jsmn_kinkmeme | ☆ Round One!

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☆ Round One!

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

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Touching, cuddling, anything and everything. I just need them being sweet and needy together.

Yesssss. This!

How much post-finale could it be? Because I have a super cuddly/needy (seriously, this is the sweetest thing I've written in my life) little ficlet shaping up that seems to be exactly what you want, except it takes place 20 years into their travels.

A!A here - I am totally open to any and all time frames for this prompt. Two minutes after the final or 20 years - doesn't matter to me at all. I would love, love, love to read your fic - please post it!

Gilbert Norrell was adept at several things, but perhaps the greatest of these was denying any and all emotions that might lead him to unpleasantness. It was with this desire to avoid pain in mind that he had willfully and stoically ignored any and all feelings for Jonathan Strange that might extend beyond the most fraternal. To be Strange’s friend and companion was all he could stretch his imagination to accept, so the fact that this particular fate was more agreeable than he ever could have hoped seemed to him simply the product of two minds meeting in the joys of academia.

One night (for it was always night), they found themselves in a wood that even their Pillar of Darkness could not greatly effect. The light of the place was supplied not solely by a sun, if indeed that world had such a thing, but also by the flowers and the trees. These continued to glow quite cheerfully even when the sky above was blackened and filled with the alien stars that followed Strange and Norrell wherever they went.

The light produced by the plant life was bright enough that they had no need of candles or light spells, and instead found themselves tucked at the base of a great, smooth tree, with roots like geometric steps and leaves of shining pinkish light. They perched on the greatest of the roots, which seemed to them as the perfect small chairs, and set their books upon the shelves of the smaller roots. Even Norrell, who disliked going outdoors as a matter of principle, curled up quite happily at Strange’s side.

This world seemed young to Norrell, and potentially uninhabited. No animals were to be seen, nor even insects. The wood was pristine, with a low and springy undergrowth that did not tangle the feet. There were pools dotted about, small and luminously reflective, and they lapped at their banks gently in the slight breeze that stirred the wood. At one point, the wind picked up and some dozen leaves were blown off the nearby trees, to break apart into showers of glittering light. Strange had let out a noise of utmost joy at the sight, and had taken Mr Norrell’s hand in his to draw his attention to the spectacle.

They had remained in this position as they watched other trees stir, followed by other other bursts of light. When they at last released one another, Strange pressed his shoulder more firmly to Norrell’s. They were always pressed together in this way when they sat together, for they had observed after some years in the Darkness that any ominous or melancholy feeling engendered by the Pillar was lessened considerably when they were in contact. Norrell suspected it was some component of the spell, but could not entirely dismiss the notion that he simply found Strange’s physical presence a comfort.

Norrell would own that this world, with its trees of light and its little pools, was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. Stranger remarked upon the beauty of virtually every land in Faerie, no matter how foul, but in this world Strange remained silent, and Norrell delighted in this newly woken place.

After a time observing their surroundings, the two English magicians at last resolved themselves to read. It is likely they engaged in this occupation over the course of some hours, but it could have been days, for in the darkness, there was very little concept of time. They used candles to tell time, when they remembered, having judged that a single candle of particular size was the closest thing they had to the marker of a day.

They did not, however, remember to do this consistently, and so had lost track of a great amount of time. They found, with no great surprize, that the spell allowed many candles to burn down before either of them felt the need for food or water or sleep, which served to muddy their sense of time even further. Norrell had long ago decided that such trivialities as days and years did not matter when he had such amiable company and such a delightful occupation. Strange, however, did occasionally find himself vexed when he realized he was not certain how many years had passed in their travels. He had a better sense of it than Norrell, certainly, but that was not saying much.

But in that young world, in which they were the first and only beings to tread, even Strange cared not for the time they passed. They spoke in turns, relaying information or discussing particular points raised in their respective books. Strange pointed out something in his copy of Belasis, touching Mr Norrell’s hand as he did so, and then leaving his hand where it rested even after he had done speaking. That, too, had become familiar to them, and Norrell found it very pleasing indeed to feel Strange’s warmth from his hand all the way down his back.

