to stay like this all night and wake in the morning, tangled and warm and cramped but perfectly happy?
A sigh against Crozier's mouth, a bumping of their noses, another soft and slow kiss. He shifts one leg, just enough to press back into the brush of the man's knee, enough to keep points of contact in all places, to feel him in every way he can.
"Francis," he says quietly against the man's mouth - not desperate or heated or the slurring of lust, but more soft, yearning. He opens his mouth to say something again, finds he can't put words to the overwhelm of what he's feeling, and simply kisses him again.
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He tips his head down so that Jopson doesn't have to stretch up to meet him, and gradually, the rest of him sinks down, too. Careful so that they're each comfortable, and so that no one ends up with anything pinched or knocked into. Far easier when he's only half-paying attention to it, too wrapped up in the sensations of kissing him. No hurry, no more end goals to reach, just this.
His name, on his mouth. This too has a taste. Francis sighs, welcoming it, and shares his understanding through that kiss. When they connect fully there's no way to hide how aroused they are, aligned just so, and it makes him draw in a deeper breath. Mn.
"Perhaps I'll keep this study to myself," he murmurs.
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Fingers twine Crozier's hair, petting back the fair strands so that he and nuzzle softly against his cheek, his temple, mouthing softly at the man's jaw while he speaks. He wants to taste the curl of his accent, the deep rumble of his voice, the movement of his jaw, his mouth. He smiles against the man's skin, free hand running soft, delicate lines up the captain's back.
The way they slot together so perfectly means there is no hiding. Not here in the warm light of the berth, on the gently rocking Terror. The door is locked, the sheets are warm, and there are no witnesses but the pair of them. A low hum, a dull ache deep in his belly, his growing arousal no hidden thing now - nothing hidden, not here in the light.
"I will support you in all things, Captain," he murmurs, light and amused against Francis' mouth. "This study will be ours just as Aether was."
Another kiss, lingering and sweet, like Francis Crozier is all he needs to breathe in his moment.
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Ours.
Why does that pull at something in his chest so very—
(He knows why. But he can't look at it.)
Crozier is hard, maybe not all the way but certainly enough to be getting on with when it's just kisses and laying against someone, and he knows Jopson is too. Impossible not to know, pressed together nearly grinding. Every breath and shift teases more, and be both wants to escalate and leave it be. The feel of it suits the precarious space they've wedged themselves into, like these are the mechanics they're meant to be engaging in. A lovely feeling, but one that threatens to open up yet another deeper, hungrier maw of want.
"And what do you want, Thomas?" a sweet kiss to the side of his mouth, after a deep, plundering one. "You support me in all things. What of yourself?"
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His hands roam as they kiss, along his side, his hip, his back, a soft tangle in his hair. Between breaths he traces his fingers along the man’s brow, the bridge of his nose, over his lips, mapping every part of him so as to memorize it. Foolish, all of it. Sailors are never long for commitment. Never married to anything but the sea. They will dock and go their ways but for now, he desperately wants to imagine they won’t.
He doesn’t speak it out loud. Just looks up at Crozier. You make him happy, Jamie told him in the dim light of the tent. That is all he could want, however fleeting.
He thumbs idly over the man’s bottom lip, admiring him in a breath of silence. His body burns for him, but he’s sure the fire in his chest burns brighter, hotter.
“I am quite happy here on Terror, sir. I have everything I need.”
Not the answer for the question he’d been asked, but genuine all the same.
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A part of this puzzle, of the world. From anyone else, Crozier might think he was brushing off the question— an absurd thing to do, given their current configuration. What do you want, the both of them nearly nude, turning each other's mouths bruised-red, cocks hard and straining side by side through flimsy drawers. I'm happy with my job, sir.
It goes so deep, doesn't it. The way he finds his happiness through taking care of someone. How much he must get out of how they've found themselves, an agreeable affair in addition to the post at which he excels. He wonders: if he pushed him for an answer, what might tumble out? A confession that he wants his prick sucked or some heretofore unknown odd fetish, or would he plead that he has it, just like this?
Would he be happier with Ross, being one of the officer stewards on Erebus tending to their breathtakingly beautiful and brilliant commander instead? But no, even as he wonders, he thinks No, he wouldn't. Doesn't know why he thinks that. Greed, perhaps. Selfishness to hope that it's him, even though he must commit himself to remaining open to any weather as it comes. (If Miss Cracroft doesn't agree, then what? Will there be someone else Jamie has selected, will he be told to find someone now or have every door forever sealed, or—)
Francis would like very much for this to be everything he needs. It feels like a betrayal to think that. Jamie doesn't need to hear it, though.
