#dolly-bassett11

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Inevitably, which scene in ‘Lost Honour’ inspired the sprawling epic?

It took a curiously long time for Bush and Brown to unload the boat. Their steps came and went from the porch, Brown making the trip twice for every one of Bush's -- the soft sand must have been murderously difficult for Bush's wooden leg.

"That's the last of it, sir," Brown said, beyond the door.

"Tide will turn soon," Bush observed. "Best get her launched before it does." Two pairs of steps retreated from the porch.

Despair threatened to swallow Hornblower: It was unlike Bush to give up so easily, and it seemed a betrayal that he had. His departure was for the best -- only grief could come from associating himself with Hornblower now -- but it hurt to hear him go.

Perhaps it was to fan that pain that Hornblower opened the door to watch them walk down to the boat. Together, the two men crossed the beach and carried the skiff down into the waves. Once it was floating, Brown deftly swung himself inside and took up the oars, pulling the boat into the low surf as Bush pushed it farther out. But when it came time for Bush to scramble aboard, he did not. With long, powerful strokes of his oars, Brown pulled the boat away, leaving Bush standing alone in the low surf.

In that instant, Hornblower saw how the next month must go: Bush throwing his good name to the wind, overbearing in his solicitousness as he sacrificed everything worth having -- his commission, the regard of his friends, his honour -- on the false altar of his friendship with Hornblower. In a panic, Hornblower ran down to the beach to stop it, but it was already too late, Brown beyond the first line of surf. He steadily pulled away from the beach, labouring to put enough room under his lee to raise the skiff's sail.

"Come back!" Hornblower shouted after him as he waded into the water, past where Bush stood. "Come back, damn you, and take him away with you!"

It was unclear whether Brown understood. He raised one oar blade in a jaunty wave, and resumed rowing.

"It's all right, sir," Bush tried to soothe Hornblower, and Hornblower turned on him in fury.

"It is not all right! I didn't ask for you here!"

"The provisions will hold," Bush reassured him. He lurched a step sideways, his wooden leg unsteady in the shallow surf, and against his will, Hornblower reached out to support him. Bush returned his grip, hand to forearm. "We brought extra, Brown and I."

"There's no place for you to sleep! I'm not sharing my bed."

"I have a hammock," Bush said with a hint of reproach. He had, after all, spent years planning the sleeping arrangements of every man aboard Hornblower's vessels, overseeing the men's every need, and supervising the petty officers in their work. It was hardly possible to imagine a man more capable of planning a month's sojourn on a small island than William Bush. "You needn't worry, I've seen to everything."

"I don't want you here!" Hornblower protested. "I didn't send for you!"

"You didn't need to," Bush said.

[tgarnsl]

Pub! Palace! Hiking Trail!

The prompt for palace as follows below:

The message was delivered to the captain’s cabin at four bells in the middle watch as the ship rode at anchor in the Gulf of Kronstadt. A diplomatic situation had arisen at the Peterhof Palace and Captain William Bush’s presence was requested immediately on account of the Commodore Hornblower’s incapacity… Bush was dressed and on the quarterdeck before his steward even had a chance to offer assistance. He remembered little of the journey to the palace, only the snow which seemed to be falling more thick with every minute that passed. Wychwood, still dressed in his scarlet tunic and bearskin, met the carriage with a body of Imperial Guards who surrounded the carriage at once, their hands on their sabres.

“Where is he?” barked Bush, all but throwing himself from the carriage, his stump jarring painfully as his wooden leg made contact with the hard-packed snow. He winced involuntarily but set his mouth in a firm line as he eyed up Wychwood.

“They’ve put him in one of the bedchambers,” said Wychwood, almost apologetically. “But the Tsar awaits your presence immediately.”

Bush bit back the snarl that sprung to his lips: were Wychwood a hapless lieutenant he might well unleash it, but it would not do so to behave in such an uncouth manner towards a lord. Instead he stood up to his full height and tried to imagine what his admired commodore would say next, even as the anxiety gripped him tight. “I must see Commodore Hornblower, my lord,” he said, and when Wychwood raised a hand in protest Bush added: “I must see myself that he is incapable before I make any attempt to speak on his behalf, sir, or else receive orders from his lips.” The sir was almost an afterthought, so distracted was he at the thought of Hornblower lying wounded.

