(no subject)

[le_russe_satan]

Title: 'Briefing'
Rating: R/NC-17
Pairing: Sharpe/Wellington
A/N: For latin_cat , who I hope enjoys it. :)

 

It was embarrassing to say the least. Also indecent, unlawful and downright wrong. He already came up with numerous reasons for why exactly it was happening to him; it’s not like he was in a middle of a briefing or anything. Besides, he stopped paying attention to it quite a while ago. The moment it started in fact.

Arthur was due to attend a ball that night. So was a certain French spy. Hogan had a Plan, which Arthur hated more and more because it involved dressing Sharpe up in an aide-de-camp’s uniform. They borrowed it from Gordon. Another huge mistake. While the jacket fitted him well, the white evening breeches and the silk stockings were ... tight. He could clearly see the barest shift of Sharpe’s thigh and calf muscles. And Sharpe was shifting a lot, plainly feeling uncomfortable in his ‘new’ uniform. The shifts were what was keeping Arthur’s cock ragingly hard. That and his imagination, that had for some reason decided a briefing concerning delicate affairs of the war was precisely the right moment to go wild. It was the fact that Sharpe dropped the maps that Hogan made him carry and had to bloody well bend over to pick them up, giving Arthur more than a good view of his arse that actually set the whole thing off. The breeches hid absolutely nothing.

Arthur squirmed in his chair and glared hard at Hogan, who was throwing worried glances at him. Hogan squirmed a little too, but obviously not for the same reason as Arthur. Thank God for small mercies, thought Arthur, somewhat disgusted, and his erection abated. A little.

Arthur stole a glance at Sharpe, who was licking his lips nervously and barely suppressed a groan. What he would give to have that tongue sliding over his...  God, damn it!

The room suddenly went still and quiet.

‘Sir?’ asked Hogan somewhat tremulously. ‘Is everything alright?’ So apparently he just said that out loud.

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Arthur irritably. ‘Keep going, Hogan.’ The major cleared his throat.

‘I am actually done, my lord.’ In his peripheral vision Sharpe looked suspiciously like he was trying not to grin. Damn the man! Did he have to look like that? So annoyingly tall and handsome and strong... Oh, yes, no doubt he could easily lift Arthur onto his desk... This time Arthur actually did groan: his cock didn’t twitch, it jerked at the image.

There were concerned mutterings emanating from Hogan, but Arthur just covered his face with his hands and told them to get out: there was no way he could come out of this encounter with even a shred of dignity left intact.

The door closed behind the two officers and Arthur got up slowly, his breeches almost painfully tight around his swollen member.  He was going to just nip into his bedroom and take care of his problem the old-fashioned and the only available way.  Of course he didn’t count on Sharpe barrelling into him the moment he opened the door.

They fell onto the floor in a tangle of limbs, Sharpe’s body heavy and hot against his own.

‘I f-forgot my hat, sir,’ breathed out Sharpe, his breath ghosting over Arthur’s lips, and there was no way the man had missed the hardness that was currently pressing into his thigh. Life was just cruel like that.

While a part of Arthur’s brain was trying to come up with a scathing retort or at the very least a command for Sharpe to get the hell off him, his body, - apparently busy reliving those days when even a naked ankle could arouse it, - decided that Sharpe’s thigh was moving like that, - oh, God, just like that, - not because the man wanted to get up. To his shame, Arthur’s hips bucked upwards. Dignity? What was that again?

It turned out that Sharpe was in fact in collusion with his body when he deliberately pressed his thigh against Arthur’s cock, ignoring the glare Arthur was giving him. Not that it was easy to glare convincingly when your whole face was flushed, lips parted in invitation and hips beginning to buck shamelessly. Yes, it was definitely easy to see how Sharpe could have mistaken his customary icy glare for a ‘fuck me right now, damn you’ one.

Sharpe kissed him: a dirty, open-mouthed kiss, tongue easily invading his mouth. Arthur moaned. Restraint? Who was the idiot who came up with that concept?

Something nagged at him as he wrapped his legs around Sharpe’s waist, kneading the man’s arse shamelessly: he was ever so glad to have long fingers... ‘Door,’ he managed as they came up for air. And yes, Sharpe was definitely strong, and, God, he’d never be able to keep this image out of his mind, because he stood up with Arthur still wrapped around him, shut the door with his foot and slammed him against it, only then turning the key. As it clicked so did something in his brain.

‘Desk.’ Sharpe’s eyes were dark and wide with lust as he stared at him, trying to comprehend what Arthur meant. Arthur licked his lips, not missing the way Sharpe’s gaze followed his tongue. ‘On the desk.’ And in moments he was just there, papers flying onto the floor as they scrambled to clear some space. He groaned as Sharpe finally freed him of his clothes, most importantly breeches, and watched with fascination as Sharpe undressed himself, a predatory glint all too clear in the green eyes. Arthur tightened the hold his legs had on Sharpe and growled:

‘Fuck me right now, damn you.’ And of course Sharpe complied because there was no way you made your General sit through a briefing with an erection and escaped scot free.