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Francis watched as Jopson’s fingers dexterously toyed with the cuff button at his sleeve. The steward’s mind seemed to be elsewhere that particular morning, unusually quiet and quick with his work. It wasn’t unlike Jopson to take his time dressing the Captain, making him look pristine and perfect. Francis had joked about Jopson’s compulsion with precision.
“Well, I wouldn’t be a very good Steward if I didn’t always strive for perfection, sir,” was often Jopson’s reply, paired with a cheeky smile and sideways glance that always earned a raised eyebrow from the Captain.
But today the young man was quiet, almost contemplative as he carried out his duties. Every now and then Francis would hear him release a small breath as he lifted something particularly heavy, or let out a quiet ‘hmph’ if something looked to his satisfaction.
Once the stubborn button was dealt with, Jopson moved around Francis to fetch his coat off the hanger, before he brought it up in line with Francis’ arms.
“Everything alright Jopson?”
It took him a second or two to answer before Jopson’s eyes caught his in the mirror. He smiled up at the Captain.
“Yes, sir. Quite alright.”
“You just seem distracted is all.”
“Oh. Sorry, sir.”
Francis smiled back at his own reflection, Jopson having turned away to fetch the clothes brush from the table.
“It’s not a capital offence.”
Jopson’s smile flashed across his face again when he smoothed over the fabric and moved round to face the Captain, fixing his collar from under his Navy issue tailcoat.
“Feels rather foolish to say it aloud, sir.”
Francis regarded Jopson with a glare. “Well, now you’ve really got me curious.”
Jopson paused only momentarily, before avoiding the Captain’s gaze and adjusting the epaulettes on his shoulders.
“Some of the boys on the lower decks they… believe there’s a presence on board, sir. Something that’s not of this earth,” Jopson smiled when he said it, almost as though just the thought of it was rather comical, but there was a small falter in his hands when he continued. “They think the ship might be haunted. Or that we’ve crossed a plain, of sorts, into a land that was not meant to be traversed by mortals.”
When Jopson finished he stepped back slightly to look up at Francis, as though he sought a reaction.
Francis stayed rather still when he retorted. “Is this to do with the death of that boy on Erebus?”
Jopson pursed his lips. “Could well be, sir. Something about the circumstances spooked them I suppose.”
“And you Thomas? Do you believe that ghosts and ghouls have come for our souls?”
Jopson raised his eyebrows and moved around the Captain, gathering his things. “No, sir, I do not. I stopped believing in ghost stories when I was a boy.”
As Francis admired his reflection, Jopson’s handiwork, he turned and nodded at him, bidding him permission to take leave.
“Thomas,” he said quickly before Jopson had a chance to cross the cabin fully to reach the door. “If you hear them speak of this again, you have my permission to put an end to these conversations. Any of them give you any trouble, you refer them to Lieutenant Little.”
“Understood. Sir.”
When Francis was alone again, he glanced down to admire the newly stitched button on his sleeve before tugging it gently over his wrist.
The Captain’s work ran late into the night when Jopson entered sick bay.
“He’s asked me to fetch those drops again, Doctor.”
McDonald didn’t question Jopson’s presence there or ask after the Captain’s well-being. It was as though he knew Captain Crozier would only request medical assistance for sleep if he really needed it.
When McDonald passed him the vial, Jopson made his way to the door, before pausing and turning back to the Doctor.
“I was wondering, Doctor McDonald… if you’d had any further knowledge about the death of that poor boy on Erebus?”
McDonald paused only for a moment, but the concern seemed to subside as quickly as it approached, and he shook his head looking slightly forlorn, as though death still troubled him, despite being a man of medicine.
“I’m afraid not, but I’m sure you’ve heard that Doctor Stanley suspects scurvy.”
“But, the other circumstances,” Jopson hesitated when McDonald frowned at him.
“And what circumstances would they be exactly, Mr. Jopson?”
“About the blood, sir? That Young was drained of it all, as though fed from by an animal?”
The next few seconds that passed were filled only by the creaking wood of the ship against the ice on the surface of the water they now sailed upon.
“I’m not sure what sort of stories you’ve been listening to, Thomas,” McDonald said and he spoke carefully, with a hushed voice as though someone may have been listening.
Jopson had never known McDonald to appear affronted, so the sudden change of tone surprised him.
“But I would suggest you don’t buy into them. Spook stories at sea never help anyone.”
Jopson nodded and forced a small smile, trying to alleviate the tension, as though it wasn’t something that had been troubling him at all. “Of course. Think nothing of it. Just a morbid curiosity is all.”
As McDonald patted his arm reassuringly, with a firm but gentle grasp, he held Jopson in place before he could move away.
“Boredom is the cruelest trick the Devil can play, Thomas, remember that.”
