The weight at his neck, the pressure that sits perfectly poised as a reminder - only serves to stoke the giddy flames in him. Makes his whole body come to attention, with a certain knowing all the way down to the tiny, invisible hairs at his knuckles. A command with no words, a power he knows he cannot press.
The tea cleaned he rises as much as that commanding hand will allow him and folds the soiled towel to set on the tray. The mending next - a neat pile on the table.
“What do you wish to see first, sir?”
Less bite, less obstinance, but a focused and quiet seriousness. He’d had other plans in this and feels foolish that the weight of a palm has momentarily brought him to heel. But the reaction is gratifying.
“Two shirtsleeves mended today, a button on your great coat, the seams of some underthings.”
He draws up a shirt, offers him the cuff where he has expertly relaid the seams. The second however - a plant. Perfectly mended save for a loose thread, not tied off.
He lets Jopson move, but not entirely freely; there is some tension, some drag, requiring him to move precisely so that he doesn't make an accidental attempt to escape his hold (without risking behind squeezed tighter and held in place). A silent game of asking permission, and Crozier granting it.
Ah, the mending.
With his free hand, Crozier reaches out, holding up one cuff, then the other.
"Is this the best tailor in the fleet?" Skeptical, as his thumb abuses the loose thread. Sloppy work. "Fix it, and then put this away."
The hand at his neck flexes, an almost absent kind of kneading. Not about to let him forget the very real pressure there. Some part of Crozier thinks this is a bit much, that he should stop this and ask him to speak plainly if he wants something. Seems the sensible thing to do. But it's interesting. Engaging. Jopson's clearly planned it, at least to some degree, and he'd regret not participating in it for that fact alone.
Also—
Their last encounter was some time ago. Crozier can go without, even if he'd prefer not to, but how wound up is his steward? He'd regret not pursuing that, too.
The flex of fingers at his neck almost tempt him to resist it, to press away from it, see if he will grip harder, hold him, pin him. There's a lick of something shameful that passes through him - that he's playing this foolish game at all. The quiet worry that Crozier doesn't find this enjoyable, that he tires of it, that maybe he's let his own desire get the best of him. But no, he wants the man to have release, an outlet, something outside of the lines they call steward and captain.
And maybe, just maybe, Thomas will admit he is being a little selfish, asking for something so obliquely.
"Yes sir," he murmurs, reaching for the sleeve left unfinished and expertly tacks the loose thread down, tying it off, then bringing it to his mouth to cut the thread. Purposeful, really - a show of sorts, but not dissimilar to what he'd do outside of this moment.
Maybe he moves a little too quickly, turns a little too suddenly, wanting to feel the press of fingers in against his neck. Either way he carefully folds the clothes he's mended and starts toward the berth. Each piece has its home, one that Jopson knows better than his own.
"I apologize, sir," he says as he puts each piece away in the drawers allotted to the captain. "For the sloppy work. It won't happen again."
Is he truly apologetic? Hard to say, but he focuses on the clothes all the same.
Like having him on a leash. Crozier keeps his hand there, and squeezes whenever Jopson moves too quickly. If they weren't lovers, if this wasn't a game, it would be an abuse of authority even if he didn't do anything further than hold his neck and walk beside him— it's demeaning, it's making him act as though he's an extension of his captain in a literal, animal way.
He doesn't tell him that the apology is accepted, or that he believes him. He monitors his progress closely, catches his elbow to redirect him at one point, other hand finding Jopson's as he puts a shirt away. Making him move very specifically. Crozier feels... what does he feel? It's not the power that's intoxicating. It's the connection, he thinks. They are doing something so unusual, and in their own world.
Here is where he should stop and lay ground rules. They should speak about it.
Instead, he does something else.
When Jopson straightens up, Crozier turns him, both hands at his shoulders now.
"Go and put the rag away in the laundry," he tells him. "And when you come back, latch the door behind you. You're in need of an inspection over your sloppy work. Jopson." Attention. He lifts a hand, thumb pressing to his lower lip, which he uses to tilt his head, like someone judging a horse at an auction. "If you take too long, I'll lock you out."
No dawdling in an attempt to stretch out his poor behavior. This is where he chooses if he wants to be doing this or not. A chance to back out.
Crozier's hand might as well be a brand on his skin, the presence of it almost unbearably distracting while he's made to move around. A hand at his neck, his elbow, the heat of their bodies close in the small space. He does all he's directed to do, half worried he'll be sent away, half worried he won't be able to leave if he's told to, the way his blood burns beneath his skin.
His breath catches and he allows Crozier to turn his hand, and by some miracle manages to resist pressing his lips round the man's thumb.
"Yes, sir. I'll return momentarily."
The towel - he takes it up and only when Crozier's hand falls away he moves toward the door and out. Laundry is farther than he'd like it to be and he can't rush. Rush and other men might question him, for he is nothing if not calm and collected at every turn in the belly of the ship. So he delivers the laundry, has to pause briefly to speak to the ship master, but after a little placation, he returns.
He's nervous when he checks the door handle, but opens it confidently either way, and when he's back inside, he latches the door shut.
"Apologies if I was later than expected, sir," and it sounds a little more genuine. "Mister Cotter needed me for a moment."
There's a hint of flustered red in his cheeks - the remnants of impatience. If Cotter had cost him whatever this is, after so much thought and planning...
Crozier knows just how long it takes to get anywhere on Terror, and just how long to get back; he accounts for a few derailments, for Jopson has many responsibilities outside mending, and he has friends as well. An internal timer is set, and he wills himself not to hope for a speedy return. Jopson is permitted cold feet and nerves without judgement.
