FIC: Silhouettes (1/1) PG Hornblower
TITLE: Silhouettes
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Bush/??
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Kisses I could almost taste in the night
DISCLAIMER: Horatio Hornblower and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta. Originally written for the aos_challenge "kisses" prompt
Bush has never kissed a woman.
That is not entirely accurate, of course. He kissed his mother many times as a child, and has giving his sisters their obligatory pecks on the cheek as a good brother should. He’s thrust his tongue into a whore’s willing mouth and he’s kissed the hand of a lady once or twice.
But he’s never kissed a woman.
Which is why this moment seems so crucial, so critical. He watches it with his observer’s eye, taking in the details that may make all the difference. He looks for wind and weather, he looks for the shift of the current and the tide. He tries to see the hidden eddies that swirl just below the surface of this instant, the critical issues that are likely to destroy it, sending him crashing against the rocks or run aground with no hope of escaping fire.
The problem is, for him, that there is nothing to give the moment away. No sea beneath his feet, no wind at his back, tugging at his queue. There is nothing but the dimly lit room and the stifled air, barely stirred by the breeze coming off the water. There is no taste of salt and spray against his lips, just the strange hint of powder and grease that lingers around them now that dinner is finished. He’s in uncharted waters, unfamiliar territory, and he’s yet to pass the fear of the moment and make his way into the thrill of discovery.
“We mustn’t.”
He hears her whisper, and knows that it’s truth. So many true things are spoken under the breath where people cannot hear them, a last line of defense against reality. His realities are often shouted and yelled, bellowed against tide and war raging beyond the wooden walls of his ship. The walls here are wood, thinner than what he’s used to, and he can feel the winter cold around his feet, chased like leaves on the wind by the heat from the fire.
He touches her cheek, his fingers rough against her smooth skin. He feels her shiver, but does not see it in the darkness, and knows that she’s not used to this. This rough treatment, rough skin. Knows that she’s used to his touch, used to the delicateness of his fingers. He exhales, his own breath shaky as he lets his touch explore her, tracing curves. He closes his eyes and simply feels them, tries to picture her just through touch.
Her breath is hot against his skin as he leans in. It’s imminent now and inescapable. He knew that the moment he touched her, knows it better still now that he cannot seem to stop. He thought, perhaps, just the touch would be enough, would be all he needed of her. He was wrong, as he often is, and he wants more. Shifting closer, he can feel the stiffness of her skirts against his legs, feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing as his hand skirts her waist, thumb against the flat of her stomach as his fingers trace along the line of her back.
She shivers again and her breath catches, her chin lifting. Her lips part and he muffles a low groan, hunger burning inside him. He licks his lips and moves closer, not quite touching her lips, trying to prevent the inevitable, resist the moment that will condemn him as a cuckholder, as a thief. She echoes him, her own groan much softer, but no less demanding, and she bridges the gap, her mouth parted on his name as she steals the kiss away.
It beats with his blood, his name on her lips, her heart against his. His hand slides around her, settling in the small of her back as he pulls her close, deepening the kiss. She moans, the sound lost somewhere in his mouth, rolling against his tongue as he tastes hers. It is different and the same as those other kisses, elements of all that he would never put together, but they are there. He tastes the hints of innocence and the hints of desire on her tongue, like honey and wine, like real coffee and fresh milk. She is all the things he cannot have, can only taste and then regret the rest of his life.
She touches his cheek, bringing his mind back to the kiss, and he closes his eyes tightly, giving himself over to it. Best not to think of what is his and what is not, what he’s allowed and what he takes. He has this moment and he clings to it, pressing her closer and feeling the shift of her breasts against his chest, flattened against him so he can feel the heat of her, imagine her pale skin red with passion, swollen from his touch and his mouth.
She groans again and his hand tightens at her back, pulls her against him. He can feel it overtaking them and he knows he should pull back. Bad enough that he steals this moment, but to steal more would be a worse crime, and one he cannot stand accused of. He pulls back from her, breaking the kiss long after his touch has freed her, long after the warmth of her skin is gone from his. She gasps softly, lips parted and red, wet and swollen from his mouth, and he can see the soft swell where he’s nipped at the skin. She is flushed and lovely and he wants to push past that door and guide her down onto the bed, take her there in a hot rush of passion and forget the rest.
“We mustn’t,” she whispers again, and he nods, closing his eyes.
He’s breathless and out of control, something he does not abide in his men or in himself, so he takes a deep breath and steels himself. He can feel her eyes on him; feel her watching him disappear from in front of her eyes, behind the mask he’s chosen to wear. It cannot be helped, and Bush does as he is ordered, as always, does what must be done. But he reaches out and touches her cheek again, unable to stop himself. Needing to reassure her that, whatever else he must do, whatever else there is, there is always this.
