Work Text:
London, 1807
The rain had cleared in the afternoon, and the western sky was a pale amethyst, dirty with smoke. Richard Sharpe pushed his hands into his pockets, and felt the comforting bulk of twenty gold guineas. There was a small fortune in his pocket, and no one would take it from him. Sharpe was tall and strong, with a sword at his side, and he did not anticipate any trouble on his way home. Still, he scowled.
He had liked Brande, the Danish jewel-trader who had paid him so well for the pearl earrings from India. Had liked him a great deal. Sharpe's skin was still tingling, his muscles still stretched and aching, from the afternoon they had spent together, naked, on the faded velvet couch in Brande's rooms. Yet when Brande had asked him to stay, Sharpe had refused.
They had been sitting, more or less dressed again, on the floor in front of the fire. On the floor, because the chairs would have meant not touching, not leaning against one another. They had shared the last of the wine. Neither of them had spoken for a while.
"It's getting dark," Brande had said abruptly. "Will you stay?"
Just that. No expectation, no offer, just a simple question. And Sharpe, not even pretending to consider it, had said "No." Within ten minutes he had been on the street again, feeling the press of Brande's arm on his shoulder, aware that he had not behaved like a gentleman.
Not that he had ever claimed to be a gentleman, to Brande or to anyone else. A soldier in peacetime: a lieutenant on half-pay. Turning down Brande's offer without explanation or excuse.
And what had Brande been offering? Dinner, perhaps: more of the stewed rabbit from lunch. Friendship? A bed for the night? A hard, supple body against his own? Sharpe grinned at the memory, and a whore in a doorway thought to try her luck with the tall, fair-haired soldier who had such a rakish smile. She straightened her back and smiled at him, but he walked on without any sign that he'd noticed her.
Richard Sharpe thought that perhaps he should go back and ring the bell, explain that he'd changed his mind, ask to come in. But Sharpe's pride faltered at asking for a second chance. If he had more jewels to sell, he might return to Brande's shop tomorrow, or next week. But he had nothing more to sell. The pearl earrings had been his last memento of India.
...Pearls. Pearls clattering like musket balls on the wooden floor.
Abruptly Sharpe halted. The clerk walking behind him didn't stop quickly enough: he collided with Sharpe, already stammering apologies. Sharpe paid no attention. He stood for a moment in the busy street, staring unseeingly at the bright windows of the inn on the next corner.
He remembered the tall gilt mirror, the sheer enjoyment that Brande had taken in decorating his naked body with gold and jewels and pearls. The feel of Brande inside him: he still ached, but it was a good ache. "You want pearls? I'll give you pearls."
Sharpe knew what he wanted now. Knew how to get it, too. He turned on his heel and headed down a narrow alleyway, away from the crowds, into the night.
* * *
Johannes Brande ate dinner at the tavern across the street, the Spanish Galleon, almost every evening when he was in London. Tonight he did not want the noisy cheer of the tavern, and so he sat in front of the fire in his rooms, eating rabbit stew from the pot. He felt cheated, and did not like it.
He had paid Sharpe far more for the earrings from India than they were worth, even considering the workmanship. It had been a whim, a generous instinct, and he had not intended to put Sharpe in his debt. He had been poor himself, once, and didn't begrudge the money.
Nor did he think of the afternoon as any part of the transaction. Sharpe had responded to him enthusiastically, holding nothing back, as carnal and passionate as Brande himself. Even now, the memory of the other man's body against his sent a flush of arousal through Brande.
Why had Sharpe left so abruptly? Brande had enjoyed his company, and he wanted to see the other man again. Wanted to talk to him, share jokes, know him better. There was little chance of that. Sharpe had not told Brande much about his circumstances. He might be anywhere by now, spending his guineas on wine or women or a place on the mail coach. Brande did not even know where he lived.
He threw a rabbit-bone into the embers, and laughed ruefully at his own bad temper. There was nothing to be done. They'd drunk all the wine, but the tavern was close: he'd buy another jug of it and take that to bed. It wasn't worth building up the fire again, and he would sleep well enough tonight.
* * *
Sharpe lay between cold sheets, breathing deeply and willing his heartbeat to slow. He had taken off his heavy boots before entering the building, and now his feet were cold. The bed smelt of another man's body, but it was not unpleasant.
Sharpe slid his arms under the pillows and found the knife and the pistol there, tucked against the back of the bed. Should he put them somewhere else? Safer to leave them where they were, thought Sharpe: within reach for him, even though that was where their owner would expect to find them too.