Jopson cocked an eyebrow in astonishment, the polished accent that he practised so well to leave behind that Marylebone boy faltering as he spoke his next words. “I wish I had the time to be bored, Doctor.”
McDonald gave Jopson a look of wry amusement. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you is all I’m saying. We’re heading into difficult times, and your Captain needs you now. Perhaps more than he ever has.”
Jopson frowned at that. The statement was cryptic at best, odd, even. But he didn’t have time to press the conversation any further, or even muse upon it at that point. The vial in his hand was a stark reminder as to why he was there in the first place.
McDonald had already turned back to his work, the soft sound of surgical instruments against metal carrying through the corridor as Jopson made his way back up to the Captain’s quarters.
The ice locked them in like a devil’s embrace.
After days, weeks even; time started to slow almost as though to a halt. The Captain became more and more reclusive, allowing only an audience with the closest of his men. These visits after a time became even more scarce, and eventually, the only person who became the constant was Jopson. Always Jopson. Be it just down the hall in his own berth, or sitting calmly outside the Captain’s own, Jopson was on hand, a witness to the Captain’s deteriorating health. His posture weakened with each day, his sleep was more erratic and his appetite...well... non-existent.
Jopson knew he shouldn’t worry as he did, but his gut churned with it, his body ached with it, and he prayed to a God he hadn’t prayed to since his mother fell ill, that Crozier recovered.
It was early morning when the Captain emerged from his berth, although you couldn’t tell. Mornings seeped into afternoons and they melted into evenings seamlessly. Night was a constant. Jopson had been awake for half of it, unable to sleep in the chair he was propped up in outside his Captain’s door. He’d begun stitching a broken seam on one of the Captain’s nightshirts to keep his mind busy when he heard him rouse and stood when his eyes looked up.
Crozier waved a hand at Jopson, quickly gesturing for him to be seated again.
“Relax, Thomas. I merely needed to stretch my legs.”
Jopson tried hard not to dwell upon the feeling that stirred from within when Crozier used his Christain name. It was not unlike the desire to hold Crozier against him when he was unable to stop shaking or to lean forward and place his lips upon the Captain’s mouth when they held a gaze too long.
“Shall I fetch you some tea, sir?”
The Captain shook his head, rolling his shoulders as he crossed the room. He tugged on the braces that hung over his legs and pulled them up over his chest. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes again and Jopson hadn’t the heart to wake him when he found him.
Jopson relaxed back into his chair, studiously tending to the sewing. He could feel Crozier’s gaze upon him but didn't look up, worried that in his tired state he might say something untoward...words that had been desperate to spill from his lips these past few weeks.
“Have you eaten?” The Captain asked after a few more moments of silence.
Jopson found the Captain’s concern endearing, and he smiled down at the needle and thread in his hand.
“I had some supper, sir.”
“How many hours ago was that, pray?”
Without stopping his work, Jopson finally looked up at the Captain who now leaned against the great table. His shirt was half-open, white flesh on show, almost as white as the fabric itself. Jopson tried not to allow his eyes to wander, at the spatter of ginger grey hair which scandalously revealed itself. He tried not to envisage his fingers running through it, what it might feel like to press his palm against his chest and feel the thrum of the Captain's heart beneath his skin.
“Enough to keep me going for several more, sir,” Jopson said lightly.
“You’re no good to me hungry, you know?” A mischievous smirk spread across the Captain’s features and for a second, Jopson was so distracted by it that the needle slipped, and instead of piercing the fabric, it slid straight into the tip of his finger.
“Damn it!” Jopson exclaimed suddenly, forgetting his company and dropping the needle onto the bundle of fabric.
“Sorry, sir,” he said again quickly. Something about Crozier had always made him want to appear less common in his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure why; the Captain was proud of men who’d come from humble roots, his own Irish breed always a hot topic amongst the other officers of his rank. But it didn’t deter Jopson from remembering to mind his P’s and polish his Q’s when in his company.
He held the pierced finger in his other hand, a small globule of blood emanating from the tip. He was about to suck it clean when he felt the Captain at his side, quite suddenly and so abruptly it almost made him jump.
The Captain was so close that Jopson’s hair brushed the waistband of his trousers when raised his head to look up at him. The look onCrozier’s face startled him, if only because in all the years he’d known him, served him as a steward, in all the perilous and fraught situations he’d witnessed him in, he’d never seen the Captain look as he did at that moment.
Crozier stared down at Jopson, not unlike a predator would its prey, still and unwavering, mouth slack and eyes almost black with desire. It was a haunting sight, and it chilled Jopson to the bone. He didn’t move away, only stared back.