It might be assumed by some astute readers that the intentions of the two men ought to be obvious, at least to themselves. For even friends in dire circumstances did not spend decades pressed to one another. Mr Norrell, however, knew nothing of the sort. He was a stubborn creature, and was still very willing to ignore the implications of his actions and his preferences. Even in that twilit world of pools and luminous trees, as he read out a particularly enlightening passage regarding the city of Seven, and Strange leaned over his shoulder to read it as well, he thought nothing of leaning back to tuck himself against Strange’s chest. He certainly did not think such an action to be odd. Strange was his friend, dearest and most cherished in all the worlds. Why should he not enjoy his presence?

Strange shifted a bit, setting his book upon one of the lower roots and moving one leg so that his knees bracketed Norrell. Norrell took this as a kindness, and settled back against Strange more comfortably. They resumed reading together, and remarking upon the text, for it was the History of Seven, and as such it was a most obscure and difficult volume.

“It would be easiest,” Strange said, and his words were a pleasant hum in Norrell’s ear, “if we were to simply go to Seven and behold it for ourselves.”

“It would,” Norrell agreed, “but for the fact that we do not know where Seven might be found, or if it is still to be found at all.”

“Is there any indication in the text itself that might help us locate it?”

“None that I have found, and I have read this book several times.”

“It is damnably difficult to steer the Pillar, even when we do know where we should like to go,” Strange grumbled. It was a perpetual disappointment to him that they had so little control over their destinations, for there were many lands mentioned in their books that they would both like to visit.

“We shall find Seven eventually, I am sure,” Norrell said. “We have time.”

They had not discussed this directly, not once in what Norrell suspected to be better than a decade of wandering together, but they both knew it to be true that they were not ageing as they ought. Their hair had grown only a few inches in the past decade, leaving Strange disheveled enough he was obliged to tie his hair back, while Norrell’s had grown into the fluff of brown he remembered with no great fondness from his youth (his wigs had long since been lost, eaten, or otherwise destroyed). They had gained no new wrinkles, had neither of them gone grey, and had every expectation that they would do neither of those things for the rest of the hundred years they might remain within the Pillar.

And yet, in spite of the long years stretched out before them, Norrell could not regret it. For he had Strange, and his books, and his home. He had their travels and their discoveries. And he had their magic. For just as the Pillar had great difficulty discerning one of them from the other, so too did their magic, so that bits of Strange’s wild magic had grown into him, and pieces of his orderly and sensible magic had grown into Strange. They had found, with no great surprize, that spells meant for two magicians were not only easy for them, but incredibly effective, and they had begun some years before to modify many of their most used spells to accommodate two casters.

It had not been the end Norrell had anticipated all those years ago when he had brought the stones of Yorkminster to life. He had dreamed of restoring English magic, and finally earning the respect of those around him for his hard work and ingenuity (and perhaps exacting just the smallest amount of revenge against his worst critics, the ones who would laugh at him and call him ‘charlatan’), and yet he had done none of those things. Perhaps he had restored English magic, although he was not certain how he had done it. But he had certainly no more respect or revenge now than when he started. What he did have, and what he had not realized was all he truly wanted, was the company of Jonathan Strange.

Said company proved more than agreeable tucked under a tree of pink light and geometric roots. Strange was in the habit of reading the most difficult parts of books aloud, as though speaking them might render them sensible. He did so quite often when reading the History of Seven, and Norrell allowed his eyes to close and the vibrations of those words to shiver against his back and his hair. Yes, this was all he could want and more. He would not tire of it, even when Strange was at his most vexing, for he was there, and he was safe. And after Strange did something foolish, or cast something dangerous, Norrell would fret and they would argue, and then after a few days they would return to this state of peace and enjoyment.

He would not admit to himself that this was everything he had imagined a marriage to be, nor would he name what they had between them in that term. It would upset Mr. Strange, he was certain, and in any case, they were two gentlemen. Such an arrangement could not be a marriage, but a necessitated comfort and convenience of their situation.

Strange asked him about one of the more esoteric passages, and Norrell turned his head to answer, and to steal a glimpse of Strange’s perplexed and fascinated expression. In close, he could see how the eternal night had washed away any tan Strange’s skin might have once possessed, and how the lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened a little over the years. He wondered about his own, but imagined the opposite, for he had never felt so light and so carefree as this. Why would lines appear upon him in this state?

