FIC: The Green Jacket [4/5]
Mar. 11th, 2012 03:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splix
Title: The Green Jacket
Author: Alex
Fandom: Crossover: Sharpe/To the Ends of the Earth
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: Richard Sharpe and Edmund Talbot belong to Bernard Cornwell and William Golding, respectively. No money made, no harm intended.
Summary: Young Edmund Talbot makes the crossing to Australia in the occasional company of Captain Richard Sharpe.
Warnings: First section only: attempted sexual assault, nothing overtly graphic.
Notes: While watching To the Ends of the Earth, I was delighted to see Riflemen aboard the ship that carried the young and luscious Edmund Talbot [Benedict Cumberbatch] to his destination. Naturally, I thought of the most famous Rifleman....
Part One: A Daring Rescue
Part Two: Mal de Mer
Part Three: War's End
*
Literature, from Noah’s deluge to Defoe’s Crusoe to Mr. Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, has painted a grim portrait of those who sail upon the seas: doomed to doubt and peril and sometimes to despair. I had not thought to count myself among their number, but for the past few weeks I have been tossed from the heights of ecstasy to the very deepest trenches of anguish – and back again! Such indeed is the overwhelming and passionate tide of my moods; I have been as changeable as the ocean itself, and though perhaps Edmund Talbot at the beginning of this voyage would never have entertained the merest whisper of a thought of infatuation, this Edmund Talbot, re-awakened to some of life’s more exotic pleasures, is happy enough to admit the possibility of that very thing.
Infatuation? Let us not be coy. God help me, I have fallen into an erotic stupor from which there is no arising. My every spare thought is taken with Captain Sharpe, who persists in his stoical character come sun or storms. He behaves with shy gallantry toward the women and with congenial authority toward his Chosen Men, and with grave understanding toward Captain Anderson and the other officers of this ship. To all others he is polite, aloof, and never unkind. Toward me? He veritably toys with me, damn his eyes.
I am unjust. But what else am I to think? We have not repeated our encounter in his cabin. In point of fact, it appears that Captain Sharpe has gone out of his way to hold himself aloof from me. Oh, he smiles, he nods, he even speaks to me on the rarest of occasions, but for the better part of a month he has neither shared an intimate word with me, nor touched me, nor – oh, for his hands again!
But I am no fool. I know that were our assignation to be made public, there would be naught but scorn and derision, and possibly even some punishment; I am not too familiar with the Articles of War but I know full well that at sea, a captain’s word is law – indeed, the captain is God Himself, and I fear that in the grip of divine powers, Captain Anderson would not look kindly upon the Greek vice. And yet it is commonly known, or at least whispered, that sailors avail themselves of each other when there are no women to be had. Surely these sins are overlooked until the next port of call?
All this internal wrangling and torment is entirely beside the point. The simple fact is this: Captain Sharpe is avoiding me and I will find no peace until I discover the truth.
Alas. I already suspect it, and am struggling manfully to contain my sorrow. That man will be the ruin of me.
*
To-night I was in want of both festivity and formality. I ordered my best evening clothes laid out, and I bathed as best as I was able in my little canvas wash-bowl. How heartily sick I am of the filth on this ship; I should have thought I would become accustomed to it, and so I am to some extent, but there are times when the odour and grime become nigh unbearable. I believe my first act upon setting foot on dry land will be to command that a bath-tub be brought to me, with plenty of hot water and scented soap, and I shall lie in it and soak and scrub until I glow with cleanliness.
I dressed with care – shirt, stock, tails, knee-breeches, silk stockings, pumps. I found among my possessions a small vial of orange-flower scent untouched since before my journey, and touched some to my handkerchief. If I am to be ‘Lord Talbot’ then let me dress the part!
