It was the first relatively settled night on board Renown since leaving port in England. Lieutenant Bush was on watch, with Hornblower, Kennedy and Buckland catching up on their sleep. The crew was held in check by a mixture of the approaching Caribbean heat and a distinct lack of supervision following the mutiny. Even those men loyal to Captain Sawyer seemed more relaxed now that his looming, maniacal reign had come to an end. There was a general sense of being able to let ones guard down.

Henry Wellard did just that as he walked through the relatively empty section of the hold where the erstwhile mutineers had met; he was on orders from Bush to check for any evidence the conspirators might have left behind inadvertently. The officers - even after days and nights on continuous guard - had been meticulous, and he found nothing. With a sigh of relief, Wellard turned to make for his berth.

"Mr Wellard." Cold blue eyes stared him down as the gunner blocked his path.

"What do you want, Mr Hobbs?" Wellard asked cautiously. There was nothing incriminating on his person, but he was well aware how far from the influence of the lieutenants he was at that moment.

Hobbs' lips twitched but did not quite form into a smile. "I think you know what I want." He used his superior bulk to entirely cut off Wellard's exit. "It's been a few days since the captain's... accident." A flash of anger darkened his eyes. "I was hoping you might have recalled something about the event."

Wellard tried hard not to meet the challenging gaze, hating that Hobbs was one of few men on board who stood taller than him. "I told you, I wasn't there." He narrowed his eyes. "I know nothing." He made to push past Hobbs, but his path was blocked effectively. "Let me pass this moment, Mr Hobbs."

"Or you'll report me?" Hobbs mocked. "Don't you think your lieutenants will have enough explaining to do in Kingston, Sir, even without the hanging of warrant officers?"

Wellard uselessly attempted to glare Hobbs into compliance, which earned him nothing more than a disdainful snort.

"There's nowhere you can go, boy." Hobbs shifted closer, and after a moment's hesitation only due to deeply ingrained Navy protocol, he did what on any normal ship, in normal circumstances, would see him in irons at the very least. He gripped Wellard's arms and spun the boy until his back hit the nearest bulkhead.

"Let me go!" Wellard hissed, true panic slowly rising in him. "If... if you let me go now, I... I won't report this, but..."

"Quiet, boy." Hobbs' hands were almost painfully tight on Wellard's upper arms, his eyes flashing darkly, even in the meagre illumination. "You know I won't stop hounding you until you tell me who pushed the captain into the hold."

"I don't know!" Wellard winced when the hands on his arms tightened. He tried to push himself forward to dislodge the iron grip, but succeeded only in colliding with Hobbs.

A surprised grunt reverberated through Hobbs' chest, and Wellard was repelled against the wall, with the gunner fixing him there with his own body. "I can hold you here forever, Mr Wellard. Or until you decide to talk."

Wellard was breathing hard through his nose, closing his eyes to regain some composure. What was he to do? He only had the vaguest idea who pushed the captain, and there was nothing Hobbs could do to him to make him talk. It took him a minute to realize Hobbs was breathing as heavily as he was, though he doubted it took much strength from the gunner to pin him down. He opened his eyes, finding Hobbs staring at him hard, a speculative frown between his eyes.

"You're very stubborn." There was almost a trace of awe in the deep voice, and it was surprising enough to make Wellard temporarily relax in the grip.

Lightening-quick, Hobbs yanked Wellard's arms up hard, pinning them against the wall above the midshipman's head. "But there are other ways to make you talk."

"What do you..." Wellard gulped. The sneer, and a spark of excitement in Hobbs' stormy blue eyes, did not bode well, and Wellard hated himself for trembling.

"Fear, Mr Wellard? I expected better from you." Hobbs tilted his head, and his voice lowered and became little more than a husky growl close to Wellard's ear. "After all, you don't fear pain at all, do you?"

Wellard swallowed, forcing himself not to jolt when Hobbs' lips nearly touched the shell of his ear.

"You took the captain's punishments well enough," Hobbs mock-praised. "I was quite impressed. But I wonder how well you withstand pleasure?"

Before Wellard could ask, or even wonder, what that meant, Hobbs had shifted both of the slender wrists into the grip of one large hand only, and lowered his right hand to press hard against the front of Wellard's breeches.

Wellard huffed out a breath, his eyes widening incredulously. He had a thousand demands, recriminations and threats on his tongue, but not only was he well aware how useless they were to him, he found himself unable to voice them at all. Unfortunately, when Hobbs' hand tightened to a merciless squeeze, he was well able to voice a groan of pleasure.