Still. There's no hiding the look of pleased relief that blooms in his eyes when his steward returns before he's made any move to bar his reentry. He schools it back into professionalism, but not before he lets Jopson see the reaction. No reason to hide it.
"Your timing is acceptable," he informs him. A beat, and he rises from the chair he'd been waiting in, but only so that he can push it back to leave some space between it and the table. He's decided he prefers the chair to the bench along the back window— for now. The bench may have utility sooner rather than later, but it's less authoritative.
After he sits back down, he gestures an indication that Jopson should stand in the void left there. It puts him practically in the dead center of the cabin, as though the subject of an operating theater, or a sixteenth century trial. But only Crozier sits in the gallery.
"One item of clothing at a time, if you please, and then put each one on the table behind you once it's been audited for the quality of your upkeep."
Acceptable. Jopson takes pride in the fact that his work is rarely just acceptable, and while that word might sting on a different day, a different time, this time it only spurs him on. Acceptable. Perhaps it's part of the game they're playing, perhaps he's crept under Crozier's skin - it's hard to say, but he burns warm with it.
Francis Crozier commands attention, he always has so far as Jopson has seen, but this is something different. He's a force here, pulling him in, just as he's spoken about the stars and the way they collide in his books and studies. Crozier makes room and Jopson knows he must fill it. He stands there at near center, unable to shake a hint of the heady dizziness that comes with the attention, the commands, the careful and serious way he's being handled.
"Yes, sir," said with a little more air than he'd like, but otherwise keeping his demeanor in check. And just as he's told he begins one by one, shrugging off his coat and folding it on the table - it's in fine condition, he makes sure it remains as such, but the coat coming off means his vest comes next, an offering to him to observe. And perhaps a little impatient, the way his fingers undo a couple of buttons on his shirt, readying himself for the next inspection.
Watching Jopson undress is a rare treat. He's seen it before, but only hurried, in close, cold quarters. The great cabin is temperate enough, and there's no frenzied rush. Gives him time to stare and be obvious about it, no coy pen nibs rolling off the table.
"Slow down," he orders him, tranquil but firm. "Don't go trying to hide anything in a rush. Show me the elbows on your coat."
Pointless. Jopson is impeccable, unassailable; as tidy and neat as possible. He thinks that even a steward who came from money just hitching his wagon to an 'easy' position to get ocean months logged would look a mess next to Thomas, who can make anything shine, no matter how ragged. Still. They're doing something, here. And it gives Crozier an excuse to take him by the wrist and turn him this way and that before releasing him and nodding at him to continue.
"All of it."
Shirts and bracers and layers of socks.
"You may put your boots by the foot stove."
Piece by piece, leaving him bare. But as soon as Jopson is shirtless, Crozier makes him stop again, and beckons him forward. Now, he takes one of his steward's hands and raises it, running his fingers from wrist to elbow, then elbow up to the curve of his armpit. Checking. For... what, Poseidon only knows. A bloody mystery, beyond the excuse to get his hands on him, even in this possessive, utilitarian way.
Heat prickles at the back of his neck, the hair on his arms stands at end - that Crozier wants to watch him, see him, makes it a little hard to breathe for a few seconds. Slower. Elbows on his coat. Everything he's asked for, offered for approval, and he would turn in circles for his appraisal all evening if he was asked.
Boots by the stove, layers of socks carefully draped atop them, bracers slid off strong shoulders, and then buttons. Each one plucked carefully, letting Crozier have his fill - slower, more careful, even if he feels the impatient rush of blood elsewhere.
Crozier's fingers leave gooseflesh in their wake, and Jopson can do nothing but follow his movements along his skin, to his armpit. The shirt is folded behind him on the table, as instructed, but he's forgotten anything about the next steps, captured instead by this man's touch.
"Does it meet your approval, sir?"
As though he's inspecting the sleeve of a shirt, not the long line of his own arm, the press of his skin. The fingers of his hands flex absently, wanting to touch, wanting more, but resisting all urge to do anything outside of what he's told.
Takes some doing to remind himself this is a pantomime of an inspection — surely one never before performed by a Navy officer — and not just a span of time with which to run his hands over his steward. His touch is less lingering than a lover's but still far more intimate than any kind of medical evaluation. Crozier runs his hands over his abdomen to get to the other arm.
"So far."
He takes Jopson by the hips and turns him before he stands up. As though standing to join him face to face would be too much for right now; too much of a reward, when they're only half through. But he's got to be able to reach all parts of his back. And some of his front, too— he instructs him to raise one arm, and slips a touch forward, over his chest.
Fingers trace over scars on his back. Over where the worst of bruising was, now faded to near invisibility. Something about it strikes him as a loss; no more evidence of the punishment he ordered, even if it wasn't, after all, his own hand the way they each had fantasized. Crozier spends extra time there, mapping each ridge of tissue, touching the places he'd been the most attentive to while salving and oiling his back in recovery. When he's drawn that out as long as seems reasonable, he sits down again, and taps Jopson's side to indicate he should turn around to face him.
His back to the captain gives him a moment to close his eyes, a moment to relish the way his hands move over the planes of his body. Intimate in its own way, even if they don't sit in each moment like they might have before. Every scar and mark accounted for, the twinge of pain he'd feel weeks ago gone now, replaced only by the brush of skin on skin.
Being handled, turned and touched and prodded at, is new but when he turns round as instructed, it's impossible to hide the faintest beginnings of a flush creeping its way down his neck and to the top of his chest. Womanly, surely, to burn so easily at a man's attention, but again it doesn't bother him. Honesty, even in the way his body's blood moves about.