Then Crozier’s hand was around his wrist, pulling him up by it, the small fleck of blood pooling at the tip of his index finger and dripping down the side, swelling as the Captain’s grip tightened, rushing the blood to the surface.
Jopson swallowed, his mouth dry and lips chapped. The air surrounding them dropped significantly in temperature, so much so it made him shiver and Crozier’s stare grew impossibly darker. His eyes fixated on Jopson’s finger, as though everything else in the world had diminished and ceased to exist and when he breathed, a mist swirled out of the Captain’s mouth, like a ghoul was trapped in there desperate to escape.
“Sir…” Jopson said, but he could barely make the sound heard, beyond the ringing in his ears.
“You’re hurt, Thomas.”
“It’s nothing, sir! Allow me,” But when he tried to pull his wrist free, Crozier’s hand was frozen cold and hard like a shackle, binding Jopson to him for what felt like the rest of eternity.
Jopson would gladly give himself, had wanted to for so very long, but this behaviour was so unlike anything he’d ever seen in the Captain before. It captivated him, to the point of almost madness and he felt like he may have passed out from the lunacy of it.
“Captain,” Jopson said, finally finding his voice somewhere from the depths of whatever willpower he had remaining, not to lurch forward and capture Crozier’s mouth in his own.
“Christ , Thomas,” the Captain whispered, and he brought the other man’s finger to his lips. Jopson thought then that he must have been dreaming. That he must’ve fallen asleep in that chair after all, to the creaking sound of the ice enveloping the ship and the slow tick of the clock in the cabin. “You have no idea…”
Before the blood could drip onto Crozier’s lip, Jopson was gently pushed away by the Captain’s other hand, as though there were two sides to him at once, good fighting evil. Jopson knew the struggle of trying to fight those demons all too well, sodomy was just a temptation of the Devil after all, or so his pastor always liked to tell him. It appeared as though Crozier had a stronger guardian angel than Jopson ever did.
When the Captain managed to create enough distance between them, he turned, and took a few steps towards the table, back facing Jopson and his hand coming up to cover his face.
He longed to urge the Captain to give in to whatever temptation was gripping him at that moment. To hell with it, Captain! He wanted to say. If this is limbo then so be it…you may have me, in any which way you please, sir!
But he did not say those things. He sucked the end of his finger into his own mouth, so he would not get any crimson on the Captain’s nightshirt, and silently gathered the garment from where it had fallen to the floor.
“Off to bed with you Jopson. Go and get some proper sleep.”
Jopson wanted to protest, to ask what had truly just transpired, but his brain was foggy and his legs were heavy and so he merely nodded, regardless of the Captain not being able to see it, and left the great cabin without another word.
Jopson’s dreams were plagued with oceans of blood and fast swirling currents that sucked him deep into a sea of breathlessness.
These dreams fascinated him, as though luring him to a wonderland he couldn’t quite reach. He woke sometimes, cold with sweat and gasping air. But when he closed his eyes again, he drifted back into them as though no time had passed at all. It tended to always be the same; swirling colours, vivid like nothing he’d ever witnessed. His name was being spoken in his ear, hushed and low, the only sound he could hear above the chaos of wind and a tumultuous sea. His body felt heavy, weak and helpless, as though drunk.
Then he realised, without much surprise or alarm, that he was being held by the Captain, sturdy and firm, eyes dark, mesmerising and he swallowed Jopson up whole. His mouth devoured him, and he sucked the breath out of Jopson, harder and harder until the Captain became the ocean, crimson in colour, rough and unforgiving, and Jopson sank...deeper and deeper
It took Jopson several minutes to feel the blood pounding around his body calm to a steady pace again after he woke. Between his legs his cock was stiff under his bedclothes, thighs shuddering at the mere brush of his palm against his groin. Every night these past three nights had been the same...the same dream, shocked awake by his own mind, and always in the same excitable state.
He sighed. It would not do to keep this up.
Jopson took himself in hand and dealt with himself as swiftly and as quickly as he could, biting his lip to refrain from making any noise when he reached his end. He saw the Captain again, eyes dark and staring down at him as he took Jopson’s bloody finger in his mouth and sucked it clean.
Jopson’s release pulled every dark and dirty desire to the surface. Every glance, every brush of their hands, every filthy thing he’d ever thought of when it came to Francis Crozier, wrapped up in one moment that came spilling out over his hand.
Jopson cursed and rolled over, face pressing into his pillow, desperate to sleep, unclouded and peaceful, and for this madness to pass.
The madness culminated in Jopson’s mind like parts of a puzzle coming together. Jopson was unsure of the final picture, but certain that he’d arrived at some sort of conclusion. It didn’t make much sense to him, but then not much did these days. Regardless, he was willing to find an answer to his own burning question. Was the Captain something unnatural? Something Jopson couldn’t explain. The only demons Jopson had ever been aware of were the ones that were harboured within one's own soul, fuelled by drink or other chemical substances that were never meant to be consumed by human beings. But perhaps now, his beliefs were being tested.
