Reasonable Light.
May. 16th, 2006 04:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quigonejinnAs promised to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quietcontrary, HH/WB rendition of this one bit from a fic that I wrote a while back.
It was, in the end, the closeness of Navy life that made it possible: true, it meant that they had to stay silent, that Hornblower had to rely on his steward's stupidity, and that everything they did had to be quick, carried out quickly and furtively, on those rare occaisions when there was both time and energy. Thus, closeness did act as a bar in certain ways. In certain other ways, though, it was enabling -- it was the fact that Hornblower had heard Bush doing it to himself, after all, that let him know how to go about it.
He had listened to Bush doing it to himself, for example, on the Renown, through those canvas partitions. He had been with Bush in Kingston, woken up on the floor, still wearing his coat, though not his breeches, looked up on the bed and seen Bush stroking himself hard so that he could fuck the girl who was presently snoring on her stomach next to him and who he had presumably brought up after Hornblower had fallen asleep on the floor from his own exertions. Bush had still been drunk, deeply intent on getting a last piece before he was due back on board, so Hornblower left him to it and went downstairs to get breakfast, but Hornblower had a chance to watch, at length, when Bush was staying with him the attic lodgings at Mrs. Mason's. Bush had thought that Hornblower was asleep; they were too poor to hire a girl to share between the two of them, and Hornblower had watched, through his eyelashes, by the light of the very end of the candle.
Bush liked keeping his shirt on during it, Hornblower learned. Bush enjoyed the ritual of lifting up his shirt, of keeping it pressed against his stomach, well clear of his cock. He would, in fact, keep a hand flat against his stomach even when he wasn't wearing a shirt that needed to be hitched up, and now that he had become a captain, Hornblower even knew what time and weather Bush preferred: after all, it always took Bush a bit to appear when word was passed for him in late afternoons when there was fine weather -- it was the slowest time on the ship. Presumably, it was when Bush could take the time to relax and settle into his cot for a nice, long bit of it, and given the pleasure that Bush always seemed to take in afternoon sunshine when reappearing after that private busines, the way that Bush would turn his head this way and that and almost smile to himself when he found a particularly warm patch, Hornblower could imagine that Bush took particular pleasure in being able to see himself, in being warm while he did it to himself.
Warmth. Time. Leisure. Something to lie against.
It was night when it finally happened, but Hornblower was able to manage the rest. He had studied the problem intently, thought about it in detail, and it happened one of those warm April evenings that had been preceded by a glorious afternoon. There had been lobstermen aboard earlier, though; some of the ratings had manged to buy liquor off of them, so Bush spent the afternoon on the lower deck, restoring order.
There would be floggings in the morning. There was a quarter bill that was half-revised on the table; Bush had been working so that. Hornblower had been puzzling at his maps, but they were leaned up against the seating that ran along the windows at the stern. Hornblower was behind Bush, and he had already gotten Bush's trousers down to around his knees. Bush's coat was laid out on the cushions behind him; Hornblower was on the very edge of the seats, and he was working Bush in that slow, steady fashion that observation and deduction had suggested: he had taken care to warm his fingers in his coat before cupping Bush's balls, and he had run his fingers along the insides of Bush's thighs, across Bush's stomach, back to the insides of Bush's thighs where they met his torso, before he touched Bush's cock.
Bush had, in fact, been completely hard at that point. His cock stood up and away from his body, and the breath went out of his lungs in a little gasp when Hornblower's hand finally closed around him.
When Hornblower put his hand around Bush and began the long, steady strokes he knew that Bush liked, Bush began to take deep breaths. Hornblower could almost time them, in fact, to his strokes, and when they began to shorten, Hornblower took his palm away and began to touch Bush only with his fingertips, running them up and down the underside, all around. He lingered for a moment underneath the head, rubbed some of the slick from above in a circle, and Bush twisted around a bit in Hornblower's arms -- he was strong enough so that he could have broken out entirely if he'd wanted, pressed himself against Hornblower and gotten his relief that way, but instead, he only turned his face against Hornblower's throat.
Hornblower could, out of the corners of his eyes, see Bush's hands gripping the edge of the seat. They had gone white-knuckled, and Bush still had his neckcloth and stock. His queue fell over Hornblower's shoulder, and then, Bush had took his hands from the edge of the window seating and began running his palms up and down the sides of Hornblower's trousers. He moved up and down inside his shirt to feel the linen moving over his skin, and eventually, he had his mouth open and was moaning against Hornblower's throat. Over and over.
The softness of Bush's tongue, the heat of Bush's breath. The weight of his body, alternately entirely resting against Hornblower and arching off, almost supporting itself on the hands, and eventually, Bush began to moan. It started inarticulate, but when Hornblower began to work his fingers around the head, even more lightly than he had been touching the underside, in a pattern with sometimes circle the less-sensitive base, intead, the moans gained words -- sir, mostly, but it might have been please or even captain.
It was, in fact, something that sounded distinctly like the last that moved Hornblower into action: he took his hand away entirely, raised it to his face. Breathed on it, cupped his fingers, and then spat onto them. He looked one last time down at Bush's face, eyes closed with eyelashes lying on flushed cheeks, mouth open like that. In fact, he touched Bush's open mouth with the fingertips he had just spat against, and then he reached down and closed those fingers around the head of Bush's cock and squeezed.
