It was with a bit more care that he pumped his finger in Strange, and then added another. Strange’s arse clenched with every lazy thrust into Norrell, so Childermass had to time his own strokes to accompany the movement. It was no great challenge, and soon enough Strange seemed relaxed, and humming in enjoyment.
“This shall sting a bit,” Childermass said. “Spread your legs as you can.”
“I can’t do much,” Strange warned, easing his heels out a bit as Childermass helped take Norrell’s weight.
Strange was right, it wasn’t much, but Childermass judged it enough, and lined himself up. “Breathe out, sir,” he said, and upon the noisy exhale Childermass pressed himself forward.
The tightness was an old memory, intense as it ever was. Strange’s rasping breaths and the sudden stillness of his hips made Norrell blink at both of them. “Jonathan?” he asked.
“Give me a moment,” Strange gasped. “It’s just a bit larger than I had suspected.”
“Breathe through it,” Norrell told him, repeating Childermass’ advice as though it was his own.
Strange let out a shaky laugh, but he did seem to relax a bit. When Childermass judged him sufficiently unwound, he asked, “Shall we, Mr Strange, Mr Norrell?”
He did not wait for permission, but thrust hard, making Strange shout and thrust as well. Childermass repeated the gesture, establishing an unrelenting rhythm into Strange. Strange, following Childermass’ lead, was no longer quite as gentle in his movements, rocking into Norrell with a hard push that drove him back against the wall and made him cry out in shocked pleasure. Childermass watched, rapt, as Strange hunched over, kissing Norrell with fumbling lips as his movements sped. Norrell clung to him desperately, one hand even grasping at Childermass’ shoulder. His legs pressed to Childermass’ belly hard enough Childermass could feel when his toes began to curl. Each inhalation he drew rasped, and each exhalation was a high, helpless cry.
Childermass felt his own completion, which had seemed so distant for so much of their activities, suddenly drawing close. Strange was a desperate heat about him, shoving back against him every bit as much as he was thrusting forward into Norrell. He was panting hard, a soft counterpoint to the racket Norrell was making.
“Mr Norrell,” Strange gasped, “Gilbert, I can’t …”
Childermass knew the sound of a man on the edge of a fall, and reached between them, quick and smooth as an eel, to grasp Mr Norrell’s prick and jerk it with rough strokes. Norrell’s eyes went as wide as Childermass had ever seen them, and after only three hard strokes, timed to coincide with the deepest thrust inside him, he released a keening wail of pleasure. He shook as he came undone, and Childermass’ hand was slicked with his release.
As Norrell shuddered, Strange groaned loudly, and his movements became erratic. Childermass felt him spasm as he followed Mr Norrell down, and Childermass himself had to bite Strange’s shoulder, lest he shout the house down upon his own completion. His knees gave out and he slid out of Strange and to the floor, joined shortly by the others. They were each of them a mess, Childermass’ hair in wild disarray, Strange with an angry red mark upon his shoulder, and Norrell curled limply in Strange’s arms.
Childermass believed himself to be the first to come to his senses, for he realized as he sat there what a dangerous situation this truly was. That Norrell might react badly seemed to him probable, and Strange no less so, for one was married and the other prone to excitement. Childermass’ own mastery of the situation was in tatters. He had no notion how he might prevent Strange from leaving forever or Norrell from dismissing him in mortification.
His mind rushed through all possible solutions, each more dire than the last. If he could not prevent all ill-effects, there was a possibility of damage control.
Just then, Strange looked up at him, his eyes clear and his expression quiet. Norrell had looked at neither of them, but Childermass could see his mounting horror plainly in the way his hands tightened upon Strange’s arms. He noted only distantly that Strange was still inside him, though he was likely to slip out once he had softened sufficiently.
“Sir,” Childermass began, but had no idea what to say next.
To his great surprize, Strange smiled an ironical smile at him, and stroked a hand against Norrell’s hair. “Well,” he said, “I must say that the spell was successful, although its effects are perhaps too unpredictable to recommend its common use.”
“Mr Strange …” Norrell said, sounding most wretched.
“Mr Norrell,” said Strange, “do not fear. One imagines such occurrences are not unheard of in magical study, and I daresay a sight more enjoyable than other potential complications. We could not help ourselves, sir. I would hate to see our friendship dissolve itself over such a thing as this.”