It was very dark, but he didn't want to light the lamp. No point in alerting anyone to his presence until he was ready. The window behind the bed was curtained: it kept out the draughts, but it might not conceal a light.
And anyway, at last, there were footsteps, and the creak of a door. Sharpe released a breath that he hadn't realised he was holding. His muscles tensed, under the concealing blankets. Through the worn weave of the sheet over his face, he could see the glimmer of a single candle as the door opened.
In any ambush, the last minute was always the most difficult. This was no different. At any moment he might be discovered: only the rumpled bedclothes, and the sheer unexpectedness of his presence, kept him hidden now. He listened to the noises of buttons being undone, clothes cast aside, and bit his lip when distracting images came to mind.
Then the mattress dipped as the other man sat down on the edge of the bed: and Sharpe could wait no longer.
For half a minute after that, Sharpe had no chance to think. He wrapped himself around a struggling Brande, wincing as the other man fought him off. "Shhh!" he said urgently. "It's me. Sharpe. Don't ..."
"Sharpe," Brande said eventually, quietening under him. He had not even reached for the knife under the pillow. His arms shifted, simply holding Sharpe now rather than trying to throttle him or push him away. "Richard."
"Aye." Sharpe's breath was uneven. He leant his forehead against Brande's shoulder.
"Naked," discovered Brande, running his hands across Sharpe's skin. "In my bed." He did not sound distressed. Sharpe cracked open one eye and peered askance at the other man. The candlestick beside the bed cast a flickering light, but it was enough to show him Brande looking back at him, smiling.
"What on earth," he said, "inspired you to break into my rooms? Is the bell out of order?"
Sharpe knew he was being mocked. He didn't care. The other man's nightshirt was twisted up between them, but he was pressed against Brande from shoulder to knee, and the other man's skin was warm and welcoming against his own.
"Didn't want to disturb you," he said, grinning. " Drag you away from the fireside on a night like this."
"So you broke in."
"Didn't break anything," Sharpe said truthfully. His hand was flat against the jut of Brande's hip, and he slid his palm slowly up under the nightshirt. "But you should get better locks, if you've valuables in the place."
"And you come to rest, naked -" Brande ran an emphatic hand across the swell of his buttocks "- naked in my bed, just to advise me on security?"
Sharpe laughed, and tried not to arch up under that hand. "Why else?"
"Why indeed?" said Brande, breath hitching as Sharpe's thumb flicked gently at the gold ring through his left nipple. He tightened his hold, pulling Sharpe closer. "I'm glad you changed your mind," he murmured into Sharpe's ear. "I'm glad you came back."
Sharpe didn't know what to say. Brande sounded sincere, and the warmth in his voice made Sharpe feel worse about leaving in the first place.
"Reckon you'd be warm enough tonight without the nightshirt?" he enquired after a moment, both hands busily pushing the cotton up around Brande's shoulders. Sharpe did not wait for an answer. He twisted around and ran his tongue from navel to hip-bone.
Brande moaned and pushed up against him, and Sharpe grinned in the suffocating darkness under the bedclothes. He could hear the other man struggling out of the tangled nightshirt, and he leant his weight on Brande's hips and wrapped his fingers around Brande's erection and brought it to his mouth.
Brande gasped and jerked. His knee banged against Sharpe's shoulder, and the mattress creaked as he writhed under Sharpe's mouth. He was muttering something, but Sharpe couldn't tell if it was English or not.
It was a while since he'd had a cock in his mouth, but he hadn't forgotten: hadn't forgotten the way it stretched his lips, the trick of loosening his throat, the way the taste changed as Brande's excitement grew. He tightened his lips around the shaft, feeling his own prick hardening when Brande groaned and tightened his long fingers in Sharpe's hair.
"Here," said Brande suddenly, urgently, his voice rough: he pushed something cold and hard into Sharpe's free hand. For a moment Sharpe was confused, caught wrong-footed, and he almost drew his head back from Brande's pulsing cock. Then the smell reached him and he recognised what he had been given: the jar of liniment, already open.
The thought of what Brande wanted him to do sent another surge through Sharpe's cock. He jabbed two fingers into the cold, slick ointment, never losing the rhythm of his mouth and his other hand, and reached back behind Brande's balls. Brande swore when Sharpe's fingers pushed into him, but that was likely from the coldness: he was pushing back, stretching around them while he fucked Sharpe's mouth.
