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.
Jopson is rocking back into him. It makes his own spine feel molten with arousal, and something else, a heady mix of power and near-painful affection. He wants to push the young man down and fuck into him, he wants to gather him in his arms and cradle him. Being suspended between both wants is even better than having just one.
Crozier fondles his ass, rewarding the silent beg, the flex of his hips. His skin feels so hot and it blazes a cheerful, rosy pink, but still goes pale when he presses into it. Not destined for rough bruising, though he'll be sore tomorrow. Aware that he could continue to spank him and that Jopson would welcome it, maybe even beg him for it— Please, sir, it seizes him, takes his breath away. Makes his cock ache, too. But they are still where they are, who they are.
A very distant concern is the state of his right hand, stinging from repeated contact. Crozier feels it as he flexes it, but it's like the pleasure of sinking one's teeth into something and squeezing.
"Such a good boy for me," he praises him in a low tone. He pets his hair, strokes the insides of his thighs, lets his knuckles press into the apex of his body. "Taking it so beautifully. So good, Tom."
He can feel how hard Jopson is and it makes his mouth water, which nearly makes him laugh. Feeling a bit drunk off it all. The hand in his steward's hair moves down, both focused on the upturned bottom now. He pushes the meat of his ass apart, exposing the softest parts of him.
"Just a few more. Remember to count."
When he strikes him next, it's lower, and the impact is over both sides of him. His hand doesn't make contact with anything hidden away in the cleft of his rear, but the exposure of it, and the sensation of being hit while spread, is meant to be different. Intensely so. He doesn't do it again in the same fashion, but pushes his right hand forward, into the intimate press of thighs between them. He presses fingers into the sensitive bit of skin between his hole and his stones, nestling there. It's indirect pressure, dull and distant compared to insertion, but all the same— when he strikes him again, it jostles his hand, and pushes at his cock, and the hidden prostate within him. The actual hit doesn't have to have much force behind it. But he's sure it feels like more.
The praise goes straight to his prick, bringing him to a full and alarming hardness. Not so much that he's making a mess but certainly enough to want friction, to chase the way blood rushes furiously deep and low. He's good for him, and he will always strive to be, to take whatever this man offers him. Anything - he's said it before and feels it rings even more true now. Strike him until he bruises, bleeds, begs. Deny him. Let him simply stand beside him in the biting wind of a terrible ice storm. Anything.
Maybe the sea spray has gone to his head.
The brush of cool air to the softer, more sensitive skin of his rear draws the first rush of air, but the careful strike there with skin and muscle parted - he forgets to count. He's been told to count, and after the first he finally finds his voice.
"Eleven." Quiet, surprised, unmistakably pleased.
Thomas groans when the meat of his ass is split proper, when he feels the pressure of fingers just southerly of where he wants them. Almost thinks to wriggle his hips, encourage something else but he knows better. Not until he's told to, not until -
The next hit takes his breath out of him completely. Makes his whole body go tense, makes stars burst behind his eyes and he stifles a surprised moan into his arm, one hand scrambling to brace against the cool wood of the bench. His thighs tense and just as he'd thought he could maintain decorum for a little while, his prick goes wet, undoubtedly smearing a glob of pre-come on the rich navy of Crozier's uniform pants.
When he finally exhales, it's on a shuddering breath, his body sparking to life.
Another slap, for thirteen. Crozier can feel him against his leg, captured there, and he shifts forward and flexes his own posture just to stimulate him more. His own prick throbs with want, but of course he ignores it; this isn't about seeking his own release. (Maybe later.)
"Do you think you can spend, just like this?" Crack. Fourteen. He brushes fingers purposefully over the captured, soft skin of his sac. "Or are you going to make me work at it, just to get you to behave after?"
Fifteen. He thumbs over his hole. The ship sways, creaks lightly, as ever. Terror herself a participant, like a force of nature.
Crozier speaks and Thomas knows there are words in there somewhere but his body overtakes everything, the brush of fingers, the pressure against his hole. Everything so different from where they've been before, but more exhilarating. He doesn't count fifteen - instead there's a choked sort of moan, a squirm of his hips backward and wanting, all primal reflex.
"Whatever you wish of me, sir," he murmurs, lets his hips fall back into the rise of Crozier's body, grinding his weeping prick against his thigh. He can feel the older man's arousal as well, against the dip of his abdomen.
"I will be good for you."
