☆ Round One!

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FILL: the duke of wellington's man (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

haha so this is probably a little more fucked-up than necessary, SORRY

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People had taken to calling Strange "the Duke's magician," or sometimes "the Duke of Wellington's man," sometimes in a tone that was impressed, respectful; sometimes in a tone that implied something slightly different. As though, Grant thought, Strange were Wellington's possession, as though he were a particularly prized bit of weaponry— something the Duke might cosset and then use to kill, something he doted upon and then turned demanding towards; something he saw as his tool— or toy, to do with as he pleased.

Grant felt conflicted about the state of affairs. In the Peninsula, he had often worried about Strange; Wellington, he had thought, did not pay Strange enough attention, did not see what war was doing to Strange. Grant had felt it incumbent upon himself to step in and offer comfort. Nothing drastic, only a reassuring chat, a friendly arm around the shoulder, sometimes a soothing pet to the hair. The thing was that Strange was such an awfully physical creature. He seemed to live at the ends of his nerves. He would shake himself to pieces if someone did not hold him together. He felt the violence extremely, and he needed someone to make him feel something other than violence, or he would retreat to dark and desperate places in his own head. Grant had thought— well, he had thought that someone must provide Strange with what he needed. And if he found himself unexpectedly tender towards Strange after sleeping chastely together, curled up in the same bedroll in the cold Spanish mountain country— if he had smiled, in those tender moments, down at Strange, who tended in sleep to nose towards the nearest warm object, and wrap himself around it, and resist all efforts at its removal petulantly— well, he had thought philosophically, such feelings happened. They had not significantly impeded his functioning.

Now, though— now Strange had changed. Perhaps it was his break with Norrell. He seemed wilder, somehow. He needed more— and had no source of it, perhaps, whatever it was that he needed so badly. And Grant was so often away from him now. When they were reunited, he saw the change.

Wellington seemed also to have seen. Grant perceived his eyes following Strange from time to time. What did the Duke do with an erratic weapon? Ascertain the nature of its malfunctioning; arrange for it to be recalibrated. Grant registered his attention with a kind of relief. Surely, he thought, the Duke would take care of it.

Wellington was aware that he and Strange had remained particular friends, so Grant was not altogether surprised to be summoned eventually. He assumed the Duke would want to know what had transpired in London; did Grant think it was affecting Strange so very badly? Was Strange to be relied upon? He imagined the Duke saying, in his customary, curt and practical way, Answers, Grant! I do not wish for speculation! Supply me with options, if you please!

But when he came to Wellington's tent at the close of the march, he found that he had miscalculated the situation entirely. For Strange was there in the tent already, seated in a chair and looking very tired. De Lancey was there as well, his face looking somewhat peculiar; he glanced at Grant as Grant entered the tent.

"Ah, Grant," Wellington said. "There you are. Good fellow. I have just been explaining to Merlin that it will not do for him to so exhaust himself in the business of doing magic that he cannot be relied upon to retain consciousness! I had a great need of him this morning to move a river out of the path of some Nassauers, and after some three hours' search, where do you think we found him? Asleep in a barn, by God, exactly where we had left him two days before, when he had been engaged in summoning up some visions of the French."

Grant said, "Perhaps you ought first to have looked for him where you left him."

Wellington did not seem to appreciate the comment. "He had eaten nothing; he had fallen asleep in that damned basin he carries about. I ask you, sir, what good does that do me? No good; a neglectful magician does no good at all."

Strange interjected in a low voice, "If your grace will permit me—"

"I do not permit you!" Wellington said. "I cannot provide you with a nursemaid, Mr Strange; it is not a category of person I command. However, I can and will provide you with a reminder that you are not a fairy spirit; you do not subsist on sunlight and dewdrops and other such nonsense; you are a man, and a man in whom I have invested a great deal."

Strange had dropped his eyes.

De Lancey said very neutrally, "His Grace the Duke feels that perhaps we could... remind Mr Strange of the particular demands of the body, to which he has been so remiss in giving attention."

Grant blinked. "Do you mean...?" It took him a moment to really comprehend the intimation. He was feeling quite angry at Strange, for he could believe that Strange had behaved exactly as Wellington described. At the moment, Strange seemed very loosely attached to himself, and indeed to everything. But he was also feeling quite angry at Wellington, for not coming to him. Had he known, he certainly would have taken care of Strange.

De Lancey said, "If you think I mean..." He and Grant were very adept at communicating without speaking. They had, after all, long been friends.

The idea that was being suggested sent a spike of lust through Grant's body. It could not even be called lust, really; it was more immediately physical than that, like the punching recoil of an artillery shot. His breath caught, and he felt his cock rise slightly in his breeches. For a split-second, all he could consider was want. He looked at Strange, who was staring fixedly at the ground. It was hard not to imagine kissing him. But Grant said, "Merlin, do you...?"

Wellington said sharply, "I shall decide what is best for my magician!"

"Yes," Grant said, "but—"

Strange said unreadably, "It is all right, Grant. I am content. Do not trouble yourself."

Grant still felt a good deal troubled, but he could not think how to voice this at that moment. He looked around the tent, which did not seem altogether very luxurious. He looked at Wellington, who was considering a map on his desk. "... Here, sir?" he asked.

