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intheheartTitle: Vows
Rating: R.
Summary: The war comes to an end.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexytimes, non-explicit wartime violence, sexist slurs, background prostitution.
Notes: So, "Napoleonic officers porn" turned out to be more like "Napoleonic officers have feels about each other and also there is some minor nonexplict porn." Hope you're not too disappointed.
A long thundering roll echoed out over the hill, and the guns fell silent at last.
The French guns had quieted before then, of course, but Zack took his duty seriously, and his cannon did not go quiet until the order came down. He stood in his stirrups now and squinted across the field, trying to make out the enemy amid the drifting shreds of black powder smoke and lowering dark.
Nothing. He hadn't expected there to be, but he couldn't help searching the dusk anyway, looking for a Frenchman, or a particular black horse.
And that... that was even more foolish, because Felipe wouldn't be back for hours, if at all. An exploring officer's duty began when the regular army's ended. He'd be out the night through, tracing the movements and the deployment of the French armies, weaving in and out of danger with blithe abandon.
Zack tried not to think about the danger.
What could he do? They were both soldiers. Men died on the battlefield every day, shot through the heart or stabbed through the neck, and if an exploring officer never faced the guns, he did face capture and the hangman's noose. Felipe, born in Portugal, fluent in Spanish and French, was safer than most; he could pass for a local, or at the most a displaced Spaniard.
Unless they found his uniform.
Which they would not, he reminded himself, because Felipe was intelligent, and quick on his feet. Zack would not survive a day in the French countryside, but Felipe, now—yes, he would. He would be fine, and he would return as soon as he had word.
Zack couldn't help worrying, though. The palms of his hands itched with it.
He rode back to camp and saw to his horse, then drifted restlessly to his billet, back to the picket lines, and finally to the officer's mess, currently residing in the local inn. It was full to the brim tonight, men shouting and laughing and telling raunchy jokes, the remains of supper scattered on the table and a few blowsy women draped over their current customers. Zack found himself a place on the edge of a bench and picked at a chunk of bread, listening.
"...and did you see them run? Frenchmen, ha, more like French rabbits!"
A shout of laughter, though it really wasn't funny, and someone else called out, "Care to go coney-chasing, Grattan?"
Lieutenant Grattan was one of the few with a woman on his lap; he smiled slyly. "It'll have to be tomorrow. I've fairer prey in mind tonight!" He pinched her bottom, and her squeal cut shrilly through the second shout of laughter.
Zack let his mind drift away again, while the bread dried out his mouth. Not so very long ago he would have been one of those shouting young men, giddy with joy after surviving another battle, hoping his few coins would entice a camp follower to warm his bed. Now he was—
Well, what was he? Had his lover been a woman, he should have called himself a settled man, perhaps by now a married man. But he was not a married man, and his lover was not a woman, and if they both survived this war, what then? Would Felipe leave his life as easily as he had entered it, with a smile and a wink and an easy heart? Or would he—could he perhaps stay?
Was Zack a fool for even considering it? This was wartime, and men did strange things when they did not even know if they would see another morning. Perhaps this—hands and mouths in the dark, breathless cries and skin slick on skin—perhaps that was only war, only the uncertainty catching at them both.
He thought of Felipe's smile, and could not believe it of himself. But he would not, could not speak for Felipe.
It was too loud in the mess, too full of self-congratulation and lust. Zack shook his head with a brief grimace, then snatched someone's glass of ale, drained it, and went outside, back to his billet where he could stand in the cool night air and smoke, and think of nothing at all.
He had thought it would be a day, at least, before Felipe came back. He had been out in the field for weeks, before. But Zack had been alone in the gathering dark for no more than half an hour when his lover appeared out of the night, his face weary but his eyes warm.
"There you are," Felipe said, and leaned in against his shoulder. He made a show of taking Zack's cigarillo from him and having a drag himself, but it was really just an excuse to touch, skin against skin, for a moment. "I went to the mess first."
"I was there for a little while, but it was too loud." Zack wanted desperately to put his arm around Felipe's waist, but he didn't quite dare, not even with no one around. "I didn't think you'd be back tonight."
Felipe shook his head and took another drag on the cigarillo. "I was only out for half an hour, and Wellington's not far from here." He paused a moment, then leaned closer, put his mouth right against Zack's ear. "The French are retreating down the Carcassonne road, and there are rumors that Napoleon has abdicated."
Zack stiffened. "Really?" he breathed.
"Rumors," Felipe cautioned, but he was grinning. "Do you have any brandy?"
"Inside," Zack said, and turned to go, mourning the loss of Felipe against his body. But that was only temporary, and inside...
Inside he pulled the door shut and pulled Felipe to him, mouth to mouth, his hand wrapping around the back of Felipe's neck desperately. Every time they parted it could be the last time, but if Napoleon had abdicated...
It didn't last very long—it never did after a battle, wound up and hungry for each other. Felipe's hand hot on his cock, Felipe's cock thick in his hand, skin burning on skin and the tight, begging feeling that caught him up until—
Until. Until they both grunted, one after the other, the only noise they dared make; until they spilled themselves over the other's hand, until Felipe pressed his forehead to Zack's and let his breath wash over Zack's mouth.