Hornblower had already clapped his other hand over Bush's mouth, and Bush shouted as he came over Hornblower's hand, onto the floor, even onto the circle of light cast by the candles in a candelabra on the map table. They were cheap candles, but Hornblower supposed, as a very quiet Bush leaned against him afterwards and tried to catch his breath, they possibly were a reasonable substitute for afternoon sunlight.
quietcontrary, HH/WB rendition of this one bit from a fic that I wrote a while back. It was, in the end, the closeness of Navy life that made it possible: true, it meant that they had to stay silent, that Hornblower had to rely on his steward's stupidity, and that everything they did had to be quick, carried out quickly and furtively, on those rare occaisions when there was both time and energy. Thus, closeness did act as a bar in certain ways. In certain other ways, though, it was enabling -- it was the fact that Hornblower had heard Bush doing it to himself, after all, that let him know how to go about it.
He had listened to Bush doing it to himself, for example, on the Renown, through those canvas partitions. He had been with Bush in Kingston, woken up on the floor, still wearing his coat, though not his breeches, looked up on the bed and seen Bush stroking himself hard so that he could fuck the girl who was presently snoring on her stomach next to him and who he had presumably brought up after Hornblower had fallen asleep on the floor from his own exertions. Bush had still been drunk, deeply intent on getting a last piece before he was due back on board, so Hornblower left him to it and went downstairs to get breakfast, but Hornblower had a chance to watch, at length, when Bush was staying with him the attic lodgings at Mrs. Mason's. Bush had thought that Hornblower was asleep; they were too poor to hire a girl to share between the two of them, and Hornblower had watched, through his eyelashes, by the light of the very end of the candle.
Bush liked keeping his shirt on during it, Hornblower learned. Bush enjoyed the ritual of lifting up his shirt, of keeping it pressed against his stomach, well clear of his cock. He would, in fact, keep a hand flat against his stomach even when he wasn't wearing a shirt that needed to be hitched up, and now that he had become a captain, Hornblower even knew what time and weather Bush preferred: after all, it always took Bush a bit to appear when word was passed for him in late afternoons when there was fine weather -- it was the slowest time on the ship. Presumably, it was when Bush could take the time to relax and settle into his cot for a nice, long bit of it, and given the pleasure that Bush always seemed to take in afternoon sunshine when reappearing after that private busines, the way that Bush would turn his head this way and that and almost smile to himself when he found a particularly warm patch, Hornblower could imagine that Bush took particular pleasure in being able to see himself, in being warm while he did it to himself.
Warmth. Time. Leisure. Something to lie against.
It was night when it finally happened, but Hornblower was able to manage the rest. He had studied the problem intently, thought about it in detail, and it happened one of those warm April evenings that had been preceded by a glorious afternoon. There had been lobstermen aboard earlier, though; some of the ratings had manged to buy liquor off of them, so Bush spent the afternoon on the lower deck, restoring order.
There would be floggings in the morning. There was a quarter bill that was half-revised on the table; Bush had been working so that. Hornblower had been puzzling at his maps, but they were leaned up against the seating that ran along the windows at the stern. Hornblower was behind Bush, and he had already gotten Bush's trousers down to around his knees. Bush's coat was laid out on the cushions behind him; Hornblower was on the very edge of the seats, and he was working Bush in that slow, steady fashion that observation and deduction had suggested: he had taken care to warm his fingers in his coat before cupping Bush's balls, and he had run his fingers along the insides of Bush's thighs, across Bush's stomach, back to the insides of Bush's thighs where they met his torso, before he touched Bush's cock.
Bush had, in fact, been completely hard at that point. His cock stood up and away from his body, and the breath went out of his lungs in a little gasp when Hornblower's hand finally closed around him.
When Hornblower put his hand around Bush and began the long, steady strokes he knew that Bush liked, Bush began to take deep breaths. Hornblower could almost time them, in fact, to his strokes, and when they began to shorten, Hornblower took his palm away and began to touch Bush only with his fingertips, running them up and down the underside, all around. He lingered for a moment underneath the head, rubbed some of the slick from above in a circle, and Bush twisted around a bit in Hornblower's arms -- he was strong enough so that he could have broken out entirely if he'd wanted, pressed himself against Hornblower and gotten his relief that way, but instead, he only turned his face against Hornblower's throat.
Hornblower could, out of the corners of his eyes, see Bush's hands gripping the edge of the seat. They had gone white-knuckled, and Bush still had his neckcloth and stock. His queue fell over Hornblower's shoulder, and then, Bush had took his hands from the edge of the window seating and began running his palms up and down the sides of Hornblower's trousers. He moved up and down inside his shirt to feel the linen moving over his skin, and eventually, he had his mouth open and was moaning against Hornblower's throat. Over and over.
The softness of Bush's tongue, the heat of Bush's breath. The weight of his body, alternately entirely resting against Hornblower and arching off, almost supporting itself on the hands, and eventually, Bush began to moan. It started inarticulate, but when Hornblower began to work his fingers around the head, even more lightly than he had been touching the underside, in a pattern with sometimes circle the less-sensitive base, intead, the moans gained words -- sir, mostly, but it might have been please or even captain.
It was, in fact, something that sounded distinctly like the last that moved Hornblower into action: he took his hand away entirely, raised it to his face. Breathed on it, cupped his fingers, and then spat onto them. He looked one last time down at Bush's face, eyes closed with eyelashes lying on flushed cheeks, mouth open like that. In fact, he touched Bush's open mouth with the fingertips he had just spat against, and then he reached down and closed those fingers around the head of Bush's cock and squeezed.
Hornblower had already clapped his other hand over Bush's mouth, and Bush shouted as he came over Hornblower's hand, onto the floor, even onto the circle of light cast by the candles in a candelabra on the map table. They were cheap candles, but Hornblower supposed, as a very quiet Bush leaned against him afterwards and tried to catch his breath, they possibly were a reasonable substitute for afternoon sunlight.