"That's more like it," Hobbs panted against his ear. "Perhaps the exemplary Mr Wellard is not beyond weakness after all."

As if taking the husky words as their command, Wellard's legs began to give in, but a muscular thigh - rapidly wedged between them - held him firmly in place.

"Not yet, surely?" Hobbs mocked, his hand moving lower, the inside of his palm pressing down harder on the next upstroke. "We've barely started." He made quick work of the plaquet of Wellard's breeches, pushing the pale linen aside impatiently to cover warm, rapidly hardening flesh. "Why, Mr Wellard. You're not enjoying this, are you?" He snickered.

His only response was a reluctant moan and a warm exhalation of breath, tingling pleasantly across his neck like a caress. Startled, he looked into the boy's face, finding it flushed so intensely that the sprinkling of freckles across the straight nose stood out even in the relative darkness. The soft lips were pink and wet - Wellard's tongue must have flicked over them - and his deep brown eyes were heavy-lidded and feverish. It was then that Hobbs realized he'd made a mistake, looking at Wellard. "Damn you, boy!" He emphasized his words with a particularly forceful upward stroke, tightening his grip around the slender wrists at the same time.

Wellard bit his bottom lip, inhaling sharply. He was well aware that the scent of musk was not rising exclusively from his own skin. "What about..." he gasped. "You...." Another squeeze to wring a groan from him. "Mr Hobbs?"

"Shut up!" Hobbs closed his eyes, his hand moving faster and faster.

"Are you enjoying..." Panting, Wellard tipped his chin up defiantly. "This?"

"I told you to shut up." Hobbs was breathing heavily, his eyes meeting Wellard's - too dark, yet too bright. "And shut your blasted eyes, too."

The boy actually had the audacity to let out a shaky laugh, which turned into an incoherent gurgle on Hobbs' next squeeze. A squeeze Wellard's traitorous body answered with a trickle of warm seed.

The effect on Hobbs was not at all to Wellard's liking - the gunner's rough, warm hand ceased all movement.

Wellard mewled with disappointment.

Hobbs took a moment to regain his bearings before demanding in a voice he barely recognized himself. "Who was it? Who pushed him?"

"What?" Wellard blinked rapidly, poised on the verge of climax and utterly confused.

"Tell me," Hobbs demanded roughly, his hand entirely still around the throbbing flesh. He brushed his lips across a flushed, freckled cheek. "Tell me, Mr Wellard, and I'll give you your release." A shiver ran through the slight body against him. "I promise, I will."

Wellard bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Who was it?" The teasing lips ghosted across his jaw, before fastening on his long, slender neck, sucking hard.

Wellard groaned, knowing that trickles of his mercilessly withheld climax were dampening Hobbs' hand. "No!" he gasped.

"Give me his name," Hobbs whispered against his neck, tracing a path to a flushed ear, where he took the lobe between his teeth and bit down hard.

A yelp, followed by another defiant "No!" was his only answer.

Hobbs - desperately hard and growing impatient - hissed into the boy's ear. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you if you don't tell me his name right now, Sir?"

Wellard was shaking hard, but managed to nod.

Hobbs stared at him, their faces inches apart, their mingling breath damp between them. "Well then?"

With a slow smirk, Wellard shook his head.

Hobbs could not believe the boy's audacity and stubbornness. He released the hard, dribbling flesh, and with a quick series of movements, he turned Wellard to face the bulkhead, wrists still raised high in his grip, and shoved the breeches down past the boy's slender hips. He was so distracted by the sight of the smooth, rounded globes, it took him a moment to realize Wellard wasn't struggling. Making sure the boy knew he meant to go through with this, he kicked the long, slim legs further apart.

There was no reaction beyond a full-body shiver.

"You have no idea what you're asking for, boy," Hobbs warned, following this with a growling, "You can't take me in."

Wellard whimpered helplessly. "I can take whatever you can give, Mr Hobbs."

Those defiant words alone were almost enough to push Hobbs over the edge. He released Wellard's wrists, watching as the boy pressed his palms flat against the wall. Frantically, he struggled to free himself from his own breeches, his fingers tightly impeding his own release while he separated the smooth cheeks before him with two searching fingers. Before he forced his way through the small opening to Wellard's body, he stopped, and with a silent curse of disdain that he should care one way or another, he raised his fingers to his mouth and wetted them liberally.