He entered the Captain’s quarters one morning, fresh linen hung over his arm when Dr. McDonald exited the private berth. When he slid the door closed and turned, he was startled to see Jopson there, as though he wasn’t expecting anyone to be up at this time.
“Forgive me, Doctor,” Jopson said, placing the linen on the table carefully. “I had some trouble sleeping, so I thought I’d busy myself with some errands.”
McDonald waved a hand at Jopson, indicating for him to go about his work as though it was no matter. Jopson paused and glanced at the other man.
“Are you quite alright, Doctor?”
McDonald smiled at Jopson wearily. His eyes appeared hollow, dark circles lining the underside of his sockets; a stark contrast against his skin. His lips had a blue-ish tinge, as though he had spent too long up on deck, despite not wearing a great coat.
“Nothing a good night sleep won’t cure, Mr. Jopson. Something you could also benefit from.”
He gave Jopson a small smile but before he could reach the door to leave, Jopson went over to him, and spoke in a low voice so they wouldn’t be heard by the Captain should he have been awake.
“Doctor is there…” he paused as McDonald studied Jopson’s face, waiting for him to continue. “Is there anything I should know? About the Captain?”
For a moment McDonald’s expression was unreadable and his mouth twitched, as though wanting to say something he shouldn’t. It was not unreasonable for a steward to ask after the well-being of his Captain, but it also wasn’t Jopson’s place to inquire after a patient's details from their physician.
“I wouldn’t worry yourself with it, Jopson,” McDonald said softly. “His condition is...under control. For now.”
Condition ? It wasn't like the Doctor to be so abstruse. Jopson knew him to be an honest man, open and approachable. So the ideas concerning the Captain that had been tormenting Jopson’s thoughts for the past few days were quickly being cemented into some form of reality.
McDonald left the cabin then, and Jopson turned to make his way over to Captain Crozier’s berth. In his heart of hearts, he knew he shouldn’t go in, that he should probably get back to his work and allow the Captain some rest. His health came in waves these days. One day he may be sat up, rosy-cheeked and enquiring after ship gossip - the next he could be incoherent, writhing in his own sweat and barely able to lift his head for a sip of water.
But temptation tugged at Jopson like a length of thread thrown to a kitten. He lifted his hand and knocked gently but purposefully at the door.
“Jopson?” Crozier called from inside.
He entered carefully, seeing Crozier sitting in the chair at the small folding compendium, scribbling notes into the ship’s logbook. Indeed he did look well, with colour in his lips and eyes shining blue. He smiled up at Jopson as he entered, before looking back to the ink-blotched scribblings in the book.
Jopson pretended to busy himself in the cabin with jobs that didn’t require his urgent attention.
A lot of things had happened since they left England. Their ships were bound in ice, daylight barely broke over the horizon, and a bear, unlike any living thing they knew, hunted them. Men were dead, but the ones still alive on Terror spoke of beings that up until this point in time only existed in stories Jopson had been told as a child. Stories that were meant to scare him into submission. Stories that were repeated to him at Sunday sermons to ensure a virtuous life, free of sin, lest he be confined to the depths of Hell.
So the man Jopson thought he was; disbelieving in ghost stories and sceptic of the idea of purgatory; was now convinced he lived in one. Crozier was not the man Jopson thought he’d been all these years, and although this realisation should’ve startled him, terrify him even, it drew him closer, nearer to the Captain, with a desire not unlike a sailor being summoned by a siren. He wanted Crozier’s truth, in all its horrific glory and if Jopson was sure he still had any form of a soul, he would gladly give it to him.
“I can practically hear you thinking, Thomas,” Crozier said from the desk, startling Jopson from his stream of thoughts.
Jopson paused, hand hovering above the oil lamp he was just about to light. The flame at the end of the match flickered, casting shadows against the wall.
“Just organising the day ahead in my mind, sir,” he lied.
He brought the now lit lamp over to the Captain’s desk, placing it gently in front of the logbook.
As he let go of the stem, Crozier’s hand reached out, sharply grabbing Jopson by the wrist, turning it in his own hand. Sleeve pulled taught against Jopson’s arm, it revealed his wrist and a small cut from earlier, clean but still fresh, a small spatter of blood staining the white of his shirt cuff.
“Just a clumsy slip of my hands whilst shaving this morning, sir. Think nothing of it.”
Crozier didn’t move, and for a wild moment, Jopson thought he’d perhaps turned to stone, for the Captain’s flesh ran cold, hand clenched around his arm, holding tight and unmoving.
“ Clumsy , Thomas. You?”