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Bush/??
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Kisses I could almost taste in the night
DISCLAIMER: Horatio Hornblower and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to nolivingman for the beta. Originally written for the aos_challenge "kisses" prompt
Bush has never kissed a woman.
That is not entirely accurate, of course. He kissed his mother many times as a child, and has giving his sisters their obligatory pecks on the cheek as a good brother should. He’s thrust his tongue into a whore’s willing mouth and he’s kissed the hand of a lady once or twice.
But he’s never kissed a woman.
Which is why this moment seems so crucial, so critical. He watches it with his observer’s eye, taking in the details that may make all the difference. He looks for wind and weather, he looks for the shift of the current and the tide. He tries to see the hidden eddies that swirl just below the surface of this instant, the critical issues that are likely to destroy it, sending him crashing against the rocks or run aground with no hope of escaping fire.
The problem is, for him, that there is nothing to give the moment away. No sea beneath his feet, no wind at his back, tugging at his queue. There is nothing but the dimly lit room and the stifled air, barely stirred by the breeze coming off the water. There is no taste of salt and spray against his lips, just the strange hint of powder and grease that lingers around them now that dinner is finished. He’s in uncharted waters, unfamiliar territory, and he’s yet to pass the fear of the moment and make his way into the thrill of discovery.
“We mustn’t.”
He hears her whisper, and knows that it’s truth. So many true things are spoken under the breath where people cannot hear them, a last line of defense against reality. His realities are often shouted and yelled, bellowed against tide and war raging beyond the wooden walls of his ship. The walls here are wood, thinner than what he’s used to, and he can feel the winter cold around his feet, chased like leaves on the wind by the heat from the fire.
He touches her cheek, his fingers rough against her smooth skin. He feels her shiver, but does not see it in the darkness, and knows that she’s not used to this. This rough treatment, rough skin. Knows that she’s used to his touch, used to the delicateness of his fingers. He exhales, his own breath shaky as he lets his touch explore her, tracing curves. He closes his eyes and simply feels them, tries to picture her just through touch.
Her breath is hot against his skin as he leans in. It’s imminent now and inescapable. He knew that the moment he touched her, knows it better still now that he cannot seem to stop. He thought, perhaps, just the touch would be enough, would be all he needed of her. He was wrong, as he often is, and he wants more. Shifting closer, he can feel the stiffness of her skirts against his legs, feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing as his hand skirts her waist, thumb against the flat of her stomach as his fingers trace along the line of her back.
She shivers again and her breath catches, her chin lifting. Her lips part and he muffles a low groan, hunger burning inside him. He licks his lips and moves closer, not quite touching her lips, trying to prevent the inevitable, resist the moment that will condemn him as a cuckholder, as a thief. She echoes him, her own groan much softer, but no less demanding, and she bridges the gap, her mouth parted on his name as she steals the kiss away.
It beats with his blood, his name on her lips, her heart against his. His hand slides around her, settling in the small of her back as he pulls her close, deepening the kiss. She moans, the sound lost somewhere in his mouth, rolling against his tongue as he tastes hers. It is different and the same as those other kisses, elements of all that he would never put together, but they are there. He tastes the hints of innocence and the hints of desire on her tongue, like honey and wine, like real coffee and fresh milk. She is all the things he cannot have, can only taste and then regret the rest of his life.
She touches his cheek, bringing his mind back to the kiss, and he closes his eyes tightly, giving himself over to it. Best not to think of what is his and what is not, what he’s allowed and what he takes. He has this moment and he clings to it, pressing her closer and feeling the shift of her breasts against his chest, flattened against him so he can feel the heat of her, imagine her pale skin red with passion, swollen from his touch and his mouth.
She groans again and his hand tightens at her back, pulls her against him. He can feel it overtaking them and he knows he should pull back. Bad enough that he steals this moment, but to steal more would be a worse crime, and one he cannot stand accused of. He pulls back from her, breaking the kiss long after his touch has freed her, long after the warmth of her skin is gone from his. She gasps softly, lips parted and red, wet and swollen from his mouth, and he can see the soft swell where he’s nipped at the skin. She is flushed and lovely and he wants to push past that door and guide her down onto the bed, take her there in a hot rush of passion and forget the rest.
“We mustn’t,” she whispers again, and he nods, closing his eyes.
He’s breathless and out of control, something he does not abide in his men or in himself, so he takes a deep breath and steels himself. He can feel her eyes on him; feel her watching him disappear from in front of her eyes, behind the mask he’s chosen to wear. It cannot be helped, and Bush does as he is ordered, as always, does what must be done. But he reaches out and touches her cheek again, unable to stop himself. Needing to reassure her that, whatever else he must do, whatever else there is, there is always this.