Hornblower fic
Here, have some fic. Yes, this is the one I've been whining about needing to write. No, it's not as good as I'd hoped, but please, I'd be interested to know what you think.
Title: Learning by Rote
Pairing: Bush/Hammond
Rating: R
Words: Probably too many in the wrong, but not enough in the right places.
Notes: Thanks to quigonejinn for the ideas and inspiration and to black_hound for the encouragement. ;) Unbeata-ed and written post 12am.
The first time was in some bright corner of the hold. It was odd, Hammond thought, that the hold should be so filled with light. But Bush, proving his practicality had brought two lanterns and sat one on a crate that they used as a table and the other on the floor. It threw upon Hammond's signal books that seemed all too bright and cheerful for both the task at hand and the crammed quarters in which they found themselves.
It was a dreary Sunday afternoon and Orrock had the watch. Hammond had been about to retire to his hammock, surely just as wet and cold as he, when Bush had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Hammond had staggered back a few steps and agreed with Bush that yes, it was a perfect day for studying and learning signals rather than skulking in one's hammock. And, yes, it would be helpful to have someone testing you and making sure you didn't doze off in the relative dryness and quiet and privacy of the hold.
And so that's how Hammond found himself bending over his signal book while Bush leaned casually against the bulkhead and shot questions to the midshipman. Back aching, Hammond leaned over his book, turning pages furiously, until he almost thought he might actually learn them by rote. But then Bush would ask him something or draw a sketch on the slate and Hammond would pull anxiously at his curls as he searched the unyielding book for the answer. The presence and attitude of Bush was intimidating and Hammond could feel his face burn under his cool gaze as he flipped page after page.
For what seemed like hours, the only sound was the swish of paper on paper, Bush's stern questions, Hammond's hesitant answers, and the moaning of the wood around them. And then, just when Hammond was sighing in hopelessness and exhaustion over a particularly difficult question, Bush interrupted his thoughts.
"Enough."
Hammond looked up, loose curls hanging about his face and mouth open, to find Bush nodding at the book. Hammond closed it uncertainly and was half standing when Bush's large hand closed over top of Hammond's and part of the book.
"Learn them. Know them. Is that clear?"
Bush had stood now, was quite close to Hammond, who looked at him with agape mouth and weary eyes. The boy was about to answer when Bush took another step and his hand moved up to clench Hammond's forearm.
"I do not want to have to do this again. Is that clear?"
Hammond nodded and Bush was so close that he could smell him: sea and salt and rum and mustard. Hammond breathed it in and found that his head was swimming. Perhaps Hammond had inclined his neck a bit to get a better sense of it because in the next instant Bush had uttered "Or this" and then pressed his lips to the delicate curve of Hammond's neck.
Quickly, Bush's lips were devouring Hammond's neck with a hunger that both frightened and excited the midshipman. Hammond gasped and fisted his fingers in the wool of Bush's jacket. Then there was a rough hand undoing his trousers and flesh on flesh. There was a desperation, an urgency, and a wantonness to Bush's actions that made Hammond wonder over the source and forget everything about signals.
So quick and hot was the movement of flesh that Hammond gasped again and dared to turn his lips to that soft spot behind Bush's ear. Quick and fast and it was over with muffled grunts and a flash of light that matched that of the warm light surrounding them.
What Hammond remembers most about that day is the way his heartbeat matched the rain pounding on the decks above them.
***
Bush remembers the second, and last, time the best, even though he no longer recalls the exact circumstances. There was a battle and it had caught them quite by surprise. Hornblower had been brilliant, as always, forming plans out of nothing and shouting orders despite the din of cannon and bullet. He strode the quarterdeck, eyes blazing, and pointed out what must be done and what must not and when to turn the stern. There were no signs of fear, not in those heated moments of life or death, win or lose. No, not then. But as Bush stole a glance to Hornblower afterwards, as the cries of the wounded still rung on the decks, he saw it. Just a moment and it was gone, but it was there: a sigh, a thick gulp, and the clasping of trembling hands behind his back. Bush saw it in that moment and it made him think on many things and wish for even more and regret so much.
