Fic:"Laudanum Dreams" (1/1) (NC-17) Diana/Stephen, Jack/Stephen
Title: Laudanum Dreams (1/1)
Author: KatrinaVT
Date of completion: 3rd February 2006
Genre: Angst, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Slash, UST
Time: During "Desolation Island"
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4078
Pairing(s): Diana/Stephen, implied Jack/Stephen.
Characters: Stephen Maturin, Jack Aubrey.
Warnings/Spoilers: When the central character is Stephen Maturin, I suppose a "drug use" warning is rather obvious... Otherwise, graphic sex.
Disclaimer: The characters all belong to Patrick O'Brian, and I am making no profit from this at all.
Summary: While trying to break his laudanum habit, Stephen is haunted by disturbing dreams of Diana, unaware of the worry he is causing Jack.
Beta: jacquesmoineau
Crossposted to: hms_surprise, ageofsail_kink
Under the velvet blanket of a clear night sky, HMS Leopard coursed south, gently rocking on the waves of the Atlantic. Convict and seaman alike dozed dreamlessly, lulled by the sway and creak of the ship as they lay nestled in their blankets, waiting for tomorrow.
Not all of the Leopard's passengers were sleeping peacefully, to be sure. Some were wide awake on watch, of course, and some were enjoying childish revelry that, on land, they had been deprived of by parents who believed that all young boys should be flat out asleep by sundown; while in a small room in the belly of the ship, a small man tossed and turned in a narrow cot, sweating in the sheet that had ensnared his slight limbs.
Stephen Maturin rarely slept well, but some nights were worse than others. Some nights he found his ears far too sensitive to all the noise aboard (and not just the carousing of the boys in the room next to him), some nights he was kept awake by an incessant flood of thought whirring around his brain, and other nights he just could not manage to close his eyes. Then there were nights like this, where he slept - if one can call it sleeping - but did not rest, caught up in an unconscious torment of delusional images.
His only refuge came in the form of a bottle of evil tincture. He would not believe it caused the nightmares, for such vicious visions were absent in its presence, but still, it was ever the main character in the plays of his mind, the beautiful deceiver with open arms, promising one night of rest in exchange for an eternity of damnation. Oh, so many times he had accepted that offer, cursing himself to Hell, praying to Heaven for help.
He could not remember when he had stopped considering his actions, when it had become almost second nature to reach for that bottle. It had become so easy to pull the stopper, count the drops, staring into the glass that he held with a clammy, shaking hand, listening to his own breath rasping out in ragged apprehension, wanting to resist, but being far too weak to decline the invitation of being pulled into the warm soft bosom of the drowsy void that could smother his heartache. He always told himself, and others, that he was in control, but he knew in his heart that was very far from the truth.
He had never imagined that he could crave something more than he craved the love of Diana. He had thought that she alone owned his heart and soul, but now his very being was drowning in the depths of the laudanum bottle. Had he wished it on himself? Had he not silently begged for something - anything - to take away the dreadful feelings he felt for that woman? He had never thought that his saviour would turn into such a dark Master. But no, rather a dark Mistress; it had to be a lady, no man could ever be so cruel.
The laudanum had become a wicked companion, so unlike Diana. Diana was like marble - beautiful, cool, unyielding. The laudanum was soft, warm, comforting, familiar, like the embrace of a faithful lover, but it was also demanding. It was possessive. It would never let him go. He was bound to it, and he could see no way of escape. Every time he tried to, it lured him back, showing him that he could not live without it anymore, that it was his only hope, his only comfort.
He had not taken the laudanum to bed this night, he had not for several nights now, and he missed it more than ever. He missed Diana. He dreamed of her, Diana and the laudanum - his loves, his madness, his descent into despair.
He had dreamed this dream so many times now, and he never wanted to wake from it. He loved it, and he hated it. It terrified and aroused him in equal measures. He wanted it to stop before it started, he wanted to wake and find his sanity, but he knew all he would find would be the cold, dark of the night, and he would be alone and shivering in his cot. So it lured him in, as always.
Diana was beyond perfection in his dreams, her hair like silk, her skin like satin, and it repelled him a little. She was not real. She was a goddess. He wanted it to be real, he wanted the flaws that to him made her so spectacularly beautiful, but this was the closest he could ever get. It would only ever be a dream, his mind told him, and his heart quaked a little more.
He lay naked on a large bed in a room lit by red candles, the haze of smoke was heavy in the warm air, and he found it difficult to breathe. Diana was with him, and he was sobbing silent, dry tears of need as she knelt across him, her dress falling slowly open, the translucent fabric absorbing the golden light. She smiled down at him, whispering his name, and he felt like a fly caught up in a spiders' web. He was trapped. Helpless. He was hers, he was telling her; he was hers and only hers and no other's, not ever. He wanted nothing but her.
