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All that work, gone. All the time that Thomas spent on his appearance— getting up early to starch his own meager uniform alongside his captain’s, as though they were equals— all those hours he spent getting his hair, his nails, his shoeshine just right.
All of it was out the window, now that his nipples had begun to leak.
Mortifyingly, he hadn’t even been the one to first notice it. At command dinner, Lieutenant Little had caught Thomas’ eye and made a brushing gesture to his shirtfront. Thomas had paused in the middle of distributing dessert forks, quite bewildered. Little had made the gesture again, swiping over his pectorals with a meaningfully apologetic stare.
Finally, Thomas had looked down, only to be confronted with two damp patches on his chest, his vest now clinging to him rather strangely. Lieutenant Little’s face had turned puce.
“Mr. Jopson?”
Lieutenant Irving, who had yet to receive his dessert fork, interjected, and now everyone was looking at the steward and his twin spots of shame.
His mouth opened, and no words came out. Now strikingly aware of the sensation that must have been happening all through command dinner, Thomas felt a trickle of something wet dribble from his chest. A terrible image rushed to his mind, of his entire uniform being reduced to a milky mess in front of all Terror’s officers.
“Apologies, sirs. I… I might beg off tonight, to be excused to medical bay. I feel… rather unwell. I’ll alert Mr. Gibson, to finish the meal.” Thomas swallowed, and hoped that was enough.
It wasn’t. Francis Crozier— that damnably caring man, all frowns and freckles— had pushed back his chair at once, looking rather alarmed at his steward’s sudden change in behavior.
“Of course, Jopson. I’ll escort you down.” Crozier gave a warning glance at his officers, as if daring them to object. “…Gentlemen.”
The lieutenants stood to attention, looking varying degrees of confused, anxious, and put-out about the sharp end to the meal. Thomas couldn’t bring himself to care. His face was heating up rapidly, and the wet scrape of his undershirt over his nipples was beginning to chafe in a way that… was not wholly unpleasant. Feeling rather feverish, Thomas allowed himself to be taken to medbay by Crozier’s firm hand on his elbow.
Ordinarily, this kind of intimate touch from his captain would draw in all of Thomas’ attention like a sponge, but, like any man who found himself unaccountably lactating, his mind was rather occupied.
When he was sat down on an examining table and instructed to undress by the kindly Dr. McDonald, Thomas needed to have the request repeated several times. His fingers were buttery against the buttons, moving slowly. He was especially conscious that Captain Crozier was still in the room, looking on with a glaring concern. As if attempting to glower out the source of Thomas’ strange new malady.
Eventually, with a murmured, “May I?” Dr. McDonald opened Thomas’ layers for him. His pectorals— somewhat fleshier than they had been in the morning— all but sprung out, suddenly aching for a return of the tightly buttoned pressure of his shirt.
Thomas bit back a whimper as the doctor probed at one nipple.
“Curious,” McDonald said, swiping his thumb through the white liquid gathered around the aureola. “Most curious.”
“What is it?” Crozier stepped forward, “What’s wrong with him?”
Thomas wished he had been looking away when Crozier’s eyes landed on his chest. They widened almost comically, then blinked several times in quick succession. McDonald seemed not to notice.
He squeezed the left side of the steward’s chest, and Thomas could not help but moan. A squirt of milk landed squarely on the doctor’s apron. Thomas clamped down his jaw, mortified. McDonald only chuckled, and began gently massaging Thomas’— his— his tits.
“Hormone imbalance, I’d say,” the doctor said, to Crozier, as if Thomas was no longer even in the room. (Granted, with how sensual and all-consuming that touch was to his now over-sensitive nipple, it is unlikely Thomas would have been able to answer even to his own name.) “It’s almost unheard of presenting in males, but… well, here we are.”
Crozier had stepped forward, and peered squintingly down at Thomas’ chest. His mind was hazy with discomfort. His right pec— his right tit was aching dreadfully, neglected, and he resisted the urge to pus his chest out invitingly toward the captain.
The captain, now red-faced, swallowed thickly.
“Is it… dangerous? Painful? Are there any other symptoms?”
“Oh yes,” McDonald said conversationally, and withdrew his hand from Thomas’ milky chest. “Well, no to the question of danger. Our Mr. Jopson here is in no danger whatsoever— it might be painful, though, if his teats continue to swell without proper discharge. And other symptoms….?” The doctor tapped his chin. “Well, it’s possible the lad might experience a more emotional state than he would otherwise. Along with an increased desire to copulate.”
