Fic: Burning, Archie/Horatio, rated R
TITLE: Burning
AUTHOR: Donna Immaculata
RATING: R for masturbation and voyeurism
WORD COUNT: 2,000
PAIRING: Horatio/Archie
DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. I just take them out to play.
SUMMARY/NOTES: And, with a jolt of understanding that set his entire being alight, he knew that Archie was pleasuring himself.
Burning
“He’s dead.”
“Yes,” Horatio had said. He was dead. Died in his stead, defending Horatio’s honour and, in doing so, robbing Horatio of it.
But Archie had not been concerned with Clayton’s death, his quicksilver thoughts already running a different course.
“No, you fool, not Clayton. Louis! The Frogs have murdered their king. Tried and executed for crimes against the people. It means war, Horatio, do you understand? It means war!”
He did understand, better than he had ever done before. War, that had always meant a way of proving his worth, doing his duty for his country.
Right now, as he stood in the middle of a bustling road, marines and sailors passing before his unseeing eyes, the skin on his face prickling with cold, war meant only that the sensation left by the lingering grip of Clayton’s icy fingers would become his lot on dozens and hundreds occasions more, when his friends and comrades died before his very eyes.
Since his boyhood, Horatio had been preparing himself for fighting the foe. However, the foe had, up to now, been wearing the red-cuffed uniforms of the French and not the golden-buttoned midshipman’s uniform of His Majesty’s Navy. That morning, within the space of a few hours, his hatred for Jack Simpson had been dulled by confusion, shame and grief. But now, it flared up again with full force, its roaring blaze devouring Horatio’s from within, and he turned on his heel, turned away from the bright face and eyes of Archie Kennedy, and stalked off towards the jolly boat. He rubbed his hand absentmindedly, the spot where he could still feel Clayton’s grip, as the boat carried him back to the Justinian.
He came back to a changed world. Simpson had not yet returned; Clayton, whom he had come to rely on as a friend, was gone; and Archie was Archie again, high-spirited and loquacious. Ever since he had brought the good news about them transferring to the Indefatigable, Archie’s sparkle had rekindled. Horatio watched his friend half with admiration, half with disdain. He admired Archie for his ability to put behind him the events of yesterday and to focus all his energies on tomorrow; and yet he felt disdain for a man who had forgotten a fallen comrade so quickly.
However, Archie had not been granted oblivion yet. Before the preparations for their transfer to the Indefatigable had fully commenced, a very bad-tempered Lieutenant Eccleston despatched Mr Kennedy and Mr Hornblower to the shore. “Mr Clayton’s family will be collecting his body,” the lieutenant told his midshipmen. “As Mr Clayton did not die in action and the circumstances of his death are better kept quiet, this is not a matter that requires a senior officer to be present. However, as our mark of respect for the deceased and for his family, the captain wishes you, Mr Hornblower, to supervise the, um, proceedings. Mr Kennedy, who acted de facto as Mr Clayton’s second, will accompany you.”
That was how Horatio found himself in the same inn, sitting at the same table where he had challenged Jack Simpson and, ultimately, initiated the chain of events that had led to Clayton’s death. Clayton’s brother, a clergyman with the same air of dignified despair that had hung around Clayton, did not appear to blame Horatio. “The day my brother joined the Navy,” he said, “we knew he would not be restored to us. War favours the lucky and it is never kind to people like my brother. I have taken my farewell from him many years ago, Mr Hornblower.”
To Horatio, who had braced himself for accusation and reproach, each word was like a drop of molten lead falling straight into his heart. He had stuttered an apology but broke off when the words became entangled, stumbling over each other, as awkward as Horatio’s body that tensed and lengthened into an ever-gawkier shape under the calm gaze from pale eyes that were so much like his dead friend's. He could feel Archie’s presence just behind him, to his right. Archie radiated an energy that permeated even through the fabrics of his uniform and greatcoat.
“Mr Clayton,” Archie said in that bright, clear voice of his, and Horatio startled. “I have served alongside your brother for several years, and it was an honour to have known him. He did not fall in action, but he died defending a friend’s honour and even,” Archie’s voice faltered for the briefest of moments, “his life, from a foe not any less dangerous than a Frenchman.”