Jopson swallowed. It was quite something, to have that intense glare of Crozier’s upon you at the best of times, but as he turned slowly and looked up at Jopson, eyes no longer blue as before, but dark and wide and staring with an impossibly unreadable hunger, Jopson felt his heart pound beneath his ribcage, almost certain it was making a sound in the otherwise silent room.
“I just…” Jopson paused. It wasn’t often he was lost for words or spoke without being sure of what he was going to say next. Men like him were trained only to speak when they were spoken to, or not to voice too much of an opinion, even when it was asked of them. Sugar-coated words of comfort and reassurance were all in a boy's vocabulary when one grew up serving men of higher stature, and even though Crozier was different, Jopson still held his tongue.
“Is there a burning question on those lips of yours, Thomas?”
Jopson’s wrist was still held in Crozier’s hand. The grip had softened but showed no signs of letting go.
“Not so much a question, sir.”
They stared at one another for a few seconds longer before Crozier broke the gaze, standing so they could face each other in the small berth. Crozier turned Jopson’s wrist in his hand.
“Well, out with it,” Crozier breathed, hot air brushing over Jopson’s skin.
The room shrank around them, and coincidentally (or perhaps not by coincidence at all) the ship creaked, wood shrieking against ice. When Jopson gulped it was almost just as loud. His fingers flexed, but he didn't make any attempt at pulling his hand away.
“It’s not something that comes easily for me, sir. But I would’ve thought...would’ve hoped that you would be able to be honest with me after all this time. Sir.”
“Honest with you about what, Thomas?”
Crozier closed the small space that was left between them, eyes scanning over Jopson with such an intensity it brought up a flush high in Jopson’s cheeks that he could feel burn red under his skin. It turned his stomach in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. It was a look with which Jopson had often dreamed of being graced with from the Captain...pure unadulterated lust. It wasn’t the typical look of lust one might have given a potential lover, there was something stronger there behind the Captain’s intense glare...something predatory.
“About your true nature, sir.”
There was a moment when Crozier twitched, as though he was about to move or push Jopson away, but he didn't, and instead a small smile appeared on his lips, as though he were almost proud of his steward reaching the deduction of what had been a long-kept secret. It was a look of relief. Like a burden lifted.
Crozier’s shoulders relaxed a little, and he brought the wrist in his grip back up to eye level.
“And is this supposed to be some sort of test of my willpower?”
“Think of it more as an offer, sir.”
Crozier laughed, full-bodied and raspy, then let go of Jopson’s wrist. When he moved away, Jopson felt the cold of the Arctic rush over him as though the Captain had been shielding him from it the whole time.
“I won’t drink from you, Jopson.”
“But from McDonald, sir?”
Crozier had turned back to the small desk, and gave Jopson a look over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked and lips turning up into a sly smile.
“Dr. McDonald provides me with a small and necessary supply. Enough to keep me awake, keep me conscious. Sometimes just enough to let me be Captain of this vessel,” Crozier said with a slight tone of jest. “He extracts enough so that he can do his duties aboard this ship and so can I.”
“What if I were to give my blood willingly, sir? I know you Captain if you’ll allow me to say so. Someone who won’t sap the blood of a man who isn’t yet dying. But I’d very much like you to consider me, sir. As someone who would like to help you.”
Crozier straightened, turning round to face Jopson. “By being a meal, you mean?”
Jopson couldn’t hold back the smile that flashed across his face, and he bowed his head as though to hide it from view before he brought it back up again to look the Captain dead in the eye.
“By being whatever you require, sir.”
“Thomas…,” The name sounded like heaven on his lips when he said it, a prayer desperately whispered to will away evil. “There are many things I would require of you. That, however, is not one of them.”
Jopson moved forward and didn’t stop until he reached the Captain. They were as close as they had been some moments ago, and that heat rose again in Jopson’s cheeks, heart racing in his chest. The Captain’s nostrils flared, and for a moment he jerked, as though shocked by their proximity, his jaw tightening as he clenched his whole body. Jopson saw it then, that thirst, that longing . Oh, how easy it would be, he thought, to tilt his neck and sink to his knees and offer himself, like the Virgin Mary unto the Angel Gabriel.
“Tell me what happens if you don’t feed,” Jopson asked, and it’s so brazen he doesn’t even use an address.
“I die.”
A clear-cut answer.
Jopson paused, the words said alone stirring a grief from within he didn’t even realise existed.
“I thought vampires couldn’t die.”
The word, ‘vampire’ , hung in the air, like a swear word being said for the first time.
“It’s not a theory I plan on putting to the test.”
Crozier smiled reassuringly and pushed a gentle hand at Jopson’s chest, creating a small distance between them, before letting out a shaky breath.