Wychwood nodded, and said something in rapid French to the Imperial Guards. One of them — their captain, Bush assumed, judging from his uniform — nodded and snapped an order to his men. “Follow me,” said Wychwood, gesturing for Bush to walk beside him. “I will explain along the way.”

The circumstances quickly became painfully clear: Hornblower had unwittingly brought an assassin to the palace who had attempted to take the life of the Tsar using the selfsame pistols that Hornblower had recently been given by his mistress. The Tsar would be dead were it not for Hornblower putting himself between the murderer and his target: the bullet meant to kill the Tsar had ended in Hornblower’s stomach where it lodged itself quite firmly. According to Wychwood a surgeon had advised operating to remove the blasted thing but could not do so without word from the Tsar, who, it seemed, was still undecided on the question of if Hornblower should be allowed to die as penance for his unintended act of treason. It seemed such an unfathomable cruelty that the word of one man should decide whether another should live or suffer and die that Bush, for the first and only time in his life, briefly wondered if the French hadn’t been entirely mad to kill their king.

“In here,” said Wychwood, drawing up before a tall door much like all the others in these seemingly endless hallways. A guard pushed it open and Bush stepped inside, his heart pounding in his chest, terrified beyond words over just what he might find on the other side.

The bedchamber was grander than any Bush had ever seen before, with ornate gilding crowning the green damasked walls, dominated by an enormous canopied bed but Bush paid little attention to it all; what mattered was the body lying on the bed, a horribly small figure against the vastness of the room. The other officers who had accompanied Hornblower sat clustered around the fire: at the sight of Nonsuch’s captain they rose to their feet but Bush did not glance their way as he hurried to the side of the bed. The room smelt of blood and sickness, so potent that even Bush's cast-iron stomach revolted against it. Hornblower did not move at the sight of Bush looming over him; only the rise and fall of his bare chest gave any indication he was alive. Hornblower’s clothes had been cut off — as best Bush could guess, remembering his own wounding — and he lay on the bed with a sheet drawn up over his waist, so pale and still that Bush could not help but think of a corpse. His stomach was bound with white bandages, now stained red and growing darker with every breath.

“Sir,” he whispered, his voice broken and pleading to his own ears. He cleared his throat and barked at young Somers to bring him a chair, which was promptly delivered by the young officer who quickly removed himself from his commander’s vicinity. Wychwood stood at the doorway, waiting on Bush to finish conducting his business, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the thought of the Tsar’s ire likely weighing on his head. The Tsar could hang, for all Bush cared; it was Hornblower who occupied his foremost thoughts. “Sir,” he whispered again, daring in his distress to take Hornblower’s hand in his. Hornblower’s long, slender fingers were chilled and clammy in Bush’s warm rough hands: he chafed them gently, hoping to somehow restore some warmth to Hornblower’s cold body. “Sir, speak to me.”

Hornblower turned his head on the pillow, dark lashes fluttering against pale cheeks. Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes, lighting at last on Bush sitting there beside his bed. “Bush,” he murmured between cracked lips, and Bush wept, uncaring of what Hornblower might think of him. He felt Hornblower’s hand withdraw from between his own, and for a moment he was certain that Hornblower would chastise him for such a common display of emotion, but then cool fingers touched his cheek, cradling his face, and Bush covered that hand with his own, pressing his cheek against it, desperate for the strength the simple touch lent him.

“Oh, sir,” he said, quiet enough that the other officers might not hear him. “Oh, sir.”

In the dim light of the fire Hornblower’s eyes glittered black, bright with pain. “The Tsar,” he said weakly, and Bush nodded. “I’m sorry, Bush,” said Hornblower, and Bush saw in those black depths an aching sorrow that could not be named. “I’m sorry.” His thumb stroked Bush’s cheek, wiping away his tears, and Bush closed his eyes, grateful for this smallest of gesture of affection.

“If I had known about Braun, sir…” began Bush, opening his eyes again, but Hornblower shook his head.

“No,” he said. “None of that. You couldn’t…” He grimaced and drew a shuddering breath: gripped by terrible agony, if Bush was any judge of it. “You couldn’t have known. Listen…” And so he laid out in exacting detail the exact things that Bush would say to the Tsar, pausing every so often to fight through another wave of pain.