The praise, the touches, the way he's spread out upon the man's lap - yes, he'll absolutely have to do the captain's laundry following this.
Instead of another blow, he lightly pinches his rear, teasing. Other hand still pressed in against all of his tender parts.
"Fifteen," he says, helpful. "I think that's plenty. You've borne them so well, Tom."
His sweet boy, practically writhing against him. He's going to be sore from more than his arse tomorrow, muscles of his flanks and thighs flexing like this. Crozier squeezes and fondles him, watching the way the reddened skin flushes and pales, all the while still rubbing him between his legs. Thomas' cock is still held in place between them, and he feels it like a hot brand against him.
"Just like this. I know you can. You're not going anywhere until you do."
The praise will always be the peak of all pleasures, particularly when Crozier holds him and pets him so fondly. If he was commanded to stay across his lap like this for eternity he'd do so gladly. The bite of a challenge, though - to be held here until he finds his climax. He could chase it, rut against Crozier's thigh until he's over-sensitive and falling apart, but that's not what this is about.
Not that he can think of much else with Crozier's hand between his legs, the softest parts of him exposed to cold air at the faintest movements, muscle fluttering and tensing against the passing of the man's fingertips.
"Of course, sir."
He buries his face in against his arms and wriggles his hips in a little circle, arching his back into Crozier's hand, chasing friction there just as settling grinds his aching prick against Crozier's thigh. Jopson moans quietly, wanting to chase more, to rear back against the man's hand, but he doesn't. Instead just tries his best to sit with the sensation - the stinging of his ass cheeks, the press of Crozier's hand, the feeling of the Captain's cock through coarse uniform fabric.
"You're beautiful like this," he says, stroking him from the swell of his rear up to his skull. He pets him, and slides his hand back down, as he flexes fingers against him. "You always are, but you're glowing, here. Like you've got embers all in you."
Hopefully Jopson is too dizzy with it to critique his captain's poor poetry.
For a while that's all there is, but he doesn't want the mood to drop off— it's his responsibility to see him through, even if he's given his steward a goal. And so he continues to touch him, stimulate him, and threaten more strikes against his ass. Not quite yet, only light touches, but one does come eventually. He grips him after, presses down, forces him into a grind. It transports him, too; everything boils down to Thomas stretched over his lap, the only thing there is to focus on and concern himself with.
Sailing is orderly. Being a commander is a hundred moving parts. (Being Irish is walking in a shade of light no one else seems to see.) Here it's just this, a lover and these parts, a body, and the person inhabiting it.
"It is all because of you, sir," he pants, every slide of the man's hand along his spine, every little movement brings him that much closer. But to be called beautiful even now, sprawled and laid bare across the man's lap - one more step to an edge he's soon to tumble over head first.
It's the strike that does it, that starts the inevitable fall, but the grind that makes him choke back a sound. It sets his hips in motion, muffled grunts into his arms as he swivels his hips, grinds down hard against him, coaxing himself into a rapid burning climax.
He spills over the man's thigh, against the coarse fabric, and pistons his hips just enough to use the friction to drag him through his orgasm, but also encourage the man's hand to stay on his ass. He wants to commit the sensation to memory.
"Captain-"
A little gasp into desperately deep breaths, his body going tense and shuddering as he finishes, a light sheen of sweat forming along his back, his nape, his face.
"Good boy, good boy," over and over as he feels Thomas' climax, as if it rippled out of his body and into his own with him. He continues to pet him, cradle him, squeeze and press where that slap landed. He feels dampness sink through the fabric of his trousers, and it brings a heady triumph with it, bone-deep satisfaction. Look, he can order someone to do something brilliantly alive, too, not just sail.
Now is all about telling him how well he's done, his good job listening, and doing as he was told. Francis pets him and all but cuddles him, coaxing him to turn his head so he can stroke his cheek and push hair back from his forehead to see his face, lovely and flushed.
"Need you to do something else for me, now." A gentle tone, even as his voice is pitched low with tense arousal. "Up on your feet. I know you can. Come now, I'll help you."
Before the sparks of it all have slipped away, he wants to press him just a little more. Crozier stays seated where he is, but guides Jopson to stand in front of him. He tells him to brace himself on the rail overhead if need be, and he holds him at his sides, his hips, eye level with his cock and half the mess he's left.
