february challenge; omc x sharpe (ust)
Title: Folly
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: mystery man x Sharpe (UST)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners, not the author. The author makes no profit.
Summary: An admirer watches Harper shave Sharpe.
He watches Harper's hands, breath caught in his chest. The blade flashes up and down the strop, and he tears them away, stares at the pale expanse of Sharpe's skin, bare beneath the open neck of his shirt. That tantalizing v of skin ought not excite him so, but it does, and his eyes helplessly track Harper's hands, and the silvery blade they care. Sharpe bears his neck with absolute trust, eyes closed, dark golden hair falling back from the crown of his bare head. There is something unbearably erotic in that display, and he swallows hurriedly.
The blade angles down Sharpe's jaw, sweeping white foam before it and leaving clean skin behind. Harper is careful, and skilled, his hands moving quickly but cautiously over Sharpe's face. He can't help but think that this task is one that ought to be performed by a lover, in private, not by an aide de camp in full view. Sharpe is simply too magnetic, his trust in Harper too obvious. No man walking by does so without taking a second look, pausing for a moment to watch Harper guide the blade carefully along Sharpe's chin.
He sighes softly as Harper finishes, letting the tent flap fall closed. Reaching down, he palms his cock through his clothes. The image of Sharpe's bared neck fills his closed eyes, and he bites his lips to keep from moaning. This cannot wait. He slips his hand into this breeches, breath coming hard and fast through his nose as he quickly strokes the heated flesh. He swallows his cry of orgasm as he spills in his hand, then carefully wipes away the evidence of his folly. Hopefully the Rifles will leave soon, and he will no longer be plagued by this unattainable vision.
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: mystery man x Sharpe (UST)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners, not the author. The author makes no profit.
Summary: An admirer watches Harper shave Sharpe.
He watches Harper's hands, breath caught in his chest. The blade flashes up and down the strop, and he tears them away, stares at the pale expanse of Sharpe's skin, bare beneath the open neck of his shirt. That tantalizing v of skin ought not excite him so, but it does, and his eyes helplessly track Harper's hands, and the silvery blade they care. Sharpe bears his neck with absolute trust, eyes closed, dark golden hair falling back from the crown of his bare head. There is something unbearably erotic in that display, and he swallows hurriedly.
The blade angles down Sharpe's jaw, sweeping white foam before it and leaving clean skin behind. Harper is careful, and skilled, his hands moving quickly but cautiously over Sharpe's face. He can't help but think that this task is one that ought to be performed by a lover, in private, not by an aide de camp in full view. Sharpe is simply too magnetic, his trust in Harper too obvious. No man walking by does so without taking a second look, pausing for a moment to watch Harper guide the blade carefully along Sharpe's chin.
He sighes softly as Harper finishes, letting the tent flap fall closed. Reaching down, he palms his cock through his clothes. The image of Sharpe's bared neck fills his closed eyes, and he bites his lips to keep from moaning. This cannot wait. He slips his hand into this breeches, breath coming hard and fast through his nose as he quickly strokes the heated flesh. He swallows his cry of orgasm as he spills in his hand, then carefully wipes away the evidence of his folly. Hopefully the Rifles will leave soon, and he will no longer be plagued by this unattainable vision.