Captain Sharpe was at dinner, and how foolish is youth, for I contrived to ignore him throughout the meal. I flattered Zenobia Brocklebank with my attentions, and received for my pains several lingering caresses upon the arm and hand, and once, the ghostly sensation of her fingers drifting with feigned innocence against my leg. I resolved then to repay her affections with some of my own, though I believe her generosity has been distributed with little discrimination over the length of this journey.
My resolve crumbled as dinner wore on. It is the tantalizingly withheld morsel that is desirable, not the proffered one, and I could not resist stealing a glance now and then at the stern features of Captain Sharpe without thinking how candlelight flattered him even more than it did the ladies. The soft gilt glow lent a golden cast to his face and burnished his hair and the silver of his buttons, giving him a positively Apollonian radiance. The joy crested and sank again, leaving me as breathless and helpless as a beached fish (oh, forgive these tired nautical metaphors! I am no poet, only a pen-scratching journeyman). From time to time he did look at me, but with the barest of nods and the slightest of smiles.
As an example of my fleeting and changeable emotions, I wished then for nothing so much as to be left alone to wallow in my misery despite my earlier longing for conviviality, but there was to be entertainment in the waist, and I was entreated to attend. And so a party was convened, a few of the sailors were persuaded to take out their battered instruments, and there was music and singing. Only my heart seemed to be heavy. Still, I danced a figure or two and managed to acquit myself reasonably well. While I danced, I saw Zenobia Brocklebank clinging to Captain Sharpe’s arm on the pretext of a pitching deck, which did not pitch in the least. I was glad when the sailors began their own cavorting to the passengers’ amusement, and slipped away to stand below the shrouds, watching the timeless and fathomless sea.
“I keep hoping I’ll see a mermaid.”
It was not necessary to turn to know who spoke; that voice stroked the length of my body and set a fire aflame in my soul. I did not know why he had chosen this moment to join me, but he must have seen me walk off alone, and therefore decided to follow. Hope vanquished despair, or at least held it at bay.
“It is my understanding from those sailors who have claimed to see one that they are not quite as comely as one would expect.”
“Is that right?”
“Indeed. They are said to be whiskered and quite hideous, with great barking voices. I believe the only reason that Homer claimed Odysseus had been tempted by the Sirens is that the author himself was stone blind.” I chuckled, but Sharpe remained silent. I really must remember to temper my wit around him. “Still, you may see one yet.”
“No one would believe me if I said so.”
“Perhaps not.” Not one word, not one breath about what had transpired between us – had he forgot altogether? Or was he so ashamed that he had decided never to speak of it again? “Still, who needs mermaids when this ship has its own bevy of beauties? Zenobia Brocklebank, for one.”
“Aye, she’s a pretty lass.”
“Everyone seems to think so,” I replied acidly. Good God, what a child I was.
“Don’t be like that, lad.”
I all but stamped my foot. “Devil take it, man, how shall I be, then?” I became conscious that my voice had risen and endeavoured to lower it. “I must be candid with you, sir. I feel ill-used. In fact, you wound me exceedingly. If you would but tell me that your station and mine must prevent another meeting, or that you are overcome with some sort of moral fit, then so be it, but have the courtesy to say so, rather than leaving me three sheets to the wind.”
Sharpe was silent for a moment. “Three sheets to the wind means you’re drunk, sir.”
“Confound it, you know what I meant.” I scowled at him, too angry to even feign hauteur.
He nodded and leaned against the rail. Despite myself, I watched him and admired his profile – if it did not possess a patrician fineness, it did have its own allure – a strong nose, firm mouth and chin. I yearned so badly to kiss him.
“I were married, you know.”
Of all the things I had thought he might say, that was hardly one of them. “I did not. I wonder you had time for a wife whilst in the army.”
“Well, I was. Teresa. Spanish. A lady, she were, with title and lands and all that until the Frenchies came. They took it all away. Left her with nowt.”
“And you…you feel guilty because you were unfaithful to her.”
Sharpe shook his head. “She died. Murdered.”
“Good God.”