"Yes, sir," he looks down at the man, meeting his eyes while his hands work. It's not unlike the way he'd held his gaze when lashed, determined and intentional as he works open his trousers, allows them to drop at his bare feet. He bends carefully to retrieve them, leaning into Crozier's space just enough to do so before he offers them out to the man for inspection, eyes never leaving his.
Trousers offered to the man he undoes the fastenings at the front of his drawers but pauses, waits to be told, and ignores the way he's stirred to life under the thing fabric, even his flesh too honest in all things.
Long legs dusted with dark hair, like the rest of him. Crozier thinks again of statues of Greek heroes. He knows better than to idolize appearance; it is an accidental thing, and forever eroded by time and toil. He would enjoy Jopson no matter what he looked like. Still. There's no denying that what he does look like is to one side of breathtaking.
He slides his fingers along the waistband of the shed trousers, though his eyes stay on the young man. (Sculpted out of marble, with jewels set in for his eyes.) After a moment, he hands them back to him, so that he might fold them and put them on the table with his other garments.
The movement of hands in his periphery makes it difficult to refrain from mimicking the movement, tracing his own skin to imagine Crozier was touching him and not the thick, coarse fabric of his uniform. Thankfully he has the trousers to distract his own hands, carefully folding them and setting them on the table.
Continue. Right.
He tugs his drawers down over his hips, working the fabric over the beginnings of his arousal, lets them fall to the floor before he steps out of them. It's of the softer things he owns and he offers them out, worn as they are but cared for. Keeps his gaze on Crozier's ignoring the cool air on his nude body, instead warming himself under the seriousness of his captain's gaze.
"For you, sir," he murmurs. "I hope everything is to your liking."
In all ways. Yes, he's pressed and pushed today, coaxed this moment out of the man, and yet - he hopes that even that was to his liking as well.
Such a small change, the slip of his underwear, and yet the difference is striking; if Thomas was beautiful before (and he was, is), now it is a blinding thing. The tops of his thighs and the lower sweep of his belly, the way his hair gathers thicker, and his cock, which is already swelling with interest.
"Nothing out of order," he says, and his voice is a little deeper. He nods, then, towards his steward's toes. "Pick that up."
Can't just let his drawers lay around on the floor. He observes keenly, and then when Jopson's complied, Crozier tells him to step closer. Arm's length, just far enough so that Crozier can reach out and take him by the sides, slide his hands down his legs, inspect his navel, and all else. Almost all else; his prick is left alone. He stops before bending down to reach further, and instead points behind him to the table—
"Lean there, and give me one foot."
The ledge of his arse against the table, and a foot in Crozier's lap. He moves the chair forward a smidge to facilitate. One at a time, inspecting his knee, his shin, the curve of his calf, his toes (free of frostbite he hopes). Then the next one, with a sweeping touch over the arch of his foot before he's satisfied. When he's done, he looks at him.
When he spilled the tea over the man's desk, he hadn't the faintest idea what his defiance and mess would bring him. Couldn't imagine that it would lead them here, Jopson folding his underthings, leaning against a table, the press of the man's hands on his body everywhere except where he wants it.
Infuriating. Powerful. He's at this man's command on a daily basis, but this strikes differently, brings with it a fluttering curiosity. (He will think about Crozier's hands down his thighs, at the arch of his foot, in the bend of his armpit for a very, very long time after this).
"Yes, sir."
The table's cold on the bare skin of his arse, so it's a welcome change to stand and turn for him. The pale skin over his glutes blushes red from the pressure of the table, the chill of it. There's little his complexion will hide even under the poorest light.
His fingers twitch at his sides, wanting to touch the man, wanting anything but the unknown still and quiet with Crozier simply waiting behind them. Every nerve ending stands at attention, muscles waiting for the shudder of a touch, body just tense enough in expectation. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, even if he desperately wishes to chance a look over his shoulder.
Thomas' back has already passed inspection, so there's little point in revisiting; instead his hands settle on his sides, and then lower, his thighs just below the swell of his rear. This teasing — such as it is — doesn't last. Crozier palms over his glutes, feels the fading line from the pressure of the table's hard edge, the density of his muscle there. He considers bowing to propriety for a moment but— this is already so far beyond several lines. He indulges in it instead, and pulls at one cheek to expose the cleft of his ass and the soft skin hidden there.
Moves on soon enough. The backs of his knees, and a little lower. When he stands at last, he's close behind Jopson, with one hand at his shoulder and the other on his hip. The course fabric of his uniform and the hard touch of a button brushes against him, faint.
"You say you're overworked, tipping teacups and asking me to fetch things," he observes, "but you haven't anything out of place. Not in your clothes, not in your person. I must ask myself if I think you're lying—"
(a thing, the thing that started it, arguably)
"Or if there's some other malady taking you." The hand on Jopson's shoulder slides up, fingers delve into his hair, and Crozier rakes blunt nails over his scalp, slow and methodical. "The prescription shall be the same for either, I think."
He fists his hand in Jopson's hair, getting a grip on him. With this, a harsher version of the hand at his neck, he steps back and guides his steward along with him. Steady steps until they get to the bench along the window, and Crozier allows him to turn — still held fast — so that they can make eye contact. He needs to know if it the younger man balks. Needs to see him.
"I'm going to sit down," he tells him, and removes his hands, but only so that he can start to take off his jacket. "And you're going to lay over my knees. And you're going to stay there, enduring whatever I deem necessary, until I let you up."
A dangerous, dangerous line they walk, doing this in the great cabin even with the door latched. Anything could happen abovedeck to draw them all out in a flurry but that only serves to heighten all of this - the heat of Crozier pressed against his back, the way his hands trail over his body (does he like his body? they've fumbled together a few times now but what does Crozier think of his body, his looks?) all serves to make him go dizzy again, a sad attempt to tame the fluttering thing in his chest.