Oh, this was good ... Sharpe slicked three fingers from the jar now, and pushed them slowly into Brande's body. He was sprawled over Brande's legs, his erection rubbing against the other man's leg, desperate to put it where his fingers were rubbing and flexing. His thumb stroked gently over Brande's tightening balls, and that was it, Brande was coming, almost silently, spurting too deep in his throat for Sharpe to taste. His body spasmed around Sharpe's fingers and Sharpe moaned, imagining that burning tightness squeezing his cock when he made Brande come the next time.
He let go of Brande gently, cradling him through the aftershocks, and slid back up the bed to lie beside him. Brande reached for him without opening his eyes, and kissed him slowly. His hands moved down over Sharpe's body, caressing him, flicking nipples that were still sore from the afternoon. Sharpe groaned into the kiss. Surely his cock was hot enough to burn Brande's skin?
Brande's hand was very cold against it, cold and slick, and Sharpe swore: which made Brande grin as he stroked liniment along Sharpe's cock, every touch a torment. Sharpe was groaning continuously, mashing his mouth against Brande's, by the time the other man broke the kiss.
"Come on. Come into me." Brande's eyes were wide, and even the flickering candlelight conjured blue sparks from them. He was gloriously flushed, stretched out below Sharpe, pulling Sharpe towards, into him.
Richard Sharpe simply wanted to be inside the other man, to fuck him hard and deep until he couldn't hold back any more, to watch Brande's face go slack as his climax hit him. Sharpe forced himself to push slowly, to wait for the blazing tightness of the other man's body to relax around him, to nudge Brande's knees further apart gently, not to slam into him as deep as he could go. He was already so close, and Brande was so hot, pushing up against him, leaning up to kiss Sharpe passionately ... His hands were on Sharpe's hips, pulling him in, rocking into Sharpe's rhythm.
"Oh, God," Sharpe gasped, pulling back for air, shifting his hips so that almost every stroke hit that most sensitive place inside Brande's body. Brande was sobbing for breath, almost crying out, and the noise was arousing and alarming at once. He had to kiss Brande again, biting at the other man's lip even while Brande's teeth drew blood from Sharpe's own mouth, just to keep him quiet.
Brande's long legs were wrapped around him: Brande was pulling him into the kiss, pulling him in, holding him close. Sharpe reached for the other man's cock, but it was trapped between the two of them, and there wasn't room to wind his hand around it. Instead his fingers found warm metal, and he twisted the gold in Brande's nipple.
Brande's mouth against his own opened wider than ever, and Sharpe could feel the beginning of his orgasm. He leant on Brande, forcing his legs wider, trying to get deeper as the muscles inside Brande's body started to grab and clench around him. They were groaning into each other's mouths, blood mingling on their lips, Brande's semen scalding both of them.
Then everything seemed to stop suddenly. Sharpe hung over Brande, motionless deep inside him, staring into his eyes. Brande stared back as though he had finally recognised something in Sharpe's gaze. Neither of them moved. Sharpe couldn't, didn't, breathe. Every nerve sang with rawness.
He couldn't hold it any more. He slid out slowly, so slowly, each nerve in his body sparking against Brande's. Then in, fast, hard, endless: and time came back, he was gasping into Brande's mouth, panting for air, aching because he'd come so hard.
Eventually his breathing quietened, and he caught the rhythm of Brande's own breath. Like an old married couple, Sharpe thought to himself: and smiled, because this was so much better than the last time he'd been with a woman.
"Why did you come back, Richard?" Brande asked, hand roaming slowly over Sharpe's chest.
"To check your locks," Sharpe said, smiling at the other man. The candle was burning low, and there was a moth circling the flame. Sharpe leant up and blew out the candle. "Didn't I say so?"
"It's good of you to take an interest," said Brande dryly. His hand followed the planes of Sharpe's torso, like a sculptor he had once modelled for.
"Happy to help," said Sharpe. He was happy: happy to be lying in bed next to Brande, happy to be sharing a bed again. It was good to think of waking up next to a willing lover, good to have a warm body pressing against his own.
"And tomorrow?" said Brande. It was not a challenge, or a reproof. He sounded quite calm. His hand rested over Sharpe's collarbone, comfortably broad and heavy. "Will you be here when I wake up?"
"I'll stay, if you want me to," said Sharpe simply.
"Stay, Richard," Brande murmured against his ear. "Stay as long as you want."
Sharpe smiled in the dark. Maybe his pride hadn't let him ask for a second chance. He'd taken it anyway, never mind asking: and this time, this time he'd chosen right.
-end-