And that was that. Archie had not lost himself in long-winded explanations, and when they sat down to dinner later, Horatio was for the first time glad Archie had been sent ashore with him. He made, Horatio had to admit, a delightful companion, his conversation oscillating madly between amusing quips and outrageous anecdotes. They had wine with their dinner that, even to Horatio’s untrained tongue, tasted of dubious provenience and held the promise of a headache. He wasn’t surprised, therefore, that the floor of the inn started to bear a strong resemblance to the board of the Justinian when the sea was in heavy motion. Horatio climbed the stairs to the bedroom in the same way he had climbed the stairs to the Justinian on that miserable, wet January morning, with the world blurring around him. Archie followed hot on his heels, breathless laughter at the last joke they had shared at the table trailing behind him. They staggered across the threshold, pushing past each other and laughing at the childishness of their behaviour. “Compose yourself, Mr. Hornblower!” Archie whispered, watching a giggling Horatio shrug off his jacket and getting caught in the cuffs, before, with all the grace of a ragdoll, Horatio fell face-down onto the bed. He felt the mattress dip in as Archie’s warm body settled down beside him. “You see, Horatio,” Archie breathed, laughter still ringing in his voice, “this is what shore leave is all about. Getting drunk and talking nonsense. Of course, we should also have visited a pair of ladies of easy virtue,” Archie shot a sideways glance at Horatio, as if to test his reaction, and laughed out at his friend’s expression. “Don’t worry, Horatio,” he said. “I’ll be the last person on earth to try and lure you into a life of abandon and debauchery. Your virtue is quite safe with me.”
Horatio’s head was spinning and he had to blink a couple of times before Archie’s face came into focus. Archie had fallen back onto the bed and was tugging at his stock, attempting to loosen it and almost choking himself in the process. He wriggled out of his jacket without sitting up and kicked off his shoes and then, with a soft “Good night!” rolled onto his side, wrapping himself in the blanket and leaving Horatio bereft of any adequate cover. Horatio snorted at that smooth manoeuvre, but he didn’t intend to go down without a fight. He gripped the edge of the blanket and tugged soundly, liberating a good portion of the fabric from underneath Archie’s suddenly boneless body. Then, he pushed Archie, who either had fallen asleep in an instant or was pretending to sleep for reasons best known to himself, further towards the wall, thus gaining sufficient space to arrange his long limbs comfortably, and, with a sigh of relief, went to sleep.
He awoke to the sound of soft pounding, resurfacing slowly and sluggishly, with his mouth full of something that he was sure must be dead mice. The pounding, he realised after a minute or two, was happening in his head, the pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Horatio blinked rapidly against the spinning ceiling and vowed to never, ever touch alcohol again. As consciousness returned, so did awareness in his surroundings; and Horatio became aware of the warm, heavy body by his side. The bed was wide enough to accommodate Archie and himself comfortably, and they weren’t even touching, but the space between them was filled with unbearable heat that scorched Horatio’s arm, from shoulder to fingertips. Archie was awake. And, with a jolt of understanding that set his entire being alight, he knew that Archie was pleasuring himself.
Archie was careful and quiet, but there was no mistaking the telltale quickening of breath, the soft, wet sound of hand sliding against flesh, and Horatio dug his teeth into his lower lip, sharply. He couldn’t believe the sheer shamelessness of it all. He had, during his years at school, learned that he wasn’t the only boy plagued by impure thoughts at night; they all fell prey to them when their minds were unguarded and at their most vulnerable. But he had always prided himself in abstaining from such shameful activities and, with the exception of three or four times when he had been quite alone and succumbed to carnal desires, had never taken himself in hand.
Next to him, separated only by a thin barrier of heat, Archie moaned, a soft, half-strangled sound that had obviously escaped him against his better judgement. Horatio could taste the blood from his bitten lip on the tip of his tongue, and he forced his jaw to unclench, gulping in air through his mouth. It would be preferable if Archie didn’t hold back, if he moaned and shuddered in wanton abandonment; Horatio would not have to pretend to be asleep then, he could wake up in outrage and confront Archie, could punch him or grab him and-
Horatio’s breath caught; carefully, slowly, he shifted his hand and slid it underneath his hips, pressing down onto it with his full weight. With his other hand, he gripped the edge of the bed. He couldn’t do anything about his ears, though. His hearing, he found, was finely attuned to Archie, taking in even the faintest sigh that his friend made, every rustle of bedclothes as they slid over Archie’s skin. If Archie hadn't been so careful and quiet, this torture would be over so much sooner. As it were, Horatio’s own body had broken out in fever, infected by the ailment that held Archie in its grip. He had, he admitted to himself, been hard even before he had fully woken up. He was in agonies now, his prick longing for the touch that would bring release. But Horatio remained resolved to resist the shameful urge, and he pressed his hips that were straining to thrust upwards even more firmly down onto his hand. Even if he wanted to, he could not imagine to simply touch himself then and there, with another man lying beside him.
