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Fic: Sharpe's Demon
Title: Sharpe's Demon
Crossover: Sharpe/The Prophecy
Pairing: Lucifer/Sharpe
Rating: NC-17
Author: Alex
Word Count: 1500
Warning: Whimsy.
Beta: the always excellent![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite.
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Note: My final contribution to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sons_of_gondor's Reflections: Fifty Days of Sean.
Summary: Some souls are more stubborn than others.
Seringapatam, 1799
*
The stench of battle drifted in through the window, a noxious compound of black powder, smoke, blood, and rotting flesh. Decay occurred quickly in Seringapatam, almost too quickly even for the ravenous vultures, who circled lazily before landing amidst the carnage, knowing their bellies would be well-filled. Richard Sharpe ignored the smells, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh caws of the birds. He was too busy shoveling in his dinner with one hand and fingering his new store of gems with the other. He’d already traded a small but very pretty pink pearl in exchange for an evening with an Indian lass, a gorgeous creature who’d bathed him thoroughly and anointed him with sweet oils. Good to know that commerce remained strong even in times of strife.
Sharpe scooped up the last mouthful of lamb and vegetables in a rich sauce and washed it down with a deep draught of arrack. He leaned back against the wall, belched contentedly, and closed his eyes.
“How’s the lamb, Dickie?”
Sharpe leapt to his feet, grabbing for his stolen sword and scattering a handful of jewels across the floor. He squinted into the darkness beyond the feeble light of his single candle. “Who’s there? Who the bleeding hell are you? Come out before I empty your guts on the floor!” His heart pounded like a sledge as a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and took a step forward. Sharpe had been eating and drinking blissfully for nearly half an hour without noticing anyone watching. “How long have you been skulking about there?”
“Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“Both of them,” Sharpe snarled. “But first I want you to get into the bloody light so I can see you.” The figure stepped into the candlelight. He was pale, bearded, with glittering eyes. He wore a black wool coat that reminded Sharpe of the succession of Methodist ministers that had paraded through the foundling home he’d occupied as a nipper. They’d been free with their fists, for all they’d proclaimed to be men of God. Sharpe scowled in instinctive dislike. “Get your hands up, you bastard.”
The man bared his teeth in a grin and raised his hands palm-out. In the dim illumination of the candle, they looked smooth, almost burnished. “What was the first question?”
“Who are you? And wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you.”
“Nobody important. A traveler. A thief. A beggar. A stranger in a strange land. Like yourself.”
Sharpe narrowed his gaze. “What are you doing in Seringapatam?”
The smile widened. “Collecting spoils. Also like yourself.” The stranger patted his pocket, then lifted his hand again.
The man was entirely too comfortable. By all rights any fellow with a keen-edged steel blade a handspan from his heart ought to be at least a little apprehensive. “Spoils, eh? Let’s have them, then. Go on – empty your pockets.”
“Ah. My spoils aren’t precisely what you’d call tangible. And even if they were, you wouldn’t be interested in them.” He began to sing off-key. “No glory I covet, no riches I want; ambition is nothing to me –“
“Shut up!” Sharpe hated when people used words he couldn’t understand. “Don’t be so sure of that. Do it. Now.”
The stranger shrugged, then obediently turned his pockets inside out. They were empty.
Frustrated, Sharpe jabbed the sword close to the man’s chest. “All right, where are you hiding them – up your arse?”
“Now there’s a thought,” the man said. “Don’t worry, Dickie. My pockets and my bumhole are both empty. Lucky you.” His eyes gleamed with malicious good humor.
Sharpe had had enough parleying. He stepped close to the stranger and rested the tip of the blade against the man’s throat. “Listen to me, you sodding bastard. You tell me how you know my name, and you tell me this instant.”
The man reached up and wrapped his hand, marred with blackened and broken fingernails, around the blade, and wrenched it out of Sharpe’s grip with no apparent effort and oddest of all, no blood. He laid his free hand on Sharpe’s shoulder and bore down.
The hand was hot, and felt as heavy as an anvil. Sharpe found himself on his knees, scarcely able to move, helplessly staring into the stranger’s brilliant eyes. They were blue, with flecks of gold that seemed to dance and swirl in the flickering light. Dimly, he heard the sword clatter to the floor, but couldn’t rouse himself to grope toward it.