“I won’t spill your secret, Captain. You have my word.”
Crozier nodded, as though it wasn’t something that needed to be said, but Jopson wanted it to be clear regardless.
Their situation aboard Terror did not improve. If anything, it worsened. The men became more desperate with a fear they couldn’t explain, Fitzjames, with his best intentions, willed the Captain to curb whatever it was that was ailing him, unknowing of the true nature of it.
It was easy for Captain Crozier to shroud it behind something else, guilt, sickness, withdrawal. But Jopson witnessed the man grow weaker day by day, until eventually he even started denying an audience with Dr. McDonald.
Jopson was asleep when he was woken by the sound of someone stirring. He stretched uncomfortably in the chair he’d drifted off in, bones stiff and muscles aching. It was dark in the cabin, just one candle burning low in the corner.
A hand touched his shoulder suddenly, and he jolted, turning to see the Captain standing above him. He didn’t hear the door to his berth open, didn’t even think the Captain had the strength to stand.
“Sir…” Jopson’s voice was groggy, eyes still blurry with sleep. He got to his feet slowly, brushing the hair from his face and curling it around his ear. “I didn’t hear you get up.”
“Not to worry, Jopson. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Jopson eyed the Captain for a moment, as he stood there rather stoic and still. He’d only half-dressed, clothes pulled on rather haphazardly, braces half-buttoned, shirt messily tucked into his trousers. He looked slightly debauched, eyes red-rimmed as he moistened his lips with his tongue.
“Something I can get you, Captain?”
Crozier shook his head slowly and watched Jopson carefully. Jopson considered moving forward, but stopped himself, realising quickly that his heart was racing, still a little startled by being woken up by the Captain. He wondered what Crozier had been doing standing over him in the first place. For how long had he been watching him? Had the Captain’s unbreakable willpower faltered? Jopson couldn’t help the lurch in his stomach at the mere thought of it; waking to his Captain’s mouth on his neck, sucking him helplessly.
“Whatever it is that’s exciting you Thomas… you should try to practice some abstinence,” a slip of a smile tugged at Crozier’s lips before he spoke again, “especially around me.”
Jopson didn’t smile back, but felt a rush of heat rise up his neck. “Now you sound like Father Belbury, sir.”
Crozier frowned as Jopson went to busying himself with something, anything to avoid that glare.
“He was the vicar in our parish when I was growing up,” Jopson began, to fill the silence. “He was a strange old man, wasn’t very fond of practising what he preached if you catch my meaning. But if there was one thing he really detested it was carnality. I do find it rather odd, why humans become so fascinated with things they’re always told they shouldn’t do, or shouldn’t think.”
“And I remind you of him?”
Jopson paused, looking up from where he’d been running the polishing rag over the already pristine clean table. He caught Crozier’s eye and gave him a small smile.
“Not quite, sir.”
“And what were these thoughts of yours, hmm Thomas? These fascinations that you were told so strictly not to dwell upon by the messengers of God?” Crozier had started to move around the table, making his way over to Jopson slowly and purposefully. Jopson dropped whatever pointless task he was doing and fiddled with the rag in his hands. He felt naked under the Captain’s stare, bared completely beneath that gaze. He lifted his shoulders in a short shrug, trying not to look too coy.
“Oh, you know sir. All the thoughts a young man has when he starts learning certain things about the world. About his fellow man.”
The space between them started to close, their bodies barely inches apart.
“Don’t get mysterious with me, Thomas. I’ve told you my secret have I not?”
Jopson shook his head. “I’m not being mysterious with you, Captain. You know what I want.”
“Ah…” Crozier made a small sound, like a hum of approval.
Then he reached out a hand and touched the side of Jopson’s face. The gesture was so intimate it forced a small gasp of air from Jopson’s lungs, and he shivered, leaning into it slightly. His eyes sought out the Captain’s again, and they watched one another carefully.
“But that’s just it Thomas. I’m not quite sure what it is you want from me,” Crozier’s fingers brushed Jopson’s cheek and made their way to his neck, just hovering, not quite pressing, “to drink all this lovely sweet blood of yours,” the hand moved again, travelled past his neck and down Jopson’s front, over his stomach and then stopped just above his groin, “or to bugger you like a common Whitechapel whore?”
Jopson’s head span, so much so that he thought his eyes may roll back in their sockets and he’d fall until his body hit the hard wooden floor of the cabin.
But he gathered himself, tried to ignore where the blood was rushing to now, filling himself out in his trousers and seeking that touch from the hand that was so close to it.
“If you permit me to speak freely…”
“Always, Thomas.”
“Both, sir.”
