Disclaimer: Once again, I own none of this. If I did own Stephen, I
wouldn't be sitting around writing fan fiction, know what I'm saying? ;-).
The characters come from the wonderful Patrick O'Brian's books, and this
fic is influenced by the movie.
This is the follow up to my earlier M&C fic, "Desire"; it's a little bit more explicit. If you like slash, then *please* read and review.
----------------------------------------
Sitting with his diary before him, Stephen groped for words. The day grew long, and he found his leisure more challenging than his work.
What he wanted, now, was the right turn of phrase, the right simile to do justice to his satisfaction. He wanted to write about yearning, about lust, about fulfilment.
He envisioned the Captain's hands, the way they had run over his body, traced every contour of his anatomy.
"Jack is an angel," he wrote hurriedly, the words forming themselves in ink.
Just as quickly, he crossed it out. Jack could not be an angel. Angels were golden, pure and clean. If he had fallen for such a person, he would have known. Their affair was decidedly non-angelic: it was gritty and real. And purity played no part.
He closed the diary firmly, without probing further into the recesses of his mind, refusing to disturb the eddying pools of desire. Stephen did not even notice that his hands were trembling ever so slightly. Absent-mindedly he traced the edge of a cuticle with his thumb.
He would go to see Jack.
**********************************
Jack Aubrey stood by his violin, tall and upright.
His eyes were filled with an odd light, and they wandered in a preoccupied fashion over the soft curves of the instrument. With an almost sexual manipulation, he caressed the edges, ran his fingers over the strings.
What was he really wanting? He knew, with more than a trace of remorse, that he enjoyed the power he had over Stephen. He enjoyed watching the pleasure course through his friend's body in fierce pulses, enjoyed the look on Stephen's upturned face as he came to climax. Before God, was that such a sin? Perhaps his desires were ill-placed, Jack wondered.
But here his rumination was interrupted, as Stephen himself entered.
"Did you have many wounds on your hands today, Stephen?" Jack asked, with unnatural formality.
"No, the men seem to be keeping themselves out of trouble for once; I am able to devote at least some of my time to my writing. But tell me, Jack," - Stephen's eyes twinkled uncharacteristically - "would you like me to give you a physical examination?"
"I should like that very much." Jack smiled, holding back the 'dear' that was on the tip of his tongue. For a moment, just one moment, he believed that he was going to restrain himself.
But then Stephen was on him, kissing him slowly and salaciously, and he knew he could not.
With a movement towards the floor, he surrendered himself.
***********************************
Not far from the Captain's cabin, Killick banged pots and pans together. He scraped the inside of a tin with a disgruntled snort, all the more annoyed by a scruffy-haired member of the crew who was lounging around watching him, apparently completely at leisure. "Would you like these?" asked scruffy-hair, passing Killick two long knives. He snorted again in reply.
Killick was in the process of polishing a large pot when scruffy-hair spoke again. The steward assumed it was just another lousy attempt at conversation. As if the bugger should be standing around here. "Whaddid you say?" he asked half-heartedly.
"I said, can't you hear it?"
"Hear what?" Killick grunted. He stopped polishing.
"Listen carefully," said scruffy-hair, a look of curiosity playing on his face. "The Captain's moaning something terrible!"
Indeed, now he stopped to listen, Killick could hear low moans, one after the other, coming through the walls.
"You sure that's the Captain, mate?"
"Sounds like him, don't it?"
"Maybe 'e's sick."
"We should call the doctor," said scruffy-hair.
"Nah, we'll have to go and check first. Could be he's just try'na sing." The two men laughed heartily, and Killick lay down the pot. They walked off in the direction of the Captain's cabin.
****************************************
Stephen's face was contorted with pleasure.
"Please, Jack, don't stop."
Jack moaned again in reply. The two men pressed together, gripping. Stephen's pale fingers clutched at the air. He needed this, he needed it with all of him. He felt like his skin was on fire, and he felt as if Jack's hands were leaving burning marks all over him, long weals of heat on his back. He wanted this to mark him, for his actions to leave some reminder. He exhaled: a long, shuddering breath.
Jack found breath enough to ask "Stephen, do you love me?"
He had not intended to say it. It had come out without a thought, without a care.