He shuddered as her hands glided softly down his sides, and her slight weight settled atop him, her small, firm breasts pressing against his chest. He gasped as kisses slipped into his mouth from her soft red lips, dripping with the bitter taste of opium, a teasing taste which she would only allow him to take sips of.
He was never allowed to touch her, not before she said so. His hands trembled, clasped in the sweat-soaked sheets as her tongue stroked between his lips again and again, never entering his mouth. He was permitted to accept the kisses, not to return them. Her lips burned him.
She took him tightly in her arms, pulling him back over her body, caressing his feverish skin with cool fingers. He could not speak. She had stolen his breath and tied his tongue in his throat. Ah, but words would not have done her justice, her beauty was beyond anything that could be spoken. He stared at her, his eyes roving her slender limbs, her narrow waist, her peaked nipples, as his hands and lips wished to. She nodded, he was allowed to.
He held himself back ... slowly, don't rush, don't spoil it ... and leaned in to kiss her, lapping up the laudanum that flowed from her lips into his mouth. It did not cool his desires at all. He knew there was more, and he knew what he had to do to get it.
Doubt played with him. He was not worthy of this. His mouth was not fit for kissing such a beautiful neck, licking the sweat that tasted like wine. He trembled as he shifted in her arms, afraid that she might let him go. His teeth gently scraped her delicate collarbone, hoping in vain to move her, as he lowered his head to meet her breast.
Sometimes she held him back. Sometimes she made him beg. This time she did not.
He wept as she guided his hands to cup the soft mounds of flesh that fitted in his palms so neatly. His fingertips brushed her nipples, pinched them gently, but still she remained indifferent. He could not please her. The pleasure was his alone, at her mercy.
His eyes were blind with tears as his lips found her nipple, closed around it, suckled softly. The teats that had never fed a child flowed for him, but not with milk. Surely it was nectar to him, his drug, and the more he wanted her the more he needed it and the more it flowed. It was meant to save him from his lustful desire, and it offered itself to him in such an evil way, to flow from the very body of the woman he coveted.
He heard a high-pitched moan, a wretched sound from a withered soul, a cry of pain and frustration and desire so horrid to his ears that he did not even recognise the sound as coming from his own lips. Pressing his mouth to her other breast, squeezing it as firmly as he dared to, sobbing, he swallowed, choking. He needed it! He needed more!
"Diana..."
He whimpered her name, and laid his ear against her heartbeat, hoping to hear it quicken for his touches, but it remained as steady as ever. He pressed himself against her side, his loins aching for the contact of her body. Such foul, wicked thoughts! He could not stop it. His hands took a life of their own and ravished her body, winding in her hair, groping her breasts crudely, parting her thighs, his fingers slipping into the warm velvety folds between her legs.
His mouth continued the assault, biting, bruising, and he wept, pleading with her to make him stop. She lay still, she smiled at him, a cruel smile that told him she knew he wanted it, a smirk that mocked his uncontrollable desire.
He was humping against her like a dog, the sap of his lust smearing against her hip. He burned with shame, begging her to help him. Oh, if she would touch him! She had to stop him! He had to have her, the feeling was killing him, tearing at his heart, crushing his lungs, he was going insane.
More... more laudanum... more contact... he wanted to take her, to make love to her, to make her his... more laudanum... it had to stop... more...
He brought his fingers up to his lips, licked the promise from them, shuddered and moaned, and scrambled down the bed, shakily parting her thighs with a forceful hand before burying his face between them.
She did not stir for him. She did not cry out, she didn't push him away. Nor did she grant him what he wanted. For all his lapping and suckling, his lips remained dry. His desire throbbed, trapped between his body and the sheet he lay upon. He sobbed. He begged.
She laughed horribly at him. She slapped him. She called him a pathetic little man, and asked him why he thought he could please her enough to get what he wanted from her. Then she gave it to him, mercilessly.
He opened his mouth to the laudanum that ran obscenely from her, trying not to lose a drop as he licked, struggling to fulfil her, not just to satisfy his own selfish needs.
More and more she issued for him, laughing at him all the while, mocking him, insulting him. He felt his passion rising, the pressure rising between his legs, his erection throbbing and twitching against the soft sheet beneath him, so close to release. He felt disgusting. And still the laudanum gushed from her most intimate place, failing to cool his lust.
He coughed and shuddered, gagging as the liquid flooded his gullet and hit his stomach violently, churning it. He choked, bitterness rising back into his throat, but he couldn't pull away. He couldn't breathe. He was choking to death on his own sin, and he didn't want to leave the world and never see that beautiful face again. Heaven would not be so without Diana's presence. Though surely he was damned to Hell for all his wickedness.
He was leaving the world. His body was growing light, his senses weak. Still the laudanum flooded into him, spilling from his lips onto the sheets. His sight was fading to white.
"Stephen!"
