coldsober | but i don't make you lonely;

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.

"Twelve, sir."

"Good boy."

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.

"Steady on?"

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.

Exhaling, Jopson tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut as the man works his prick, the warm flush of his mouth overwhelming all of his senses. The muscles in his stomach jump, his toes curl into the floor boards, his fingers tighten round the rail. He wants to reach for him with his other hand, sink fingers into his hair or grip his shoulder, but refrains, pressing it against his own chest instead.

Hissing through gritted teeth, it takes every ounce of will to keep his hips still when he's licked clean. Already he feels himself thickening under the touch, the tender care of Crozier's mouth. He could melt, turn into nothing at this man's feet and be content to live the rest of his days there, all of his nerve-endings sparking and spiraling warmth through every blood vessel imaginable.

There's a sigh that sounds a great deal like Francis, sir, when teeth scrape the sensitive skin at the join of his hip and his free hand falls from his chest to settle into Crozier's hair. Not gripping, not holding, simply loose and fond against his nape, easily cast off or moved. Not unlike a sated cat soaking up a sunbeam, pleased to have any attention as it drifts into the dream-like haze of summer.

His cock begins to ache anew, still erring on the side of too-sensitive, but it doesn't stop the obvious enjoyment of the man's mouth and hand on him.

Francis reaches one hand back, covers Thomas' on his own head. Doesn't stay for long, just enough to reassure him and give him silent permission to be there, to steady himself however he likes— and to show his appreciation for the contact. It makes him feel wanted, and more in just the ways that make his blood run ever-hotter.

He resettles with one hand on Jopson's side to support him, and the other teasing his prick. He takes his time worrying the bite mark into him— no stinging nips after the first warning one. Slow, heavy pressure, suckled in or with the steady clench of teeth. Every so often he sits back to admire the progress, and reward Thomas' endurance with wet kisses to his cock. The lashes with the paddle weren't his, they weren't meant to last; Thomas said so himself. This must last a little longer, then, or at least be cherished so. He doesn't want to risk the skin breaking, and he doesn't want to give him a welt that turns into a blister, so he must be careful. Spread out the pressure even in the tiny area, leave it red, then just a touch violet.

A glance up, as he presses in a firm touch with his fingers to the blooming bruise.

Thomas lets himself drown in the pleasure of it all - the hand teasing his prick to hardness all over again, the mouth working at his skin in a way that feels both erotic and raw. He doesn't consider there could be a mark - too caught up in the sensation of it until Crozier's sweet mouth returns to his cock. His glutes tense, his quads flex, his lower back arches - all just enough to show the restraint at wanting to chase the pleasure, to encourage the wet slide of lips over his skin.

Until it all stops - and is replaced instead by a bloom of pain in his hip and thigh. Small, raw, but a fair throb of something. Notice me it says, and he tips his head down, blue eyes half-lidded to gaze at his lover first. A handsome man, with intelligent blue eyes and kind mouth. He swallows hard, trying to ignore the way simply looking at him seated on the bench there makes his cock twitch and grow heavier.

The mark, though - obvious against the pale skin, skin worried and blushing violet under the pressure of his fingers.

"Thank you, sir," he whispers, awed and so strung-up at the attention. His fingers leave Crozier's hair to join the man at his thigh to press fingers over his and apply more pressure, to encourage that violet stain to turn to something like plum come tomorrow. The thought alone makes him go wet all over again, a pearl of spend to slick up Crozier's hand.

Of anything, he doesn't expect Thank you, and it squeezes at his heart. A great feeling of possessiveness comes over him, and it's all he can do to stop himself from dragging Jopson down into his lap. Instead, he leans back in and places a chaste kiss against his steward's fingers, over the fresh bruise.

Hard again already, just like he knew he would be. Crozier strokes him, thumbs over the head of his prick, spreading the slick around.

"You get so wet for me," he murmurs. "Bloody marvelous, Tom."

Content, now, to hold him by the hips with both hands, and lick his cock into his mouth. Crozier won't let him buck too hard, will keep him steady and keep him where he wants him, but he's thorough. Like everything else he does, he treats it like he's got a goal. Some sightseeing, some enjoyment; he's a man of science, or something like it, he wants to gather data about what Jopson likes best. He wants to feel for himself, taste for himself, the intensity of it, the bitterness, the heat.

Embarrassing how easily he's going to shatter apart - body already wound tight from the first and rapidly building for the second. He reaches for Crozier's shoulders the moment he's enveloped in the wet, hot heat of the man's mouth. Fingers dig into the muscle there using him to steady himself instead of the railing or the wall. Grounded and real and slowly tumbling and dissolving into someone not quite himself.