"I'll take what you recommend, sir," he murmurs, voice going airy the moment fingers twist into his hair. Different, this touch - sharper, urgent, grounding. He follows the pressure of it, turning toward the bench obediently, even if a daring, disobedient thing in him tells him to tug, to resist, to press the man farther. He doesn't - not yet, not now.
Not when he meets his gaze again and he's sure he must look absolutely wanton and flushed. A game he carefully planned that has not yet failed him. No balking at the statement, only a heat, a fire, a hunger. It's muscle memory that has him reaching for the man's jacket as it comes off, carefully folding it but not without dropping Crozier's gaze.
"Yes, sir," he nods slowly. Only when Crozier has settled does he move, carefully negotiating the space between them so he can lay down belly first over his knees. The bench helps with some pressure so he's not simply taking the man's knees to his gut, but even if that's all it was - it'd be what he deserves. It feels a little silly, arse up and arms folded, elbows tucked in, giving him something to prop his chin on.
Crozier shifts, careful, helping Jopson lay down. The bench could do with being wider, having not been built for this sort of thing, but as it's also meant to work as beds in an emergency it's plenty serviceable. He lays one hand on the small of Jopson's back, and rests the other on his shoulder, where he strokes him softly.
"Aye," he confirms, and his touch moves from shoulder down his arm, getting his attention for a look. "Thomas."
Thomas. Sweet boy.
"Thank you for sharing yourself with me this way. If it doesn't please you, or if you wish to stop, or just rest, tell me. Will you do that for me? I'll get back to it in a moment, but I need to hear it from you, lad."
If some emergency happens, he'll have to shuffle his steward into his own berth and close the door on him, and just hope his cock isn't too hard in his trousers (threatening to get there, with all this). But more important than that is looking after Jopson. He's not really punishing him, they're playing a game. It isn't like the flogging; he can ask to stop. He can ask for anything.
Thomas sighs beneath Crozier's touch, the hand on his back soothing on its own, warm skin on warm skin. He could be happy to remain just like this, stretched out across the man's lap, but he turns his head. He reaches for the man's fingers, laces them for the brief moment they can. The shroud of the game is pulled away in this moment and he's struck with the deep desire to kiss the older man.
He can't, of course. Easy to root around for that later.
"I will tell you if I need anything, Francis," he murmurs softly, nuzzling his face in against Crozier's wrist. Even here he feels the deep pull of emotion, the tug of something chronic, terminal, that he doesn't have named just yet.
"I promise it, sir," he releases his hand, tucking his own back under for his head to rest upon, shifting his hips to settle his weight against the older man. "I will take anything you deem fit to give me until then."
Francis. He strokes his cheek, pets over his hair. Grateful, adoring.
"Very well," he murmurs. Warm approval. He pets him for another moment, letting the veil of this situation materialize again, giving it a buffer. "Good boy."
Crozier continues to run his hands over his steward, just getting a feel for him. He likes doing this. He liked doing it every time to salve his back, and now is no different. His touch grows firmer, less idle, more exploratory, and then proprietary. He tests the density of his muscles, he feels the knobs of his spine, he gets a firm handful of his asscheek and kneads. The other hand holds his side, keeping him caged on his lap. A clear, tangible thing— Jopson belongs to him, and he's taking stock of his property, assessing it, enjoying it.
"A shame to see those bruises gone."
Under normal circumstances, an awful thing to say. Crozier rubs roughly over his behind, and lower where his thigh bends into it. Fingertips threaten the soft skin between, but don't delve in. A light tap, followed by keeping his hand there and holding it, squeezing more.
The soft brush of fingers over his skin soothes some of the tension out of his muscles, brings his body back into the present. He could stretch out under the man's touch for hours if allowed, and wonders where else they may do this one day. Beneath the warm afternoon sun? In a little flat tucked away in London? In a tent or room or anything in the Falklands? Hobart?
Little time to think much more on it, instead muffling a soft noise when he's pawed at, grabbed, the temptation of fingers so close to even more intimate places. (What would Crozier's fingers feel like twisted up inside of him?) It makes heat squirm deep in his belly, makes his prick ache anew. The cool air on his skin married with the warmth of Crozier's hand makes every touch seem magnified, bigger. He squirms under his touch just slightly, testing the strength of the grip.
Thomas hadn't considered being explored like this - being examined and assessed and held like he belongs to the man beneath him. And he does, to a point, doesn't he? Belonging to Francis Crozier would be a happy thing indeed.
"They weren't your bruises, sir," a murmur, a little hint of defiance, even if his voice drops half a note lower. "They weren't meant to last."
"And that's what you think you need, to behave?" a cheeky pinch. "Something that'll last?"
Of course he won't mark him permanently. Might not mark him much at all, at least from this angle— Jopson needs to do his job, and needs to not be in pain day to day. But somewhere, perhaps. He'll have to consider it. Still. He rakes fingernails, short as they are, down his back. White pressure lines bloom, but fade moments after.
Crozier continues to warm his skin, just touching him, mapping him, memorizing him. He thinks about his cock against his thighs, and if Jopson's going to make a mess of his uniform trousers. He finds he hopes so.
"I don't know how well you'd cooperate even if you got what you think you want. Mmn. Think you can count?"
He brings his hand down on the meat of his rear, and it's not a light tap this time. Not too hard, either, but bracing. An opening volley of intent. He pauses after, expectant, though the tension in his body is clearly one of continued motion. Well? One?