He coughed, feeling two strong hands reach beneath him and lift him to sit up. The world span behind his sightless eyes, he could feel himself slipping away, the surface beneath him leaving him, a light making itself apparent before him, drawing him to it.
"Stephen, for the love of God!" One of the hands that held his limp body smacked him smartly across the cheek, before grasping his shoulder and shaking him fiercely. "Wake up!"
Cool air rushed into Stephen's lungs and he forced his eyes open, gasping as he made out his surroundings. Where was the soft sheet? the golden light? Diana? His mouth was dry. He was in his cot, in his cabin, a light was burning beside him, and shuddering frustration buckled him.
"Stephen, it's all right, hush now." He recognised the worried voice speaking to him as that of Jack Aubrey, who was sitting beside him, holding him tightly, rubbing his back in a soothing circular motion. "Breathe slowly, damn you. Speak to me."
He had never thought he could be so utterly disappointed to find himself in Jack's arms.
He tried to speak, but when he opened his mouth, the only noise that came from it was gasps and ragged sobs. He had never dreamed anything so terrible, though he had suffered the dream with Diana many times. He had woken frustrated and disappointed before, but he had never seen his death. His head grew light with fear. Would it really kill him one day? Had he sunk so deeply into madness?
"You were having a bad dream," Jack said softly to him, though Stephen was hardly aware of his presence. "You're awake now, and I'm here..."
He huddled back into his blankets, trying to calm himself while Jack pressed a glass of water to his lips. Gratefully swallowing it, he began to come back to full awareness, and realised with no small amount of mortification that he was making rather a spectacle of himself. The nightmare was over, he had no reason to be so rattled now, it could only haunt him as long as he allowed it to.
He would not allow it to. He had a perfectly sensible, rational mind.
Hadn't he? He was beginning to wonder. Of course, nobody could control or predict their subconscious mind, but such dreams were madness! His thoughts were madness. He had to take charge of himself! His senses and his lust were spiralling out of control. Even the fright with which he had awoken had not diminished the burning arousal the dream had inflicted in his loins.
"I'm all right, Jack," he said hoarsely, clasping his trembling hands beneath the blanket, determined to get rid of his friend before Jack was to see any more of his humiliation. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't wake me," Jack said, sitting beside him again. "Mr Forshaw came to find me, having heard you cry out in your sleep." He laid his hand lightly on Stephen's arm. "What were you dreaming of?"
"Oh, I don't really recall," Stephen whispered, trying to contain a shudder at the memory of it. So the boys had heard? Oh Jesus..."I feel I've made quite the fool of myself."
He was a fool. He was a fool for Diana. He was a fool for the haunting sight of Mrs Wogan. He was a fool for his bottled comfort. Of course, Mrs Wogan... Oh, but he had almost forgotten about her in that moment. Come morning, he would be in her lovely presence again, and no peace would come to him then. He'd had dreams of her too, though never anything as intimate as his dreams of Diana. When had he become such a lustful, cock-led simpleton over these women? He had never been so seduced, not even as a youth, when such urges are meant to be commonplace.
Was is payment for the times he had not controlled himself? Was it payment for the hurt he had inflicted upon the one who still sat so loyally beside him now? He had led Jack astray into territories unknown to the dear, innocent man, then he had left him there. He was only thankful that no real damage had ever come of it.
"Such a bloody fool..."
"It happens to us all sometimes," Jack shrugged with a small smile, then his face grew grave with concern. "My God, you're shaking like a leaf!"
Stephen averted his eyes from Jack's face, unable to bear the sight of such distress at his doing. "I'll be all right in a moment." His eyes sought out the bottle on the shelf and he closed them tightly. "Go to bed, my dear, leave me now."
Jack didn't move. "What is wrong with you?" he said softly, like a child searching for reassurance. "You've been like this for days. You've hardly been eating, and I've heard you being sick..."
"Everyone gets seasick sometimes," he answered quickly, refusing to meet Jack's gaze. "You of all people should know that."
Oh, it was cruel to take advantage of such naivety, but he couldn't let Jack know of his predicament. Despite the fact that he would die of shame at being seen so weak, Jack would never understand. Jack would blame it on Diana, and it was not her fault that he was like this. It was his own doing, down to his own stupidity, his own inability to control his desires, his own inability to judge his willpower, his own arrogance. It would pass, the laudanum would be his friend again, a small amount to aid his sleep and dampen his ardour, and he would not get himself in such a desperate mess again. Only weak men got themselves addicted. He would not be weak. He could get through this. Jack didn't need to know anything.
"It's more than seasickness," Jack murmured. "If it was something as simple as that you wouldn't be trying to keep it from me."
"I'm not---" he began to protest.
"There's something wrong with you, Stephen." Jack's blue eyes flashed up at his face. "I know you think me to be stupid, but you can't hide it from me. I do wish you would tell me what it is."