“I killed the bastard who did it.” Sharpe opened his hands and stared at them. “And if I had him here now, I’d kill him again, and with pleasure.”
“I am sorry,” I said softly. I was uncertain why he had chosen to confide in me, so I waited without saying more, exercising as much prudence as I could.
Sharpe gave me a smile that was unexpectedly sweet. “Thank you, lad. She had fire in her belly. She became a partisan. They called her La Aguja - the needle. She were ferocious.”
“I should think that any woman married to you would need to be, Captain Sharpe,” I said. “I mean that as the very highest compliment to you, and to your late wife.”
He chuckled softly. “Could be.” He stared out at the sea. “I loved her. And after her I told myself…don’t you see, Mr. Talbot, that if there were a second time, then there might be a third, and then I don’t know where we’d be.”
“I cannot understand. I only know that I have been in torment.” I reached out and touched my fingers to his. I felt their strength, the hard callus of a man who labors, and became excited. “Please, Captain….”
“Christ.” He took my hand in a bruising grip. “You can’t do this to me.”
“Everyone who isn’t sleeping is occupied. Your cabin –“
He groaned aloud. “Go on, then. I’ll be down after you. Wait for me.”
I went on trembling legs to his sordid little hutch. He had no candle, and the feeble light that reached the cabins during the day had dissolved entirely. I would have liked to see his possessions, such as they were. I seated myself upon his bunk and waited.
The door creaked open. “Lad?”
“Yes.” My voice, ordinarily low and resonant and not wholly unpleasant, climbed upwards like a boy’s. “Yes.”
“Stand up.”
I stood, steadying myself against the wall. “Have you a candle?”
I heard a soft laugh. “You want to show everyone what we’re doing?”
“I want to see you.”
“I’m right here.” He took my hand, drew me close, and kissed me. It was a tender kiss, more affectionate than his kisses of weeks ago. “Kiss me back, lad. Come on then.”
His very words sent a thrust of arousal into my prick, and I responded with near savagery, all but shoving him into the wall and forcing myself upon him. To my utter surprise, he did not push back nor attempt to assert dominance, but instead yielded to my violent kisses. Enflamed, I grasped his wrists and pinned them to the wall, suckling on his ear, the skin of his throat, his tongue. “I want to fuck you,” I whispered, thrilling to the utter vulgarity of my speech.
“Here.” I felt something touch my wrist, and I pulled back, puzzled. It was a rounded tin; when opened, it revealed an ill-smelling substance. “Butter. A bit rancid, but still.”
All at once I realised the implications of his words. Dear God! I could not unfasten my breeches quickly enough. He turned to his bunk, fumbling with his own clothing, and braced himself against it, half leaning upon it. I let my breeches slide down to my thighs and hastened to smooth the butter over my erect prick. I took it in hand and moved forward, feeling his tight backside. The bunk swayed, but I was undeterred. I forced myself inside and held still, shuddering. “Oh. Oh, God.”
Sharpe braced the swaying bunk against the wall by main force. “That’s it, lad. Deeper.” He groaned softly.
“I – oh, God –“ My prick thrust forward, and I steadied myself by grasping his lean hips. In the close darkness we grappled, and at last I had breached him entirely and conquered him, reveling in his deliberately stifled moans. The need for secrecy only served to arouse me further, and I drove inside him with great force; I plundered him, and when at last he yielded with a cry, I too cried out, abandoned, shivering with the force of my release.
What happened next I cannot entirely recall, only that it seemed as if hours passed with our bodies inextricably locked together. At last we un-coupled, and with exceeding sweetness Sharpe turned to me and put my clothes in order. “You’re rigged right fancy tonight.”
“Had I but known this would be the result, Captain, I should have rigged much earlier.”
He laughed and kissed me again, put his hand on my cheek and caressed it, then leant his forehead against mine. “You’ve a fire in your belly too.”
I put my arms around him. “If I had a poetic soul, I would dazzle you, but I do not. I…I cannot contain my affection for you.”
