☆ Round One!

[jsmn_kink]

Welcome to the first round of the Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Kink Meme at jsmn_kinkmeme!

Below are some basic guidelines to get started. Please make sure you also check out our complete Rules & Guidelines to minimise any confusion.

Guidelines:
■ Anonymously comment with your request – a character/pairing/nthsome, and a kink or prompt.
■ Only one prompt per post.
■ Fillers please link your fills in the Fills Post!
■ Have fun! :)

Keep in mind:
■ Any kinks welcomed!
■ The fill/request does not need to be sexual or porny.
■ Multiple fills are allowed.
■ Fills can be any sort of creative work: fic, art, song, photomanip, etc.
■ Beware of spoilers! Prompters and requesters are encouraged to warn for spoilers, but this rule is not enforced.
■ Warning for non-con, dub-con, abuse, slurs/language, and other potentially disturbing subjects is encouraged but be aware we do not enforce this.

Links:
☆ Current Prompt Post
☆ Mod Post
☆ Fills Post
☆ Discussion Post
☆ Misfire deletion requests

Comments

FILL: the duke of wellington's man (2/3)

[(Anonymous)]

De Lancey was thrusting now— not too rough; he was a gentleman, De Lancey. He was slow and deliberate, his face tense with pleasure. He seemed entranced by his cock disappearing into Strange's mouth. He stared at it. He kept whispering, "Good, yes."

"We have orders," Grant reminded him loudly.

De Lancey threw him a frustrated look. "I— hah, I know— just—"

"Perhaps you could escort Mr Strange to the bed."

He did not outrank De Lancey, and De Lancey would have been well within his rights to point this out. Instead he looked from Grant to Strange, and a look of resentment seemed to flash in his eyes. But he withdrew his cock slowly from Strange's mouth, stroking those tangles of hair, and gestured for Strange to follow him to the camp bed.

It was a spare, rickety thing— the Duke's own bed being located in a private alcove— and it creaked when De Lancey pushed Strange down on it. Strange looked from De Lancey to Grant, licking his lips. He was still in his breeches, though they were rumpled. De Lancey knelt to work at the buttons of them.

Grant touched Strange's hair where De Lancey had touched it. He said, his throat tight, "I would kiss you, but you'd taste like him."

Strange met his gaze, clearly stung and little challenging.

De Lancey said derisively, "Oh, really, Grant; you must learn to share." He was tugging Strange's breeches off, leaving his hard cock bare. De Lancey said, "At least he's enjoying it." He reached out and wrapped a fist around Strange's cock, and Strange closed his eyes. His breath hissed.

"We'll need oil," Grant said. "If you want him to keep enjoying it. I'm sure Lord Wellington has some."

De Lancey shot a defensive glance at him. But he released Strange's cock and stood reluctantly.

Grant sat at the edge of the bed. "Are you enjoying it?" he asked Strange without really looking at him.

"You wanted me to," Strange said. He pressed his mouth to Grant's shoulder. "Do you also want me to... ?" He gestured with one hand towards Grant's cock as his tongue traced a very small hot wet spiral against an area of freckled skin.

"No," Grant said hotly. Yes, he thought. That tongue around his fingers, insistently curious. God. Strange's mouth, drawing him in. His cock jumped. God. Yes.

De Lancey returned. He was carrying a bottle of oil. Grant did not ask why it existed. De Lancey said, "On your knees, then," just as though he were giving an casual order.

Strange slowly complied, but he he had begun to look uncertain. He glanced at Grant, and there was a message there: You? Please, you? Already, De Lancey was running hands over his hips, his legs; he pressed himself close and thrust against the flesh of Strange's buttocks.

"You're having both of us," Grant said shortly. "And he won't hurt you."

After a moment, this made him feel thoroughly ugly, and he touched Strange's face by way of apology. Strange reached up and grasped his hand. He held it very tightly. His fingers were still shaking. He was still holding Grant's hand as De Lancey spread his legs slightly and reached between them, and Strange let out a shocked, choked kind of gasp.

Resentful, De Lancey might be, but not unkind, and not uncareful, and certainly not with Wellington's magician. He went slow, working Strange patiently with one finger. Grant watched Strange's face, the strange expressions of pleasure and discomfort that seemed to collide on it; the moments when Strange simply looked at him with those wide eyes, and Grant did not know how to speak to him. When Strange squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head, Grant could tell that De Lancey had introduced a second finger. He felt— a terrible tension had built inside his breastbone. He lifted his hand helplessly and dropped it. He looked away— and saw Wellington watching from his desk in the corner.

