FIC: Captain's Command (Sharpe)
Title: Captain's Command
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe/Harper
Rating: R
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: In so many ways, Harper was learning to captain his Captain.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 August Film Challenge using Sharpe's Eagles as inspiration.
Captain's Command
By Galadriel
Maybe Harper still didn't know his Captain all that well, but he was beginning to tell snarl from growl, scowl from grimace. It was, he found, akin to learning the feel of a new weapon. Sharpe was as liable to go off half-cocked as he was to end up silent and jammed tight, but Patrick was getting better at divining the right measure of powder, the right amount of tamping and pressure that'd have Sharpe firing clean and precise and right on target.
But when he'd seen Sharpe eyeing up one of the boys from the South Essex, seen the desire in his gaze and in his trousers, Pat knew without a doubt that it was time for him to step in, take the bullet like a good Sergeant, and stop Sharpe from being cursed with the pox he'd surely get from such a filthy bugger.
Yet Sharpe had seemed more than a little taken aback by Pat's quiet offer, muttering something about Teresa and the Countess and duty and honour, but the fuse had been lit, and Harper left it to burn or fizzle. After all, who knew soldiers' desires better than other soldiers?
A handful of hours and a few swallows of Pat's best brandy later had the Captain shot through with courage; enough to have him following Patrick to his tent that evening, cornering him long enough to fumble with buttons and belts, silently stripping the both of them of any signs of rank.
The strength of his own need wasn't what caught Pat off guard, not even as he ran callused palms over warm hips, tugging Sharpe closer. No, it was the vial of oil Sharpe pressed into his hand a moment before he bent over, opening himself up for Patrick. Pat hadn't guessed his Captain was looking to be captained, but once offered, all the Saints weren't going to keep him from this sin.
He slid into Sharpe's heat like a ramrod down a barrel, slick and tight and primed for the assault. As Sharpe gripped him, Patrick groaned, his hips thrusting just that much further forward, working to gain ground through sweat and muscle alone. Sharpe was nearly silent, nothing but rasping breaths and harsh grunts accompanying his rocking hips and grasping hands. Pat leaned over his back, wrapping an arm tight around Sharpe's waist, listening for orders even as he took control.
Straining his ears, Pat thought he heard snippets of words slipping past Sharpe's lips, half-syllables that tripped off the edge of a sigh; rolling, open vowels suggesting curves and softness and long, dark hair; dainty names to go with daintier features. It was strange, knowing that even as he hissed and pressed firmly backward against Harper's invasion, Sharpe's mind and heart were somewhere else, trapped by the softer sex, chained to a notion of romance that could lead only to a bloody end on the battlefield.
Pat consoled himself that there was more than enough time to teach Sharpe to sigh his name, to be as present here as he was in any dressing down by Sir Arthur, any patrol behind enemy lines, any forced march in the wind and wet. And it wasn't as if there wasn't merit in the way Sharpe moved his hips, the arch of his back, the clench of his muscles, the darkening of his hair as he worked himself into a sweat; it could be worse, but as it was, each tiny movement made Patrick want Sharpe all the more, made his cock throb and his toes curl. He was learning exactly how to use this weapon, and with a little spit and polish, it wouldn't be long before he could make Sharpe fire on command.
Teresa might have Sharpe's heart, the Countess his mind, but maybe, just for now, it was all right if Pat took charge of the care of his body.
END
(August 31, 2009)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, look_sharpe, sharpe_archive, rareslash.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe/Harper
Rating: R
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: In so many ways, Harper was learning to captain his Captain.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 August Film Challenge using Sharpe's Eagles as inspiration.
Captain's Command
By Galadriel
Maybe Harper still didn't know his Captain all that well, but he was beginning to tell snarl from growl, scowl from grimace. It was, he found, akin to learning the feel of a new weapon. Sharpe was as liable to go off half-cocked as he was to end up silent and jammed tight, but Patrick was getting better at divining the right measure of powder, the right amount of tamping and pressure that'd have Sharpe firing clean and precise and right on target.
But when he'd seen Sharpe eyeing up one of the boys from the South Essex, seen the desire in his gaze and in his trousers, Pat knew without a doubt that it was time for him to step in, take the bullet like a good Sergeant, and stop Sharpe from being cursed with the pox he'd surely get from such a filthy bugger.
Yet Sharpe had seemed more than a little taken aback by Pat's quiet offer, muttering something about Teresa and the Countess and duty and honour, but the fuse had been lit, and Harper left it to burn or fizzle. After all, who knew soldiers' desires better than other soldiers?
A handful of hours and a few swallows of Pat's best brandy later had the Captain shot through with courage; enough to have him following Patrick to his tent that evening, cornering him long enough to fumble with buttons and belts, silently stripping the both of them of any signs of rank.
The strength of his own need wasn't what caught Pat off guard, not even as he ran callused palms over warm hips, tugging Sharpe closer. No, it was the vial of oil Sharpe pressed into his hand a moment before he bent over, opening himself up for Patrick. Pat hadn't guessed his Captain was looking to be captained, but once offered, all the Saints weren't going to keep him from this sin.
He slid into Sharpe's heat like a ramrod down a barrel, slick and tight and primed for the assault. As Sharpe gripped him, Patrick groaned, his hips thrusting just that much further forward, working to gain ground through sweat and muscle alone. Sharpe was nearly silent, nothing but rasping breaths and harsh grunts accompanying his rocking hips and grasping hands. Pat leaned over his back, wrapping an arm tight around Sharpe's waist, listening for orders even as he took control.
Straining his ears, Pat thought he heard snippets of words slipping past Sharpe's lips, half-syllables that tripped off the edge of a sigh; rolling, open vowels suggesting curves and softness and long, dark hair; dainty names to go with daintier features. It was strange, knowing that even as he hissed and pressed firmly backward against Harper's invasion, Sharpe's mind and heart were somewhere else, trapped by the softer sex, chained to a notion of romance that could lead only to a bloody end on the battlefield.
Pat consoled himself that there was more than enough time to teach Sharpe to sigh his name, to be as present here as he was in any dressing down by Sir Arthur, any patrol behind enemy lines, any forced march in the wind and wet. And it wasn't as if there wasn't merit in the way Sharpe moved his hips, the arch of his back, the clench of his muscles, the darkening of his hair as he worked himself into a sweat; it could be worse, but as it was, each tiny movement made Patrick want Sharpe all the more, made his cock throb and his toes curl. He was learning exactly how to use this weapon, and with a little spit and polish, it wouldn't be long before he could make Sharpe fire on command.
Teresa might have Sharpe's heart, the Countess his mind, but maybe, just for now, it was all right if Pat took charge of the care of his body.
END
(August 31, 2009)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, look_sharpe, sharpe_archive, rareslash.