Norrell raised his head, the momentary flash of disappointment upon his face concealed well by a surprize that looked like a pardoned man’s. “No,” he said, “I should not wish that either.”
“Excellent,” said Strange. “Shall I see you tomorrow, then? I find myself quite exhausted.”
“You are welcome to make use of a room here, if you’d care to,” Norrell said, then blushed as he realized that the implications of such an invitation had quite changed. “At least until we have found a means of retrieving your shirt and jacket.”
Strange blinked, as though he had quite forgot he had lost them to the magic. He cast a glance at the clear mark of teeth upon his shoulder, and fingers at his hips. Yet still he did not react poorly, nor comport himself in any way that might upset the delicate balance they had all established. “Perhaps that would be for the best,” he said. “And if we cannot summon my shirt, I would be grateful, Childermass, if I might make use of a shirt and waistcoat.”
“You may,” Childermass said said after a moment’s realization that he had very much underestimated Jonathan Strange, though he knew not how. Strange’s shallowness had seemed so clear to him that he had never imagined he might hide greater depths. His gratitude came forth in the offer, “And I can fetch you a bandage for your shoulder. I do not think I broke the skin, but it is best to take care of such things.”
Strange offered his thanks, but after that none of them seemed to find the will to move. Childermass thought that Norrell was savoring, committing the feeling and shape of Strange to memory, so intent was the expression on his face. Strange himself looked terribly fond of them both.
And Childermass did not know what to think, or how to respond. Remaining still seemed the best option for once, as moving would break the spell of hazy satisfaction which still seemed to hang about them. After a moment, he found Mr Norrell’s hand and took it without meeting his gaze. Strange’s fingers rested lightly upon the back of his hand after a moment, brushing with a steady rhythm that matched his fingers in Norrell’s hair.
Mr Norrell squeezed Childermass’ fingers, lightly but definitely. Childermass only just restrained the sight of relief, and very much restrained whatever other feelings might have accompanied that brief clasp. They would manage, if only through sheer stubborn determination that it be so. There would be challenges, not least of which would be removing the marks upon Strange to a sufficient degree that he might return to his wife without suspicion, but those could be met. They none of them, he thought, would get quite what they wanted, but they none of them would be left miserable either.
FILL: A Distraction (6/6)
“This shall sting a bit,” Childermass said. “Spread your legs as you can.”
“I can’t do much,” Strange warned, easing his heels out a bit as Childermass helped take Norrell’s weight.
Strange was right, it wasn’t much, but Childermass judged it enough, and lined himself up. “Breathe out, sir,” he said, and upon the noisy exhale Childermass pressed himself forward.
The tightness was an old memory, intense as it ever was. Strange’s rasping breaths and the sudden stillness of his hips made Norrell blink at both of them. “Jonathan?” he asked.
“Give me a moment,” Strange gasped. “It’s just a bit larger than I had suspected.”
“Breathe through it,” Norrell told him, repeating Childermass’ advice as though it was his own.
Strange let out a shaky laugh, but he did seem to relax a bit. When Childermass judged him sufficiently unwound, he asked, “Shall we, Mr Strange, Mr Norrell?”
He did not wait for permission, but thrust hard, making Strange shout and thrust as well. Childermass repeated the gesture, establishing an unrelenting rhythm into Strange. Strange, following Childermass’ lead, was no longer quite as gentle in his movements, rocking into Norrell with a hard push that drove him back against the wall and made him cry out in shocked pleasure. Childermass watched, rapt, as Strange hunched over, kissing Norrell with fumbling lips as his movements sped. Norrell clung to him desperately, one hand even grasping at Childermass’ shoulder. His legs pressed to Childermass’ belly hard enough Childermass could feel when his toes began to curl. Each inhalation he drew rasped, and each exhalation was a high, helpless cry.
Childermass felt his own completion, which had seemed so distant for so much of their activities, suddenly drawing close. Strange was a desperate heat about him, shoving back against him every bit as much as he was thrusting forward into Norrell. He was panting hard, a soft counterpoint to the racket Norrell was making.