“I know everything about you, Dickie. I know your mother was a prostitute from Cat Lane who gave birth to you when she was sixteen. Your father was a farrier, ugly as sin.” A laugh bubbled up from the stranger’s chest, and he put his lips next to Sharpe’s ear. “He had a tendency toward early completion, and most of your erstwhile brothers and sisters wound up sliding down the soft-skinned inner thighs of an assortment of London whores. You were the only one who took. Imagine that.
“I know you joined the Havercakes thanks to the efforts of Obadiah Hakeswill – not a personal friend of mine yet, but he’ll be in my pocket soon enough. I know he’s the reason your back looks like a plowed field. I know that you killed the Tippoo Sultan and stole that pretty red ruby you were fondling a few moments ago.” He stroked hot fingertips down the side of Sharpe’s face. “What I don’t quite know...Dickie...is why I can’t lay claim to you the way I’d like to. You’re not like the rest of the talking monkeys. You have all the makings of one of the hellbound, but you keep eluding me. Why is that? You haven’t said a prayer since you were five. You thieve and lie when it suits you. You’ve committed murder. And yet He seems to be saving you for some purpose. Ever receive a divine visitation, Dickie?”
“I haven’t the first bleeding idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll tell you this: no one claims me.” The words seemed dredged out of the pit of Sharpe’s belly. The man’s strength was terrifying, and his voice was as softly insinuating as a drift of opium smoke. And yet, rather than being frightened, Sharpe found himself enrapt. “No one.”
“Don’t wager your soul on it.” The stranger’s mouth descended on Sharpe’s, and it was sweeter than honey. His hand drifted to the front of Sharpe’s trousers, unerringly locating his stirring erection. Slowly, he guided Sharpe down until he was flat on his back atop his bedroll. He drew off the tattered red jacket, the worn boots, the bloodied shirt and trousers until Sharpe was entirely naked.
Sharpe knew he should fight, but that mouth felt so wet and soft and warm, and the sensation of fingertips brushing across his bare skin doubled, trebled, quadrupled, until he trembled and writhed under the stranger’s touch, crying out hoarsely. There were a hundred hands stroking him, a hundred mouths lapping at his naked flesh. At last he surrendered to the stranger’s hands with a deep, shuddering groan, shocks coursing through his body.
*
When he awoke, the stranger was staring at him. A thin moonbeam shone into the window, alchemizing sunburnt skin to pale marble. Sharpe gathered his shirt up and covered himself. “Thought you’d gone.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
Sharpe was confused. “Let you suck me.”
The man laughed. “I haven’t touched one of your kind in...in a long time. I’m surprised you survived.”
“Go on, you weren’t that good,” Sharpe snorted. “There were a lass in Sheffield who –“
“Shut up.” The man rose to his feet. “You’re right – I can’t claim you yet. Someone thinks you’re a soul worth saving. I have my doubts. You’re almost savage; I can’t fathom it. But I’ll be watching you. Open your hand.” Sharpe reluctantly put his hand out. The man pressed something hard into it, and folded Sharpe’s hand closed. “Think about it. I can give you riches...pleasures...power. You’d be most formidable in a different army.” He backed toward the moonlit window. “But remember – you’d be all mine. Body and soul.”
Sharpe frowned. He’d taken the King’s shilling; he was owned enough. “Not bloody likely. Who the devil are you, anyroads?”
The man grinned. “Exactly. Goodbye, Dickie. We'll meet again sometime.” The moon fell behind a cloud, and the room went utterly dark.
A frantic noise as of dozens of flapping wings arose from the window. Sharpe rose on unsteady legs and rushed to it, but the man had gone. Sharpe shook his head; bad arrack. Like as not he’d be sick for days.
The moon emerged from behind the cloud, and feeble light spilled back into the room. Sharpe opened his hand and gasped at the sight of a diamond the size of a robin’s egg. Stunned, he moved back to the window and peered into the foul-smelling night, but there was no sign of Sharpe’s demon.
End.
Crossover: Sharpe/The Prophecy
Pairing: Lucifer/Sharpe
Rating: NC-17
Author: Alex
Word Count: 1500
Warning: Whimsy.