There was that: the interesting glance inside of Hornblower that Bush would keep forever to himself. But there was also Hammond. Hammond, who had proved completely incompetent in the course of the battle. Bush had observed him forgetting to issue orders, had seen him trembling as he stared, seemingly transfixed at an injured seaman. It came to the point where Bush refused to note the missteps, stopped recording them in his brain for future reference.
When the deck was cleaned up and the wounded tended to and Hornblower back in his cabin, Bush found Hammond. It was as if the boy immediately knew what this confrontation was about for he blanched lily white and seemed to shrink beneath Bush's gaze.
"To the hold with you," Bush ordered gruffly. Hammond let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a squeak, and turned with parted lips. Bush turned himself, but in the opposite direction. He allowed the boy a few minutes to fear, to curse himself and Bush, to contemplate suicide; whatever young boys do when realizing their own ineptitude. Bush, in the mean time, took those few minutes to change his shirt.
When Bush found Hammond, he found him sitting atop a crate against the bulkhead, feet dangling slightly. Head down, hands tightly clenched. Bush approached and stood before Hammond, who did not raise his head. Bush saw in him that same mortal fear that he had caught in Hornblower moments after the battle.
With a sigh, that he hoped sounded disappointed, Bush stepped forward so that he stood between Hammond's legs.
"I helped you. I taught you. And then I warned you. Do you intend to forget that as well, as you seem to forget all things?"
Hammond made no answer but squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together.
Clearly, the boy needed a reminded of that rainy day in the hold, of all that Bush had done for him. He needed to know that such incompetence aboard a ship with such a brilliant captain would not be tolerated. And that, on that rainy day, Hammond had been willing and available.
So the front of Hammond's trousers were undone. Bush waited for a reaction but still the boy did not move. It was not until Bush took Hammond's cock in his rough hand that the boy gasped and looked up with startled eyes. A few strokes up and down the growing length of it and Bush watched Hammond's face turn from one of confusion to one of unabashed pleasure and further expectation.
But then, just as Hammond gasped and thumped his head back against the bulkhead, Bush gave him one last stroke and stopped. Hammond seemed to stop breathing and arch towards Bush, boldly demanding more. Bush smirked a bit and stared with cold, blue eyes at the disappointed boy.
In one motion, Bush wet the fingers of one hand with his mouth and with the other hand grasped one of Hammond's legs, pulling him down further on the crate. Hammond gasped once and then again as Bush's wet fingers came in contact with his ass. Circles around, lines across and when he finally put his finger in Hammond it was so tight and hot that Bush himself gasped and had to steady himself with a hand on the bulkhead above Hammond's curls.
Hammond was taking short breaths and licking his lips and rolling his hips up towards Bush in some unfulfilled need. When Bush glanced down to see his finger in Hammond, he noticed the boy was clenching the edge of the crate, knuckles turning while. Bush licked his own lips and it was then that he started to move that finger within Hammond. It didn't take much: two or three strokes and two different angles and the boy cried out with a high-pitched "Ah!".
"Shh," Bush grunted shortly and pulled his finger back from that spot that had made Hammond moan like a girl. "Shh." And Bush took Hammond's hand and pressed it firmly to his mouth. "Shh." Hammond's hips undulated upwards then and Bush noticed he pressed the hand tighter to his mouth. Satisfied, Bush moved his finger once more. Stretched it out, angled it just right until the boy writhed on top of the crate and pressed the back of his hand firmly against his mouth. These were noises now that only Bush could hear, he was sure of it, and he continued to work his finger as Hammond moaned and raised a leg to Bush's waist.
It took only a few more strokes for Hammond to come, pressing his back to the bulkhead and making teethmarks on the fair skin of his hand.
Bush remembers the way Hammond's moans seemed to reverberate through the crate, through the beams. And he remembers, that in the midst of such unattainable brilliance on a ship, Hammond was willing and available.
