His wrists are bound together, soft inside to soft inside, and the soft strain that runs through his arms and shoulders keeps him achingly alert. His bare belly is quaking against the surface of the captain’s desk, and in the cool air his nipples are standing — spread out here, he is ripe for a flogging, or worse.

“You’re a good lad,” Crozier says, stroking the hair from his face where a curl has fallen against his forehead — Hartnell leans into the touch as far as the knots will allow, and Crozier’s blunt thumb traces his cheek, slipping into his mouth.