The reality of being bruised as he was before isn't feasible, and it isn't what he wants. But just the chatter alone about being marked by this man, made to feel him at all hours of the day by his touch alone, makes the game of this boil a few degrees hotter.
"I can count for you, sir."
Simple enough, surely, but it's spoken on a sigh, the scratch of nails and press of rougher skin against his own so pleasant he's like to fall asleep in his lap like this should he keep it up. Well, if he could fall asleep in this - the sharp sting of skin on skin, so different from the way he'd been touched seconds before.
His breath hitches in his throat, the pleasant shock of it sending sparks up his spine. Dipping his head he presses his mouth into the crook of his bent arm - he'll need to muffle himself, he can already tell for the way he feels the need to arch into the next careful strike.
"One."
A soft intake of breath, anticipating the next hit just as it comes and he exhales a shuddering thing, a hint of low rumble at the end.
"Two."
A pleasant ripple of heat at his backside, the pale skin of his ass already blooming red to match the sweet flush in his cheeks and down the strong line of his throat.
Jopson is so lovely. Crozier imagines — is it his imagination? maybe not — that the particular flex of his body is a want to press up into contact with his hand. He feels himself hardening in his trousers, the press of it will be apparent if he keeps it up.
One, two, followed by a third, and another. He evens it out, both globes of his rear, and once he's pleased with the bright blushing color of them he moves on to firmer, harder strikes. A more solid movement, a heavier landing, more of his palm. After one, seven, he grabs his flesh and squeezes, rubs, as though forcing the feel of the blow into him.
He pets his spine with his other hand, and up into his hair. Crozier's own breath threatens to come quicker now, and the weight of Jopson over his knees feels paradoxically lighter.
The break doesn't last. He brings his hand down again, until they reach the nice, round number of ten, and then he does pause to take stock of him.
Each strike brings with it a muttering of a number, caught between a hitched breath or a low and stifled moan. It hurts, but the sting of his abused flesh only fuels the way he's gone harder against Crozier's thigh with each strike. Seven takes him somewhere different - his body responding long before his mind can catch up. Crozier's heavy hand, the squeeze, the rub, and his hips cant back, pressing aching and sore skin into the palm that's caused it.
Nine comes on the sound of what could easily be called a whine for the way he misses the constant press into sore skin, the weight of the man's hand, the possession of it all. He deserves whatever the captain deigns to give him, be it everything or nothing at all.
"Ten," he hums, breathing coming a little quicker, his head bowed, enjoying the press of fingers into his hair or along his spine, wherever they may wander. The soft and the sharp mixed together make it difficult to parse just what brings him aching and hard in the man's lap.
He braces for another, waits, his body tensing and the muscles of his back flexing. There's even the tiniest jostle of his hips to apply more pressure against his stiffening prick, but everything at a microscopic scale, waiting to be dealt his hand, waiting for the next instruction, wanting. Is it terrible to tell him he wants more? That he wants to feel his skin on fire well into the next morning? That he's so foolishly desperate after a couple of weeks of distance, that it's turned him into a pathetic, needy lover instead of a hardened and sea-worthy sailor?
"Please, sir," comes out against his will, a whisper, heart thudding in his chest. Please more? Please don't stop? Please, please please.
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The weight at his neck, the pressure that sits perfectly poised as a reminder - only serves to stoke the giddy flames in him. Makes his whole body come to attention, with a certain knowing all the way down to the tiny, invisible hairs at his knuckles. A command with no words, a power he knows he cannot press.
The tea cleaned he rises as much as that commanding hand will allow him and folds the soiled towel to set on the tray. The mending next - a neat pile on the table.
“What do you wish to see first, sir?”
Less bite, less obstinance, but a focused and quiet seriousness. He’d had other plans in this and feels foolish that the weight of a palm has momentarily brought him to heel. But the reaction is gratifying.
“Two shirtsleeves mended today, a button on your great coat, the seams of some underthings.”
He draws up a shirt, offers him the cuff where he has expertly relaid the seams. The second however - a plant. Perfectly mended save for a loose thread, not tied off.
no subject
Ah, the mending.
With his free hand, Crozier reaches out, holding up one cuff, then the other.
"Is this the best tailor in the fleet?" Skeptical, as his thumb abuses the loose thread. Sloppy work. "Fix it, and then put this away."
The hand at his neck flexes, an almost absent kind of kneading. Not about to let him forget the very real pressure there. Some part of Crozier thinks this is a bit much, that he should stop this and ask him to speak plainly if he wants something. Seems the sensible thing to do. But it's interesting. Engaging. Jopson's clearly planned it, at least to some degree, and he'd regret not participating in it for that fact alone.
Also—
Their last encounter was some time ago. Crozier can go without, even if he'd prefer not to, but how wound up is his steward? He'd regret not pursuing that, too.
no subject
And maybe, just maybe, Thomas will admit he is being a little selfish, asking for something so obliquely.
"Yes sir," he murmurs, reaching for the sleeve left unfinished and expertly tacks the loose thread down, tying it off, then bringing it to his mouth to cut the thread. Purposeful, really - a show of sorts, but not dissimilar to what he'd do outside of this moment.
Maybe he moves a little too quickly, turns a little too suddenly, wanting to feel the press of fingers in against his neck. Either way he carefully folds the clothes he's mended and starts toward the berth. Each piece has its home, one that Jopson knows better than his own.
"I apologize, sir," he says as he puts each piece away in the drawers allotted to the captain. "For the sloppy work. It won't happen again."
Is he truly apologetic? Hard to say, but he focuses on the clothes all the same.