The world goes molten around him, body worked up tense and white-hot, soothed only by the sweet slide of Crozier's hand over his face, his hair, his back. Keep touching me he wants to say but finds his tongue too heavy, the lust still too thick to talk around in anything that doesn't sound like captain and sir.
That, and his Captain needs him. He says so.
Everything sparks to life in him as he moves, as his over-sensitive cock drags over fabric, touches cool air, no longer warmed by the press of their bodies. But he moves to stand, a hand falling to Crozier's shoulder to steady himself. He has the rail overhead, sure, but just for a moment he seeks this even though he hasn't been given permission.
He'll beg forgiveness later.
"Steady on, sir," he says, voice low and thick with desire, blue eyes finding Crozier's as he pulls away to reach for the railing. It exposes the long line of muscle along his side, leaves him standing naked and vulnerable, his own prick still twitching in the aftershocks of his climax.
"Whatever you wish for me to do, I'll do it, Captain. Tell me, please."
The hand on his shoulder nearly derails his plans; he could pull Jopson back, kiss his fingers, kiss his mouth, grind up into him, ruin his trousers further. But no, he lets him steady himself and holds still, even as he looks up to see him, a perfect clash of the long, sculptural lines of his body, and how shaken he looks just post-orgasmic. Beautiful. Handsome would be a more flattering word to his masculinity, he supposes, but it doesn't quite capture it. Jopson's beauty isn't womanly at all, but far more striking than to just say he's good-looking.
Please, how can he deny him?
"I wish for you to stand just here, and let me have my way with you." He rubs a hipbone with one thumb, pressing in, to one side of too hard. A beat, and he muses: "You're a young man. Think you can find your climax again?"
He leans in, and presses a kiss to the root of his cock.
A good thing he has his sea legs about him or he might buckle at the knees the moment Crozier's mouth finds him. Sensitive skin bursting to life, nerve endings sending rapid-fire warning bells all the way back to his brain and there's little controlling the noise he makes. A strangled sort of gasp, a keening noise at the back of his throat that still manages to be quiet enough in the great cabin. A steward's instincts overriding everything in the oppressive warmth following his climax.
Could he find another? His body responds for him, abdominal muscles flexing, eyes watering just a little as his cock stirs even with the kiss. It almost hurts, much like the press of the thumb in his hip - but Crozier's hand on his hip grounds him, and he white-knuckles the railing overhead.
"I... I will, sir," he whispers, head falling to watch the man in his space as he takes careful, deep breaths. The next contact will have his hips bucking involuntarily, everything dialed up to eleven. "I will do my best."
"There's a good lad," he murmurs, mouth brushing against skin and wiry hair as he speaks. "I know you will."
The first time they'd fallen into each other, they had been positioned almost just like this. Crozier standing, braced against the bulkhead, Jopson kneeling beneath him. Wedged in his berth; here, the water, the ice, the sky, is behind them, there making beautiful shapes and colors for Jopson to stare at, if he can be bothered to lift his gaze. (Good thing Erebus is in front, not that anyone would be able to see anything. Just be a hell of a distraction.)
Jopson's hips surge up and Crozier holds him firmly for it, continuing the tender work of his mouth along him, sliding fingers of one hand along his hip and upper thigh meanwhile. Searching, considering. It takes him a while to finally take his prick in hand and cradle it, and when he does he kisses the head, and laps off what spend remains there. So much stronger than stealing it off his fingers; his own prick jumps with it. Despite usually preferring the dominant position in sexual encounters, he is not unpracticed at this act, and enjoys it.
He's got an angle, though. A plan. He doesn't take Jopson's cock into his mouth, and instead teases him with, while testing patches of skin just beside it. Until he finds someplace just perfect, where it won't chafe as he walks day to day, where it won't be obvious if he quickly changes in view of any other sailors, but where he'll still feel it. On the crest from hip to groin, and just onto the meat of his thigh. He kisses there first, sucks a bit, and then nips it with his teeth.
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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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Crozier fondles his ass, rewarding the silent beg, the flex of his hips. His skin feels so hot and it blazes a cheerful, rosy pink, but still goes pale when he presses into it. Not destined for rough bruising, though he'll be sore tomorrow. Aware that he could continue to spank him and that Jopson would welcome it, maybe even beg him for it— Please, sir, it seizes him, takes his breath away. Makes his cock ache, too. But they are still where they are, who they are.