Beta: the always excellent
kimberlite.Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Note: My final contribution to
sons_of_gondor's Reflections: Fifty Days of Sean. Summary: Some souls are more stubborn than others.
Seringapatam, 1799
*
The stench of battle drifted in through the window, a noxious compound of black powder, smoke, blood, and rotting flesh. Decay occurred quickly in Seringapatam, almost too quickly even for the ravenous vultures, who circled lazily before landing amidst the carnage, knowing their bellies would be well-filled. Richard Sharpe ignored the smells, the cries of the wounded, and the harsh caws of the birds. He was too busy shoveling in his dinner with one hand and fingering his new store of gems with the other. He’d already traded a small but very pretty pink pearl in exchange for an evening with an Indian lass, a gorgeous creature who’d bathed him thoroughly and anointed him with sweet oils. Good to know that commerce remained strong even in times of strife.
Sharpe scooped up the last mouthful of lamb and vegetables in a rich sauce and washed it down with a deep draught of arrack. He leaned back against the wall, belched contentedly, and closed his eyes.
“How’s the lamb, Dickie?”
Sharpe leapt to his feet, grabbing for his stolen sword and scattering a handful of jewels across the floor. He squinted into the darkness beyond the feeble light of his single candle. “Who’s there? Who the bleeding hell are you? Come out before I empty your guts on the floor!” His heart pounded like a sledge as a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and took a step forward. Sharpe had been eating and drinking blissfully for nearly half an hour without noticing anyone watching. “How long have you been skulking about there?”
“Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“Both of them,” Sharpe snarled. “But first I want you to get into the bloody light so I can see you.” The figure stepped into the candlelight. He was pale, bearded, with glittering eyes. He wore a black wool coat that reminded Sharpe of the succession of Methodist ministers that had paraded through the foundling home he’d occupied as a nipper. They’d been free with their fists, for all they’d proclaimed to be men of God. Sharpe scowled in instinctive dislike. “Get your hands up, you bastard.”
The man bared his teeth in a grin and raised his hands palm-out. In the dim illumination of the candle, they looked smooth, almost burnished. “What was the first question?”
“Who are you? And wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you.”
“Nobody important. A traveler. A thief. A beggar. A stranger in a strange land. Like yourself.”
Sharpe narrowed his gaze. “What are you doing in Seringapatam?”
The smile widened. “Collecting spoils. Also like yourself.” The stranger patted his pocket, then lifted his hand again.
The man was entirely too comfortable. By all rights any fellow with a keen-edged steel blade a handspan from his heart ought to be at least a little apprehensive. “Spoils, eh? Let’s have them, then. Go on – empty your pockets.”
“Ah. My spoils aren’t precisely what you’d call tangible. And even if they were, you wouldn’t be interested in them.” He began to sing off-key. “No glory I covet, no riches I want; ambition is nothing to me –“
“Shut up!” Sharpe hated when people used words he couldn’t understand. “Don’t be so sure of that. Do it. Now.”
The stranger shrugged, then obediently turned his pockets inside out. They were empty.
Frustrated, Sharpe jabbed the sword close to the man’s chest. “All right, where are you hiding them – up your arse?”
“Now there’s a thought,” the man said. “Don’t worry, Dickie. My pockets and my bumhole are both empty. Lucky you.” His eyes gleamed with malicious good humor.
Sharpe had had enough parleying. He stepped close to the stranger and rested the tip of the blade against the man’s throat. “Listen to me, you sodding bastard. You tell me how you know my name, and you tell me this instant.”
The man reached up and wrapped his hand, marred with blackened and broken fingernails, around the blade, and wrenched it out of Sharpe’s grip with no apparent effort and oddest of all, no blood. He laid his free hand on Sharpe’s shoulder and bore down.
The hand was hot, and felt as heavy as an anvil. Sharpe found himself on his knees, scarcely able to move, helplessly staring into the stranger’s brilliant eyes. They were blue, with flecks of gold that seemed to dance and swirl in the flickering light. Dimly, he heard the sword clatter to the floor, but couldn’t rouse himself to grope toward it.