"Who are you to say there is something wrong with me when I say there is not?" Stephen demanded. "You sail your ships, Captain. Leave the diagnosis to those who know what they are talking about." He regretted his harsh tone immediately, as a flush came into Jack's cheeks. Jack probably did have a point, if he looked as terrible as he felt. Nausea was twisting about in his gut and his skin was prickling all over with a hot sweat even as he denied it. "Forgive me," he sighed. "I am overtired, I did not mean to snap."
Jack forced a smile and nodded, looking like he wanted to say more, but he let the matter drop. "Come to my cabin?" he said in a voice that sounded far too meek for the Captain of a ship. "Sleep in my cot tonight." The voice sank to almost a whisper. "With me, I mean."
Stephen felt a twist in his gut and he shook his head quickly. It had been quite some time since he had shared a bed of any sort with Jack. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He had been a different person then. "That's really not necessary," he replied in a voice that was a lot more steady than he felt.
The time he had spent with Jack seemed like a dream now. It had been a dream. He had never thought to love a man with the passion he had felt for Jack. Then Diana Villiers had entered their lives and he had thrown Jack off like a used toy. He knew now how much hurt he had caused, but at the time all he had cared about was Diana, and he had taken consolation in the fact that dear Sophia had been there to pick up the pieces of what he had tossed aside. He still only cared about Diana, though his heart was shattered by her.
Jack could never break someone's heart, even if he tried.
It was no good to think on it now. Jack was a husband, a father. Sophie was Stephen's dearest friend, he could never think to betray her in such a way. He couldn't let it start again, no matter how many times a friendly hug lasted a moment too long, however often an innocent glance looked too deep, however many times fingers lingered against fingers while passing salt at the dinner table. Just as his own fingers were lingering near Jack's hand now.
Jack spoke his name quietly and caught them, gently lifting them to his lips, and Stephen gasped as Jack's warm breath caressed his cold fingers and the softest of kisses fell upon his knuckles. He dared to look up and he met Jack's eyes for a moment, before Jack flushed and lowered his gaze so that Stephen could only vaguely see a shadow of hope through the golden lashes.
He swallowed and retracted his hand so quickly that Jack flinched a little. "Go to bed, my dear," he said, feeling the uncommon and unwelcome sting of tears as Jack lifted his sight to him again. "I'll be all right now."
Jack looked keenly at him, a furrow between his eyebrows, his left hand wavering above Stephen's arm, then he squeezed Stephen's hand before quickly stumbling to his feet and leaving the room.
Some moments passed before Stephen heard his footsteps retreating.
He took a breath.
It ailed him to wound Jack in such a way. Jack was always so loyal, so concerned, and he did not deserve it. The feelings of years ago were not buried so deeply for Jack, he felt, and he would not allow Jack to lose his heart for him. He was not worth the price. He still loved him too much for that. Jack was too innocent a beast to even notice what was happening. It was better he was hurt for a moment with a harsh word, than forever with a broken heart.
Diana was returning to his imagination in an obscene way that seemed such a dishonour to her. She would have killed him if she had known his thoughts, and she would have been right to.
The warmth and scent of Jack was still near him but it seemed it meant nothing. No comfort came from it. He wished he could remember sleepy mornings spent dozing in Jack's arms in their house in Hampshire with happiness instead of gnawing guilt. What had he done? It had been so foolish, so careless. Jack was not his first man, by far, but he had been the first, the last, and the only man for Jack. How could he have awoken that in Jack? He hated himself for it.
How could the memories of a few fleeting kisses from Diana's lips burn so much hotter than Jack's firm embrace? He remembered her perfume, the soft brush of her hair against his cheek, the coolness of her delicate fingers as she had clasped his hands on occasion.
Did Jack feel this for him? No. No, stupid. He would never warrant such an obsession, and he thanked the Lord that he could never inflict the pain he felt.
He shivered and ran his tongue between his lips, as if the opium from his dream still lingered there and he might take the last bitter taste of it. All he tasted was the salty tang of his own sweat and tears.
No rest would come to him this night. His body ached with unspent desire and his mind reeled with torment. He told himself he didn't have to. It was his choice.
He stumbled from his cot, swaying a little, and crossed the small space to snatch the laudanum bottle off the shelf, knocking down several books as he did. He fumbled to pull out the stopper, glancing around frantically for the glass that had been there earlier.
He looked to the door, the sight of Jack leaving still in his mind. He felt cold. So utterly cold and alone. And it was his own fault.
Sobbing hoarsely, he wiped his tears with one hand and lifted the bottle to his lips, gulping down his tranquillity before returning to his small cot, shivering.
How dearly he would have loved for the warm, strong embrace of Jack's arms to have been enough.
Illustration by jacquesmoineau here: http://www.deviantart.com/view/29831052/ (or if you're not a member of deviantART: http://pics.livejournal.com/jacquesmoineau/pic/0004653g/g16.)