A sigh escaped his lips. “Ah, lad.” He kissed me again, and I shall leave it there, for I am exhausted and my candle is near its end. Let me only say that I no longer feel despair; indeed, I am buoyed upon a silvery wave of adoration.
*
I have neglected this diary for nearly a month, but that is not for lack of information; rather, I am experiencing sensual pleasures in such abundance that I can find neither the time nor the words to render my feelings properly. Captain Sharpe and I have been together on six occasions now, and each time I am propelled forward, upward, and can now scarcely conceal my – I do not even know if there is a word for what I –
Oh, dear God. Land. Land! We have arrived!
*
To be continued in Part Five: Sydney Cove
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 10:16 am (UTC)That man will be the ruin of me. No better way to be ruined, though.
I felt so sorry for your desperate Edmund and a bit annoyed with stoic Sharpe. Zenobia Brocklebank; have I told you how much I love that name? Wonderful. It is really something Sharpe telling Edmund about Teresa, I don't think he's used to confide in other people that easily.
“I – oh, God –“ My prick thrust forward, and I steadied myself by grasping his lean hips. Oh, God indeed! So very thrilling and - even tough it's kind of a lame thing to say - so very hot.
Now I am eager to know what will happen once they're on land. I would like them to keep experiencing sensual pleasures in such abundance; it was almost as good for me as it was for them. :D
I absolutely love this, Alex!
no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:26 pm (UTC)Aww, I was feeling bad for Sharpe because he couldn't adequately express his feelings. :) He does feel a lot for Edmund.
I wish I'd made up the name Zenobia Brocklebank, but it's straight from Golding's trilogy.
I'm so glad you're enjoying it, dear, thank you so very much! And I love my icon. *hug*
no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 11:39 am (UTC)I have neglected this diary for nearly a month, but that is not for lack of information; That made me smile, for that is exactly what happens.
Of course he is right that they have to be very careful. As he said, Captain Anderson would not look kindly upon the Greek vice. And yet it is commonly known, or at least whispered, that sailors avail themselves of each other when there are no women to be had. But yet even though tolerated but only if not displayed out in the open. As long as it was descreet one turned a blind eye, just as they did with solidiers or other solely male companies.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 12:26 pm (UTC)The language in this is excellent as far as feeling true to period and character and holds together very well.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:27 pm (UTC)I'm glad it feels true to the period and character! Thank you. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 12:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 12:33 pm (UTC)(And who can blame him OMG). The language is so nape-of-the-neck tickling I am postively gurgling with pleasure and exquisite delight.
I keep wanting to bring down pieces, passages but honestly they are all so utterly delicious, I am positively wallowing - the flowery heartbroken lovelorn Edmond, and the reticent Sharpe; both as passionate as the other.
Needless to say the exhibition in the cabin was - &(%)$£^$%)(^$£^"£&%^)$£"(* and a bit more! That’s it, lad. Deeper.” He groaned softly. I nearly passed out with LUST!!! Well Done Edmond. well DONE.
This is utter perfection in stories for me. I cannot honestly say I have enjoyed one more. The scene and smell of the ship, the smallness of his 'hutch'. Canvas bucket to wash in, Zenobia.. (oh lor = Abigail) And small confession Hakeswill would die again - slowly.
These are so real, and I have enjoyed 'To the Ends of the Earth tremendously!!!!' Please whatever you do, do NOT stop this for well, like for ever! Darling Edmond's Personal Journal, Mmmmy Sharpe.
Thanks so so much.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:42 pm (UTC)Oh, and I'm glad you enjoyed the series. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 05:41 pm (UTC)And I finally discovered what your language reminds me of: I have Robert Graves´ "Sergeant Lamb of the Ninth" , I got it from my deceased friend and the vocabulary and the style are quite similar...Don´t laugh, I mean it as a compliment!
no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-11 08:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-12 02:47 pm (UTC)