That other man was close to spending, Horatio could tell. Cursing himself for his weakness, he turned his head a fraction until he could see the sliver of Archie’s face that was visible in the shadow of the bunched-up blanket. The faint light of the moon that flooded in through the window gathered in Archie’s fair hair, illuminating the pale curve of temple and cheekbone. Archie’s eyes were closed, he was sure of that, and his mouth open, ever so slightly. Archie was breathing more quickly now, too, and as Horatio lay there, motionless, almost paralysed, suddenly the inexplicably fresh, clean scent that he had come to associate with Archie flooded over him. It was more potent than ever, now that Archie was so close to him, and Horatio wanted nothing more than roll over and bask in its lusciousness.
But he resisted. It wouldn’t take long. He started to breathe in time with Archie, matching his intakes of breath with those of his friend, until, at last, Archie’s breath faltered, caught - and then, Archie exhaled deeply, almost a purr, and Horatio knew that his friend had just found release. He would slip back to sleep now, whilst Horatio, mind and body inflamed, was doomed to lying awake for many endless hours more.
He had not taken his intoxicated state into account, for when Horatio opened his eyes again, it was to see the light of dawn making its way into the room to dispense with the darkness of the night. Archie was still asleep, curled up on his side like a kitten, and on Horatio’s belly, his sticky clothes bore evidence that his body, too, had succumbed to lustful dreams and fancies. Archie stretched out and turned to face Horatio. “Good morning,” he said, a smile lighting up his eyes, as though nothing had happened. “Did you sleep well, Horatio? Wasn’t it a pleasure to be able to spend the night in a real bed for once?”
Horatio nodded and smiled back at Archie. It had been a pleasure indeed.
AUTHOR: Donna Immaculata
RATING: R for masturbation and voyeurism
WORD COUNT: 2,000
PAIRING: Horatio/Archie
DISCLAIMER: These are not my characters. I just take them out to play.
SUMMARY/NOTES: And, with a jolt of understanding that set his entire being alight, he knew that Archie was pleasuring himself.
Burning
“He’s dead.”
“Yes,” Horatio had said. He was dead. Died in his stead, defending Horatio’s honour and, in doing so, robbing Horatio of it.
But Archie had not been concerned with Clayton’s death, his quicksilver thoughts already running a different course.
“No, you fool, not Clayton. Louis! The Frogs have murdered their king. Tried and executed for crimes against the people. It means war, Horatio, do you understand? It means war!”
He did understand, better than he had ever done before. War, that had always meant a way of proving his worth, doing his duty for his country.
Right now, as he stood in the middle of a bustling road, marines and sailors passing before his unseeing eyes, the skin on his face prickling with cold, war meant only that the sensation left by the lingering grip of Clayton’s icy fingers would become his lot on dozens and hundreds occasions more, when his friends and comrades died before his very eyes.
Since his boyhood, Horatio had been preparing himself for fighting the foe. However, the foe had, up to now, been wearing the red-cuffed uniforms of the French and not the golden-buttoned midshipman’s uniform of His Majesty’s Navy. That morning, within the space of a few hours, his hatred for Jack Simpson had been dulled by confusion, shame and grief. But now, it flared up again with full force, its roaring blaze devouring Horatio’s from within, and he turned on his heel, turned away from the bright face and eyes of Archie Kennedy, and stalked off towards the jolly boat. He rubbed his hand absentmindedly, the spot where he could still feel Clayton’s grip, as the boat carried him back to the Justinian.
He came back to a changed world. Simpson had not yet returned; Clayton, whom he had come to rely on as a friend, was gone; and Archie was Archie again, high-spirited and loquacious. Ever since he had brought the good news about them transferring to the Indefatigable, Archie’s sparkle had rekindled. Horatio watched his friend half with admiration, half with disdain. He admired Archie for his ability to put behind him the events of yesterday and to focus all his energies on tomorrow; and yet he felt disdain for a man who had forgotten a fallen comrade so quickly.