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He doesn't tell him that the apology is accepted, or that he believes him. He monitors his progress closely, catches his elbow to redirect him at one point, other hand finding Jopson's as he puts a shirt away. Making him move very specifically. Crozier feels... what does he feel? It's not the power that's intoxicating. It's the connection, he thinks. They are doing something so unusual, and in their own world.
Here is where he should stop and lay ground rules. They should speak about it.
Instead, he does something else.
When Jopson straightens up, Crozier turns him, both hands at his shoulders now.
"Go and put the rag away in the laundry," he tells him. "And when you come back, latch the door behind you. You're in need of an inspection over your sloppy work. Jopson." Attention. He lifts a hand, thumb pressing to his lower lip, which he uses to tilt his head, like someone judging a horse at an auction. "If you take too long, I'll lock you out."
No dawdling in an attempt to stretch out his poor behavior. This is where he chooses if he wants to be doing this or not. A chance to back out.
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His breath catches and he allows Crozier to turn his hand, and by some miracle manages to resist pressing his lips round the man's thumb.
"Yes, sir. I'll return momentarily."
The towel - he takes it up and only when Crozier's hand falls away he moves toward the door and out. Laundry is farther than he'd like it to be and he can't rush. Rush and other men might question him, for he is nothing if not calm and collected at every turn in the belly of the ship. So he delivers the laundry, has to pause briefly to speak to the ship master, but after a little placation, he returns.
He's nervous when he checks the door handle, but opens it confidently either way, and when he's back inside, he latches the door shut.
"Apologies if I was later than expected, sir," and it sounds a little more genuine. "Mister Cotter needed me for a moment."
There's a hint of flustered red in his cheeks - the remnants of impatience. If Cotter had cost him whatever this is, after so much thought and planning...
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Still. There's no hiding the look of pleased relief that blooms in his eyes when his steward returns before he's made any move to bar his reentry. He schools it back into professionalism, but not before he lets Jopson see the reaction. No reason to hide it.
"Your timing is acceptable," he informs him. A beat, and he rises from the chair he'd been waiting in, but only so that he can push it back to leave some space between it and the table. He's decided he prefers the chair to the bench along the back window— for now. The bench may have utility sooner rather than later, but it's less authoritative.
After he sits back down, he gestures an indication that Jopson should stand in the void left there. It puts him practically in the dead center of the cabin, as though the subject of an operating theater, or a sixteenth century trial. But only Crozier sits in the gallery.
"One item of clothing at a time, if you please, and then put each one on the table behind you once it's been audited for the quality of your upkeep."
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Francis Crozier commands attention, he always has so far as Jopson has seen, but this is something different. He's a force here, pulling him in, just as he's spoken about the stars and the way they collide in his books and studies. Crozier makes room and Jopson knows he must fill it. He stands there at near center, unable to shake a hint of the heady dizziness that comes with the attention, the commands, the careful and serious way he's being handled.
"Yes, sir," said with a little more air than he'd like, but otherwise keeping his demeanor in check. And just as he's told he begins one by one, shrugging off his coat and folding it on the table - it's in fine condition, he makes sure it remains as such, but the coat coming off means his vest comes next, an offering to him to observe. And perhaps a little impatient, the way his fingers undo a couple of buttons on his shirt, readying himself for the next inspection.
"I do my best to keep my uniform in order, sir."
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"Slow down," he orders him, tranquil but firm. "Don't go trying to hide anything in a rush. Show me the elbows on your coat."
Pointless. Jopson is impeccable, unassailable; as tidy and neat as possible. He thinks that even a steward who came from money just hitching his wagon to an 'easy' position to get ocean months logged would look a mess next to Thomas, who can make anything shine, no matter how ragged. Still. They're doing something, here. And it gives Crozier an excuse to take him by the wrist and turn him this way and that before releasing him and nodding at him to continue.
"All of it."
Shirts and bracers and layers of socks.
"You may put your boots by the foot stove."
Piece by piece, leaving him bare. But as soon as Jopson is shirtless, Crozier makes him stop again, and beckons him forward. Now, he takes one of his steward's hands and raises it, running his fingers from wrist to elbow, then elbow up to the curve of his armpit. Checking. For... what, Poseidon only knows. A bloody mystery, beyond the excuse to get his hands on him, even in this possessive, utilitarian way.
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Boots by the stove, layers of socks carefully draped atop them, bracers slid off strong shoulders, and then buttons. Each one plucked carefully, letting Crozier have his fill - slower, more careful, even if he feels the impatient rush of blood elsewhere.
Crozier's fingers leave gooseflesh in their wake, and Jopson can do nothing but follow his movements along his skin, to his armpit. The shirt is folded behind him on the table, as instructed, but he's forgotten anything about the next steps, captured instead by this man's touch.
"Does it meet your approval, sir?"
As though he's inspecting the sleeve of a shirt, not the long line of his own arm, the press of his skin. The fingers of his hands flex absently, wanting to touch, wanting more, but resisting all urge to do anything outside of what he's told.
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"So far."
He takes Jopson by the hips and turns him before he stands up. As though standing to join him face to face would be too much for right now; too much of a reward, when they're only half through. But he's got to be able to reach all parts of his back. And some of his front, too— he instructs him to raise one arm, and slips a touch forward, over his chest.
Fingers trace over scars on his back. Over where the worst of bruising was, now faded to near invisibility. Something about it strikes him as a loss; no more evidence of the punishment he ordered, even if it wasn't, after all, his own hand the way they each had fantasized. Crozier spends extra time there, mapping each ridge of tissue, touching the places he'd been the most attentive to while salving and oiling his back in recovery. When he's drawn that out as long as seems reasonable, he sits down again, and taps Jopson's side to indicate he should turn around to face him.