At last Bush stood to go, but Hornblower caught his hand and held him fast. “Sir?” asked Bush, concerned by the way that Hornblower’s face contorted.

“Come here,” rasped Hornblower, and Bush obeyed, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

“What is it, sir?”

Hornblower inhaled sharply, his hand clasped tightly in Bush’s as he looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Bush’s heart went out to him then, and he would have given anything, sworn anything, so long as Hornblower might live. For a moment it seemed he might say something, but then his expression hardened into something more like that which he wore on the quarterdeck.

“Nothing,” he said, and Bush’s could have wept again at the realisation that Hornblower could not ask for what he so desperately desired.

“I’ll come back to you, sir,” he swore, pressing Hornblower’s hand tightly. “I promise.” Hornblower’s eyes were closed, but he nodded. Desperate to communicate his faithfulness Bush kissed Hornblower’s hand, then his feverish cheek. “I won’t leave you alone, sir,” he promised, and rose to his feet. Hornblower squeezed his hand one last time, then withdrew, leaving Bush to carry the weight of his friend’s life on his shoulders. Like all burdens, he would shoulder it well: he stood up straight and tall and stumped over to the door. He did not look back; there was no sense in wasting more time on worry, not when Hornblower’s life lay in the balance. Bush would see to it that Hornblower lived, that was his duty: he could think of no greater service than this.

“Ready, sir?” asked Wychwood.

“Yes, my lord,” said Bush. “Lead the way.”

[wobblycompetencies]

@dolly-bassett11 MISTAIRE BOOSH

did you guys know Paul McGann could yell like that. because boy howdy I did NOT know that.

[cactusspatz]

In honor of AO3 reaching 5 million fanworks! And since this bitch can't resist any excuse to rec things, I did a blackout. :D

A fanworks challenge: Small Fandom Bang, doing good work enabling long stories in small fandoms for the last eight years

A podfic under 30 minutes: the most Melbourne bakery AU ever to exist, possibly by lunchee (Captive Prince) Read from a cute Tumblr ficlet by @fahye, I adore the palpable delight in the podficcer's voice.

A comment you left on a fanwork: comment on The Hellfire Club by @amarguerite (Good Omens) A fan art based on another fanwork: Artic Light by deli for Under the Midnight Sun (SPN) Gorgeous series of faux-scientific watercolors for this Supernatural AU where Dean works at an Alaskan tundra research station.

A fanfic over 50,000 words long: The Bingo Book by flailinginlove (Naruto), in which Iruka is mistakenly thought to be in a relationship with Kakashi, putting him in a great deal of danger and, eventually, actually in love with Kakashi.

A meta work: The Morning After by ambyr (Pinboard/Fandom anthropormofic) As someone who still uses Pinboard heavily and will be salty about Delicious's poor choices until I die, this always cracks me up.

A fanwork with one of your fav tropes: New Mutiny by Lenore (Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries), in which Jack gets amnesia and then tries to get away with not telling anyone.

A creator with only one posted fanwork: Dolly_Bassett aka @dolly-bassett11 *waves*

A fanwork from a small fandom: Freeze Tag by Missy (The Breakfast Club), in which the Club passes notes during school.

A canon-divergent fanwork: The Winter Emperor by Island_of_Reil (The Goblin Emperor), in which the coup succeeds and Maia is sent to a monastery -- until Csevet rescues him.

A photo manip: Had to go looking for one of these. Thank you, AO3 tag filters! Voltage by tabbystardust (MCU, warning for blood and bondage)

A character study fanwork: Dawn by bigsunglasses (The Goblin Emperor), a great exploration of Vedero.

FREE! Your favorite fanwork: I don't understand why this is the free square, this one is SUPER HARD! After a great deal of dithering, I gave up choosing a true favorite as impossible and chose Aral Vorkosigan's Dog by @philomytha because I re-read it recently and it's still spectacular and might as well be canon.

A crossover fanwork: Mission: Dinosaur Adventures by pollyrepeat (The Losers/Jurassic Park) because who doesn't want to read about the Losers vs an island full of dinosaurs?