Title: Learning by Rote
Pairing: Bush/Hammond
Rating: R
Words: Probably too many in the wrong, but not enough in the right places.
Notes: Thanks to quigonejinn for the ideas and inspiration and to black_hound for the encouragement. ;) Unbeata-ed and written post 12am.
The first time was in some bright corner of the hold. It was odd, Hammond thought, that the hold should be so filled with light. But Bush, proving his practicality had brought two lanterns and sat one on a crate that they used as a table and the other on the floor. It threw upon Hammond's signal books that seemed all too bright and cheerful for both the task at hand and the crammed quarters in which they found themselves.
It was a dreary Sunday afternoon and Orrock had the watch. Hammond had been about to retire to his hammock, surely just as wet and cold as he, when Bush had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Hammond had staggered back a few steps and agreed with Bush that yes, it was a perfect day for studying and learning signals rather than skulking in one's hammock. And, yes, it would be helpful to have someone testing you and making sure you didn't doze off in the relative dryness and quiet and privacy of the hold.
And so that's how Hammond found himself bending over his signal book while Bush leaned casually against the bulkhead and shot questions to the midshipman. Back aching, Hammond leaned over his book, turning pages furiously, until he almost thought he might actually learn them by rote. But then Bush would ask him something or draw a sketch on the slate and Hammond would pull anxiously at his curls as he searched the unyielding book for the answer. The presence and attitude of Bush was intimidating and Hammond could feel his face burn under his cool gaze as he flipped page after page.
For what seemed like hours, the only sound was the swish of paper on paper, Bush's stern questions, Hammond's hesitant answers, and the moaning of the wood around them. And then, just when Hammond was sighing in hopelessness and exhaustion over a particularly difficult question, Bush interrupted his thoughts.
"Enough."
Hammond looked up, loose curls hanging about his face and mouth open, to find Bush nodding at the book. Hammond closed it uncertainly and was half standing when Bush's large hand closed over top of Hammond's and part of the book.
"Learn them. Know them. Is that clear?"
Bush had stood now, was quite close to Hammond, who looked at him with agape mouth and weary eyes. The boy was about to answer when Bush took another step and his hand moved up to clench Hammond's forearm.
"I do not want to have to do this again. Is that clear?"
Hammond nodded and Bush was so close that he could smell him: sea and salt and rum and mustard. Hammond breathed it in and found that his head was swimming. Perhaps Hammond had inclined his neck a bit to get a better sense of it because in the next instant Bush had uttered "Or this" and then pressed his lips to the delicate curve of Hammond's neck.
Quickly, Bush's lips were devouring Hammond's neck with a hunger that both frightened and excited the midshipman. Hammond gasped and fisted his fingers in the wool of Bush's jacket. Then there was a rough hand undoing his trousers and flesh on flesh. There was a desperation, an urgency, and a wantonness to Bush's actions that made Hammond wonder over the source and forget everything about signals.
So quick and hot was the movement of flesh that Hammond gasped again and dared to turn his lips to that soft spot behind Bush's ear. Quick and fast and it was over with muffled grunts and a flash of light that matched that of the warm light surrounding them.
What Hammond remembers most about that day is the way his heartbeat matched the rain pounding on the decks above them.
***
Bush remembers the second, and last, time the best, even though he no longer recalls the exact circumstances. There was a battle and it had caught them quite by surprise. Hornblower had been brilliant, as always, forming plans out of nothing and shouting orders despite the din of cannon and bullet. He strode the quarterdeck, eyes blazing, and pointed out what must be done and what must not and when to turn the stern. There were no signs of fear, not in those heated moments of life or death, win or lose. No, not then. But as Bush stole a glance to Hornblower afterwards, as the cries of the wounded still rung on the decks, he saw it. Just a moment and it was gone, but it was there: a sigh, a thick gulp, and the clasping of trembling hands behind his back. Bush saw it in that moment and it made him think on many things and wish for even more and regret so much.
