Childermass had moved silently to avoid any embarrassment. He had not considered even the remotest possibility of being invited to join in. That was one particular vice he had never indulged, nor had he any inclinations to do so under such delicate circumstances. There were too many variables for which he could not account, and far too much in the control of magic rather than men. Whatever happened in this room would be a regret, he had no doubt, and he opened his mouth to say just that in the bluntest terms politeness allowed him.
He was not permitted to speak, however, as Strange took this as an opportunity, and pressed his mouth against Childermass’. Childermass did not move, his eyes meeting and holding Norrell’s surprized but intrigued gaze.
Strange had some talent at kissing, Childermass would own. He was persuasive, if a bit less forward than Childermass himself preferred. He found himself distracted by the wetness of it, and by Strange’s hands in his hair. He usually disliked such gestures, as they often led to tangling and discomfort, but Strange did neither, and Childermass found himself enjoying the fingers playing against his scalp. Jonathan Strange, to no one’s surprize, kissed like a gentleman.
With a growl, he reversed their positions to shove Strange up against the wall, insinuating his knee betwixt Strange’s thighs, and pressing up against him to kiss him as one who had never been and never would be a gentleman. He kissed him as he had kissed paramours in back alleys, under the dimmest lights they could find. He kissed Strange with a filthy abandon, his fingers digging into Strange’s bared shoulders, and Strange returned his gesture with eagerness and a shaky moan of enjoyment.
Then, just as soon as he had begun, Childermass wrenched himself back, and stumbled a few steps to a safer distance. He shook his head, but it would not clear. The rational part of him, normally the only part that was given any heed, was oddly muted, but warned of the magic of touch. It warned of regrets. He needed to heed such warnings, as they had saved his life many times in the past.
“Mr Strange,” he rasped, his voice having fallen to its lowest register. “I believe this is something better left between you and Mr Norrell. I need not be here.”
“No, of course you need not. But do you want to?”
Just a minute before, he had not. He remembered wishing to draw the curtains and then leave before notice. But standing there, he could not remember why.
“Childermass?” he heard behind him.
He turned to find Mr Norrell standing there, looking up at him with open curiosity. It was not a plea, but nor was it a rejection. He seemed, if anything, simply interested in what Childermass would choose. He was certainly not repulsed by the idea of Childermass joining them, which seemed quite odd, for a great many things frightened or repulsed him. For him to stand, fearless, and to look Childermass in the eye seemed both disconcerting and alluring.
Childermass knew Gilbert Norrell well enough to tell that a great deal of that fearlessness sprang from an utter incomprehension about what, precisely, was happening. This, infuriatingly, triggered some great and protective tenderness in Childermass that he enjoyed believing himself incapable of feeling at most times. But it was there, forever lurking beneath his mocking words and indifferent amusement. It was there in his inadvisable foray back into the library to guarantee his master’s safety from scandal.
He laid his hands against Norrell’s jaw, and then pressed his lips lightly to that small and familiar mouth. While he felt the greatest desire to debauch Strange, and felt no particular need to be gentle with him as he did so, he was overcome with the knowledge that Mr Norrell needed to be handled with greatest care. He felt Norrell’s fingers touch his jaw lightly, and then stroked up to his ears. Childermass groaned, tilted his head, and then allowed himself to kiss Norrell deeply and thoroughly.
He felt Strange press against his back, and his mouth fasten upon what little he could reach of Childermass’ neck. His hands were working the knot of Childermass’ cravat, and the tiny yet rational part of John Childermass was cursing the situation in language which would have made him blush even in his youth.
Both the rational and the irrational parts of him agreed that he needed to guarantee that he was the one in control of this situation, for Norrell had not a clew what he was doing, and Strange was not entirely to be trusted to handle him with the delicacy that was required.
So Childermass turned, putting Norrell between himself and Strange without breaking their kiss. Strange took this well, and reapplied himself to unbuttoning Norrell’s shirt, his fingers teasing the skin beneath and making Norrell blink up at Childermass in utmost desperation.