Whatever he said in response (for indeed he could not recall the specifics) seemed to please Strange, who laughed and looked down at Norrell. Norrell continued to look up at him, quite content to ignore the text for a moment.

“It is a wondrous strange world we have found here, is it not?” Strange asked.

“I should think it the most peaceful place I have ever seen,” Norrell agreed.

Strange felt silent for some time, and after a bit, Norrell decided to begin reading again. But even as he raised the book, Strange lightly ruffled Norrell’s hair. Norrell closed his eyes and enjoyed it. Strange tended to be tactile, but this was perhaps more than usual. Still, Norrell had no intention of complaining. Strange’s hand, still in his hair, set to stroking it back along one side, brushing against Norrell’s ear with his fingertips as he did so.

After a time, with one hand still stroking Norrell’s hair and the other resting lightly upon the book they read together, he said, “I realized the other day that I have never thanked you. I know you’ve had little choice in your presence here, but I am grateful even so. I do not think I would have survived these twenty years without you at my side.”

“Twenty? I had thought it only ten.”

Strange sounded unaccountably fond. “Indeed not, sir.”

“Oh dear. I shall have to pay more attention.”

“It is quite all right.”

Norrell knew he should say more. Something was happening here, and he was not certain what it might be. But something was certainly expected of him. He gathered his thoughts and his words together and said, “You need not thank me, Mr. Strange, for I find our fate to be quite enjoyable. Moreso, I fear, than ever you have.”

Even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. He did not mention Strange’s wife as a matter of course, nor did he mention the long years that now separated them in both time and age. Strange’s hand stilled upon his hair, but did not draw back.

“When we set out,” Strange said, quiet but fervent, “everything was such a wonder. The places we saw were beyond anything I had ever imagined. Yet I felt guilt at every turn, for I did not believe I should enjoy myself. I felt I should be searching with every fiber of my being for a means of dispelling the Pillar and returning to England. But as the years passed, I could not maintain that drive. There was so much to see, and to learn, and the magic we have done has been most extraordinary. To have all that, and yet persist in misery, seems to me the height of ingratitude.”

“It is not,” Norrell said. “You have lost a great deal.”

“And I have gained a great deal.” Strange’s hand resumed its movements, and his thumb rubbed across the sparse hairs at the nape of Norrell’s neck. “You are a difficult man to thank.”

“I simply seek to reassure you that such thanks are not necessary.” Norrell found his voice surprizingly thick and his breath ever so slightly short. It was likely the heat of the day, although he had not considered it to be great until then. “There is nowhere else in all the worlds I would rather be.”

Strange removed his hand from Norrell’s hair, leaving Norrell in a panic that he had once again given offense. Yet Strange himself did not draw away. Instead, he settled his arm about Norrell’s middle and drew him back firmly. Norrell realized it to be an embrace some minutes later, halfway through a passage on the towers of Seven and a haircut the writer was denied.

“Mr Strange?” he asked, for this was at last enough to make him wonder at the tenor of their relations. Embraces were well and good, but an embrace such at this, with Strange pressed all up and down his back, was quite a heady experience, and it left Mr Norrell wondering if perhaps there was something he ought to do.

He twisted so that he could look up at Strange once more. Strange was giving him the most peculiar look, which Norrell could only describe as something beyond fondness. He could not remember such a look being turned on him in all his years, and he did not know what to make of it.

When Strange said nothing, Norrell tried once more. “Mr Strange? Is there something you wished?”

“There is,” Strange said, but he made no indication what it might be.

“Name it, sir, and if I can manage it, I shall.”

“Do you truly not know it already?” Strange asked, looking at Norrell with considerable surprize.

Norrell knew well the feeling of having missed some social cue, and detested it as much in the Darkness as he had in London society. “No, of course I do not, or I should not have asked!” he exclaimed, growing a bit upset. He wished to turn away, then, before this looming unknown were to reveal itself as some great joke at his expense. Surely Strange would not be so cruel.

But whatever he might have done or thought to do was halted by Strange’s hand cupping his jaw. Norrell blinked up at him as a rabbit might, frightened and intrigued all at once. “I am sorry, sir,” Strange said. “I had simply thought myself to have become a bit obvious.”

Norrell knew not what to say to that, and much of his ability to reason had already been diverted to thinking about the hand upon his face, and the fluttering in his chest. Was he perhaps taking ill? “No?” he said, when he realized an answer was required of him.