Stephen was about to reply. He opened his mouth, but was restricted. For at that moment, the door opened.
"Lord almighty!" Killick cried.
This is the follow up to my earlier M&C fic, "Desire"; it's a little bit more explicit. If you like slash, then *please* read and review.
----------------------------------------
Sitting with his diary before him, Stephen groped for words. The day grew long, and he found his leisure more challenging than his work.
What he wanted, now, was the right turn of phrase, the right simile to do justice to his satisfaction. He wanted to write about yearning, about lust, about fulfilment.
He envisioned the Captain's hands, the way they had run over his body, traced every contour of his anatomy.
"Jack is an angel," he wrote hurriedly, the words forming themselves in ink.
Just as quickly, he crossed it out. Jack could not be an angel. Angels were golden, pure and clean. If he had fallen for such a person, he would have known. Their affair was decidedly non-angelic: it was gritty and real. And purity played no part.
He closed the diary firmly, without probing further into the recesses of his mind, refusing to disturb the eddying pools of desire. Stephen did not even notice that his hands were trembling ever so slightly. Absent-mindedly he traced the edge of a cuticle with his thumb.
He would go to see Jack.
**********************************
Jack Aubrey stood by his violin, tall and upright.
His eyes were filled with an odd light, and they wandered in a preoccupied fashion over the soft curves of the instrument. With an almost sexual manipulation, he caressed the edges, ran his fingers over the strings.
What was he really wanting? He knew, with more than a trace of remorse, that he enjoyed the power he had over Stephen. He enjoyed watching the pleasure course through his friend's body in fierce pulses, enjoyed the look on Stephen's upturned face as he came to climax. Before God, was that such a sin? Perhaps his desires were ill-placed, Jack wondered.
But here his rumination was interrupted, as Stephen himself entered.
"Did you have many wounds on your hands today, Stephen?" Jack asked, with unnatural formality.
"No, the men seem to be keeping themselves out of trouble for once; I am able to devote at least some of my time to my writing. But tell me, Jack," - Stephen's eyes twinkled uncharacteristically - "would you like me to give you a physical examination?"
"I should like that very much." Jack smiled, holding back the 'dear' that was on the tip of his tongue. For a moment, just one moment, he believed that he was going to restrain himself.
But then Stephen was on him, kissing him slowly and salaciously, and he knew he could not.
With a movement towards the floor, he surrendered himself.
***********************************
Not far from the Captain's cabin, Killick banged pots and pans together. He scraped the inside of a tin with a disgruntled snort, all the more annoyed by a scruffy-haired member of the crew who was lounging around watching him, apparently completely at leisure. "Would you like these?" asked scruffy-hair, passing Killick two long knives. He snorted again in reply.
Killick was in the process of polishing a large pot when scruffy-hair spoke again. The steward assumed it was just another lousy attempt at conversation. As if the bugger should be standing around here. "Whaddid you say?" he asked half-heartedly.
"I said, can't you hear it?"
"Hear what?" Killick grunted. He stopped polishing.
"Listen carefully," said scruffy-hair, a look of curiosity playing on his face. "The Captain's moaning something terrible!"
Indeed, now he stopped to listen, Killick could hear low moans, one after the other, coming through the walls.
"You sure that's the Captain, mate?"
"Sounds like him, don't it?"
"Maybe 'e's sick."
"We should call the doctor," said scruffy-hair.
"Nah, we'll have to go and check first. Could be he's just try'na sing." The two men laughed heartily, and Killick lay down the pot. They walked off in the direction of the Captain's cabin.
****************************************
Stephen's face was contorted with pleasure.
"Please, Jack, don't stop."
Jack moaned again in reply. The two men pressed together, gripping. Stephen's pale fingers clutched at the air. He needed this, he needed it with all of him. He felt like his skin was on fire, and he felt as if Jack's hands were leaving burning marks all over him, long weals of heat on his back. He wanted this to mark him, for his actions to leave some reminder. He exhaled: a long, shuddering breath.
Jack found breath enough to ask "Stephen, do you love me?"
He had not intended to say it. It had come out without a thought, without a care.
Stephen was about to reply. He opened his mouth, but was restricted. For at that moment, the door opened.
"Lord almighty!" Killick cried.