Childermass used the opening Strange was creating to stroke Norrell’s shoulders and chest. Strange was distracted by the sound Norrell made at that, and left off unbuttoning to run his hands against Norrell’s stomach. Norrell stood between them, utterly paralyzed by the doubled sensations. Childermass broke their kiss to press his mouth against the column of Norrell’s throat, and Norrell’s head fell back against Strange, allowing them to resume their own kisses. One of Norrell’s hands was tangled in Childermass’ shirt, while the other buried itself in Strange’s hair.
Without thought as to the consequences, Childermass went to his knees and busied himself with the buttons on Norrell’s breeches. Norrell realized what he was about and made a frantic sound into Strange’s mouth. Strange opened his eyes and watched Childermass with interest.
“Neither of you have any idea what you are doing, do you?” Childermass asked, grinning up at the two magicians, the look of startled fascination mirrored upon their faces.
“I say,” Strange said, “I’ve been married some years now!”
Norrell blinked, and a fleeting look of horror passed across his face that Childermass wanted to soothe away before it could take root. That particular effort would be greatly aided by shutting Jonathan Strange’s mouth, or putting it to better use.
“Right,” he said, and stood back up. Norrell said his name in distress, but it was cut off by his surprize when Childermass turned him and his half-unbuttoned breeches about to face Strange. He looked at Strange with a challenge in his eye and said, “Go on, then.”
Strange blinked. “Well,” he admitted, “I have little experience in this.”
“Then there is no time like the present to learn, sir,” Childermass said.
Provocation seemed just the thing, for Strange went to his knees with a glare and applied himself to Mr Norrell’s buttons. Norrell himself looked down at his pupil, hissed a gasp, and looked up at Childermass.
Childermass whispered, “All shall be well,” to him.
And then Strange got past Norrell’s breeches, pushed away his smallclothes, and Childermass was obliged to support Mr Norrell as Strange applied his mouth with all diligence. Norrell let out a quavering cry of shock, his eyes wide and frantic as he stared down at the sight.
Strange was not adept, as Childermass had suspected. More than once, his enthusiasm outweighed his talents, and Norrell winced at what was likely the application of teeth.
Childermass sighed, judging that this was not going as well as it ought, due largely to Strange’s eager incompetence. “It appears,” he said, pressing Norrell back to the table once more, and out of Strange’s reach, “that you are in need of teaching, Mr Strange.”
FILL: A Distraction (3/6)
He was not permitted to speak, however, as Strange took this as an opportunity, and pressed his mouth against Childermass’. Childermass did not move, his eyes meeting and holding Norrell’s surprized but intrigued gaze.
Strange had some talent at kissing, Childermass would own. He was persuasive, if a bit less forward than Childermass himself preferred. He found himself distracted by the wetness of it, and by Strange’s hands in his hair. He usually disliked such gestures, as they often led to tangling and discomfort, but Strange did neither, and Childermass found himself enjoying the fingers playing against his scalp. Jonathan Strange, to no one’s surprize, kissed like a gentleman.
With a growl, he reversed their positions to shove Strange up against the wall, insinuating his knee betwixt Strange’s thighs, and pressing up against him to kiss him as one who had never been and never would be a gentleman. He kissed him as he had kissed paramours in back alleys, under the dimmest lights they could find. He kissed Strange with a filthy abandon, his fingers digging into Strange’s bared shoulders, and Strange returned his gesture with eagerness and a shaky moan of enjoyment.
Then, just as soon as he had begun, Childermass wrenched himself back, and stumbled a few steps to a safer distance. He shook his head, but it would not clear. The rational part of him, normally the only part that was given any heed, was oddly muted, but warned of the magic of touch. It warned of regrets. He needed to heed such warnings, as they had saved his life many times in the past.
“Mr Strange,” he rasped, his voice having fallen to its lowest register. “I believe this is something better left between you and Mr Norrell. I need not be here.”
“No, of course you need not. But do you want to?”
Just a minute before, he had not. He remembered wishing to draw the curtains and then leave before notice. But standing there, he could not remember why.
“Childermass?” he heard behind him.