Strange laughed at that, although it held no mockery. Indeed, it held only that same peculiar fondness. “Then might I take a liberty, sir, and clarify this matter?”

“I think I would appreciate that.”

And then Strange kissed him, which was both the most surprizing thing in the world to Mr Norrell, and something that felt quite natural and ordinary. There was no way Norrell could interpret this gesture as fraternal, however, which threw him into considerable confusion and worry. He realized then that he had missed a great many signs, and he was not certain how. That he might have deliberately blinded himself did not occur to him, for those who make habit of self-deception seldom recognize it.

Strange drew back, which sent Norrell into yet another panic. For in his mind, affection was fickle, and was more likely to be withdrawn than it was to stay. Perhaps it was this fear that spurred him into action. He twisted himself halfway about, reached up, mimicked Strange’s touch upon his cheek, and then pressed his lips to Strange’s smile.

Strange continued to smile for several seconds before responding with a more heated press. It was still nothing that would have scandalized any but the most sheltered, but Mr Norrell had diligently hidden from the world long enough that it felt as though he had committed every known transgression in an instant. Surely, he thought, such sensations were at the very edge of human tolerance. He shivered, and shifted, and could not find a means of getting close enough to Strange. He needed to turn himself fully to face Strange so he would not have his head craned at such an uncomfortable angle, but doing that and remaining in contact with Strange seemed two mutually exclusive actions. And to break such a kiss would most likely result in Strange coming to his senses and then redoubling his efforts to disenchant them.

Then Strange broke the kiss, and Norrell could not stop the exclamation of loss he let out. Strange’s laugh gusted against his lips, and Norrell’s instinctual reaction to any such laughter was to cringe back in shame. He could only imagine what a man of the world such as Jonathan Strange, who had both been to war and been married (two states which seemed equally harrowing to Norrell), thought of his poor attempts.

Feeling sharply the indignity of his position, Norrell tried desperately to turn away, perhaps bury himself back in his book until Strange’s amusement died. Before he could do so, however, Strange caught him by the arm. “Sir, I fear you have misunderstood me. I do not laugh at you! I laugh at myself, for I have been in knots for weeks. For weeks! I had thought myself quite alone in my sentiments, and feared your reaction more than anything save what silence might do to me. I laugh out of relief.”

“I do not understand what you are saying to me!” Norrell cried.

“I am saying that I love you, sir, and have done for years.”

This statement, if intended to comfort, missed its mark rather spectacularly. Norrell had never heard these words directed at him before, and was at a loss what to do about them. This upset him greatly, and convinced him that they were part of some cruel game Strange was playing upon him. His face reddened and he managed to turn away properly. “That is quite impossible,” he whispered. “You love your wife, not me. Please do not play such cruel pranks, Mr Strange. They ill become you.”

Strange fell quite still at that, as Norrell was certain he would if recalled to his senses by a mention of his wife. Norrell reached for his book, but his hands were shaking and his eyes would not focus upon it. They were blurred for some reason.

“It seems,” murmured Strange, “that you are as difficult a man to love as you are to thank.”

"Please,” Norrell pleaded, not wishing this joke to continue.

“Mr Norrell,” Strange said. “Gilbert.” This caused Norrell to startle, for the last time he heard his name uttered aloud was when he was sixteen and refused to attend his brother’s engagement ball. His mother had been very upset. “You are correct in your statement that I love my wife. Indeed, I shall always love her. But it has been twenty years, and I would hope with all my heart that she has found happiness in the life she now leads—a life which, if I am being honest, I will never share with her. And I believe, for Arabella is for more sensible than I, that she would wish the same for me.” He touched Norrell’s shoulder. “I have been lucky, sir. Men may live the whole of their lives and not find love, but I have found it twice, and I cannot think why love for one should dim love for the other.”

Strange rested his hand upon the back of Norrell’s. Norrell, for his part, was attempting to conjure the means by which he could paint all of this as yet another joke, but there had been no mockery in Strange’s words, nor any hint of a lie. And yet, for him to be honest meant that a great many assumptions Norrell had made about himself, Strange, and their travels must be false.

His hand, traitor that it was, turned itself over and laced itself about Strange’s. “I do not know what you expect me to do,” Norrell said, miserable.