“Mr Norrell,” Strange gasped, “Gilbert, I can’t …”
Childermass knew the sound of a man on the edge of a fall, and reached between them, quick and smooth as an eel, to grasp Mr Norrell’s prick and jerk it with rough strokes. Norrell’s eyes went as wide as Childermass had ever seen them, and after only three hard strokes, timed to coincide with the deepest thrust inside him, he released a keening wail of pleasure. He shook as he came undone, and Childermass’ hand was slicked with his release.
As Norrell shuddered, Strange groaned loudly, and his movements became erratic. Childermass felt him spasm as he followed Mr Norrell down, and Childermass himself had to bite Strange’s shoulder, lest he shout the house down upon his own completion. His knees gave out and he slid out of Strange and to the floor, joined shortly by the others. They were each of them a mess, Childermass’ hair in wild disarray, Strange with an angry red mark upon his shoulder, and Norrell curled limply in Strange’s arms.
Childermass believed himself to be the first to come to his senses, for he realized as he sat there what a dangerous situation this truly was. That Norrell might react badly seemed to him probable, and Strange no less so, for one was married and the other prone to excitement. Childermass’ own mastery of the situation was in tatters. He had no notion how he might prevent Strange from leaving forever or Norrell from dismissing him in mortification.
His mind rushed through all possible solutions, each more dire than the last. If he could not prevent all ill-effects, there was a possibility of damage control.
Just then, Strange looked up at him, his eyes clear and his expression quiet. Norrell had looked at neither of them, but Childermass could see his mounting horror plainly in the way his hands tightened upon Strange’s arms. He noted only distantly that Strange was still inside him, though he was likely to slip out once he had softened sufficiently.
“Sir,” Childermass began, but had no idea what to say next.
To his great surprize, Strange smiled an ironical smile at him, and stroked a hand against Norrell’s hair. “Well,” he said, “I must say that the spell was successful, although its effects are perhaps too unpredictable to recommend its common use.”
“Mr Strange …” Norrell said, sounding most wretched.
“Mr Norrell,” said Strange, “do not fear. One imagines such occurrences are not unheard of in magical study, and I daresay a sight more enjoyable than other potential complications. We could not help ourselves, sir. I would hate to see our friendship dissolve itself over such a thing as this.”
Norrell raised his head, the momentary flash of disappointment upon his face concealed well by a surprize that looked like a pardoned man’s. “No,” he said, “I should not wish that either.”
“Excellent,” said Strange. “Shall I see you tomorrow, then? I find myself quite exhausted.”
“You are welcome to make use of a room here, if you’d care to,” Norrell said, then blushed as he realized that the implications of such an invitation had quite changed. “At least until we have found a means of retrieving your shirt and jacket.”
Strange blinked, as though he had quite forgot he had lost them to the magic. He cast a glance at the clear mark of teeth upon his shoulder, and fingers at his hips. Yet still he did not react poorly, nor comport himself in any way that might upset the delicate balance they had all established. “Perhaps that would be for the best,” he said. “And if we cannot summon my shirt, I would be grateful, Childermass, if I might make use of a shirt and waistcoat.”
“You may,” Childermass said said after a moment’s realization that he had very much underestimated Jonathan Strange, though he knew not how. Strange’s shallowness had seemed so clear to him that he had never imagined he might hide greater depths. His gratitude came forth in the offer, “And I can fetch you a bandage for your shoulder. I do not think I broke the skin, but it is best to take care of such things.”
Strange offered his thanks, but after that none of them seemed to find the will to move. Childermass thought that Norrell was savoring, committing the feeling and shape of Strange to memory, so intent was the expression on his face. Strange himself looked terribly fond of them both.
And Childermass did not know what to think, or how to respond. Remaining still seemed the best option for once, as moving would break the spell of hazy satisfaction which still seemed to hang about them. After a moment, he found Mr Norrell’s hand and took it without meeting his gaze. Strange’s fingers rested lightly upon the back of his hand after a moment, brushing with a steady rhythm that matched his fingers in Norrell’s hair.
Mr Norrell squeezed Childermass’ fingers, lightly but definitely. Childermass only just restrained the sight of relief, and very much restrained whatever other feelings might have accompanied that brief clasp. They would manage, if only through sheer stubborn determination that it be so. There would be challenges, not least of which would be removing the marks upon Strange to a sufficient degree that he might return to his wife without suspicion, but those could be met. They none of them, he thought, would get quite what they wanted, but they none of them would be left miserable either.
They would manage.