However, Archie had not been granted oblivion yet. Before the preparations for their transfer to the Indefatigable had fully commenced, a very bad-tempered Lieutenant Eccleston despatched Mr Kennedy and Mr Hornblower to the shore. “Mr Clayton’s family will be collecting his body,” the lieutenant told his midshipmen. “As Mr Clayton did not die in action and the circumstances of his death are better kept quiet, this is not a matter that requires a senior officer to be present. However, as our mark of respect for the deceased and for his family, the captain wishes you, Mr Hornblower, to supervise the, um, proceedings. Mr Kennedy, who acted de facto as Mr Clayton’s second, will accompany you.”
That was how Horatio found himself in the same inn, sitting at the same table where he had challenged Jack Simpson and, ultimately, initiated the chain of events that had led to Clayton’s death. Clayton’s brother, a clergyman with the same air of dignified despair that had hung around Clayton, did not appear to blame Horatio. “The day my brother joined the Navy,” he said, “we knew he would not be restored to us. War favours the lucky and it is never kind to people like my brother. I have taken my farewell from him many years ago, Mr Hornblower.”
To Horatio, who had braced himself for accusation and reproach, each word was like a drop of molten lead falling straight into his heart. He had stuttered an apology but broke off when the words became entangled, stumbling over each other, as awkward as Horatio’s body that tensed and lengthened into an ever-gawkier shape under the calm gaze from pale eyes that were so much like his dead friend's. He could feel Archie’s presence just behind him, to his right. Archie radiated an energy that permeated even through the fabrics of his uniform and greatcoat.
“Mr Clayton,” Archie said in that bright, clear voice of his, and Horatio startled. “I have served alongside your brother for several years, and it was an honour to have known him. He did not fall in action, but he died defending a friend’s honour and even,” Archie’s voice faltered for the briefest of moments, “his life, from a foe not any less dangerous than a Frenchman.”
And that was that. Archie had not lost himself in long-winded explanations, and when they sat down to dinner later, Horatio was for the first time glad Archie had been sent ashore with him. He made, Horatio had to admit, a delightful companion, his conversation oscillating madly between amusing quips and outrageous anecdotes. They had wine with their dinner that, even to Horatio’s untrained tongue, tasted of dubious provenience and held the promise of a headache. He wasn’t surprised, therefore, that the floor of the inn started to bear a strong resemblance to the board of the Justinian when the sea was in heavy motion. Horatio climbed the stairs to the bedroom in the same way he had climbed the stairs to the Justinian on that miserable, wet January morning, with the world blurring around him. Archie followed hot on his heels, breathless laughter at the last joke they had shared at the table trailing behind him. They staggered across the threshold, pushing past each other and laughing at the childishness of their behaviour. “Compose yourself, Mr. Hornblower!” Archie whispered, watching a giggling Horatio shrug off his jacket and getting caught in the cuffs, before, with all the grace of a ragdoll, Horatio fell face-down onto the bed. He felt the mattress dip in as Archie’s warm body settled down beside him. “You see, Horatio,” Archie breathed, laughter still ringing in his voice, “this is what shore leave is all about. Getting drunk and talking nonsense. Of course, we should also have visited a pair of ladies of easy virtue,” Archie shot a sideways glance at Horatio, as if to test his reaction, and laughed out at his friend’s expression. “Don’t worry, Horatio,” he said. “I’ll be the last person on earth to try and lure you into a life of abandon and debauchery. Your virtue is quite safe with me.”
Horatio’s head was spinning and he had to blink a couple of times before Archie’s face came into focus. Archie had fallen back onto the bed and was tugging at his stock, attempting to loosen it and almost choking himself in the process. He wriggled out of his jacket without sitting up and kicked off his shoes and then, with a soft “Good night!” rolled onto his side, wrapping himself in the blanket and leaving Horatio bereft of any adequate cover. Horatio snorted at that smooth manoeuvre, but he didn’t intend to go down without a fight. He gripped the edge of the blanket and tugged soundly, liberating a good portion of the fabric from underneath Archie’s suddenly boneless body. Then, he pushed Archie, who either had fallen asleep in an instant or was pretending to sleep for reasons best known to himself, further towards the wall, thus gaining sufficient space to arrange his long limbs comfortably, and, with a sigh of relief, went to sleep.