"Go on."
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Being handled, turned and touched and prodded at, is new but when he turns round as instructed, it's impossible to hide the faintest beginnings of a flush creeping its way down his neck and to the top of his chest. Womanly, surely, to burn so easily at a man's attention, but again it doesn't bother him. Honesty, even in the way his body's blood moves about.
"Yes, sir," he looks down at the man, meeting his eyes while his hands work. It's not unlike the way he'd held his gaze when lashed, determined and intentional as he works open his trousers, allows them to drop at his bare feet. He bends carefully to retrieve them, leaning into Crozier's space just enough to do so before he offers them out to the man for inspection, eyes never leaving his.
Trousers offered to the man he undoes the fastenings at the front of his drawers but pauses, waits to be told, and ignores the way he's stirred to life under the thing fabric, even his flesh too honest in all things.
"Would you like me to continue, Captain?"
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He slides his fingers along the waistband of the shed trousers, though his eyes stay on the young man. (Sculpted out of marble, with jewels set in for his eyes.) After a moment, he hands them back to him, so that he might fold them and put them on the table with his other garments.
"Yes."
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Continue. Right.
He tugs his drawers down over his hips, working the fabric over the beginnings of his arousal, lets them fall to the floor before he steps out of them. It's of the softer things he owns and he offers them out, worn as they are but cared for. Keeps his gaze on Crozier's ignoring the cool air on his nude body, instead warming himself under the seriousness of his captain's gaze.
"For you, sir," he murmurs. "I hope everything is to your liking."
In all ways. Yes, he's pressed and pushed today, coaxed this moment out of the man, and yet - he hopes that even that was to his liking as well.
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"Nothing out of order," he says, and his voice is a little deeper. He nods, then, towards his steward's toes. "Pick that up."
Can't just let his drawers lay around on the floor. He observes keenly, and then when Jopson's complied, Crozier tells him to step closer. Arm's length, just far enough so that Crozier can reach out and take him by the sides, slide his hands down his legs, inspect his navel, and all else. Almost all else; his prick is left alone. He stops before bending down to reach further, and instead points behind him to the table—
"Lean there, and give me one foot."
The ledge of his arse against the table, and a foot in Crozier's lap. He moves the chair forward a smidge to facilitate. One at a time, inspecting his knee, his shin, the curve of his calf, his toes (free of frostbite he hopes). Then the next one, with a sweeping touch over the arch of his foot before he's satisfied. When he's done, he looks at him.
"Stand up and turn around."
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Infuriating. Powerful. He's at this man's command on a daily basis, but this strikes differently, brings with it a fluttering curiosity. (He will think about Crozier's hands down his thighs, at the arch of his foot, in the bend of his armpit for a very, very long time after this).
"Yes, sir."
The table's cold on the bare skin of his arse, so it's a welcome change to stand and turn for him. The pale skin over his glutes blushes red from the pressure of the table, the chill of it. There's little his complexion will hide even under the poorest light.
His fingers twitch at his sides, wanting to touch the man, wanting anything but the unknown still and quiet with Crozier simply waiting behind them. Every nerve ending stands at attention, muscles waiting for the shudder of a touch, body just tense enough in expectation. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, even if he desperately wishes to chance a look over his shoulder.
"What would you have me do, Captain?"
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Moves on soon enough. The backs of his knees, and a little lower. When he stands at last, he's close behind Jopson, with one hand at his shoulder and the other on his hip. The course fabric of his uniform and the hard touch of a button brushes against him, faint.
"You say you're overworked, tipping teacups and asking me to fetch things," he observes, "but you haven't anything out of place. Not in your clothes, not in your person. I must ask myself if I think you're lying—"
(a thing, the thing that started it, arguably)
"Or if there's some other malady taking you." The hand on Jopson's shoulder slides up, fingers delve into his hair, and Crozier rakes blunt nails over his scalp, slow and methodical. "The prescription shall be the same for either, I think."
He fists his hand in Jopson's hair, getting a grip on him. With this, a harsher version of the hand at his neck, he steps back and guides his steward along with him. Steady steps until they get to the bench along the window, and Crozier allows him to turn — still held fast — so that they can make eye contact. He needs to know if it the younger man balks. Needs to see him.
"I'm going to sit down," he tells him, and removes his hands, but only so that he can start to take off his jacket. "And you're going to lay over my knees. And you're going to stay there, enduring whatever I deem necessary, until I let you up."
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"I'll take what you recommend, sir," he murmurs, voice going airy the moment fingers twist into his hair. Different, this touch - sharper, urgent, grounding. He follows the pressure of it, turning toward the bench obediently, even if a daring, disobedient thing in him tells him to tug, to resist, to press the man farther. He doesn't - not yet, not now.
Not when he meets his gaze again and he's sure he must look absolutely wanton and flushed. A game he carefully planned that has not yet failed him. No balking at the statement, only a heat, a fire, a hunger. It's muscle memory that has him reaching for the man's jacket as it comes off, carefully folding it but not without dropping Crozier's gaze.
"Yes, sir," he nods slowly. Only when Crozier has settled does he move, carefully negotiating the space between them so he can lay down belly first over his knees. The bench helps with some pressure so he's not simply taking the man's knees to his gut, but even if that's all it was - it'd be what he deserves. It feels a little silly, arse up and arms folded, elbows tucked in, giving him something to prop his chin on.
"Is this comfortable for you, Captain?"
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"Aye," he confirms, and his touch moves from shoulder down his arm, getting his attention for a look. "Thomas."
Thomas. Sweet boy.