Grant straightened his posture, turned his face neutral. He did not want to expose such sentiment. He withdrew his hand from Strange's, though Strange made a protesting noise, and went to watch as De Lancey slicked oil over his cock and began, very slowly, to press in. Strange was tight; it was not an easy push; but again, De Lancey was patient, though his face suggested a kind of unbearable agony of pleasure. Grant watched as inch after inch of him disappeared into Strange, until he was pressed flush against Strange completely, his hips giving little, convulsive jerks.

De Lancey seemed too overcome even to form words. He gripped at Strange's hips hard, struggling to stay still, swallowing mouthfuls of air. Eventually he said, "Oh, I can't, I can't—" and he pulled out a few inches and slammed back in very fast.

Strange gave a punched-out gasp.

De Lancey said, "Oh God, you're so— God," and he repeated the motion, sliding out and then driving back in. Grant could not seem to look away from the sight— Strange's body giving way before the push of De Lancey's cock. De Lancey's hands seized at Strange's hips. Strange was making a number of very small choked noises; he had lowered his head to his hands, and appeared to have put his fist in his mouth in an effort to hold the noises in.

Without really meaning to, Grant reached out as De Lancey was mid-thrust and pressed the flat of his thumb to the rim of that hole. He could feel the slick movement of De Lancey's cock under it, out and then in; the quiver of Strange's body, hot and straining. He stroked at those two wet softnesses— then once more, heavily, almost pushing, and De Lancey shouted incoherently, and Strange made a crying sort of sound. De Lancey thrust very, very fast for a moment, and then seemed to regain control; panting, he hissed, "Go away; you're going to make me finish."

"I thought that was the point," Grant said shortly, but he left De Lancey to it.

He went instead to where Strange had his face pressed against the bedsheets. His beautiful hands were still in fists. Grant touched one softly. He touched Strange's hair, careful not to snag the tangled curls.

Strange opened his eyes and looked at him. "Th—that was— you," he said rather indistinctly, then closed his eyes again as De Lancey thrust particularly hard.

"Yes," Grant said. "I'm sorry." He meant— he did not know what he meant, exactly.

"No, I— oh," Strange groaned. His hand opened and scrabbled frantically against the bedsheets. Grant reached out and covered it with his own, and was not surprised when Strange wrenched his hand into a trembling, iron-hard grasp. "Don't go," Strange said breathlessly. "Please don't—"

"I won't. I wasn't going to."

Strange pressed his mouth to the back of Grant's hand. It was a messy, open, ragged kind of kiss, but in spite or perhaps because of this, Grant felt an uncomfortable jolt of lust. He had to put his hand to his cock, press against it.

De Lancey, meanwhile, was in his final throes; he was shoving erratically into Strange, voicing the occasional, nonsense expletive. Eventually he bit his lip very hard and froze, his body racked with the tension of climax. When the moment had passed, he rode out the last small shivers, thrusting much more shallowly, before finally withdrawing. His body was glowing with sweat. He said to Grant, "Your go, then," collapsing into a chair.

Grant looked at Strange, who was still holding his hand. "I'm going to—" he said. Then, upon consideration, he lifted Strange's head up and kissed him. Strange made a surprised sound into it, and then a longer one of pleasure. This was so much what Grant had wanted to hear, without knowing it, that he brought both his hands to cradle Strange's face, stroking at Strange's cheekbones with his thumbs, kissing into his mouth with a singular, incoherent intent.

After a moment he regained his composure and pulled away.

He tried to arrange Strange in what he thought would be the most comfortable position— De Lancey had, in the end, probably without meaning to, hitched his hips up quite high— and smoothed his hands over the muscles of Strange's back. There was sweat there, collecting in the little dips of his spine. Grant wanted to take house in licking each of those dips, in touching Strange just like this, just so gently— but instead he did what he had to, and spread Strange's legs.

Strange, he found, was still very wet where De Lancey had spent, but Grant still troubled to smooth some oil onto his cock. This made everything so very very wet when he first pressed in— so wet and so hot, an unbelievable, I-will-die-of-it hotness, so that he could do and think of nothing else, and for a moment he was quite unaware of any sound he might be making, so completely eaten up was he by the intensity of the pleasure. It was a kind of pleasure that demands to be chased, and though he had meant to be careful, he had to helplessly chase it, burying himself again and again in Strange, grinding down in an effort to go deeper— and then he came back somewhat to his body, and had to force himself to turn his thrusts slow and shallow. He bent himself over Strange, mumbling into the skin of his back, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and then, because he could not help himself: "God, you feel, Merlin, you feel so good, you don't know, so good, so good," a steady stream of rather embarrassing nonsense.