Author: KatrinaVT
Date of completion: 3rd February 2006
Genre: Angst, Het, Hurt/Comfort, Slash, UST
Time: During "Desolation Island"
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4078
Pairing(s): Diana/Stephen, implied Jack/Stephen.
Characters: Stephen Maturin, Jack Aubrey.
Warnings/Spoilers: When the central character is Stephen Maturin, I suppose a "drug use" warning is rather obvious... Otherwise, graphic sex.
Disclaimer: The characters all belong to Patrick O'Brian, and I am making no profit from this at all.
Summary: While trying to break his laudanum habit, Stephen is haunted by disturbing dreams of Diana, unaware of the worry he is causing Jack.
Beta: jacquesmoineau
Crossposted to: hms_surprise, ageofsail_kink
Under the velvet blanket of a clear night sky, HMS Leopard coursed south, gently rocking on the waves of the Atlantic. Convict and seaman alike dozed dreamlessly, lulled by the sway and creak of the ship as they lay nestled in their blankets, waiting for tomorrow.
Not all of the Leopard's passengers were sleeping peacefully, to be sure. Some were wide awake on watch, of course, and some were enjoying childish revelry that, on land, they had been deprived of by parents who believed that all young boys should be flat out asleep by sundown; while in a small room in the belly of the ship, a small man tossed and turned in a narrow cot, sweating in the sheet that had ensnared his slight limbs.
Stephen Maturin rarely slept well, but some nights were worse than others. Some nights he found his ears far too sensitive to all the noise aboard (and not just the carousing of the boys in the room next to him), some nights he was kept awake by an incessant flood of thought whirring around his brain, and other nights he just could not manage to close his eyes. Then there were nights like this, where he slept - if one can call it sleeping - but did not rest, caught up in an unconscious torment of delusional images.
His only refuge came in the form of a bottle of evil tincture. He would not believe it caused the nightmares, for such vicious visions were absent in its presence, but still, it was ever the main character in the plays of his mind, the beautiful deceiver with open arms, promising one night of rest in exchange for an eternity of damnation. Oh, so many times he had accepted that offer, cursing himself to Hell, praying to Heaven for help.
He could not remember when he had stopped considering his actions, when it had become almost second nature to reach for that bottle. It had become so easy to pull the stopper, count the drops, staring into the glass that he held with a clammy, shaking hand, listening to his own breath rasping out in ragged apprehension, wanting to resist, but being far too weak to decline the invitation of being pulled into the warm soft bosom of the drowsy void that could smother his heartache. He always told himself, and others, that he was in control, but he knew in his heart that was very far from the truth.
He had never imagined that he could crave something more than he craved the love of Diana. He had thought that she alone owned his heart and soul, but now his very being was drowning in the depths of the laudanum bottle. Had he wished it on himself? Had he not silently begged for something - anything - to take away the dreadful feelings he felt for that woman? He had never thought that his saviour would turn into such a dark Master. But no, rather a dark Mistress; it had to be a lady, no man could ever be so cruel.
The laudanum had become a wicked companion, so unlike Diana. Diana was like marble - beautiful, cool, unyielding. The laudanum was soft, warm, comforting, familiar, like the embrace of a faithful lover, but it was also demanding. It was possessive. It would never let him go. He was bound to it, and he could see no way of escape. Every time he tried to, it lured him back, showing him that he could not live without it anymore, that it was his only hope, his only comfort.
He had not taken the laudanum to bed this night, he had not for several nights now, and he missed it more than ever. He missed Diana. He dreamed of her, Diana and the laudanum - his loves, his madness, his descent into despair.
He had dreamed this dream so many times now, and he never wanted to wake from it. He loved it, and he hated it. It terrified and aroused him in equal measures. He wanted it to stop before it started, he wanted to wake and find his sanity, but he knew all he would find would be the cold, dark of the night, and he would be alone and shivering in his cot. So it lured him in, as always.
Diana was beyond perfection in his dreams, her hair like silk, her skin like satin, and it repelled him a little. She was not real. She was a goddess. He wanted it to be real, he wanted the flaws that to him made her so spectacularly beautiful, but this was the closest he could ever get. It would only ever be a dream, his mind told him, and his heart quaked a little more.
He lay naked on a large bed in a room lit by red candles, the haze of smoke was heavy in the warm air, and he found it difficult to breathe. Diana was with him, and he was sobbing silent, dry tears of need as she knelt across him, her dress falling slowly open, the translucent fabric absorbing the golden light. She smiled down at him, whispering his name, and he felt like a fly caught up in a spiders' web. He was trapped. Helpless. He was hers, he was telling her; he was hers and only hers and no other's, not ever. He wanted nothing but her.