He turned to find Mr Norrell standing there, looking up at him with open curiosity. It was not a plea, but nor was it a rejection. He seemed, if anything, simply interested in what Childermass would choose. He was certainly not repulsed by the idea of Childermass joining them, which seemed quite odd, for a great many things frightened or repulsed him. For him to stand, fearless, and to look Childermass in the eye seemed both disconcerting and alluring.
Childermass knew Gilbert Norrell well enough to tell that a great deal of that fearlessness sprang from an utter incomprehension about what, precisely, was happening. This, infuriatingly, triggered some great and protective tenderness in Childermass that he enjoyed believing himself incapable of feeling at most times. But it was there, forever lurking beneath his mocking words and indifferent amusement. It was there in his inadvisable foray back into the library to guarantee his master’s safety from scandal.
He laid his hands against Norrell’s jaw, and then pressed his lips lightly to that small and familiar mouth. While he felt the greatest desire to debauch Strange, and felt no particular need to be gentle with him as he did so, he was overcome with the knowledge that Mr Norrell needed to be handled with greatest care. He felt Norrell’s fingers touch his jaw lightly, and then stroked up to his ears. Childermass groaned, tilted his head, and then allowed himself to kiss Norrell deeply and thoroughly.
He felt Strange press against his back, and his mouth fasten upon what little he could reach of Childermass’ neck. His hands were working the knot of Childermass’ cravat, and the tiny yet rational part of John Childermass was cursing the situation in language which would have made him blush even in his youth.
Both the rational and the irrational parts of him agreed that he needed to guarantee that he was the one in control of this situation, for Norrell had not a clew what he was doing, and Strange was not entirely to be trusted to handle him with the delicacy that was required.
So Childermass turned, putting Norrell between himself and Strange without breaking their kiss. Strange took this well, and reapplied himself to unbuttoning Norrell’s shirt, his fingers teasing the skin beneath and making Norrell blink up at Childermass in utmost desperation.
Childermass used the opening Strange was creating to stroke Norrell’s shoulders and chest. Strange was distracted by the sound Norrell made at that, and left off unbuttoning to run his hands against Norrell’s stomach. Norrell stood between them, utterly paralyzed by the doubled sensations. Childermass broke their kiss to press his mouth against the column of Norrell’s throat, and Norrell’s head fell back against Strange, allowing them to resume their own kisses. One of Norrell’s hands was tangled in Childermass’ shirt, while the other buried itself in Strange’s hair.
Without thought as to the consequences, Childermass went to his knees and busied himself with the buttons on Norrell’s breeches. Norrell realized what he was about and made a frantic sound into Strange’s mouth. Strange opened his eyes and watched Childermass with interest.
“Neither of you have any idea what you are doing, do you?” Childermass asked, grinning up at the two magicians, the look of startled fascination mirrored upon their faces.
“I say,” Strange said, “I’ve been married some years now!”
Norrell blinked, and a fleeting look of horror passed across his face that Childermass wanted to soothe away before it could take root. That particular effort would be greatly aided by shutting Jonathan Strange’s mouth, or putting it to better use.
“Right,” he said, and stood back up. Norrell said his name in distress, but it was cut off by his surprize when Childermass turned him and his half-unbuttoned breeches about to face Strange. He looked at Strange with a challenge in his eye and said, “Go on, then.”
Strange blinked. “Well,” he admitted, “I have little experience in this.”
“Then there is no time like the present to learn, sir,” Childermass said.
Provocation seemed just the thing, for Strange went to his knees with a glare and applied himself to Mr Norrell’s buttons. Norrell himself looked down at his pupil, hissed a gasp, and looked up at Childermass.
Childermass whispered, “All shall be well,” to him.
And then Strange got past Norrell’s breeches, pushed away his smallclothes, and Childermass was obliged to support Mr Norrell as Strange applied his mouth with all diligence. Norrell let out a quavering cry of shock, his eyes wide and frantic as he stared down at the sight.
Strange was not adept, as Childermass had suspected. More than once, his enthusiasm outweighed his talents, and Norrell winced at what was likely the application of teeth.
Childermass sighed, judging that this was not going as well as it ought, due largely to Strange’s eager incompetence. “It appears,” he said, pressing Norrell back to the table once more, and out of Strange’s reach, “that you are in need of teaching, Mr Strange.”