A very distant concern is the state of his right hand, stinging from repeated contact. Crozier feels it as he flexes it, but it's like the pleasure of sinking one's teeth into something and squeezing.
"Such a good boy for me," he praises him in a low tone. He pets his hair, strokes the insides of his thighs, lets his knuckles press into the apex of his body. "Taking it so beautifully. So good, Tom."
He can feel how hard Jopson is and it makes his mouth water, which nearly makes him laugh. Feeling a bit drunk off it all. The hand in his steward's hair moves down, both focused on the upturned bottom now. He pushes the meat of his ass apart, exposing the softest parts of him.
"Just a few more. Remember to count."
When he strikes him next, it's lower, and the impact is over both sides of him. His hand doesn't make contact with anything hidden away in the cleft of his rear, but the exposure of it, and the sensation of being hit while spread, is meant to be different. Intensely so. He doesn't do it again in the same fashion, but pushes his right hand forward, into the intimate press of thighs between them. He presses fingers into the sensitive bit of skin between his hole and his stones, nestling there. It's indirect pressure, dull and distant compared to insertion, but all the same— when he strikes him again, it jostles his hand, and pushes at his cock, and the hidden prostate within him. The actual hit doesn't have to have much force behind it. But he's sure it feels like more.
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Maybe the sea spray has gone to his head.
The brush of cool air to the softer, more sensitive skin of his rear draws the first rush of air, but the careful strike there with skin and muscle parted - he forgets to count. He's been told to count, and after the first he finally finds his voice.
"Eleven." Quiet, surprised, unmistakably pleased.
Thomas groans when the meat of his ass is split proper, when he feels the pressure of fingers just southerly of where he wants them. Almost thinks to wriggle his hips, encourage something else but he knows better. Not until he's told to, not until -
The next hit takes his breath out of him completely. Makes his whole body go tense, makes stars burst behind his eyes and he stifles a surprised moan into his arm, one hand scrambling to brace against the cool wood of the bench. His thighs tense and just as he'd thought he could maintain decorum for a little while, his prick goes wet, undoubtedly smearing a glob of pre-come on the rich navy of Crozier's uniform pants.
When he finally exhales, it's on a shuddering breath, his body sparking to life.
"Twelve, sir."
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Another slap, for thirteen. Crozier can feel him against his leg, captured there, and he shifts forward and flexes his own posture just to stimulate him more. His own prick throbs with want, but of course he ignores it; this isn't about seeking his own release. (Maybe later.)
"Do you think you can spend, just like this?" Crack. Fourteen. He brushes fingers purposefully over the captured, soft skin of his sac. "Or are you going to make me work at it, just to get you to behave after?"
Fifteen. He thumbs over his hole. The ship sways, creaks lightly, as ever. Terror herself a participant, like a force of nature.
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"Whatever you wish of me, sir," he murmurs, lets his hips fall back into the rise of Crozier's body, grinding his weeping prick against his thigh. He can feel the older man's arousal as well, against the dip of his abdomen.
"I will be good for you."
The praise, the touches, the way he's spread out upon the man's lap - yes, he'll absolutely have to do the captain's laundry following this.
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"Fifteen," he says, helpful. "I think that's plenty. You've borne them so well, Tom."
His sweet boy, practically writhing against him. He's going to be sore from more than his arse tomorrow, muscles of his flanks and thighs flexing like this. Crozier squeezes and fondles him, watching the way the reddened skin flushes and pales, all the while still rubbing him between his legs. Thomas' cock is still held in place between them, and he feels it like a hot brand against him.
"Just like this. I know you can. You're not going anywhere until you do."
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Not that he can think of much else with Crozier's hand between his legs, the softest parts of him exposed to cold air at the faintest movements, muscle fluttering and tensing against the passing of the man's fingertips.
"Of course, sir."
He buries his face in against his arms and wriggles his hips in a little circle, arching his back into Crozier's hand, chasing friction there just as settling grinds his aching prick against Crozier's thigh. Jopson moans quietly, wanting to chase more, to rear back against the man's hand, but he doesn't. Instead just tries his best to sit with the sensation - the stinging of his ass cheeks, the press of Crozier's hand, the feeling of the Captain's cock through coarse uniform fabric.
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Hopefully Jopson is too dizzy with it to critique his captain's poor poetry.