He shuddered as her hands glided softly down his sides, and her slight weight settled atop him, her small, firm breasts pressing against his chest. He gasped as kisses slipped into his mouth from her soft red lips, dripping with the bitter taste of opium, a teasing taste which she would only allow him to take sips of.
He was never allowed to touch her, not before she said so. His hands trembled, clasped in the sweat-soaked sheets as her tongue stroked between his lips again and again, never entering his mouth. He was permitted to accept the kisses, not to return them. Her lips burned him.
She took him tightly in her arms, pulling him back over her body, caressing his feverish skin with cool fingers. He could not speak. She had stolen his breath and tied his tongue in his throat. Ah, but words would not have done her justice, her beauty was beyond anything that could be spoken. He stared at her, his eyes roving her slender limbs, her narrow waist, her peaked nipples, as his hands and lips wished to. She nodded, he was allowed to.
He held himself back ... slowly, don't rush, don't spoil it ... and leaned in to kiss her, lapping up the laudanum that flowed from her lips into his mouth. It did not cool his desires at all. He knew there was more, and he knew what he had to do to get it.
Doubt played with him. He was not worthy of this. His mouth was not fit for kissing such a beautiful neck, licking the sweat that tasted like wine. He trembled as he shifted in her arms, afraid that she might let him go. His teeth gently scraped her delicate collarbone, hoping in vain to move her, as he lowered his head to meet her breast.
Sometimes she held him back. Sometimes she made him beg. This time she did not.
He wept as she guided his hands to cup the soft mounds of flesh that fitted in his palms so neatly. His fingertips brushed her nipples, pinched them gently, but still she remained indifferent. He could not please her. The pleasure was his alone, at her mercy.
His eyes were blind with tears as his lips found her nipple, closed around it, suckled softly. The teats that had never fed a child flowed for him, but not with milk. Surely it was nectar to him, his drug, and the more he wanted her the more he needed it and the more it flowed. It was meant to save him from his lustful desire, and it offered itself to him in such an evil way, to flow from the very body of the woman he coveted.
He heard a high-pitched moan, a wretched sound from a withered soul, a cry of pain and frustration and desire so horrid to his ears that he did not even recognise the sound as coming from his own lips. Pressing his mouth to her other breast, squeezing it as firmly as he dared to, sobbing, he swallowed, choking. He needed it! He needed more!
"Diana..."
He whimpered her name, and laid his ear against her heartbeat, hoping to hear it quicken for his touches, but it remained as steady as ever. He pressed himself against her side, his loins aching for the contact of her body. Such foul, wicked thoughts! He could not stop it. His hands took a life of their own and ravished her body, winding in her hair, groping her breasts crudely, parting her thighs, his fingers slipping into the warm velvety folds between her legs.
His mouth continued the assault, biting, bruising, and he wept, pleading with her to make him stop. She lay still, she smiled at him, a cruel smile that told him she knew he wanted it, a smirk that mocked his uncontrollable desire.
He was humping against her like a dog, the sap of his lust smearing against her hip. He burned with shame, begging her to help him. Oh, if she would touch him! She had to stop him! He had to have her, the feeling was killing him, tearing at his heart, crushing his lungs, he was going insane.
More... more laudanum... more contact... he wanted to take her, to make love to her, to make her his... more laudanum... it had to stop... more...
He brought his fingers up to his lips, licked the promise from them, shuddered and moaned, and scrambled down the bed, shakily parting her thighs with a forceful hand before burying his face between them.
She did not stir for him. She did not cry out, she didn't push him away. Nor did she grant him what he wanted. For all his lapping and suckling, his lips remained dry. His desire throbbed, trapped between his body and the sheet he lay upon. He sobbed. He begged.
She laughed horribly at him. She slapped him. She called him a pathetic little man, and asked him why he thought he could please her enough to get what he wanted from her. Then she gave it to him, mercilessly.
He opened his mouth to the laudanum that ran obscenely from her, trying not to lose a drop as he licked, struggling to fulfil her, not just to satisfy his own selfish needs.
More and more she issued for him, laughing at him all the while, mocking him, insulting him. He felt his passion rising, the pressure rising between his legs, his erection throbbing and twitching against the soft sheet beneath him, so close to release. He felt disgusting. And still the laudanum gushed from her most intimate place, failing to cool his lust.
He coughed and shuddered, gagging as the liquid flooded his gullet and hit his stomach violently, churning it. He choked, bitterness rising back into his throat, but he couldn't pull away. He couldn't breathe. He was choking to death on his own sin, and he didn't want to leave the world and never see that beautiful face again. Heaven would not be so without Diana's presence. Though surely he was damned to Hell for all his wickedness.
He was leaving the world. His body was growing light, his senses weak. Still the laudanum flooded into him, spilling from his lips onto the sheets. His sight was fading to white.
"Stephen!"
