June Picture Challenge.
It's gone midnight over here. Someone tell me why I am up this late finishing fic? Why?
Title: "Gloves"
Rating: 18
Pairings: Sharpe/Wellington, Harper, Rossendale
Summary: Sharpe’s Regiment; Sharpe’s attire causes a stir.
Author's Notes: For the look_sharpe June Picture Prompt. Because I have a thing for Sharpe’s gloves in Regiment, and you must know by now that my attention is often caught by odd things. I also admit to unintentionally taking a tiny bit of inspiration from sylvene for this... You’ll see what I mean. And sorry if this seems not entirely natural in its flow - I haven't written smut for a quite a while.
-------
It was the gloves, Sharpe had been informed much later. He supposed he should have guessed it beforehand, though he never expected them to produce such a strong - or peculiar reaction - as this on his return to the army. They had been a suggestion made by the tailor when he had gone to be fitted for his new uniform to be presented at the court of the Prince Regent. Sharpe had been unsure, having not the slightest idea whether they were a necessary item or merely an extra to add to the already extensive bill.
“What do you think, John?” he’d asked.
“Eh?” Rossendale looked up from the paper he had been reading. He was sitting on a chair in the corner of the fitting room; a willing supporter and confident in this undesirable errand.
“About gloves. Should I have them?”
“Oh yes, most definitely! Gloves are a required part of court dress.”
Sharpe cursed inwardly, feeling a keen embarrassment that in all rights he should not feel. He was a soldier, damn it! What should he know of gloves or etiquette or a Prince’s court? Yet it was being brought home to him, now stronger than ever, that officers were expected to be gentlemen first and soldiers if they felt like it. The perversity of it made his stomach turn on itself.
“Fine, I’ll be having the gloves then,” he said bitterly, and glared as the tailor smiled and marked up another tally in his ledger. “But I’m not having white - I want black.”
“Black gloves, sir?” the tailor’s eyebrows had inched upwards in subdued surprise, but Rossendale had laughed and clapped his hands.
“Oh excellent, excellent indeed, sir! You are certainly a man of good taste, Richard; you’ll cut quite a dash I should say. I did not wish to mention it before, but white would never have gone at all well with that ensemble; not at all!”
And so Sharpe had worn his black gloves and received many an admiring glance. He had put them back on when he and Harper returned to the camp at Foulness - this time as themselves, not Dick Vaughn or Patrick O’Keefe - successfully routing Girdwood and bending the battalion’s officers and NCOs to his will; including those wretches Lynch and Havercamp.
“It’s those gloves of yours, so it is, sir,” Harper had whispered to him as he walked down the lines of paraded men, awestruck and frightened faces peering back at him. “Lynch thinks you’ll snap his neck in two with them.”
Sharpe had given a dirty little laugh at this, and reflected with some pride that yes, the tight black leather gloves did add a somewhat mercenary air to his already considerably unorthodox appearance. It was this thought that made him put them back on, along with his brand new best uniform, when he finally was at liberty to report to Wellington after the battles of the Pyrenees were won and a precious foothold dug into France itself. He called late after dinner, expecting Arthur to sneer and make some ribald comment about Sharpe ‘scrubbing up’ or ‘mutton dressed as lamb’; however, whatever he expected Sharpe was wholly unprepared for the reaction he did get.
Arthur was surprised, that was certain; a slight widening of those blue eyes betrayed him, a delicate lift of shapely eyebrows, a studied expression of blankness… And then he smiled, and it was Sharpe’s turn to be surprised. Arthur’s eyes raked over Sharpe’s body with a heated gaze; taking in the detail of the cut, the bright red sash, and of every shining silver button, before they returned to meet the rifleman’s gaze.
“I do like the gloves, my dear,” he said.
Sharpe, recognising the appreciative gleam in Wellington’s eyes, raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Oh aye?” he said. “Do you now?”
“Yes, I do,” Wellington confirmed, the smile playing on his lips as he stepped closer and stroked the other man’s cheek. “Very much so… I wonder, major, if you would manage to turn the key in the lock? I find that I am not often left a moment’s respite from my staff if I do not keep it so.”