Crozier laughed, short and sharp as he squeezed Jopson’s achingly half-hard prick in his hand, and with his other, he pulled Jopson towards him by his neck. Their noses touched as Jopson’s mouth fell slack and hung open at the Captain’s touch. He tried not to buck his hips to chase it.
“Jesus Christ , Thomas. You’ve no idea…”
It seemed rather ironic, for the Captain to blurt out blasphemies now. But whatever God existed, had left them long ago, and Jopson reached out, holding the Captain by his waist and tilting his head into the Captain’s hand at his neck.
“Sir, please.”
Crozier’s hands released their hold from Jopson and he beckoned him to follow as they made their way into the small berth. Once inside Crozier ordered Jopson to lay on the bed, before he pulled the door closed, shutting them inside from the rest of the world.
Jopson hesitated before crawling into the Captain’s bed. It felt like a sacred place, an altar that shouldn’t be touched by anyone but the Captain himself. But he obeyed, and shifted comfortably on top of the woolen sheets, spreading himself out on his back.
When Crozier turned back to face the bed-chamber he eyed Jopson in his bed, hesitating as though the sight of it was enough to render him useless. But he did make his way over, in the small two steps it took for him to reach the bed, and settled himself to sit next to Jopson, looming over him.
He tugged at Jopson’s necktie slowly, watching it unfurl before pulling it free and dropping it onto the pillow. The skin was still warm from the fabric, and the cold touch of the Captain’s flesh seeped into Jopson when he pressed his palm against him. His fingers then went to work at the first few buttons of Jopson’s shirt, before he pinched the fabric of his gansey.
“Off,” he ordered again, voice thick and heavy.
Jopson lifted himself quickly, tugging off his waistcoat and following it with the jumper, pulling it over his head and throwing it to the foot of the bed. It made him feel rather out of sorts, not to fold the items and place them neatly somewhere, but nothing about this was routine. So he lay back again and allowed the Captain to work at a few more buttons, opening the shirt halfway. Jopson’s breaths came a little quicker, his temperature trying to adjust without the extra layers.
“You’re so keen,” Crozier said with a grin, before running a finger over Jopson’s chin and all the way down his neck, stopping as it reached the dark hairs on Jopson’s chest “You could at least try and pretend like this isn’t all you’ve ever wanted.”
Crozier shifted himself fully up onto the bed then, pulling Jopson to sit up so they could face each other.
“Aren’t you even a little scared?”
Jopson shook his head quickly, his hands reaching out again for Crozier’s waist.
“Not of you, sir.”
Crozier’s gratitude showed as a look of pure affection washed over him, and he stroked the unruly strand of hair from Jopson’s forehead.
“What a boy,” he said to no one at all, as if speaking to himself. “What a special boy. My Thomas…”
Yes. His Thomas. Each and every part of him. All for the Captain. It was all he ever was, all he had ever wanted to be. Jopson had dreamed of a moment like this to be shared between them. To be utterly consumed by Francis Crozier, owned and cherished by him. He’d never thought in all the years they’d spent together that it would be quite like this, but he would not have had it any other way.
Jopson melted under his Captain’s touch, fell slack in his arms as best he could, despite the shiver that ran through his body, head to toe, at the breath that washed over his skin as Crozier dipped his head into the crook of his neck.
The hands at Crozier’s waist balled into fists, gripping his shirt and twisting it in anticipation. From his neck, Crozier shushed him tenderly, lips brushing against his skin.
“Relax, Thomas.”
He tried, breathing in fully and out again in one slow shaky breath. But for what was coming he could not quell the excitement. He knew his blood would be rushing through his body at an accelerated rate, probably driving the Captain wild with an unnatural hunger. But that was all the more fascinating to him, the way Crozier held himself, steady and unfaltering, still holding back.
Crozier kissed him first, soft and chaste at a spot on his neck that had Jopson releasing the quietest of moans. He willed his body to behave, straightened his knees on the bed beneath him, and held the Captain a little tighter in his embrace.
Then it was there, the first sensation of teeth, sharp and unlike anything that had grazed Jopson’s skin before it. He couldn’t stop the sound that erupted from him then, as his jaw fell open and his eyes closed, as though he had been run through with a blade.
The sharp points of Crozier’s teeth pierced him like a knife slicing through soft butter. The pain was exquisite, like nothing Jopson had ever experienced. He let out a low grunt that expelled itself from within without warning, but his hands glided up Crozier’s waist to squeeze gently, to reassure him. I’m fine , he thought. Keep going .
He wondered if Crozier could hear him, because somewhere in the back of Jopson’s mind was a voice that was not his own, that steadied him and shushed him just as the Captain had done a few seconds ago. And then it said his name, soft and gentle like the one he heard in his dreams.