A fanwork with a colour in the title: Red vs. Blue by @laylainalaska (White Collar), in which Neal Caffery plays paintball according to his own preferences. *snickers*

A podfic over 1 hour: tipsy_kitty's excellent reading of Winter's Children by @this-is-neery​ (MCU), a fic featuring a traumatized Bucky protecting a bunch of equally tramatized-by-HYDRA children cloned from Steve.

A fanwork in progress: Washed Up On Your Shores by @primarybufferpanel (Game of Thrones, Jaime/Brienne fix-it)

A fanwork for when you're sad: Just A Face On A Train by katherynefromphilly Based on the Spider-Man 2 scene where Peter is unmasked in front of a train car of people, one of the survivors recognizes Peter at her job and decides to help him out. Guaranteed to restore your faith in humanity, at least temporarily.

A favorite additional tag: I'm always amused by Spirit Quest For Your Rubbish Ex

A fan art comic: Afternoon Stroll (Hawkeye comics), in which Clint gets in trouble while literally out for a walk and Kate saves his ass, as usual.

A fanwork for when you're happy: I puzzled over this one for a while because I like a lot of things when I'm happy, but I went with A Year in Toussaint by @astolat (The Witcher), because the setup of "lethally bored semi-retirees go adventuring and fall in love" always fills me with glee, and it's plotty like I usually want when I'm energized.

A fanvid: Space Girl by charmax (multifandom women in scifi) is eternally a delight.

A 100-word drabble: I'll Never Let Go of Your Hand by Corvidology (Person of Interest), a very succinct snapshot of Finch wreaking havoc to rescue John.

A fanmix: fanmix for In Our Line of Work (Inception) - mix by wandrinparakeet (who wins all the bonus points for their pseud), fic by enjambament. A lovely mix for a great story.

A "classic" fanwork: Phoenix Burning by Yahtzee (Buffy), in which Buffy is resurrected 350 years in the future after her fall.

[sassysnowperson]

Paper + rolltop desk?

paper: What was the most difficult story/chapter/scene/line for you to write this year?

You know, I think Knight Amidala wins for this one. It’s an Obi-Wan/Padme fic with a concept I loved - based off the headcanon that at the end of RoTS Padme dies because Palpatine yoinks her life-force into Anakin. So what if, instead, Obi-Wan pulls back...and we get a Padme with all of Anakin’s Force Powers.

But! That fic happens in a REALLY DIFFICULT time!! The Jedi Order has just been destroyed, Obi-Wan and Padme are both dealing with grief, Yoda is around and he’s a complicating character, and there are newborns! (For me personally, the newborns were the hardest of the issues, kidfic and I don’t get along, it was a CHALLENGE)

All in all, it was a hard universe to wrestle with, and find some hope in. But that makes me all the more proud of what it turned into - I think it’s a really solid fix-it.

rolltop desk: How did you indulge yourself in your writing this year?

I bought a laptop! I’ve been doing most of my work on a chromebook, which has actually been a loyal little machine. But I got a copy of Scrivener, and wanted the option to use it to organize some of my bigger projects, like Arrivals, Departures, Connections. I have not actually used it for that yet, because Scrivener is kinda complicated and I’ve fallen asleep three times trying to get through their tutorial, but I CAN now.

And I think Arrivals, Departures, Connections wins for some of the most indulgent writing, too. Indulgent in the sense of “mostly for me.” It’s a fic I put out into the universe having no idea who its audience was, but knowing that I really loved it. I feel like it’s found its people. (And I can’t talk about the fic without shouting out @dolly-bassett11 - she’s my beta and cheerleader and the reason the fic exists in the first place, chatting with her about it also counts as an indulgence).

[bomberqueen17]

I went to an airshow today, and I thought of @dolly-bassett11 because this is the same airshow where years ago I photographed the Lancaster bomber in my blog header image. But this time they had a B-17, so for the first time in my life, if you can believe that, I got to watch one fire up its engines and take off and fly around. It then flew away, unlike the B-25 Mitchell that had taken off just before it, finished its passes, and then came in to land. And it didn’t come back!

So we watched the rest of the air show, and then we were leaving along with everyone else, and i spotted a plane in the distance and I said, “That’s her!” and so we stood there awkwardly in the entryway to the parking lot field and I managed to awkwardly take a photo as she landed. 

(It was the Memphis Belle, which is of course the one from the movie, not the real one who served with that nose art.) 