He's been staring at him for too long.
"Feels like you might need something else, too."
He could kick himself for how thick with emotion his voice sounds when he's trying to make a lewd joke, incline his hips down to rock into his steward's arousal. C'mon, Crozier.
"Or am I imagining?"
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There's something behind the blue of the man's eyes in the warm light, and he wonders if he looked closed enough if he might catch the thoughts racing in the man's mind. Francis deserves a life at sea and free exploration. Imagines him on a sloop, sailing on warm seas and exploring what the world has to offer, with neither crew nor navy watching over his shoulder, waiting for him to slip up.
The roll of hips brings him back to his own body, unable to withhold the low groan as their shared arousal becomes more and more obvious. It doesn't deafen him to the emotion in Crozier's voice - thick, intense, whatever it is. Jopson huffs softly and slides a hand against the man's nape, tugging him in for one soft kiss. A quiet way to sooth what lies behind the lilt of his accent.
"I do."
An arch of his back, careful beneath the man, but enough to grind their erections together, slow and sure.
"I suspect you need something as well, Captain," he murmurs, forgetting the burning thing in his chest and instead leaning up to nip at the man's mouth. There's time to parse apart that feeling later, and time only for the burn of their bodies now.
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He can't say things like that.
(Because—
simply can't.)
Instead he sighs, feeling like a teakettle venting steam. Jopson makes him want to unclip the leash on his patience, and bring him back to where they were that first encounter, with his steward on his knees. But this is better, no matter how slow. Something important lurking in the shared looks and trapped touches.
"And doesn't it just work out," he husks against his cheekbone, "that I have everything I need right here."
He can't say things like that, but he can say this, and make it filthier and hope that it's good enough. Good enough, that he and Jamie have what they have in between where duty takes them. Good enough, that he is trying to marry a girl for razor's edge of convenience and safety instead of love. Crozier is good at good enough. He has made it work for everything in his life, and here he is now—
Exactly where he wants to be. He could wish for nothing more.
He kisses him more, and manages to wedge just enough leverage on one elbow and knee to slide his hand between them. Doesn't do more than cover the stiff curve of Jopson's arousal with his palm, doesn't rut down or grab him. Just holds there, and gives him something to press against.
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Maybe he's being too much of a romantic, wanting what he isn't sure is there, or isn't sure he can have. But it feels real now, and even if it isn't the idea that this man needs him at all is worth it.
"I will always be at your side should you need me," he groans into one of the kisses. No honorific here, no proprieties, even if Crozier has done something to knock his senses out of place. To make his words too loose on the tongue, the pressure in his chest spilling over, a wisp of something he has to tamp back down.
There's little time for thought on it, his Captain's hand already encouraging the roll of his hips, slowly arching to apply more pressure, slow and sure. He will never say aloud he preferred as they were, tangled and pressured and cramped, hips flush to hips. Everything Francis wants to give him he will take, without complaint, without fuss. It will always be enough.
He smooths his hands along the man's arm, following it between them only to divert to his hip then along his spine.
"I wish to make you feel pleasure, too, sir," he murmurs, leaning to kiss his chin, his jaw. "Both of us, together."
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"Alright."
Economical agreement. He can do that. Another fawning pet over him, and then he's shifting his weight, withdrawing his hand. They could, perhaps, find an alignment of bodies for hands between them to make work of it that way, but he has a better idea. Something unbearably sweet about Jopson wanting it together, pleading away from being serviced first.
He knows the compartments beneath the bunk well. Only one false start, discarding a bottle of violet water back into the drawer with its fabric scrap stuffing to keep things from knocking about while she ship moves. Successfully captured is a bottle of olive and clove oil, not as expensive as the almond from before, but more practical (and obvious) in its use. He spills it on his hand, and then reaches back between them. This time he undoes the tie and slides fingers around the length of Jopson's prick, no shyness there at all. Francis can't help but look down, even though the sight is mostly obscured. He gives him a loving stroke, and then repeats the process for himself. Hard and obscene, they lay against each other with nothing but hot skin and oil, and even a poorly envisioned upside-down sight is a lurid one that will be burned into his memory. To say nothing of the feel of it.
Rubbing against each other now is a different experience, free of anything that will chafe, or catch. This would be a fine time for someone to fire a gun on deck.
(Doesn't happen, thank Neptune, or whoever else.)
