Author: Juxian Tang
Fandom: Hornblower, movies, The Duel
Summary: One is a psychopath, the other is too nice for his own good, oh boy there will be a trouble.
want to hit me? Then hit." The words sound like ashes in his mouth, and he
feels cold, the whole world dwindling to the lash twisted in Simpson's hands,
tighter and tighter. Clayton's right hand burns and throbs, with the memory of
the gun clenched in it - the gun that lies away now, on the edge of the table,
useless and forgotten.
is right, he is a coward. And now he is afraid as well. Simpson can hurt him -
he did before and he will again. But it is not so much the fear of the fist,
twined round with the lash, slamming in his face, even though Clayton knows how
pain - it is not the worst.
the blow never comes. Something changes in Simpson's eyes - ice cracking, and
there is deep blue water instead - and Clayton thinks it is as if another man
looks at him. And this man is even more dangerous.
you?" Simpson says, and his lips are jumping, quivering, in dismay, as if
this thought hurts him. "Hit you? How could you say a thing like
you have never done it before, Clayton thinks but he already understands,
already knows what is coming.
lash falls on the floor with a dull sound - and suddenly Simpson is there, his
arms thrown around Clayton, thin and hot and steel-strong, and Simpson's skinny
body presses against his. Simpson is everywhere, his breath burning against
Clayton's neck and his whisper quick and feverish.
no, no, I never wanted to hit you, it's you who nearly made me do it, who
always makes me do it. How could you point this pistol at me, you hate me, you
I hate you, Clayton thinks. I despise you with all my heart.
he doesn't push this thin, clinging body away, and he doesn't do anything to
stop these pathetic, lying words wrapping him like a shroud, suffocating him -
like Simpson's hugging arms are suffocating.
feels despair wash over him and wonders how he could let it happen to him
again. When will he make it stop?
evil," Simpson whispers, his voice the voice of a needy, cranky child. A
strand of his hair, feathery thin and soft, brushes against Clayton's neck as
Simpson rubs his forehead over Clayton's collarbone. "What are you doing
what are you doing to me, Clayton thinks. The words are lies and manipulations,
he knows them for what they are. But knowing never saves him. Knowing, and
guilt, and sorrow - they are just circles on the water, and he's underneath
this water, he's drowned a long time ago and there is no way up to the surface
hurt me," Simpson whimpers and Clayton feels the insistent tug of
Simpson's hands on his shirt. But worse than that - where Simpson's face presses
against his shoulder, it gets wet.
you liar, Clayton thinks.
crying - Simpson is crying, and Clayton knows that his tears are a farce, but
still something in him feels helpless against it, against the wet face rubbing
on his neck, the small sobs he can feel, the hot gasps on his skin.
thinks that maybe one day he will be able to push him away, and then Simpson
won't have power over him. But not today. This day hasn't come yet.
could you want to kill me?"
sounds so heartbroken. And Clayton knows he shouldn't believe it, there is no
word of truth Simpson says. But his hands raise, awkward, as if separately from
his mind, and he cradles Simpson against his shoulder, and the man's hair is so
soft under Clayton's fingers. And then Simpson looks at him, with his eyes,
sweet, melancholic eyes of a poet, a lover - and how long his eyelashes are,
quicksilver tears hanging on them...
call me 'dear', Clayton thinks. Please let me go. But something stronger than
reason makes him reach, wipe these bogus, incongruous tears, make him whisper
soft, nonsensical words that he knows Simpson doesn't need.
it's all right, shh, I didn't want to kill you..."
Simpson whines. "It's my name, say it. I like when you say it."
what can he do now but say that?
then suddenly - oh, but wasn't he supposed to expect it, how often has it
happened before? - Simpson lurches forward, his lips pressing to Clayton's, taking
them - the taste still salty of tears but the kisses hungry and insistent and
there is no way to avoid them.
flails ineffectually, whispering.
it, stop it, someone will see."
they won't," Simpson says. His hands grip, greedy, fast, fumbling with
Clayton's clothes, pushing them away, getting to the bare skin. And the lips
follow them, burning and chilling at once. Clayton shivers and Simpson holds
him tight. "They are busy with the little snotty. And they won't dare to
Clayton knows it. They won't dare because they are afraid of you, he thinks.
Like I am. Like all of us - except Horatio.
Clayton," Simpson chants, "my old love. For you I would even take
I didn't shoot, Clayton thinks. I wouldn't and you knew that.
mouth clamps on his nipple, and they fall into a cot, their arms and legs get
entangled, and even as Clayton clenches in shame, his body pushes forward, into
yes," Simpson whispers, "I know you want it. Go for it then, damn
grabs Clayton's hands, squeezes them, yanks - like the limbs of a rag doll,
puts them onto his hips. And Clayton can't resist, Simpson's puppet as ever,
and pulls on the ties of the man's trousers, loosening them.
Simpson whispers, his eyes glazed, and he catches Clayton's hand, brings it to
his mouth, kissing. "Play me. Play me like you play your little fiddle,
make music out of me."
the hand you have broken once, because I didn't know the tune you wanted,
Clayton thinks. He still remembers sickening pain as his bones crunched under
Simpson's boot. But even that wasn't the worst.
that he doesn't belong to himself is.
raises over him, straddling his hips - and then goes down, his opening around
Clayton's cock hot, tight and accepting - and everything else fade, become
distant and unnecessary.
thrusts onto him, his thin braid lashing over his chest with his violent
motions, and Clayton thinks, this is what no one knows.
they know something happens, hear the noises, can feel the smell, later. But
they think Simpson is buggering him. How can it be otherwise?
in a way, Simpson *is* buggering him. Even as his entrance clenches on
Clayton's cock greedily. It a way Clayton thinks it would be easier just to be
taken, on his hands and knees, without preparation, again and again.
taken is easier than being given to. He knows Simpson really doesn't give him
anything, it is lies again, but he can't help it, he's pathetically grateful
for this pleasure, even if he hates it.
should've killed me," Simpson says. His eyes, sad, innocent eyes of an
abandoned child look down at Clayton - and his hands are claws, sticking into
Clayton's chest, drawing blood. Pain and pleasure cut through his body, as
Simpson slams onto him, wrenching the climax out of him. "You should've.
But you won't kill me. And you know why, Clayton, oh do you? Because you love
shivers, coming, and feels Simpson's come spatter his belly, and there is
shame, and disgust, and oh-so-unbearable-pleasure. Be damned, he thinks,
Simpson, you bastard, be damned.
I'll be damned with you.
won't kill me," Simpson says, slumping down over Clayton, his arms a vice
closing his eyes, feeling a moist strand of Simpson's hair against his cheek,
Clayton thinks, this is the truth.