It was much, much quieter than the Mitchell, which I absolutely had not expected. 

Of course their own C-47 was there, and she did her usual awesome trick of having 14 paratroopers jump out of her in two passes of 7 each, which never fails to thrill. This year because of the wind, she actually released them directly over the heads of the crowd, and then they drifted gently sideways toward their landing spot, safe on the runway. 

In the first group, two of them collided dramatically, but I could see that one of them had clearly anticipated it and steered himself into the other one so that he could control it and correct course. it was still very thrilling for the audience. (Dude was like... are their parachutes supposed to have holes in them? I said, well they all have exactly the same openings in the same spot so I reckon that’s so they can steer. Then he was like, why aren’t the parachutes blue on the bottom for camoflage, and I said that’s not how shadows work buddy, I don’t think you can reliably camoflage a falling parachute. They jumped at night, mostly. He was like, ohhh.) 

There was a matched set of four yellow single-propeller planes, sort of similar to the Grumman Avenger in size and shape, but not, and they had the RAF bullseye on them, except that only one of them was the regular RAF bullseye and the other three had little maple leaf motifs in the center, which I honestly had never seen before but figure must be the RCAF? And I could not for the life of me figure out what they were. So I need someone British to help me. I cannot find a list anywhere that includes them. 

ETA: HARVARDS! They were Harvards. They flew in beautiful close formation and it was very impressive. Thanks, Canada!

[tgarnsl]

Gale, blood, away

The closest I have to gale is wind, so:

--

Despite the rush of cold wind, the distant rumble of the propellors far below, the lights that lit up the promenade, the whole world seemed to flicker and dim. He caught Will around the waist, pulling him close, and felt Will’s hands clutch at the lapel of his jacket, seemingly unwilling to let him go.

--

Horatio’s cheeks burned at the insinuation, but he smiled nonetheless, and Will chuckled, pressing his face into Horatio’s shoulder.

“Can you imagine it if Mr J. P. Meadows found out that his precious French suite had been despoiled by a passenger and an officer?” asked Will. “The man would burst a blood vessel.”

--

But understanding did little to temper the sick horror that rose in Horatio’s mind at the thought of Will, unable to swim, with no recourse left to him but the mercy of the sea. He would die, as sure as anything: a miserable, horrible death, the cold stealing away his strength as he struggled to breathe until at last the cold overwhelmed him at last and he drowned. Will would die, frightened and alone, and there was nothing, nothing at all in all the world, that Horatio could do about it.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

If you're still playing the snippet game; liminal, bandage, fog

(I have zero instances of ‘liminal’ anywhere in my drafts folder. Normally that means I’d write you a snippet from scratch, but ‘liminal’ is a late-20th-century word, and not being a modern-AU writer, I’m at a loss as to what to do with it, forgive me.)

~

[blood cw]

When there was a pint of blood in the bowl, maybe more, Bush's arm went soft in Horatio's grip. His skin was no longer so flushed with fever: the bleeding had done its work. Horatio had several minutes of panic when the blood refused to be staunched, welling up anew whenever Horatio released his grip on the wound, but at last by bending Bush's elbow back on itself, he was able to get the flow of blood to slow, until it only seeped through Horatio's inexpert bandage. Bush lay pale and limp in the bed as Horatio sat with the bowl of blood at his feet and his fingers caked in the sticky stuff. He felt vaguely sick. As a lonely and homesick midshipman, he had trained himself not to think much on his father -- a mental habit that had solidified with his father's death while Horatio was in prison -- but now Horatio desperately wished for him again so that he might ply his skill for Bush's sake. But even as he wished for his father's guidance, he was shamefully grateful that Jonathan Hornblower had not lived to see the botch his son had made of his father's profession.

~

(No instances of fog, but substituting another weather word, as you said I might...)