“I know everything about you, Dickie. I know your mother was a prostitute from Cat Lane who gave birth to you when she was sixteen. Your father was a farrier, ugly as sin.” A laugh bubbled up from the stranger’s chest, and he put his lips next to Sharpe’s ear. “He had a tendency toward early completion, and most of your erstwhile brothers and sisters wound up sliding down the soft-skinned inner thighs of an assortment of London whores. You were the only one who took. Imagine that.
“I know you joined the Havercakes thanks to the efforts of Obadiah Hakeswill – not a personal friend of mine yet, but he’ll be in my pocket soon enough. I know he’s the reason your back looks like a plowed field. I know that you killed the Tippoo Sultan and stole that pretty red ruby you were fondling a few moments ago.” He stroked hot fingertips down the side of Sharpe’s face. “What I don’t quite know...Dickie...is why I can’t lay claim to you the way I’d like to. You’re not like the rest of the talking monkeys. You have all the makings of one of the hellbound, but you keep eluding me. Why is that? You haven’t said a prayer since you were five. You thieve and lie when it suits you. You’ve committed murder. And yet He seems to be saving you for some purpose. Ever receive a divine visitation, Dickie?”
“I haven’t the first bleeding idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll tell you this: no one claims me.” The words seemed dredged out of the pit of Sharpe’s belly. The man’s strength was terrifying, and his voice was as softly insinuating as a drift of opium smoke. And yet, rather than being frightened, Sharpe found himself enrapt. “No one.”
“Don’t wager your soul on it.” The stranger’s mouth descended on Sharpe’s, and it was sweeter than honey. His hand drifted to the front of Sharpe’s trousers, unerringly locating his stirring erection. Slowly, he guided Sharpe down until he was flat on his back atop his bedroll. He drew off the tattered red jacket, the worn boots, the bloodied shirt and trousers until Sharpe was entirely naked.
Sharpe knew he should fight, but that mouth felt so wet and soft and warm, and the sensation of fingertips brushing across his bare skin doubled, trebled, quadrupled, until he trembled and writhed under the stranger’s touch, crying out hoarsely. There were a hundred hands stroking him, a hundred mouths lapping at his naked flesh. At last he surrendered to the stranger’s hands with a deep, shuddering groan, shocks coursing through his body.
*
When he awoke, the stranger was staring at him. A thin moonbeam shone into the window, alchemizing sunburnt skin to pale marble. Sharpe gathered his shirt up and covered himself. “Thought you’d gone.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
Sharpe was confused. “Let you suck me.”
The man laughed. “I haven’t touched one of your kind in...in a long time. I’m surprised you survived.”
“Go on, you weren’t that good,” Sharpe snorted. “There were a lass in Sheffield who –“
“Shut up.” The man rose to his feet. “You’re right – I can’t claim you yet. Someone thinks you’re a soul worth saving. I have my doubts. You’re almost savage; I can’t fathom it. But I’ll be watching you. Open your hand.” Sharpe reluctantly put his hand out. The man pressed something hard into it, and folded Sharpe’s hand closed. “Think about it. I can give you riches...pleasures...power. You’d be most formidable in a different army.” He backed toward the moonlit window. “But remember – you’d be all mine. Body and soul.”
Sharpe frowned. He’d taken the King’s shilling; he was owned enough. “Not bloody likely. Who the devil are you, anyroads?”
The man grinned. “Exactly. Goodbye, Dickie. We'll meet again sometime.” The moon fell behind a cloud, and the room went utterly dark.
A frantic noise as of dozens of flapping wings arose from the window. Sharpe rose on unsteady legs and rushed to it, but the man had gone. Sharpe shook his head; bad arrack. Like as not he’d be sick for days.
The moon emerged from behind the cloud, and feeble light spilled back into the room. Sharpe opened his hand and gasped at the sight of a diamond the size of a robin’s egg. Stunned, he moved back to the window and peered into the foul-smelling night, but there was no sign of Sharpe’s demon.
End.
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“Go on, you weren’t that good,” Sharpe snorted. “There were a lass in Sheffield who –“ *laughs*
Writtem brilliantly, thank you so much for sharing!
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Thanks so much for commenting - I appreciate it!