He coughed, feeling two strong hands reach beneath him and lift him to sit up. The world span behind his sightless eyes, he could feel himself slipping away, the surface beneath him leaving him, a light making itself apparent before him, drawing him to it.
"Stephen, for the love of God!" One of the hands that held his limp body smacked him smartly across the cheek, before grasping his shoulder and shaking him fiercely. "Wake up!"
Cool air rushed into Stephen's lungs and he forced his eyes open, gasping as he made out his surroundings. Where was the soft sheet? the golden light? Diana? His mouth was dry. He was in his cot, in his cabin, a light was burning beside him, and shuddering frustration buckled him.
"Stephen, it's all right, hush now." He recognised the worried voice speaking to him as that of Jack Aubrey, who was sitting beside him, holding him tightly, rubbing his back in a soothing circular motion. "Breathe slowly, damn you. Speak to me."
He had never thought he could be so utterly disappointed to find himself in Jack's arms.
He tried to speak, but when he opened his mouth, the only noise that came from it was gasps and ragged sobs. He had never dreamed anything so terrible, though he had suffered the dream with Diana many times. He had woken frustrated and disappointed before, but he had never seen his death. His head grew light with fear. Would it really kill him one day? Had he sunk so deeply into madness?
"You were having a bad dream," Jack said softly to him, though Stephen was hardly aware of his presence. "You're awake now, and I'm here..."
He huddled back into his blankets, trying to calm himself while Jack pressed a glass of water to his lips. Gratefully swallowing it, he began to come back to full awareness, and realised with no small amount of mortification that he was making rather a spectacle of himself. The nightmare was over, he had no reason to be so rattled now, it could only haunt him as long as he allowed it to.
He would not allow it to. He had a perfectly sensible, rational mind.
Hadn't he? He was beginning to wonder. Of course, nobody could control or predict their subconscious mind, but such dreams were madness! His thoughts were madness. He had to take charge of himself! His senses and his lust were spiralling out of control. Even the fright with which he had awoken had not diminished the burning arousal the dream had inflicted in his loins.
"I'm all right, Jack," he said hoarsely, clasping his trembling hands beneath the blanket, determined to get rid of his friend before Jack was to see any more of his humiliation. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't wake me," Jack said, sitting beside him again. "Mr Forshaw came to find me, having heard you cry out in your sleep." He laid his hand lightly on Stephen's arm. "What were you dreaming of?"
"Oh, I don't really recall," Stephen whispered, trying to contain a shudder at the memory of it. So the boys had heard? Oh Jesus..."I feel I've made quite the fool of myself."
He was a fool. He was a fool for Diana. He was a fool for the haunting sight of Mrs Wogan. He was a fool for his bottled comfort. Of course, Mrs Wogan... Oh, but he had almost forgotten about her in that moment. Come morning, he would be in her lovely presence again, and no peace would come to him then. He'd had dreams of her too, though never anything as intimate as his dreams of Diana. When had he become such a lustful, cock-led simpleton over these women? He had never been so seduced, not even as a youth, when such urges are meant to be commonplace.
Was is payment for the times he had not controlled himself? Was it payment for the hurt he had inflicted upon the one who still sat so loyally beside him now? He had led Jack astray into territories unknown to the dear, innocent man, then he had left him there. He was only thankful that no real damage had ever come of it.
"Such a bloody fool..."
"It happens to us all sometimes," Jack shrugged with a small smile, then his face grew grave with concern. "My God, you're shaking like a leaf!"
Stephen averted his eyes from Jack's face, unable to bear the sight of such distress at his doing. "I'll be all right in a moment." His eyes sought out the bottle on the shelf and he closed them tightly. "Go to bed, my dear, leave me now."
Jack didn't move. "What is wrong with you?" he said softly, like a child searching for reassurance. "You've been like this for days. You've hardly been eating, and I've heard you being sick..."
"Everyone gets seasick sometimes," he answered quickly, refusing to meet Jack's gaze. "You of all people should know that."
Oh, it was cruel to take advantage of such naivety, but he couldn't let Jack know of his predicament. Despite the fact that he would die of shame at being seen so weak, Jack would never understand. Jack would blame it on Diana, and it was not her fault that he was like this. It was his own doing, down to his own stupidity, his own inability to control his desires, his own inability to judge his willpower, his own arrogance. It would pass, the laudanum would be his friend again, a small amount to aid his sleep and dampen his ardour, and he would not get himself in such a desperate mess again. Only weak men got themselves addicted. He would not be weak. He could get through this. Jack didn't need to know anything.
"It's more than seasickness," Jack murmured. "If it was something as simple as that you wouldn't be trying to keep it from me."
"I'm not---" he began to protest.
"There's something wrong with you, Stephen." Jack's blue eyes flashed up at his face. "I know you think me to be stupid, but you can't hide it from me. I do wish you would tell me what it is."