[suicidal ideation cw]

Horatio had said there were now two of them on this island; Bush had not objected. It was disquieting to think of Bush staying indefinitely on the island, crowned with a palm-frond hat and puttering at pointless makework, perhaps even wearing a bushy island beard. Bush should be wearing gold braid and captaining one of His Majesty's ships, or, if prevented from that by disability and favouritism, then in England, accorded the respect of his rank and enfolded in the loving bosom of his family. That Bush might instead choose to rot here with Horatio, trapped on an island that might kill him with fever, thirst, or hurricane... It was intolerable. Horatio himself had come to this island with the intent to die; cowardice might prompt him to cling to life in the moment, but he had nonetheless failed to make any vigorous plans for his own survival. That was proper; he no longer had a reason to live. But it was unconscionable that the island might kill Bush, too, and for no greater crime than his sentimental loyalty to a man who no longer existed.

Bush must be sent back to England. In the face of his sickbed vow to Horatio, it would be difficult to enjoin him to go; Horatio had no illusions about Bush's loyalty and stubbornness. Nevertheless, when Brown next delivered supplies -- in less than a week, judging from the moon's position in the sky -- Bush must be persuaded to leave with him.

[tgarnsl]

Constentacles 2 *more happy waving tentacles* and/or Moderno!

Consentacles 2: Electric Tentacles: (my attempt at writing in @sanguinarysanguinity‘s Krakenverse)

Nonsuch’s tentacle loosed its grip on Bush’s hand only to wind itself more tightly around his arm. He smiled, a trifle sheepish, and stroked her with his free hand: she darkened with pleasure, the thin tip of her tentacle slipping beneath the collar of his nightshirt. Hornblower felt a sudden grip on his calf, and looked down to see that Nonsuch had caught him in a bight and was now tightening it as she climbed up him, tugging at his breeches and jacket. Another tentacle caught his hand, and he allowed her to toy with his fingers until she was satisfied and looped securely around his wrist, the suckers biting in as she tasted him.

Bush laughed shyly, still petting Nonsuch’s coil. “I suppose you can tell what she wants, sir,” he said, by way of apology.

“She wants to see me,” Hornblower guessed; he could sense Nonsuch’s want, but could not yet sense the shape of it. She was not a frank creature like Hotspur; anything she might desire would have to be carefully coaxed from her. Bush, at least, seemed to understand her subtleties: he would not like giving orders, but it seemed he was the necessary conduit between kraken and commodore.

“You will take command here,” said Hornblower. There was a strange satisfaction in the notion of giving up control, but Hornblower put the thought aside.

Bush’s discomfort was obvious. “Sir—”

“You will do it. She is your ship and you are her captain. I am merely a secondary.” Bush was unhappy, but Hornblower was unmoved. “You will do it, Bush. For her sake, if not mine.”  

Moderno: (contains a multitude of stories set within the 20th/21st century)

After, Hornblower could never say just what had led to that little room on Rue de Villeroy. Perhaps it had been the lucky shot that had grazed his shoulder instead of finding its way to his heart, perhaps it was the curious longing he felt for Maria and the child-to-be she wrote of so often, perhaps it was that cold clear night in the trenches when Bush had lifted his craggy face to the stars and sang in such a sweet baritone Galbraith had cried just to hear it. Hornblower had not wept — music was, for him, a special torture and not something to be wept over — but that memory stayed with him for weeks until they were behind the lines once more.

He’d never been to a whorehouse before. He was the sort of man women fell easily in love with, and before his hasty marriage had enjoyed a small number of discreet but passionate affairs. He considered himself lucky that he had never needed to pay a woman to touch him. Bush, on the other hand, was clearly well-practiced in the art of paying for pleasure. He was, after all, one of the so-called ‘temporary gentlemen’; Bush might be a subaltern now, but before the War he had been a clerk, working in a shipyard, sending his wages home to his mother and sisters. Bush could not afford a sweetheart, least of all a wife. Any love he might have indulged in was paid for up-front and measured in hours.

Hornblower had not seen Maria since the day after their shabby, wretched little ceremony in the registry office. Her dress had been cheap white cotton, tight around the middle where she was already showing. Hornblower and Bush had worn their dress uniforms. It had not been the wedding he’d ever imagined, and when Maria kissed him at the train station, trying very hard not to cry in front of her brave husband, he had almost found himself longing for the trenches again, for the thunder of the guns and the rain of shrapnel, if it meant he did not have to watch his wife weep.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Wood, fingers, darkness (for WIP MEME)

There was naught but the crackling of the fire turning wood to ash, and the dull roar of the waves inexorably grinding rock into sand.