Strange's hips hitched against his, and he reached around to feel for Strange's cock. He had not known what to expected, but it was hard, and he wrapped his fist around it, feeling Strange's whole body shudder and tense as he did so. The idea of Strange's pleasure— of Strange's pleasure while Grant's cock was in him— was so exciting that Grant had to still for a moment. Strange made a kind of whining, complaining sound at this.

Grant said, "Yes?" and thrust into him again, and the answer— Strange's dragged-out "Oh-h"— was exactly as he might have wished. He kept up this work at the same steady rhythm. He could feel when Strange experienced some very intense jolt of pleasure, for the entirety of his body went tense, and at this Grant could not help but groan.

He had not paid any particular attention to what De Lancey was doing, supposing him to have, as it were, left the game, so he was confused when he felt a hand touch his shoulder— then a hand removing his grasp from Strange. He looked up hazily, blinking, and saw it was De Lancey.

"The Duke says no," De Lancey said.

Strange said, not very coherently, "Noplease. Please."

"But," Grant said. He was not really in a fit state to argue. He was empty-headed with pleasure and soaked in sweat, and he could concentrate only on one principal goal, which was to pursue his climax in Strange.

"No," De Lancey said. He shrugged, as though he did not understand either. As though in consolation, he let his hand wander up Grant's arm, ghosting through the sweat on the skin, and Grant shivered despite himself and was acutely aware of exactly how close he was to that desired climax. He thrust, and Strange moaned under him.

De Lancey moved around the bed, and dropped to his knees, and pushed his hands in Strange's hair and kissed him. It was a long, energetic kiss, and Strange leaned into it. De Lancey slowly petted his hair, his shoulders, and Strange pushed into that as well, arching his back and making an indistinct sound.

Grant grimaced. But anger only made him want more, more now. His hips jerked of their own accord and he had to move, he had to drive forwards, and then he was deep, deep in Strange again, pushing desperately, shoving over and over into that heat, his breath catching and catching till he felt he was not breathing at all, and he slammed into Strange and spent and spent and spent—

When he came back to himself, Strange was still shivering beneath him. Grant extricated himself and looked up at De Lancey. He said, rather bitingly, "What would the Duke like me to do?" He cast a glance over his shoulder at Wellington's shadowy figure.

De Lancey shrugged. "Oh, you may finish him now with your mouth if you wish."

Grant urged Strange to turn over. Strange looked damp, exhausted, shaky. His cock was straining and very wet by this time. Grant could not help pressing a kiss to his hipbone. Strange gave a low cry, and Grant looked up at him.

"Merlin?" he asked. "Is this all right?"

"Please," Strange said rather despairingly.

So Grant lowered his mouth onto Strange's cock, gently restraining his hips, using his tongue to lap at the bitter liquid, then to trace at the lines and veins. It took very little time before Strange made a startled, hitched sound and, without any further warning, spent, but Grant had been expecting this and swallowed it down.

When he raised his head, he saw that De Lancey was still petting Strange's hair, kissing him in the same slow, concentrated fashion. But Grant found that he was simply too weary for anger. His supplies were depleted. He felt sad, and rather bitter, and as though the skin had been stripped off him.

He stood and picked his articles of clothing from the floor where they had been flung. He tugged his shirt over his head, and donned his breeches, aware that his entire body felt rather unclean, and in this state of undress regarded the Duke, who was still sat at his desk in the corner.

Grant said, "I take your point, sir. If I may be excused."

"You take the point," Wellington said, "but do you understand it."

Grant considered. "I may be needed elsewhere," he said rather unwillingly. "Or else I may— well, one never knows. I understand. It does not do to encourage dependence."

"Exactly so," Wellington said.

Grant said wearily, "If I may, sir."

Wellington nodded. He said, after a moment, "You are one of my best officers, Grant."

Grant sketched a bow and exited the tent. He did not even bother to don his boots; his own tent was quite close by, and he would have to bathe when he was there.

He did so slowly and dully, avoiding his reflection in the water. Mirrors made him think of Strange, and the childish, bouncing delight with which Strange regarded them. Or had done, anyway; there was no childish, bouncing delight in war, and they would have to wait till the end to see what of themselves remained.