Thomas. Tom. He will be anything this man wants him to be so long as he always sounds so sweet, so adoring, as long as he can have him no matter the backdrop of it all.

"Just for you, sir," he manages, voice hitched and quiet, breathing building into little frantic pants. It's all too much - the pressure not fully released from earlier, building and building and he wants in every way to endure for a moment longer, to let this man take and take and take but -

It's embarrassing indeed when he comes hard and fast - not quite the mess from earlier but generous still. He grips Crozier's shoulders perhaps a little too hard, his spine giving way and going lax, his shoulders sagging when he knows he should stand up straight. He just needs a minute. His mind spins, his thoughts turn to nothing except the way they echo the furious beat of his heart that he swears might sound something like his Captain's name.

Intense in his mouth, the taste not palatable but so intimate; he likes it, like pressing on a bruise (hah), like the burn of muscles after working hard. Wonderfully satisfying and primal, and best of all, the way he pulses and twitches, feeling Jopson's very heart through the tender skin and membranes of his cock. Crozier swallows him down, finding room somehow in the midst of everything already so overwhelming pleasant, to be pleased with himself that he hasn't gone rusty at it.

He feels the younger man begin to collapse, and so he straightens up (careful, gentle when he releases him), lifting his arms to welcome him back into a hold that will no doubt be a mess of limbs. His own arousal leaps back into his consciousness with sudden, bright demand, but he doesn't react to it. Maybe he'll see to it, maybe he won't. If they were more practiced together he might shove Jopson down to his knees, but he needs to check in with him.

"There we are," he murmurs. "Did so well. Come on now, let me hold you."

Every muscle in his body twitches with the stimulation, all his insides turned into little clockwork machines whirring and ticking and spinning. He doesn't feel like himself standing here - the steward gone, all work and propriety wiped away and leaving him raw and open. His body knows the work, though, settling into Crozier's lap as he's done on this very bench before, thighs on either side of him, torso pressed close, a tangling of arms around his neck or shoulders.

Crozier's arousal rests prominently against the sore cleft of his ass and he sets his weight there before letting his head fall forward, pressing their mouths together in a slow kiss, limbs heavy and head out under the stars or drifting in the waves. They fit together, easy and simple, his body already molding to the older man's.

"You're so warm," he mumbles, nuzzling lazily against his cheek. He'll please the man soon, work him out of his own arousal even if it's a new sort of pleasant to simply feel it pressing against his bare backside, nestled between with his thighs spread wide.

Somewhat distracting, the weight against him, but that, too, he sets aside. Better to have Jopson cradled in his arms, and taste him on his mouth again. He holds him, pets down his back, leaves one hand in his hair and the other slung around him. Leaning against the bolster, gazing up at him. A bloody mystery how he's stumbled to such a place. Jamie's command, the majesty of the Antarctic, and a lover like this.

"You've made me so," he tells him, pressing back, nose to nose, stealing soft kisses. An echo, of the way he told Jopson was glowing. "Thank you. Did everything just as I asked, sublimely."

Nothing for it but to hold him and kiss him, now. The pressure of his release is on the edge of fading or becoming something else, its own kind of intoxication, and he likes it just fine. Almost more powerful is the intoxication of having this creature in his lap to look after, being the one to have put him in such a state.

Tiny starbursts of sparks and embers trickle down to his fingertips, all the way to his toes, skin burning like kindling and slowly settling like a dying fire out on the ice. It doesn't leave him cold, though - Crozier's plenty warm and his own heart is only just calming itself. But it's a new feeling, this fatigue, this heaviness, this simple contentment to be held.

He nuzzles into each little kiss offered, eyes heavy lidded, sometimes even closed as he rests his forehead against the Captain's temple. If this were any other time he'd think he was drunk, drifting in and out of his mind and body, relaxing into the warm and easy floating that goes with it.

"It makes me happy to please you," he murmurs, sleepy and distant, head falling in against the crook of the man's neck. Here he can breathe him in - the spritz of some cologne, musk, sea spray, mumble little sounds of gratitude. Better than the thoughts roaming at the back of his mind that sound a lot like i care for you, i want to be here with you, please let me stay long after this ship has gone. Get it together, Jopson.

"You do please me." He holds him, pets his hair, like he's some delicate thing to be cared for. "You please me very much."

And it's true. He never expected it, would certainly never have imagined it. Crozier kisses his temple, sits with him, just soaking up his presence, the closeness, the comfort of it. The odd way it feels nearly euphoric to have put him in this state, which he has no name for. He has felt it before, in different permutations. But never quite in this way.

They are not in a private room with no duties for the rest of the week, alas. After some time and another kiss, he gently urges Jopson up.

"You mustn't catch a chill," he murmurs. "Let me."

Careful, attentive, it's his turn to dress his steward.

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