~

"Your jaw looks like a fish belly," William said. He reached forward and touched Horatio's jaw, exploring the newly shaven skin with his fingertips, then the backs of his fingers. Horatio's skin, so long hidden from touch of sun or wind, lit up under William's hand like Bengal fire.

~

Horatio had barely slept the night before; as darkness fell, his fatigue grew until he nodded over Bush's hand.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

🌹 🌹 🌹(sea monsters! Cuddling! Pain (emosh or phys), anything Hornblower!)

The tip of her arm wrapped around his ribs, and he had a curious double sensation: the biting sting of her caress, as he felt her touch, and the fragrant savour of his skin, as she did.

~

Bush lay pressed against Horatio's back, his arm around Horatio's middle, and Horatio, too lazy with sleep to fight his way out of the bliss of being held, wallowed in Bush's warmth.

~

The violence of his tears was terrifying; he feared that he would be sundered in two by the agony of his grief -- but he was denied even that much relief. 

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Krakenverse!! :D :D :D *happy tentacle waving*

[The first story of the series was originally planned to be much longer...]

As they outfitted for sea, Bush found Hotspur less flighty a worker than expected, although toward the end of the second hour of work she began toying with the stores rather than loading them, stealing a cask of salt-beef and playing keep-away with it from the hands. Bush let her keep the cask, ordering hoists and tackle to be rigged again that the men might continue without her assistance. Hornblower's standing orders were that Hotspur should work only two hours in four: Hotspur was still young and liable to injury, and ships, despite their phenomenal strength, had less stamina than men. But the work of outfitting for sea must continue even if Hotspur herself did not.

"Not quite two hours," Hornblower commented. Hotspur had worked longer in previous sessions before becoming distracted; Bush was unsure if there was an implied criticism in the observation. 

"No, sir, not quite. But I thought it best not to encourage the game." Hotspur was rolling the stolen cask back and forth to herself in the waist, trying to lure someone into playing with her. Cogshill would have required Bush to take a firmer line with the ship, had it been the Renown getting up to such antics, but Renown was an extraordinary case: she had been nearly unmanageable after Sawyer's death. There was no ill-will in Hotspur, just the flightiness of youth.

"Very good, Mr Bush." Hornblower's expression gave away nothing.

A shadow loomed briefly overhead -- Bush hurriedly took a step back -- and Hotspur set the beef-cask neatly on-end in front of Hornblower. She hovered expectantly nearby, blush-pink, to see how her gift would be received. Bush watched with interest as Hornblower tried, and failed, to suppress his smile.

"Thank you," he said gravely, and reached out an arm; it was lovingly twined in response. The tentacle lingered for a moment longer before withdrawing to investigate the men in her rigging. 

Hornblower stood gazing besottedly after it as it soared to the sky, before remembering himself with a quick sideways glance at Bush. He coughed, and composed himself into a sterner attitude. "That would have been more useful in the hold than on the quarterdeck."

Bush was not fooled in the least, but was saved from reply when the deck tossed under their feet, the motion ending in a jerk: Hotspur was playing with her anchors again. Bush rode out the motion easily enough, but Hornblower was knocked off-balance into Bush, and Bush reached out to steady him. The deck leapt again. The third time, Hornblower shut his eyes, his jaw tightening. 

Bush grimaced in sympathy: they had already had two days of this, off and on. Even the stately Renown had made her junior lieutenant ill on occasion, and that was before Hornblower had been stranded on shore for nearly a year. Hotspur was many lovely, commendable things, but even Bush would not say that stately was one of them.

Again Hotspur lept and jerked; Hornblower swallowed hard.

"Shall I--?" Bush began, already formulating plans to distract the ship from the new game, but Hornblower held up a staying hand. He at least seemed to have his feet under him now, even if he clearly was not enjoying the way Hotspur danced.

"She's fine as she is," Hornblower said. "She worked hard, she deserves to play."

"Aye aye, sir," Bush said. Then, with sympathy, "She'll be steadier once we're under sail." He knew it was cold comfort: this was one of Hotspur's favorite games, and they were still two days from sailing.

He received a black glare for his efforts. "See that that's cleared away properly, Mr Bush," Hornblower snapped, with a gesture at the errant beef cask. "I'll be in my cabin." Moving gingerly, he left the quarterdeck.