Zack closed his eyes, and thought about losing this, forever. He tightened his hand on the back of Felipe's neck, and blurted, "I want you to come with me."
Felipe blinked, and pulled back—not far enough to shrug off Zack's hand, though. "What?"
"If Napoleon has abdicated," Zack said.
"If."
He didn't roll his eyes. "Yes. If he has abdicated, then the war is over, and I want you to come with me. To England. To live. With me."
It sounded weak, and scattering, but Felipe looked almost awed. At his audacity, or at his meaning? "For how long?"
"Forever, with any luck." Zack said it wryly but he meant it truly, and Felipe must have known that, because he tipped up his chin and kissed him, slow, but heated. A good sign.
"It isn't a very good bargain you're making," he whispered, after. Perhaps not so good. "My family supports Napoleon, and I haven't any money, and everyone in England will think you've run mad."
Zack snorted. "I'm the heir to an estate and I insisted on joining the army. They already think I've run mad. Besides," he tried to keep his voice from turning tentative, "what could be more natural than two friends from the army living together?"
They weren't friends, though, and there was more than that—the idea of living together, of being together, when sex did not have to be fast and quiet, when they could make love instead of the quick fumbled gropings in the dark—when they could kiss, long and slow, wherever they wanted—when Zack could call him darling, and hold him in the sitting room on snowy nights. They'd have to find trustworthy servants, but it could be so good, and if he could only say all that then Felipe would come home with him, would live with him, if he could just make it clear...
Felipe wrapped an arm around his waist and buried his head in Zack's shoulder. Zack squeezed the back of his neck again, gently, reassuring. "It could be... you wouldn't have to worry for anything. I'd take care of you, you know I would, and we could be..." His voice failed him, because Felipe was shaking in silent laughter.
"You make me sound like your mistress," he said, when he'd got control of himself. "You don't need to convince me, I'll come, I'm just... surprised."
Zack frowned. "Did you think this was..."
Felipe shrugged. "You know some of the others—it's a game for them, until they get home to your wives. But you..."
"I don't need a wife," Zack said, "I've got you," and Felipe dropped his head to his shoulder and laughed again. "You know what I meant."
"I do," Felipe said, and suddenly it sounded not at all like an answer, but a vow.
Zack curled his fingers against Felipe's neck, against the soft black curls at his nape, and made a silent vow of his own.
Rating: R.
Summary: The war comes to an end.
Warnings: Non-explicit sexytimes, non-explicit wartime violence, sexist slurs, background prostitution.
Notes: So, "Napoleonic officers porn" turned out to be more like "Napoleonic officers have feels about each other and also there is some minor nonexplict porn." Hope you're not too disappointed.
A long thundering roll echoed out over the hill, and the guns fell silent at last.
The French guns had quieted before then, of course, but Zack took his duty seriously, and his cannon did not go quiet until the order came down. He stood in his stirrups now and squinted across the field, trying to make out the enemy amid the drifting shreds of black powder smoke and lowering dark.
Nothing. He hadn't expected there to be, but he couldn't help searching the dusk anyway, looking for a Frenchman, or a particular black horse.
And that... that was even more foolish, because Felipe wouldn't be back for hours, if at all. An exploring officer's duty began when the regular army's ended. He'd be out the night through, tracing the movements and the deployment of the French armies, weaving in and out of danger with blithe abandon.
Zack tried not to think about the danger.
What could he do? They were both soldiers. Men died on the battlefield every day, shot through the heart or stabbed through the neck, and if an exploring officer never faced the guns, he did face capture and the hangman's noose. Felipe, born in Portugal, fluent in Spanish and French, was safer than most; he could pass for a local, or at the most a displaced Spaniard.
Unless they found his uniform.
Which they would not, he reminded himself, because Felipe was intelligent, and quick on his feet. Zack would not survive a day in the French countryside, but Felipe, now—yes, he would. He would be fine, and he would return as soon as he had word.
Zack couldn't help worrying, though. The palms of his hands itched with it.
He rode back to camp and saw to his horse, then drifted restlessly to his billet, back to the picket lines, and finally to the officer's mess, currently residing in the local inn. It was full to the brim tonight, men shouting and laughing and telling raunchy jokes, the remains of supper scattered on the table and a few blowsy women draped over their current customers. Zack found himself a place on the edge of a bench and picked at a chunk of bread, listening.
"...and did you see them run? Frenchmen, ha, more like French rabbits!"
A shout of laughter, though it really wasn't funny, and someone else called out, "Care to go coney-chasing, Grattan?"
Lieutenant Grattan was one of the few with a woman on his lap; he smiled slyly. "It'll have to be tomorrow. I've fairer prey in mind tonight!" He pinched her bottom, and her squeal cut shrilly through the second shout of laughter.