McDonald suddenly grinned, as if abashed, at the Terror captain. “Apologies, captain. It’s my habit to think out loud.”
“No harm done,” Crozier replied. His voice was decidedly more strained than before.
He watched closely as McDonald carefully collected some of the milk in a small beaker, then left the room to fetch Dr. Peddie, stating that he would like a second opinion before prescribing anything.
Crozier, meanwhile, pulled up a stool to sit more at eye-level with his steward. His eyes were always piercing, always sharp and always (Thomas thought) devastatingly handsome, but today the captain’s gaze made Thomas feel hot and achey all over. He tried not to squirm on the examination table, but there was little else for him to do. No cleaning or stitching to hide behind now.
“Thomas,” Crozier said slowly, “How are you feeling?”
Thomas exhaled in a horrifyingly high pitch. “I- I don’t quite know, sir. It— It’s like— I- I need—”
“What do you need, lad?” Crozier’s cheeks were oh so pink.
Finally, Thomas— although he had promised himself he would never make such a request, never ruin the trust between he and his captain that he had worked so hard to build— could contain himself no longer. With a snaking motion, he grabbed both of Crozier’s hands and pulled them to his chest.
Crozier, perhaps instinctively, squeezed.
Thomas let out a low, sultry gasp, and pressed his tits further into those sturdy sailor’s palms. Crozier, for his part, looked completely taken aback. And yet he did not take back his hands.
He squeezed again, harder, and a dribble of milk began to run down his wrists. Thomas moaned again, unable to stop from bucking his hips, drawing his captain’s attention down to the burgeoning hardness he had so hoped to conceal. Crozier licked his lips.
“Thomas… this is wrong. You’re… in a state of medical emergency, and I—”
Thomas’ eyes flew open— he knew not when he had bade them closed. “Please, sir,” he whimpered out, his hand gripping overtop of Crozier’s keeping it in place. The pressure felt so good, so needed… he couldn’t let it stop. “Please sir, it hurts.”
Again, Crozier looked torn. His eyes could not stop wandering down to Thomas’ tits, now dripping with milk and heaving with every breath. His fingers trembled.
“Mr. Jopson,” he said, and his voice sent a shockwave of arousal down Thomas’ spine, he nearly began rutting against the tabletop, “Would you… would it bring you some relief if.. I were to…”
“Anything,” Thomas said, desperately, “Anything, sir. I’m yours. I’m yours, oh God, I’m yours.”
His face was fully flushed now, and had he been in his right mind, Thomas would have screamed at himself for revealing his hand so quickly. But as it was, Crozier only nodded, and looked on at his steward with something like awe.
Then, he bent down his head, and drew one of Thomas’ nipples into his mouth.
Thomas nearly wailed. He could feel a hot rush spurting into Crozier’s mouth, and the shame of it all nearly did him in, but then Crozier was sucking him down, hungry as a newborn babe. His other hand still groping at Thomas’ other tit, he laved his tongue around the oversensitive nipple, pulling away only to catch it again between his lips, murmuring quietly to himself.
“Good Christ… Thomas..” His tongue swirled around the aureola, and Thomas whimpered freely, his cock pulsing in his trousers. Crozier drew back, and caught his eye. Pink-faced and flushed, tongue swiping his bottom lip, he had never looked more handsome. The captain shuddered and swallowed again, as if savoring. “Lad, you taste…”
It was at that moment that Drs Peddie and McDonald entered the room, and although they did not seem disturbed by Crozier’s hand on their patient’s breast, Crozier himself retreated hurriedly, stealing fervent glances at his steward.
The doctors, upon some discussion, had come to the conclusion that through a mixture of tonics and powders they could theoretically recenter Thomas’ hormones to correct the problem of his lactation— but as they were explaining it, the steward himself was occupied with thoughts of his ruined uniform laying on the floor of the captain’s berth, while Captain Crozier fondled his tits every morning to bring him relief, lest he walk around all day a dripping, milky mess, with a hard-on for anyone to take advantage of.
Thomas, quietly, moaned to himself on the medical table, and put both hands to his chest, cupping himself gently.
Yes, his captain would take care of him. Even if he would have to forgo his spotless uniform for the rest of his days, his captain would take very, very good care of him.