Hotspur, oblivious to the distress of her captain, continued to jig.

Bush sighed and looked up to where the four arms of Hotspur's waist swayed dark against the sky. "Go gently with the captain, beautiful." There was no reply.

[wobblycompetencies]

@dolly-bassett11 it’s ya boi

[wobblycompetencies]

portrait of a man screaming inside

@dolly-bassett11 convinced me to watch Hornblower during quarantine and I can honestly say that this miserable bastard was the highlight of my lockdown

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and interests you and I’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it.

Ordered by when I last worked on them, most recent first (or in the case of folders, when I created them, most recent first). Redacted file names are secrets that I’m keeping to myself right now.

tagged by @violsva

Lost Honour (folder, 10 files) Krakenverse (folder, 6 files) Whitehead - more Papas (folder, 4 files) Langstroth on Bees (folder, 18 files) Elementary x 22nd Century (folder, 9 files) Any Service - First Meeting Any Service - DIA Any Service - Mail Call tgarnsl prompts 5 Tymes Lynes Didn’t Say the Words [origfic selkie] REDACTED 1 [Hornblower] kissing sequel maybe Briar sequel? anon Hornblower H/C Gracay — Hands gone soft sanspatronymic H/C H/W MDBD w/ PF Southern Soldier Boy Marcus & Lin 221b Birthday prompts Maria/Bush/Hornblower REDACTED 2 REDACTED 3 REDACTED 4 Joan / Rosa fake married HS AU cont H/W OD/D Render and then Seize her Rant Five Tragic Deaths of a Hat (and One Time it Survived) Untitled Kat/Rebecca TIMES THREE stoke moran Handsome and Generous sequel Nerve and Knowledge Hearts Mean Love Untitled Kat/Rebecca thing TIMES TWO notablyindigo prompt Anne and Annie TP x Buffy Bunny romantic partner worthy of Alfredo REDACTED 5

tagging: @tgarnsl, @beanarie, @dolly-bassett11, and anyone else who would enjoy playing.

[tgarnsl]

@dolly-bassett11​ on Discord requested: blade, fog, scar.

(Send me some words and I’ll see if I can dig something out of my various WIPs! Slightly cheating on the last one as I did post a version of it last year.)

--

Horatius stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Above their heads, the crowd howled, a storm of furore and bloodlust, but Boscus did not pay attention to them. He took a step towards Horatius, his gladius heavy in his hand. Horatius scrabbled backwards in the sand, one hand pressed against the wound on his side. They both knew what would come next, and like animals awaiting the priest’s knife could do nothing but wait for that final, terrible moment.

Another man’s blood would have wetted Boscus’ blade already, but this was not another man. This was Horatius, not some hapless fool: Horatius, with his wicked temper and sharp tongue; Horatius, with his gentle hands and soft mouth; Horatius, his friend and beloved. For Boscus to kill Horatius would be to carve out his own heart from his chest; he could not do it, he would not do it, not even for the Emperor himself. Horatius’ hand was held up in supplication towards Boscus, his fingers slowly stretching out into the gesture of surrender.

Boscus knelt, the blade of his gladius in his hands. The howl of the crowd was as loud as thunder, and out of the corner of his eye Boscus saw the members of the imperial box rise, gesturing wildly at the outrage playing out before them. All but the Emperor — with a raised hand he silenced his companions.

--

“What are you carving?” Horatius asked, picking up the boat. “Is this from your home?” 

“It is,” said Boscus.

“Very elegant. Do you use them for transportation?” He turned the carving over in his hands. 

“Trade, transportation, even war. When my people joined the Batavi against Rome we took to the river in boats like these.” It had been ten years, and yet the memory of leaving his village was as clear now as it had been then: the early morning fog rising off the river, his mother trying to hold back her tears as she kissed him farewell, his sisters clinging at him, begging him not to go. He had left them all the same; it had been his duty as the man of his family to go. 

--

“Fifty-three stitches, the doctor said,” said Horatius, touching Boscus’ shoulder. “Your scars will fade in time.” His smile widened. “Never fear, you’re still as ugly as you’ve ever been, frutex.” 

Boscus’ head was swimming too much for him to mind being teased for being a blockhead. He sank back into the pillows, and closed his eyes, happier than he had been in a very long time.