He awoke to the sound of soft pounding, resurfacing slowly and sluggishly, with his mouth full of something that he was sure must be dead mice. The pounding, he realised after a minute or two, was happening in his head, the pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Horatio blinked rapidly against the spinning ceiling and vowed to never, ever touch alcohol again. As consciousness returned, so did awareness in his surroundings; and Horatio became aware of the warm, heavy body by his side. The bed was wide enough to accommodate Archie and himself comfortably, and they weren’t even touching, but the space between them was filled with unbearable heat that scorched Horatio’s arm, from shoulder to fingertips. Archie was awake. And, with a jolt of understanding that set his entire being alight, he knew that Archie was pleasuring himself.
Archie was careful and quiet, but there was no mistaking the telltale quickening of breath, the soft, wet sound of hand sliding against flesh, and Horatio dug his teeth into his lower lip, sharply. He couldn’t believe the sheer shamelessness of it all. He had, during his years at school, learned that he wasn’t the only boy plagued by impure thoughts at night; they all fell prey to them when their minds were unguarded and at their most vulnerable. But he had always prided himself in abstaining from such shameful activities and, with the exception of three or four times when he had been quite alone and succumbed to carnal desires, had never taken himself in hand.
Next to him, separated only by a thin barrier of heat, Archie moaned, a soft, half-strangled sound that had obviously escaped him against his better judgement. Horatio could taste the blood from his bitten lip on the tip of his tongue, and he forced his jaw to unclench, gulping in air through his mouth. It would be preferable if Archie didn’t hold back, if he moaned and shuddered in wanton abandonment; Horatio would not have to pretend to be asleep then, he could wake up in outrage and confront Archie, could punch him or grab him and-
Horatio’s breath caught; carefully, slowly, he shifted his hand and slid it underneath his hips, pressing down onto it with his full weight. With his other hand, he gripped the edge of the bed. He couldn’t do anything about his ears, though. His hearing, he found, was finely attuned to Archie, taking in even the faintest sigh that his friend made, every rustle of bedclothes as they slid over Archie’s skin. If Archie hadn't been so careful and quiet, this torture would be over so much sooner. As it were, Horatio’s own body had broken out in fever, infected by the ailment that held Archie in its grip. He had, he admitted to himself, been hard even before he had fully woken up. He was in agonies now, his prick longing for the touch that would bring release. But Horatio remained resolved to resist the shameful urge, and he pressed his hips that were straining to thrust upwards even more firmly down onto his hand. Even if he wanted to, he could not imagine to simply touch himself then and there, with another man lying beside him.
That other man was close to spending, Horatio could tell. Cursing himself for his weakness, he turned his head a fraction until he could see the sliver of Archie’s face that was visible in the shadow of the bunched-up blanket. The faint light of the moon that flooded in through the window gathered in Archie’s fair hair, illuminating the pale curve of temple and cheekbone. Archie’s eyes were closed, he was sure of that, and his mouth open, ever so slightly. Archie was breathing more quickly now, too, and as Horatio lay there, motionless, almost paralysed, suddenly the inexplicably fresh, clean scent that he had come to associate with Archie flooded over him. It was more potent than ever, now that Archie was so close to him, and Horatio wanted nothing more than roll over and bask in its lusciousness.
But he resisted. It wouldn’t take long. He started to breathe in time with Archie, matching his intakes of breath with those of his friend, until, at last, Archie’s breath faltered, caught - and then, Archie exhaled deeply, almost a purr, and Horatio knew that his friend had just found release. He would slip back to sleep now, whilst Horatio, mind and body inflamed, was doomed to lying awake for many endless hours more.
He had not taken his intoxicated state into account, for when Horatio opened his eyes again, it was to see the light of dawn making its way into the room to dispense with the darkness of the night. Archie was still asleep, curled up on his side like a kitten, and on Horatio’s belly, his sticky clothes bore evidence that his body, too, had succumbed to lustful dreams and fancies. Archie stretched out and turned to face Horatio. “Good morning,” he said, a smile lighting up his eyes, as though nothing had happened. “Did you sleep well, Horatio? Wasn’t it a pleasure to be able to spend the night in a real bed for once?”
Horatio nodded and smiled back at Archie. It had been a pleasure indeed.