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nolivingman brings all my meme to the yard.
Jun. 23rd, 2006 07:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quigonejinnHornblower: Reading about Horatio Hornblower teaches me about myself; reading about William Bush teaches me about how to handle the world. And reading CS Forester teaches me how to write.
Star Wars: The relationship between Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi is precious to me. George Lucas is the deaf, dumb, and blind squirrel that stumbled on the shining gold acorn of the Jedi of the Old Republic.
It was the worst time to start something of this sort: Sawyer was gone, but they had begun while he was still captain. He might still make the accusation, particularly since Buckland was as uncertain as he was -- they had done nothing wrong, of course, had not actually touched, but the possibility was still there. Looks, gestures, empty pauses between them in the wardroom. Starting the second time, Bush made sure not to be on the deck when Hornblower took his wash.
He had the cabin next to Hornlower's, in fact, and he was in his cot with his sword in its beckets. They were relatively junior officers in the scheme of things. There was only canvas between their cabins, and there was a perfectly legitimate excuse for him to be in his cot with his sword on the wall. He did not have to give a reason, in fact, for why he should choose to sleep during the heat of the day if he could, and Hornblower was coming into his berth now. Bush could hear only sound -- the creaking of the ship, the faint sound of waves, Hornblower's bare feet in his shoes on the deck. A little bit of noise while he dripped and his eyes readjusted to the darkness of his cabin, a creak when he opened the lid of his seachest.
Silence for a moment.
"Sir?"
That was Hornblower's voice, modulated so that it would put him aware if he were awake, but not so loud that it would wake him if he were asleep.
Bush said nothing. He was not sure that he could say anything for a moment just yet, that he could trust himself to speak. He thought he could smell the dampness on the air, in fact, and there was a moment while Hornblower got out of his shoes and went the two paces that it took for him to cross that tiny, narrow space. It was a small space, and when the noises began, Bush was not entirely sure what he was hearing.
After a moment, though, it became clear. Bush had spent his life in the company of other men, and there was only canvas between them. Hornblower was standing close; the side of Bush's cot brushed against the canvas. It was not bright enough for Bush to see through the canvas, so he could only hear. There were breathing, soft noises. A groan, more breathing that cut off sharply as Hornblower did something to himself. He was being intentionally noisy, Bush knew. He had listened to Hornblower take care of his business; it was quick, rapid, almost entirely silent and quite orderly. Bush would not have known it was happening at all if he had not been listening for it.
There was a pause now. Hornblower's berth was even smaller than Bush's, but when the noises started again, the location had nevertheless changed. Just a little bit, a little closer from Bush. The noises were higher, a little more frantic, and when Bush worked out where Hornblower had shifted position.
He was back against the bulkhead -- there was a bulkhead in Hornblower's berth. It took up half of the space, in fact. With where Hornblower's voice was coming from he had to be lying against it in such a way that it would press against his legs, Bush realized.
Hornblower had to have his feet on either side of the bulkhead; he likely had no idea that Bush could tell what he was standing against from the position of the voice. He was doing it entirely for his own pleasure. He took pleasure in spreading his legs, and Bush gripped the side of his cot so hard that he wasn't sure whether anything else in the world existed anymore. He could hear those noises almost directly through the fabric; he felt Hornblower was no more than inches from him, could almost see the mouth that was almost panting in his ear, and the breaths were taking on a high-pitched, almost begging quality, and Hornblower was genuinely fighting himself now. He was biting back whimpers, struggling to control his breathing. There was almost a whine, long and sustained, not the sound of a man working at himself with his hand. Larger movements. Slower movements. Bush could imagine Hornblower spreading his legs wider and wider, pressing his back harder and harder against the bulkhead in a substitute for -- for --
"Don't stop," Bush said. He knew his own voice was almost entirely gone. He could not be sure as to whether his eyes were open or not, and he did not know if he was speaking loudly or quietly.
"Don't stop."
Hornblower finally came shortly after that, and it was quick. Silent. Bush only knew because there was quiet, and then, suddenly, panting that came through the canvas. Once the panting had stopped, he heard the sounds of Hornblower getting dressed, putting his sword on, muttering a little as he looked his for his hat.
He went out of the wardroom eventually. Bush lay back in his cot and closed his eyes.
It was the worst time to start something of this sort.
And yet, Don't stop.