For a while that's all there is, but he doesn't want the mood to drop off— it's his responsibility to see him through, even if he's given his steward a goal. And so he continues to touch him, stimulate him, and threaten more strikes against his ass. Not quite yet, only light touches, but one does come eventually. He grips him after, presses down, forces him into a grind. It transports him, too; everything boils down to Thomas stretched over his lap, the only thing there is to focus on and concern himself with.
Sailing is orderly. Being a commander is a hundred moving parts. (Being Irish is walking in a shade of light no one else seems to see.) Here it's just this, a lover and these parts, a body, and the person inhabiting it.
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It's the strike that does it, that starts the inevitable fall, but the grind that makes him choke back a sound. It sets his hips in motion, muffled grunts into his arms as he swivels his hips, grinds down hard against him, coaxing himself into a rapid burning climax.
He spills over the man's thigh, against the coarse fabric, and pistons his hips just enough to use the friction to drag him through his orgasm, but also encourage the man's hand to stay on his ass. He wants to commit the sensation to memory.
"Captain-"
A little gasp into desperately deep breaths, his body going tense and shuddering as he finishes, a light sheen of sweat forming along his back, his nape, his face.
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Now is all about telling him how well he's done, his good job listening, and doing as he was told. Francis pets him and all but cuddles him, coaxing him to turn his head so he can stroke his cheek and push hair back from his forehead to see his face, lovely and flushed.
"Need you to do something else for me, now." A gentle tone, even as his voice is pitched low with tense arousal. "Up on your feet. I know you can. Come now, I'll help you."
Before the sparks of it all have slipped away, he wants to press him just a little more. Crozier stays seated where he is, but guides Jopson to stand in front of him. He tells him to brace himself on the rail overhead if need be, and he holds him at his sides, his hips, eye level with his cock and half the mess he's left.
"Steady on?"
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That, and his Captain needs him. He says so.
Everything sparks to life in him as he moves, as his over-sensitive cock drags over fabric, touches cool air, no longer warmed by the press of their bodies. But he moves to stand, a hand falling to Crozier's shoulder to steady himself. He has the rail overhead, sure, but just for a moment he seeks this even though he hasn't been given permission.
He'll beg forgiveness later.
"Steady on, sir," he says, voice low and thick with desire, blue eyes finding Crozier's as he pulls away to reach for the railing. It exposes the long line of muscle along his side, leaves him standing naked and vulnerable, his own prick still twitching in the aftershocks of his climax.
"Whatever you wish for me to do, I'll do it, Captain. Tell me, please."
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Please, how can he deny him?
"I wish for you to stand just here, and let me have my way with you." He rubs a hipbone with one thumb, pressing in, to one side of too hard. A beat, and he muses: "You're a young man. Think you can find your climax again?"
He leans in, and presses a kiss to the root of his cock.
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Could he find another? His body responds for him, abdominal muscles flexing, eyes watering just a little as his cock stirs even with the kiss. It almost hurts, much like the press of the thumb in his hip - but Crozier's hand on his hip grounds him, and he white-knuckles the railing overhead.
"I... I will, sir," he whispers, head falling to watch the man in his space as he takes careful, deep breaths. The next contact will have his hips bucking involuntarily, everything dialed up to eleven. "I will do my best."
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The first time they'd fallen into each other, they had been positioned almost just like this. Crozier standing, braced against the bulkhead, Jopson kneeling beneath him. Wedged in his berth; here, the water, the ice, the sky, is behind them, there making beautiful shapes and colors for Jopson to stare at, if he can be bothered to lift his gaze. (Good thing Erebus is in front, not that anyone would be able to see anything. Just be a hell of a distraction.)
Jopson's hips surge up and Crozier holds him firmly for it, continuing the tender work of his mouth along him, sliding fingers of one hand along his hip and upper thigh meanwhile. Searching, considering. It takes him a while to finally take his prick in hand and cradle it, and when he does he kisses the head, and laps off what spend remains there. So much stronger than stealing it off his fingers; his own prick jumps with it. Despite usually preferring the dominant position in sexual encounters, he is not unpracticed at this act, and enjoys it.
He's got an angle, though. A plan. He doesn't take Jopson's cock into his mouth, and instead teases him with, while testing patches of skin just beside it. Until he finds someplace just perfect, where it won't chafe as he walks day to day, where it won't be obvious if he quickly changes in view of any other sailors, but where he'll still feel it. On the crest from hip to groin, and just onto the meat of his thigh. He kisses there first, sucks a bit, and then nips it with his teeth.
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