“I expect nothing. I would appreciate, however, if you were to turn back to me or, barring that, at least to speak your own thoughts upon the matter.”

“I do not know them,” Norrell admitted. “I did not expect this in the least. I do not … that is to say, I have not … Mr Strange, I am not so well versed in these matters as you.”

“Ah,” Strange said, as though he did understand what Norrell could not. Norrell felt him stand, though he did not release the clasp of their hands. He walked about so they were facing one another once more, and then dropped to a knee.

“Please do not propose to me!” Norrell squeaked.

Strange grinned, though he did not laugh. “I can see that such a plan would face any number of complications,” he agreed. Then he framed Mr Norrell’s face in his hands. “Shall we try this again, sir, now that we understand one another a bit better?”

Norrell nodded, still feeling quite lost, but glad of this return of contact. Strange kissed him once more, and without the awkwardness of the angle, it was quite the easiest thing to return the press. Norrell squeezed his eyes closed, lest he believe what was happening too much and become desperate for it. Already he could feel that temptation to believe Strange too fully, to invest himself in this with everything he had. This felt like an old want, but he could not to his memory recall feeling it before.

Then Strange opened his mouth a bit. Norrell was uncertain what he might be about, and found to his great startlement that Strange meant his tongue to be involved in this endeavor. He could not imagine such a thing to be pleasant, and was about to tell Strange that in no uncertain terms, when Strange brushed his tongue against Norrell’s lower lip. For such a soft touch, it was incredibly effective! Norrell felt himself collapsing against Strange, opening his mouth to return the favor, only to find things rather complicated by their tongues tangling, catching, and rubbing. It was the oddest thing in the world, and yet terribly pleasant as well.

Strange drew away then. Norrell was not given the opportunity to begin to fear once more, for Strange’s fingers fanned out and he pressed his forehead against Norrell’s. “My dear Mr Norrell,” he said, as though those words alone carried great meaning. “I am quite determined to convince you that you are indeed precious to me.”

Mr Norrell had no clew how Strange intended to accomplish such a feat, nor how he himself might be convinced that he was precious to someone. But Strange’s expression was open and pleading, and his hands upon Norrell’s face were warm. He did not know what to say, and had only just begun to consider all the ways that Strange might be precious to him. For indeed they were many, and they seemed to multiply with every moment.

In the end, Norrell could say only, “And you are precious to me, Mr Strange, in more ways than I could number.”

When Strange kissed him once more, Norrell accepted that he would be convinced. It might not happen in that moment, but the next day, or the next, it would. He saw a future sprawl out before him of Strange reading over his shoulder, and interrupting their arguments with a kiss. He saw their magic becoming inextricable, and their lives following suit. He saw another eighty years in that manner, and Mr Norrell found no room in his heart to fear it.

The wind caught at the tree, and showered the two magicians in light as they kissed in this newly woken world.

Ahhhhhh so sweet <3 Jonathan is so very patient, and Norrell is so very obtuse.

Absolutely beautiful! Oh my goodness, so tender and romantic and touching. I loved every single second of it! Thank you SO MUCH for posting this!

This was a really cute, really sweet fill. Your Norrell and Strange were very well-characterised, and I loved seeing how codependent and close they'd become over the years, and then finally seeing them get together. Their long ease with touching each other and being near each other was my absolute fave. <333333

This was so beautiful it brought tears to my eyes. Thank you anon <3

You write Gilbert with such acheingly beautiful vulnerability. It is both breathtaking and deeply hot.

Sorry, that should have said 3/4.

Oh God. Oh yes, this is perfect! Just what I wanted!

I'm the OP, btw. Again, this fic was absolutely perfect. Thank you so much for writing and sharing this!!

Thank you! I'm so glad you liked it!

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☆ Round One!

Strange/Norrell - Finale or Post-Finale

Re: Strange/Norrell - Finale or Post-Finale

Re: Strange/Norrell - Finale or Post-Finale

Re: Strange/Norrell - Finale or Post-Finale

FILL: A Newly Woken World (1/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (2/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (2/4)

FILL: A Newly Woken World (4/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (4/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (4/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (4/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (4/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (4/4)

FILL: A Newly Woken World (3/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (1/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (1/4)

Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (from A!A)