There was that: the interesting glance inside of Hornblower that Bush would keep forever to himself. But there was also Hammond. Hammond, who had proved completely incompetent in the course of the battle. Bush had observed him forgetting to issue orders, had seen him trembling as he stared, seemingly transfixed at an injured seaman. It came to the point where Bush refused to note the missteps, stopped recording them in his brain for future reference.
When the deck was cleaned up and the wounded tended to and Hornblower back in his cabin, Bush found Hammond. It was as if the boy immediately knew what this confrontation was about for he blanched lily white and seemed to shrink beneath Bush's gaze.
"To the hold with you," Bush ordered gruffly. Hammond let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a squeak, and turned with parted lips. Bush turned himself, but in the opposite direction. He allowed the boy a few minutes to fear, to curse himself and Bush, to contemplate suicide; whatever young boys do when realizing their own ineptitude. Bush, in the mean time, took those few minutes to change his shirt.
When Bush found Hammond, he found him sitting atop a crate against the bulkhead, feet dangling slightly. Head down, hands tightly clenched. Bush approached and stood before Hammond, who did not raise his head. Bush saw in him that same mortal fear that he had caught in Hornblower moments after the battle.
With a sigh, that he hoped sounded disappointed, Bush stepped forward so that he stood between Hammond's legs.
"I helped you. I taught you. And then I warned you. Do you intend to forget that as well, as you seem to forget all things?"
Hammond made no answer but squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together.
Clearly, the boy needed a reminded of that rainy day in the hold, of all that Bush had done for him. He needed to know that such incompetence aboard a ship with such a brilliant captain would not be tolerated. And that, on that rainy day, Hammond had been willing and available.
So the front of Hammond's trousers were undone. Bush waited for a reaction but still the boy did not move. It was not until Bush took Hammond's cock in his rough hand that the boy gasped and looked up with startled eyes. A few strokes up and down the growing length of it and Bush watched Hammond's face turn from one of confusion to one of unabashed pleasure and further expectation.
But then, just as Hammond gasped and thumped his head back against the bulkhead, Bush gave him one last stroke and stopped. Hammond seemed to stop breathing and arch towards Bush, boldly demanding more. Bush smirked a bit and stared with cold, blue eyes at the disappointed boy.
In one motion, Bush wet the fingers of one hand with his mouth and with the other hand grasped one of Hammond's legs, pulling him down further on the crate. Hammond gasped once and then again as Bush's wet fingers came in contact with his ass. Circles around, lines across and when he finally put his finger in Hammond it was so tight and hot that Bush himself gasped and had to steady himself with a hand on the bulkhead above Hammond's curls.
Hammond was taking short breaths and licking his lips and rolling his hips up towards Bush in some unfulfilled need. When Bush glanced down to see his finger in Hammond, he noticed the boy was clenching the edge of the crate, knuckles turning while. Bush licked his own lips and it was then that he started to move that finger within Hammond. It didn't take much: two or three strokes and two different angles and the boy cried out with a high-pitched "Ah!".
"Shh," Bush grunted shortly and pulled his finger back from that spot that had made Hammond moan like a girl. "Shh." And Bush took Hammond's hand and pressed it firmly to his mouth. "Shh." Hammond's hips undulated upwards then and Bush noticed he pressed the hand tighter to his mouth. Satisfied, Bush moved his finger once more. Stretched it out, angled it just right until the boy writhed on top of the crate and pressed the back of his hand firmly against his mouth. These were noises now that only Bush could hear, he was sure of it, and he continued to work his finger as Hammond moaned and raised a leg to Bush's waist.
It took only a few more strokes for Hammond to come, pressing his back to the bulkhead and making teethmarks on the fair skin of his hand.
Bush remembers the way Hammond's moans seemed to reverberate through the crate, through the beams. And he remembers, that in the midst of such unattainable brilliance on a ship, Hammond was willing and available.