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The hot slide of their bodies alone is nearly enough to make him furious with hunger and wanting. Groaning low against Crozier's mouth before kissing him again, desperate to taste him and more desperate still to muffle himself. The berth is a secure one, but it is still a ship, after all, and not some fortress. (How is he ever going to be able to return to normal life after this? What will he do with the pressure behind his ribs that doesn't have a home except here where he relieves it with kisses and touches and quiet moments and this.)
He pets down Crozier's chest, his sides, his hips, until he finds purchase against the meat of his behind, palming the muscle there and holding him firm as he slow arches up, grinding their slick cocks together, keeping contact both on the rise and the descent.
"Sir," he pants against the man's jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Another roll of his hips, and he kisses him again through it, licking hot into his mouth, trying to chase the telltale taste of him and feel utterly consumed by the man atop him.
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Whatever small doubts he may have had — is this the right move, he did opt to leave their drawers on when he gave him the reins — are burned away at Jopson's reaction. He feels it even before the young man moves, some surge of energy in him pushing up, up, into his very spirit, stoking his own fire to scorching levels. They're going to burn the ship again this way, have to flood her to just to put them out.
Crozier rocks down into him, making electric sparks go off behind his closed eyes. They are some electromagnetic experiment, shooting out blinding colors and fireworks. It's less tight then fucking between Jopson's thighs on the ice, but it's so much more present, and the feel of being able to get his weight so rough against him, the feel of their stiff cocks sliding against each other, is all mind-melting. So much more than he's had in months, and made yet more still by all these particular considerations they've been making for one another.
"Sweet boy," he returns, barely able to get any words out, too busy catching sounds from Jopson's. Helping him muffle it all, helping himself stay quiet, and just feeling. He can't get enough. "So good for me, Tom."
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Impossible to stay quiet, this sensation new and electrifying, the slide of their hard pricks too perfect to put words to.
"I try... to be good for you," he pants into the man's mouth, chasing kisses and arching up into the man, meeting his hips every time he bears down against him. It's impossible to tell what of the wet is the oil or the mess he's sure he's making between them. How could he not be wet with the want of him, body begging for more, more, more.
He releases the man's arse, mapping up his back, his sides, tangling their arms just long enough to get around them. He wraps his arms around his neck instead, kissing him hard and bruising, dragging his teeth along the man's bottom lip as he arches up against him again, creating a slow and steady rhythm rutting against him.
"I want to be good for you always, sir."
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Good for him. Always, he says, and Crozier can't help deny that it makes him feel impossibly hotter. Any brakes thoroughly off. Thomas gets so wet, he's never tumbled a man who leaks so much before the pinnacle, and it's wildly erotic. It makes everything slip so much easier, but it makes him want to lick it off of him, too. He wants to feel it all over his chest, wants to feel it pulsing out of him around his cock.
Just as good, this, because nothing else is possible; the way they're pressed together is practically fucking already. Francis angles up a bit, able to get more weight on his knees so he can grind down just that little bit more. He drags Jopson's outside knee up with one hand, giving them both more room, torquing his body a degree. They fit together even closer, and the slide of hot, hard flesh against each other makes his breath catch. If he were twenty years younger, he might have yelped.
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It's overwhelming, his mind's gone warm and foggy, the affirmations enough to make him moan lowly against his mouth without even the hitch of his hips. It won't be long - he can feel the beginnings of the wire deep in his belly beginning to wind up, strain. The way Crozier moves over him, their pricks slotting together slick and hot, makes it impossible to think of anything else.
"Thank you, sir," he breathes, licking at the man's lips, leaning his head to kiss him again and again between the rocking of his hips. His thighs will burn in the morning, his core will be tight and sore - a pleasant reminder of this moment together. It could only be made better if they were actually fucking, if he could feel stretched and full and complete with Crozier's weight atop him.
He loosens one arm around the man's shoulders. It's a little awkward, the way he reaches between them, but he presses his hand over both of their wet pricks - something for his Captain to fuck into that feels warm and snug, even if it is just a press of a hand to his own belly.
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"I can feel you getting so tense." Can he. He thinks so. It's a thrilling thought, even before Jopson winds a clever hand between them. His own cock twitches, and he's sure his steward will be able to feel it— against his fingers, against his prick.
There's nothing artful to it. They're rutting frantically together in a cramped space, and any description of it to a third party would be unbearably lewd and brutish. But if feels so intimate, so connected, so significant. They're facing each other and they're holding each other close and precious. Like they're doing something soft, and loving, and not risking bruised hipbones and stones. It's a wonder Crozier's elbow hasn't slipped. But it won't. He wants to see him off, wants to feel him climax, watch it on his face, and feel how wet he makes it between them.
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