Grinning broadly, Sharpe did as he was told, crossing to the door and turning the key, hearing the satisfying click as the lock fell into place. Turning again he saw the Wellington was now seated on the edge of the bed, his gaze challenging, his smile inviting. Sharpe swiftly joined him and was immediately pulled into an invasive, demanding kiss, moaning as he realised just how much he had missed this, missed Arthur in his time away. He loved Jane, she would make a good wife; but like Teresa she could never replace the affection he had for Arthur. Theirs was a relationship so longstanding that they could barely recall a time when one did not know the other, and Sharpe did not wish to contemplate a world where he would be without Arthur; though certainly that day would come. Either way Sharpe did not want to think of that now, or Jane or Teresa, and he concentrated on undoing the buttons of Arthur’s coat whilst not losing a moment in plundering that hot, wine-sweetened mouth. Damn, but the gloves were proving a hindrance now! Impatient to have his lover naked, Sharpe broke away to remove the gloves, yet found to his surprise an arresting hand clamped around his wrist.
“No,” Wellington said. He eyes were bright with desire, his lips red from being kissed so thoroughly. “Leave them on. I don’t want you to shift an inch of your clothing - not an inch!”
Sharpe frowned at him, confused as Wellington hastily started to remove his own clothes.
“What, nothin’?” What was Arthur driving at?
Wellington smiled; a smile full of mischief that had never failed to send a thrill through Sharpe’s body.
“Well,” he conceded. “I suppose you might remove your sword.”
And the feel of Arthur’s bare skin against his full-clothed body… it was strange, but an oddly pleasing and erotic sensation. Arthur gave himself over entirely to Sharpe on this occasion; shivering as the soft black leather gloves stroked over his chest, buttocks and thighs, groaning as Sharpe pleasured him and arching against the counterpane, the silver buttons of Sharpe’s jacket leaving faint red impressions in his flesh as they crushed together in ecstasy. To the rifleman’s eyes Wellington seemed strangely vulnerable; naked to his clothed, defenceless and willing; it was a feeling of power that made him come hard, breathless as moments later Wellington spent into his gloved fist.
“You are as delicious in uniform as out of it,” Wellington had said as they lay together afterwards; Sharpe having finally been given permission to shift his clothes. “It is good that you met me in here, else I swear I would have expired from lust.”
“Like it, did you?” Sharpe murmured, his head nestled on the Field-Marshal’s shoulder. Wellington placed a kiss to the straw-coloured hair.
“I did indeed, Richard. I hope you shall decide to don your best uniform more often in the future.”
Sharpe snorted and shifted closer to his lover.
“If this is what happens every time I do so, I doubt it’ll remain my best uniform for long.”
Title: "Gloves"
Rating: 18
Pairings: Sharpe/Wellington, Harper, Rossendale
Summary: Sharpe’s Regiment; Sharpe’s attire causes a stir.
Author's Notes: For the look_sharpe June Picture Prompt. Because I have a thing for Sharpe’s gloves in Regiment, and you must know by now that my attention is often caught by odd things. I also admit to unintentionally taking a tiny bit of inspiration from sylvene for this... You’ll see what I mean. And sorry if this seems not entirely natural in its flow - I haven't written smut for a quite a while.
-------
It was the gloves, Sharpe had been informed much later. He supposed he should have guessed it beforehand, though he never expected them to produce such a strong - or peculiar reaction - as this on his return to the army. They had been a suggestion made by the tailor when he had gone to be fitted for his new uniform to be presented at the court of the Prince Regent. Sharpe had been unsure, having not the slightest idea whether they were a necessary item or merely an extra to add to the already extensive bill.
“What do you think, John?” he’d asked.
“Eh?” Rossendale looked up from the paper he had been reading. He was sitting on a chair in the corner of the fitting room; a willing supporter and confident in this undesirable errand.
“About gloves. Should I have them?”
“Oh yes, most definitely! Gloves are a required part of court dress.”
Sharpe cursed inwardly, feeling a keen embarrassment that in all rights he should not feel. He was a soldier, damn it! What should he know of gloves or etiquette or a Prince’s court? Yet it was being brought home to him, now stronger than ever, that officers were expected to be gentlemen first and soldiers if they felt like it. The perversity of it made his stomach turn on itself.
“Fine, I’ll be having the gloves then,” he said bitterly, and glared as the tailor smiled and marked up another tally in his ledger. “But I’m not having white - I want black.”
“Black gloves, sir?” the tailor’s eyebrows had inched upwards in subdued surprise, but Rossendale had laughed and clapped his hands.
“Oh excellent, excellent indeed, sir! You are certainly a man of good taste, Richard; you’ll cut quite a dash I should say. I did not wish to mention it before, but white would never have gone at all well with that ensemble; not at all!”