STOP LAUGHING, YOU BITCHES. IT WORKED IN MY HEAD, AND IT IS A FUCKING GREAT LINE FROM GYPO.
Star Wars: The relationship between Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi is precious to me. George Lucas is the deaf, dumb, and blind squirrel that stumbled on the shining gold acorn of the Jedi of the Old Republic.
It was the worst time to start something of this sort: Sawyer was gone, but they had begun while he was still captain. He might still make the accusation, particularly since Buckland was as uncertain as he was -- they had done nothing wrong, of course, had not actually touched, but the possibility was still there. Looks, gestures, empty pauses between them in the wardroom. Starting the second time, Bush made sure not to be on the deck when Hornblower took his wash.
He had the cabin next to Hornlower's, in fact, and he was in his cot with his sword in its beckets. They were relatively junior officers in the scheme of things. There was only canvas between their cabins, and there was a perfectly legitimate excuse for him to be in his cot with his sword on the wall. He did not have to give a reason, in fact, for why he should choose to sleep during the heat of the day if he could, and Hornblower was coming into his berth now. Bush could hear only sound -- the creaking of the ship, the faint sound of waves, Hornblower's bare feet in his shoes on the deck. A little bit of noise while he dripped and his eyes readjusted to the darkness of his cabin, a creak when he opened the lid of his seachest.
Silence for a moment.
"Sir?"
That was Hornblower's voice, modulated so that it would put him aware if he were awake, but not so loud that it would wake him if he were asleep.
Bush said nothing. He was not sure that he could say anything for a moment just yet, that he could trust himself to speak. He thought he could smell the dampness on the air, in fact, and there was a moment while Hornblower got out of his shoes and went the two paces that it took for him to cross that tiny, narrow space. It was a small space, and when the noises began, Bush was not entirely sure what he was hearing.
After a moment, though, it became clear. Bush had spent his life in the company of other men, and there was only canvas between them. Hornblower was standing close; the side of Bush's cot brushed against the canvas. It was not bright enough for Bush to see through the canvas, so he could only hear. There were breathing, soft noises. A groan, more breathing that cut off sharply as Hornblower did something to himself. He was being intentionally noisy, Bush knew. He had listened to Hornblower take care of his business; it was quick, rapid, almost entirely silent and quite orderly. Bush would not have known it was happening at all if he had not been listening for it.
There was a pause now. Hornblower's berth was even smaller than Bush's, but when the noises started again, the location had nevertheless changed. Just a little bit, a little closer from Bush. The noises were higher, a little more frantic, and when Bush worked out where Hornblower had shifted position.
He was back against the bulkhead -- there was a bulkhead in Hornblower's berth. It took up half of the space, in fact. With where Hornblower's voice was coming from he had to be lying against it in such a way that it would press against his legs, Bush realized.
Hornblower had to have his feet on either side of the bulkhead; he likely had no idea that Bush could tell what he was standing against from the position of the voice. He was doing it entirely for his own pleasure. He took pleasure in spreading his legs, and Bush gripped the side of his cot so hard that he wasn't sure whether anything else in the world existed anymore. He could hear those noises almost directly through the fabric; he felt Hornblower was no more than inches from him, could almost see the mouth that was almost panting in his ear, and the breaths were taking on a high-pitched, almost begging quality, and Hornblower was genuinely fighting himself now. He was biting back whimpers, struggling to control his breathing. There was almost a whine, long and sustained, not the sound of a man working at himself with his hand. Larger movements. Slower movements. Bush could imagine Hornblower spreading his legs wider and wider, pressing his back harder and harder against the bulkhead in a substitute for -- for --
"Don't stop," Bush said. He knew his own voice was almost entirely gone. He could not be sure as to whether his eyes were open or not, and he did not know if he was speaking loudly or quietly.
"Don't stop."
Hornblower finally came shortly after that, and it was quick. Silent. Bush only knew because there was quiet, and then, suddenly, panting that came through the canvas. Once the panting had stopped, he heard the sounds of Hornblower getting dressed, putting his sword on, muttering a little as he looked his for his hat.
He went out of the wardroom eventually. Bush lay back in his cot and closed his eyes.
It was the worst time to start something of this sort.
And yet, Don't stop.
STOP LAUGHING, YOU BITCHES. IT WORKED IN MY HEAD, AND IT IS A FUCKING GREAT LINE FROM GYPO.