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when I should be out exercising. I like the feral, appetite-driven Sharpe. Viggo is so strongly Aragorn/Frank Morgan/Walker Jerome in my mind I have a hard time seeing him as Lucifer, but I like his slightly amused frustration here. Sharpe is indeed a confounding character in that respect. :)no subject
But not even the devil can twist Sharpe. ;D
Thanks so much for the swell feedback!
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wound up sliding down the soft-skinned inner thighs
eeeee! lucifer is one of my favorite of viggo's incarnations and this pairing works beautifully. deftly done, my dear! i love your writing.
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Awesome , baby!! Fantastic work!
*hugs*
Anto
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(Anonymous) 2009-06-06 02:26 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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i'd love to see interludes progress between these two if the nuse ever strikes.
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I'm so very pleased you enjoyed the piece! I think you're right - twenty years and he absolutely would have known the score. :) I hadn't thought about successive interludes, but you've given me food for thought. Thank you, and thanks for the lovely remarks. :)
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This was all kinds of gorgeous. I really liked how you portrayed Sharpe, first and foremost. I love that he is slightly unpleasant, not at all "noble" in his behaviour or in his language and that yet from the start there is something in his actions that show us so clearly why the devil has his problems with him. It makes him so likable that he can still enjoy the little things, that maybe he seems a bit egoistic at the beginning when he's having dinner while other people are dying, but that really he is just realistic and quite down to earth and all that. And yeah, he has a liking for gems and the lasses but it's nothing close to an obsession or anything.
And then Lucifer. God, he's gorgeous. I think what I liked best was his monologue. I don't really go for those in fics all that often because one person talking for such a long time hardly ever works. But it was perfect here - we feel just as enthralled as Sean does. And the way he retells Sharpe's life, all that subtle blasphemy mixed with this so likeable humour - and Sharpe's reaction to him is pure gold as well, he does react (and strongly so) but he isn't gonna be nice and proper about it.
I really, really enjoyed this :). Thank you for sharing!
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Thanks for mentioning the monologue! I totally agree with you; they almost never work. Usually they're pretty contrived. But I hoped this would be okay because hey, it's the Devil, and he'd be pretty mesmerizing for any length of time, I'd bet, and slightly hypnotic, I'd hoped. So I'm thrilled it worked for you.
I'm absolutely delighted you enjoyed the piece. Thanks very much indeed for your thoughtful comments. :)
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love it in all its tawdry glory
Hah - excellent way to put it. Thanks for your thoughtful comments - they are most appreciated!
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Loved the singing off-key and the tone of this, with young, wild Sharpe, which was perfect.
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I'm so glad you enjoyed the story and its tone! Thanks so much for letting me know. *hug*
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permission to translate your fic
These two are good together, Sharpe and the Dark One. Unexpected, though. I had a flashback to an old novel called "The Monk" by Matthew Gregory Lewis. Both texts are highly symbolic. I agree that the Lucifer would enjoy company of Sharpe, but cannot claim his soul.
After watching "Frankenstein" with Benedict Cumberbatch, I had tried to read "The Monk" visualizing Benedict as the Monk. So far the experience was strange. The whole thing turned out to be too grotesque to be believable. I decided to treat it as a daydreaming of an honest monk in his grotto - just like "Alice in Wonderland". Perhaps I should do it again - with Viggo as Lucifer. Anyway...
...may I ask your permission to translate your fic to Russian, please? You will get the link once it is ready. I will translate it myself and ask couple of friends to beta it. I can also translate the readers comments for you, if you wish. The publication will contain link to the original text in the header for those, who prefer original.
I have checked the web. Nobody had attempted it yet, it seems. If someone had asked you, and got permission - please let me know.
RE: permission to translate your fic
I've never ever heard of "The Monk" but I saw that Amazon had a free download, so I snapped it up. Thank you. I wouldn't mind visualizing Benedict as a monk. Yum. :D
Certainly you may translate it. I'd love the link when you're through, and I'd love to see the comments as well! That's very nice of you to offer. Thanks again!
Re: permission to translate your fic
Re: permission to translate your fic
Re: permission to translate your fic
translation into Russian
comments (1)
comments (2)
comments (3)
comments (4) + visuals
bonus
RE: bonus
Re: RE: bonus
translation of "Sharpe's Demon" is now on AO3
Re: translation of