And so Sharpe had worn his black gloves and received many an admiring glance. He had put them back on when he and Harper returned to the camp at Foulness - this time as themselves, not Dick Vaughn or Patrick O’Keefe - successfully routing Girdwood and bending the battalion’s officers and NCOs to his will; including those wretches Lynch and Havercamp.
“It’s those gloves of yours, so it is, sir,” Harper had whispered to him as he walked down the lines of paraded men, awestruck and frightened faces peering back at him. “Lynch thinks you’ll snap his neck in two with them.”
Sharpe had given a dirty little laugh at this, and reflected with some pride that yes, the tight black leather gloves did add a somewhat mercenary air to his already considerably unorthodox appearance. It was this thought that made him put them back on, along with his brand new best uniform, when he finally was at liberty to report to Wellington after the battles of the Pyrenees were won and a precious foothold dug into France itself. He called late after dinner, expecting Arthur to sneer and make some ribald comment about Sharpe ‘scrubbing up’ or ‘mutton dressed as lamb’; however, whatever he expected Sharpe was wholly unprepared for the reaction he did get.
Arthur was surprised, that was certain; a slight widening of those blue eyes betrayed him, a delicate lift of shapely eyebrows, a studied expression of blankness… And then he smiled, and it was Sharpe’s turn to be surprised. Arthur’s eyes raked over Sharpe’s body with a heated gaze; taking in the detail of the cut, the bright red sash, and of every shining silver button, before they returned to meet the rifleman’s gaze.
“I do like the gloves, my dear,” he said.
Sharpe, recognising the appreciative gleam in Wellington’s eyes, raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“Oh aye?” he said. “Do you now?”
“Yes, I do,” Wellington confirmed, the smile playing on his lips as he stepped closer and stroked the other man’s cheek. “Very much so… I wonder, major, if you would manage to turn the key in the lock? I find that I am not often left a moment’s respite from my staff if I do not keep it so.”
Grinning broadly, Sharpe did as he was told, crossing to the door and turning the key, hearing the satisfying click as the lock fell into place. Turning again he saw the Wellington was now seated on the edge of the bed, his gaze challenging, his smile inviting. Sharpe swiftly joined him and was immediately pulled into an invasive, demanding kiss, moaning as he realised just how much he had missed this, missed Arthur in his time away. He loved Jane, she would make a good wife; but like Teresa she could never replace the affection he had for Arthur. Theirs was a relationship so longstanding that they could barely recall a time when one did not know the other, and Sharpe did not wish to contemplate a world where he would be without Arthur; though certainly that day would come. Either way Sharpe did not want to think of that now, or Jane or Teresa, and he concentrated on undoing the buttons of Arthur’s coat whilst not losing a moment in plundering that hot, wine-sweetened mouth. Damn, but the gloves were proving a hindrance now! Impatient to have his lover naked, Sharpe broke away to remove the gloves, yet found to his surprise an arresting hand clamped around his wrist.
“No,” Wellington said. He eyes were bright with desire, his lips red from being kissed so thoroughly. “Leave them on. I don’t want you to shift an inch of your clothing - not an inch!”
Sharpe frowned at him, confused as Wellington hastily started to remove his own clothes.
“What, nothin’?” What was Arthur driving at?
Wellington smiled; a smile full of mischief that had never failed to send a thrill through Sharpe’s body.
“Well,” he conceded. “I suppose you might remove your sword.”
And the feel of Arthur’s bare skin against his full-clothed body… it was strange, but an oddly pleasing and erotic sensation. Arthur gave himself over entirely to Sharpe on this occasion; shivering as the soft black leather gloves stroked over his chest, buttocks and thighs, groaning as Sharpe pleasured him and arching against the counterpane, the silver buttons of Sharpe’s jacket leaving faint red impressions in his flesh as they crushed together in ecstasy. To the rifleman’s eyes Wellington seemed strangely vulnerable; naked to his clothed, defenceless and willing; it was a feeling of power that made him come hard, breathless as moments later Wellington spent into his gloved fist.
“You are as delicious in uniform as out of it,” Wellington had said as they lay together afterwards; Sharpe having finally been given permission to shift his clothes. “It is good that you met me in here, else I swear I would have expired from lust.”
“Like it, did you?” Sharpe murmured, his head nestled on the Field-Marshal’s shoulder. Wellington placed a kiss to the straw-coloured hair.
“I did indeed, Richard. I hope you shall decide to don your best uniform more often in the future.”
Sharpe snorted and shifted closer to his lover.
“If this is what happens every time I do so, I doubt it’ll remain my best uniform for long.”