"Thank you for sharing yourself with me this way. If it doesn't please you, or if you wish to stop, or just rest, tell me. Will you do that for me? I'll get back to it in a moment, but I need to hear it from you, lad."
If some emergency happens, he'll have to shuffle his steward into his own berth and close the door on him, and just hope his cock isn't too hard in his trousers (threatening to get there, with all this). But more important than that is looking after Jopson. He's not really punishing him, they're playing a game. It isn't like the flogging; he can ask to stop. He can ask for anything.
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He can't, of course. Easy to root around for that later.
"I will tell you if I need anything, Francis," he murmurs softly, nuzzling his face in against Crozier's wrist. Even here he feels the deep pull of emotion, the tug of something chronic, terminal, that he doesn't have named just yet.
"I promise it, sir," he releases his hand, tucking his own back under for his head to rest upon, shifting his hips to settle his weight against the older man. "I will take anything you deem fit to give me until then."
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"Very well," he murmurs. Warm approval. He pets him for another moment, letting the veil of this situation materialize again, giving it a buffer. "Good boy."
Crozier continues to run his hands over his steward, just getting a feel for him. He likes doing this. He liked doing it every time to salve his back, and now is no different. His touch grows firmer, less idle, more exploratory, and then proprietary. He tests the density of his muscles, he feels the knobs of his spine, he gets a firm handful of his asscheek and kneads. The other hand holds his side, keeping him caged on his lap. A clear, tangible thing— Jopson belongs to him, and he's taking stock of his property, assessing it, enjoying it.
"A shame to see those bruises gone."
Under normal circumstances, an awful thing to say. Crozier rubs roughly over his behind, and lower where his thigh bends into it. Fingertips threaten the soft skin between, but don't delve in. A light tap, followed by keeping his hand there and holding it, squeezing more.
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Little time to think much more on it, instead muffling a soft noise when he's pawed at, grabbed, the temptation of fingers so close to even more intimate places. (What would Crozier's fingers feel like twisted up inside of him?) It makes heat squirm deep in his belly, makes his prick ache anew. The cool air on his skin married with the warmth of Crozier's hand makes every touch seem magnified, bigger. He squirms under his touch just slightly, testing the strength of the grip.
Thomas hadn't considered being explored like this - being examined and assessed and held like he belongs to the man beneath him. And he does, to a point, doesn't he? Belonging to Francis Crozier would be a happy thing indeed.
"They weren't your bruises, sir," a murmur, a little hint of defiance, even if his voice drops half a note lower. "They weren't meant to last."
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Of course he won't mark him permanently. Might not mark him much at all, at least from this angle— Jopson needs to do his job, and needs to not be in pain day to day. But somewhere, perhaps. He'll have to consider it. Still. He rakes fingernails, short as they are, down his back. White pressure lines bloom, but fade moments after.
Crozier continues to warm his skin, just touching him, mapping him, memorizing him. He thinks about his cock against his thighs, and if Jopson's going to make a mess of his uniform trousers. He finds he hopes so.
"I don't know how well you'd cooperate even if you got what you think you want. Mmn. Think you can count?"
He brings his hand down on the meat of his rear, and it's not a light tap this time. Not too hard, either, but bracing. An opening volley of intent. He pauses after, expectant, though the tension in his body is clearly one of continued motion. Well? One?
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"I can count for you, sir."
Simple enough, surely, but it's spoken on a sigh, the scratch of nails and press of rougher skin against his own so pleasant he's like to fall asleep in his lap like this should he keep it up. Well, if he could fall asleep in this - the sharp sting of skin on skin, so different from the way he'd been touched seconds before.
His breath hitches in his throat, the pleasant shock of it sending sparks up his spine. Dipping his head he presses his mouth into the crook of his bent arm - he'll need to muffle himself, he can already tell for the way he feels the need to arch into the next careful strike.
"One."
A soft intake of breath, anticipating the next hit just as it comes and he exhales a shuddering thing, a hint of low rumble at the end.
"Two."
A pleasant ripple of heat at his backside, the pale skin of his ass already blooming red to match the sweet flush in his cheeks and down the strong line of his throat.
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One, two, followed by a third, and another. He evens it out, both globes of his rear, and once he's pleased with the bright blushing color of them he moves on to firmer, harder strikes. A more solid movement, a heavier landing, more of his palm. After one, seven, he grabs his flesh and squeezes, rubs, as though forcing the feel of the blow into him.
He pets his spine with his other hand, and up into his hair. Crozier's own breath threatens to come quicker now, and the weight of Jopson over his knees feels paradoxically lighter.
The break doesn't last. He brings his hand down again, until they reach the nice, round number of ten, and then he does pause to take stock of him.
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Nine comes on the sound of what could easily be called a whine for the way he misses the constant press into sore skin, the weight of the man's hand, the possession of it all. He deserves whatever the captain deigns to give him, be it everything or nothing at all.
"Ten," he hums, breathing coming a little quicker, his head bowed, enjoying the press of fingers into his hair or along his spine, wherever they may wander. The soft and the sharp mixed together make it difficult to parse just what brings him aching and hard in the man's lap.
He braces for another, waits, his body tensing and the muscles of his back flexing. There's even the tiniest jostle of his hips to apply more pressure against his stiffening prick, but everything at a microscopic scale, waiting to be dealt his hand, waiting for the next instruction, wanting. Is it terrible to tell him he wants more? That he wants to feel his skin on fire well into the next morning? That he's so foolishly desperate after a couple of weeks of distance, that it's turned him into a pathetic, needy lover instead of a hardened and sea-worthy sailor?
"Please, sir," comes out against his will, a whisper, heart thudding in his chest. Please more? Please don't stop? Please, please please.
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