Zack let his mind drift away again, while the bread dried out his mouth. Not so very long ago he would have been one of those shouting young men, giddy with joy after surviving another battle, hoping his few coins would entice a camp follower to warm his bed. Now he was—
Well, what was he? Had his lover been a woman, he should have called himself a settled man, perhaps by now a married man. But he was not a married man, and his lover was not a woman, and if they both survived this war, what then? Would Felipe leave his life as easily as he had entered it, with a smile and a wink and an easy heart? Or would he—could he perhaps stay?
Was Zack a fool for even considering it? This was wartime, and men did strange things when they did not even know if they would see another morning. Perhaps this—hands and mouths in the dark, breathless cries and skin slick on skin—perhaps that was only war, only the uncertainty catching at them both.
He thought of Felipe's smile, and could not believe it of himself. But he would not, could not speak for Felipe.
It was too loud in the mess, too full of self-congratulation and lust. Zack shook his head with a brief grimace, then snatched someone's glass of ale, drained it, and went outside, back to his billet where he could stand in the cool night air and smoke, and think of nothing at all.
He had thought it would be a day, at least, before Felipe came back. He had been out in the field for weeks, before. But Zack had been alone in the gathering dark for no more than half an hour when his lover appeared out of the night, his face weary but his eyes warm.
"There you are," Felipe said, and leaned in against his shoulder. He made a show of taking Zack's cigarillo from him and having a drag himself, but it was really just an excuse to touch, skin against skin, for a moment. "I went to the mess first."
"I was there for a little while, but it was too loud." Zack wanted desperately to put his arm around Felipe's waist, but he didn't quite dare, not even with no one around. "I didn't think you'd be back tonight."
Felipe shook his head and took another drag on the cigarillo. "I was only out for half an hour, and Wellington's not far from here." He paused a moment, then leaned closer, put his mouth right against Zack's ear. "The French are retreating down the Carcassonne road, and there are rumors that Napoleon has abdicated."
Zack stiffened. "Really?" he breathed.
"Rumors," Felipe cautioned, but he was grinning. "Do you have any brandy?"
"Inside," Zack said, and turned to go, mourning the loss of Felipe against his body. But that was only temporary, and inside...
Inside he pulled the door shut and pulled Felipe to him, mouth to mouth, his hand wrapping around the back of Felipe's neck desperately. Every time they parted it could be the last time, but if Napoleon had abdicated...
It didn't last very long—it never did after a battle, wound up and hungry for each other. Felipe's hand hot on his cock, Felipe's cock thick in his hand, skin burning on skin and the tight, begging feeling that caught him up until—
Until. Until they both grunted, one after the other, the only noise they dared make; until they spilled themselves over the other's hand, until Felipe pressed his forehead to Zack's and let his breath wash over Zack's mouth.
Zack closed his eyes, and thought about losing this, forever. He tightened his hand on the back of Felipe's neck, and blurted, "I want you to come with me."
Felipe blinked, and pulled back—not far enough to shrug off Zack's hand, though. "What?"
"If Napoleon has abdicated," Zack said.
"If."
He didn't roll his eyes. "Yes. If he has abdicated, then the war is over, and I want you to come with me. To England. To live. With me."
It sounded weak, and scattering, but Felipe looked almost awed. At his audacity, or at his meaning? "For how long?"
"Forever, with any luck." Zack said it wryly but he meant it truly, and Felipe must have known that, because he tipped up his chin and kissed him, slow, but heated. A good sign.
"It isn't a very good bargain you're making," he whispered, after. Perhaps not so good. "My family supports Napoleon, and I haven't any money, and everyone in England will think you've run mad."
Zack snorted. "I'm the heir to an estate and I insisted on joining the army. They already think I've run mad. Besides," he tried to keep his voice from turning tentative, "what could be more natural than two friends from the army living together?"
They weren't friends, though, and there was more than that—the idea of living together, of being together, when sex did not have to be fast and quiet, when they could make love instead of the quick fumbled gropings in the dark—when they could kiss, long and slow, wherever they wanted—when Zack could call him darling, and hold him in the sitting room on snowy nights. They'd have to find trustworthy servants, but it could be so good, and if he could only say all that then Felipe would come home with him, would live with him, if he could just make it clear...
Felipe wrapped an arm around his waist and buried his head in Zack's shoulder. Zack squeezed the back of his neck again, gently, reassuring. "It could be... you wouldn't have to worry for anything. I'd take care of you, you know I would, and we could be..." His voice failed him, because Felipe was shaking in silent laughter.
"You make me sound like your mistress," he said, when he'd got control of himself. "You don't need to convince me, I'll come, I'm just... surprised."
Zack frowned. "Did you think this was..."
Felipe shrugged. "You know some of the others—it's a game for them, until they get home to your wives. But you..."
"I don't need a wife," Zack said, "I've got you," and Felipe dropped his head to his shoulder and laughed again. "You know what I meant."
"I do," Felipe said, and suddenly it sounded not at all like an answer, but a vow.
Zack curled his fingers against Felipe's neck, against the soft black curls at his nape, and made a silent vow of his own.