Something warm trickled down the side of Jopson’s neck, thick and slow before it soaked into the fabric of his open shirt collar. The Captain shifted next to him and sucked in the air through his nose. Jopson could feel it, the blood coursing through his veins, rushing up to meet the Captain’s lips, summoned by the unholy urges of his suckling mouth. It was more than blood being torn from him now, but a part of his soul, a part of his humanity. Jopson gave in so willingly he felt Crozier’s hand snake into his hair, holding the strands in a vice tight grip, as he sucked and sucked and sucked until he was sure he heard the Captain almost choke on it.
Jopson was squirming beneath him, pushed flat against the bed once more, Crozier mounting him like an animal devouring its first meal after a long hibernation. His mouth hadn’t broken contact with Jopson’s neck for one second since it clasped onto him, and Jopson could hear it, that unorthodox sound of flesh squelching under the pressure of chewing, and it drove Jopson wild with an urge he never thought he possessed.
His hands pawed at the Captain’s chest, helpless and mewling like a weak kitten. Jopson’s vision blurred, the colours of the cabin swirling in his peripherals as that sound in his head placated him again. It’s okay Thomas … the Captain’s voice was present, but he didn't speak.
There was bliss then, pure utter bliss, as though the gates to the Garden of Eden had opened for him, and then Jopson slipped, quietly and peacefully, into unconsciousness.
He woke, he wasn't sure how long later, warm and sated and mildly aware of a presence next to him.
Stirring and blinking his eyes open, Crozier shushed him again, a warm hand at his forehead, brushing away the hair from his sweat-drenched skin.
“Here…”
Crozier passed him a cup of something, it smelt sweet and inviting so Jopson took it without question, mouth dry and still light-headed.
It tasted like honey and cinnamon, one of McDonald’s recommended concoctions perhaps, but it filled Jopson with enough energy to stretch out on the bed, aware of what he must look like, shirt hanging open, the excitement between his legs still outlining a shape beneath his trousers.
When Crozier took the cup from him, Jopson brought a hand up to his neck, surprised to find it dry, two small bumps making up its closed wound.
“Now don’t you go showing that off to any of the other boys,” Crozier said as he noticed Jopson’s wandering fingers. He pulled Jopson’s hand away gently, placing it on his chest. “Don’t agitate it.”
Jopson stared up at him, eyes wide, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Sir…” he hesitated, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.”
Crozier snorted, his eyebrows rising in astonishment. He knew it was strange, that it was the Captain who should be thanking him , but Crozier could not understand, could not begin to imagine, how much this meant to Jopson. They’d shared a bond now that could never be broken, he’d been let into a secret that few people on this Earth were privy to, and Jopson would eternally be grateful for it.
With what little energy remained within him, Jopson propped himself up onto his elbows and pulled the Captain forward by the collar of his shirt. Their lips meet in a bruising kiss, and as Crozier sighed, Jopson breathed it in, like a sacred air that held a lifetime of unspoken promises.
Beyond the taste of honey, Jopson detected that faint tang of metal upon Crozier's tongue, the only kind associated with human blood, sharp and acrid. Jopson clung to him as Crozier cradled his head once again, this time with a devotion not unlike a mother holding a newborn, and kissed him ardently, supping at Jopson’s bottom lip that had the younger man quivering against him, letting out a hushed strangled sound against Crozier's mouth.
When Crozier pulled away, he brought his hand up to brush a thumb against Jopson’s lip, plump and damp with saliva.
“Thomas…” Crozier whispered like it was the sweetest word he’d ever said.
Crozier’s hand dropped to rest in Jopson’s lap and it splayed to grip the shape of him beneath his trousers. Jopson sighed, letting his weight go and laying flat once again against the sheets. He swallowed, eyes flickering closed as he thrust his hips inadvertently up into Crozier’s hand.
His own gripped Crozier’s wrist suddenly.
“It’s not necessary, sir,” he said quietly.
“And you’ll deny me this? Even after all I have given you in return? Even after all your irrepressible demands?”
Jopson let out a small defiant laugh as Crozier smirked down at him.
“At least allow me this small victory.”
“Very well,” Jopson said as his eyes flashed with desire before adding finally, “Francis.”
Losing themselves in one another, Crozier brought Jopson off with his hand, kissing him all the while, on the mouth, along his jaw, and against the bite marks on his neck.
When Jopson spent himself, he held the Captain as though he were the last bit of driftwood on a ferocious sea. He panted into the crook of his shoulder, whispering his name as though it were something sacrosanct.
In the midst of post-coital haze, Jopson was aware of the Captain gently wiping at him with a cool flannel, a welcoming contrast against his now overheated skin.
Jopson’s eyes closed blissfully once again. “Sleep now, Thomas.”
He did then, and slipped into a slumber unlike one he could ever remember having...
...unclouded, peaceful, and utterly divine.