"Who are you to say there is something wrong with me when I say there is not?" Stephen demanded. "You sail your ships, Captain. Leave the diagnosis to those who know what they are talking about." He regretted his harsh tone immediately, as a flush came into Jack's cheeks. Jack probably did have a point, if he looked as terrible as he felt. Nausea was twisting about in his gut and his skin was prickling all over with a hot sweat even as he denied it. "Forgive me," he sighed. "I am overtired, I did not mean to snap."
Jack forced a smile and nodded, looking like he wanted to say more, but he let the matter drop. "Come to my cabin?" he said in a voice that sounded far too meek for the Captain of a ship. "Sleep in my cot tonight." The voice sank to almost a whisper. "With me, I mean."
Stephen felt a twist in his gut and he shook his head quickly. It had been quite some time since he had shared a bed of any sort with Jack. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He had been a different person then. "That's really not necessary," he replied in a voice that was a lot more steady than he felt.
The time he had spent with Jack seemed like a dream now. It had been a dream. He had never thought to love a man with the passion he had felt for Jack. Then Diana Villiers had entered their lives and he had thrown Jack off like a used toy. He knew now how much hurt he had caused, but at the time all he had cared about was Diana, and he had taken consolation in the fact that dear Sophia had been there to pick up the pieces of what he had tossed aside. He still only cared about Diana, though his heart was shattered by her.
Jack could never break someone's heart, even if he tried.
It was no good to think on it now. Jack was a husband, a father. Sophie was Stephen's dearest friend, he could never think to betray her in such a way. He couldn't let it start again, no matter how many times a friendly hug lasted a moment too long, however often an innocent glance looked too deep, however many times fingers lingered against fingers while passing salt at the dinner table. Just as his own fingers were lingering near Jack's hand now.
Jack spoke his name quietly and caught them, gently lifting them to his lips, and Stephen gasped as Jack's warm breath caressed his cold fingers and the softest of kisses fell upon his knuckles. He dared to look up and he met Jack's eyes for a moment, before Jack flushed and lowered his gaze so that Stephen could only vaguely see a shadow of hope through the golden lashes.
He swallowed and retracted his hand so quickly that Jack flinched a little. "Go to bed, my dear," he said, feeling the uncommon and unwelcome sting of tears as Jack lifted his sight to him again. "I'll be all right now."
Jack looked keenly at him, a furrow between his eyebrows, his left hand wavering above Stephen's arm, then he squeezed Stephen's hand before quickly stumbling to his feet and leaving the room.
Some moments passed before Stephen heard his footsteps retreating.
He took a breath.
It ailed him to wound Jack in such a way. Jack was always so loyal, so concerned, and he did not deserve it. The feelings of years ago were not buried so deeply for Jack, he felt, and he would not allow Jack to lose his heart for him. He was not worth the price. He still loved him too much for that. Jack was too innocent a beast to even notice what was happening. It was better he was hurt for a moment with a harsh word, than forever with a broken heart.
Diana was returning to his imagination in an obscene way that seemed such a dishonour to her. She would have killed him if she had known his thoughts, and she would have been right to.
The warmth and scent of Jack was still near him but it seemed it meant nothing. No comfort came from it. He wished he could remember sleepy mornings spent dozing in Jack's arms in their house in Hampshire with happiness instead of gnawing guilt. What had he done? It had been so foolish, so careless. Jack was not his first man, by far, but he had been the first, the last, and the only man for Jack. How could he have awoken that in Jack? He hated himself for it.
How could the memories of a few fleeting kisses from Diana's lips burn so much hotter than Jack's firm embrace? He remembered her perfume, the soft brush of her hair against his cheek, the coolness of her delicate fingers as she had clasped his hands on occasion.
Did Jack feel this for him? No. No, stupid. He would never warrant such an obsession, and he thanked the Lord that he could never inflict the pain he felt.
He shivered and ran his tongue between his lips, as if the opium from his dream still lingered there and he might take the last bitter taste of it. All he tasted was the salty tang of his own sweat and tears.
No rest would come to him this night. His body ached with unspent desire and his mind reeled with torment. He told himself he didn't have to. It was his choice.
He stumbled from his cot, swaying a little, and crossed the small space to snatch the laudanum bottle off the shelf, knocking down several books as he did. He fumbled to pull out the stopper, glancing around frantically for the glass that had been there earlier.
He looked to the door, the sight of Jack leaving still in his mind. He felt cold. So utterly cold and alone. And it was his own fault.
Sobbing hoarsely, he wiped his tears with one hand and lifted the bottle to his lips, gulping down his tranquillity before returning to his small cot, shivering.
How dearly he would have loved for the warm, strong embrace of Jack's arms to have been enough.
Illustration by jacquesmoineau here: http://www.deviantart.com/view/29831052/ (or if you're not a member of deviantART: http://pics.livejournal.com/jacquesmoineau/pic/0004653g/g16.)