The wet, sucking sound stilled Wellard's every move, and he seemed to be holding his breath when Hobbs lowered his hand once more and pushed his slicked fingers up and into him. The pain was every bit as piercing as the whippings Hobbs' precious captain had been so fond of, but the nature of this pain made it bearable to Wellard. Because he knew that deep down, he wanted this pain. Wanted it from Hobbs. To surrender to Hobbs in a way he never would have surrendered to Sawyer.

Hobbs was panting, struggling for control. He loosened the rigid muscles grasping his fingers as well as he could under the circumstances, his efforts unexpectedly aided by Wellard's apparent eagerness. "This will hurt a lot worse yet, boy," he warned.

"I don't care," the damned minx declared stubbornly.

Needing to make his point, Hobbs withdrew his fingers, only to return with a third. There was resistance, but it relaxed almost instantly. Wellard's willingness was intoxicating, and Hobbs' patience finally failed him. When he left Wellard empty, for mere moments, the boy mewled eagerly. Hobbs spat into his hand, roughly stroked himself once, and pushed through the tight ring, holding Wellard's slender body still by his hips.

He needn't have worried. Wellard made no attempt to draw away. In fact, after a few gasping breaths, he began to push back, and Hobbs felt himself sliding all the way into the warm, welcoming channel.

Whimpering, Wellard arched his back, the tip of his dark queue dipping between his shoulder blades, and Hobbs caught the merest glimpse of his facial expression. He swore, biting his lip to keep from losing control already. He couldn't remember why he had started this, what he had wanted from Wellard in the beginning. Something about teaching him a lesson nagged at Hobbs, but he could focus on nothing but the lithe body arching back against him, the softness of the abused skin under his hands - responding to his firm but ultimately gentle touch the way Wellard's panting breaths fell into rhythm with his own. Soft, nearly wordless pleas drove him on, his hands moving around Wellard's middle, pulling him back to fit tight against him, then pushing him reluctantly away to slide out of his body, before driving back in with increasing force and speed.

Hobbs wanted nothing more than to have more light, to see himself possessing Wellard the way he had wanted to all along. If there was a lesson, Wellard was teaching it to him. "Damn you, boy!" he growled, one hand under Wellard's shirt, hot on the bare skin.

Wellard rested his head back against Hobbs' shoulder, a satisfied smile wiping every last trace of innocence from his face. He covered the hand on his belly with his own and squeezed his muscles around Hobbs. The responding groan of pleasure blew heat across the shell of his ear. He felt himself twitching, knew deep down that Hobbs would refuse him release, but he did not think it would take much longer either way.

Hobbs' hand - sweaty and uncoordinated - slipped down Wellard's belly, brushing coarse curls and the hard, twitching flesh between his legs. He barely managed to cover the boy's mouth and still the dangerously loud moan in time.

The moment the palm covered his lips, Wellard first stiffened, then shuddered, his release forced from his body with the merest brush of Hobbs' fingers over his groin. A hot spurt struck the wall in front of him, the rest was caught in Hobbs' hand, which finally once more fastened around his cock, squeezing every last drop from it even as Hobbs himself came forcefully inside Wellard's spasming body.

The gunner muffled his own groan in the softness of Wellard's red-brown hair. "Damn you," he gasped helplessly, not knowing whether he meant it.

Wellard sighed, leaning fully back against the taller man still holding him close. "I'm..." He smiled softly, unseen. "Not sorry."

Hobbs' arms tightened briefly. Then he began to tuck the midshipman's clothes back into place and straighten them out. He was silent until he was completely done, then he turned Wellard back so they could look at each other. Hobbs tucked his own clothes back into place while he held Wellard's eyes, and dim light or not, the too bright gaze and dishevelled hair had him wanting to start all over again. "Nor am I," he finally said roughly, before he could think better of it.

Wellard's lips, parting on a gasp of surprise, were covered by Hobbs' mouth. The kiss was deep and hot and desperate, leaving him feeling even more ravished than their prior encounter. When he was pushed back, gently, he was left panting and wide-eyed.

Hobbs stared at him silently, then raised a hand to his forehead as if checking his own sanity. "You will tell me one day, Mr Wellard." His voice was deep and shattered; he was as affected as Wellard.

Wellard watched him carefully, assessing him. Then a slow, barely there, smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "You're welcome to keep asking, Mr Hobbs." He turned and disappeared into the darkness of the ship, followed by an astounded gaze.