Wellington looked up. "It is as good a place as any, is it not? Have you a better suggestion, Major Grant?"

Yes, Grant thought. I shall take him back to Brussels; I shall find an empty bedroom, something a count once slept in, with a ceiling all covered in angels and gold paint, and a featherbed big enough for four people, and I shall lay him down on that featherbed, and I shall kiss his forehead, and take his hand and say to him, "Whatever have you been thinking, Merlin?" And then I shall— The thought was so strange and extraordinary that it quite unmoored him; he could not think what to say. "No, sir," he said finally.

"Excellent," the Duke said. He had already returned to his map. "Continue, then, Grant. There is a camp bed in the corner, if you should need such a thing."

Grant looked back at Strange. He took a hesitant step closer to the chair. He looked over Strange's head at De Lancey, who seemed similarly indecisive. De Lancey shrugged as though to say, "What would you have me do?" He liked Strange as well, and was, Grant suspected, quite inexperienced in these matters. It was clear that he would be no natural leader here. Strange, for his part, seemed barely present.

It was that which sparked Grant to action, because he could not bear it. Wellington was right, he thought; Strange had been quite driven out of his body by the misery of warfare, by his despair about it. He needed to be brought back. Grant had done it before, even if by other means. So Grant went to him and knelt and said, "If you will permit me?" He began undoing the buttons of Strange's waistcoat, brisk and efficient-like.

After a moment, Strange touched his face. His hand was hesitant and a little dirty. Grant pressed a kiss into the center of his palm. He hoped it was a reassurance. He could feel Strange's hand trembling— but then, it trembled most of the time now. It was not a particular symptom.

"Have you done this before?" he asked Strange.

Silently, Strange shook his head.

"You will enjoy it," Grant said. He did not add, I promise.

Unexpectedly, Strange smiled. "I trust you," he said.

It was such an artless declaration that Grant was faintly astonished. His fingers stilled, and then resumed their business, pushing coat and waistcoat off of Strange's shoulders. In a moment, he had worked off Strange's boots, as well. He felt less a lover than a servant, but there was something intimate in the gesture. He stood, and regarded Strange in breeches and shirt. He had never seen the man so very unclothed, and for the first time since De Lancey had spoken the notion, the imagining of what he was about to do unfurled in him. He felt his cheeks grow hot.

Strange looked at him curiously, but did not speak. Instead, he reached out his hands and caught at Grant's uniform jacket. "I am afraid I do not know how it works," he said self-consciously. "There are so many buttons. I cannot return the favor."

"Allow me to demonstrate," Grant said. "—De Lancey."

De Lancey had been watching with a fair measure of interest, and the colour was very high in his cheeks. He came when called, fumbling eagerly at his own jacket, practically ripping it away, before setting to work at Grant's, and then the waistcoat... his excitement was showing; his cock was pushing at his trousers. Grant divested him of his waistcoat and palmed him, watching his eyelashes flutter as he thrust his hips forward shamelessly. Then— interesting— his eyes slid past Grant, to where Wellington sat scribbling a note on a dispatch, and Grant thought: It is Wellington's orders that make you hard, the thought of Wellington watching, and nothing about me or Strange. He felt faintly amused and faintly scornful at the notion— but he could work with it.

And Strange was watching them with a flicker of interest. Grant caught his eye and then held De Lancey more purposefully, shaping his hand against his cock through the fabric, applying pressure, so that De Lancey jerked a little against him. The noise of his breathing was loud in the silence, and the noise of the single harsh swallowed sound of pleasure he made.

Grant released him and said, "Get your trousers off."

De Lancey, panting, scrambled to obey.

Grant approached Strange slowly. "And you," he said.

Strange was staring at him avidly, wide-eyed, like prey. Grant ran a hand along his face; trailed a thumb over his lips. God, he had longed to do just this; to touch the bow of those lips, to— he had not even let himself think of the wet heat beyond them— the desire, so long subdued, seemed to catapult against his ribcage, making him feel savage and dizzy. He paused. Strange parted his lips, and then he was sucking lightly at the flesh of Grant's thumb, running his tongue along the ridges of it. His gaze flicked to Grant very deliberately, then down. Grant had to close his eyes. His blood was rushing queasily.

Strange released his thumb with a distinct wet sound. He looked up at Grant. "Is that what you wanted," he said. Then he bent his head to Grant's hand and licked a broad stripe along the palm. He took the index finger into his mouth, then each finger in turn, laving them with his tongue. Grant had never imagined what his tongue would feel like, how wet it might leave his fingers, how Strange would look with his soft cheeks hollowed, with his eyelashes lowered. He found himself transfixed. He could not move. He was aware that he was fully erect.

Close by them, De Lancey made a breathy, hungry noise, which drew Grant's attention and broke the spell. De Lancey was working his own cock, watching them; he wore only his shirt. He looked at Grant. He said, "I want..." It was half a question.

Strange let Grant's hand drop and turned his gaze to De Lancey. De Lancey stepped forward.

Grant had not answered the question, because he felt a furious and quite unjustified surge of jealousy. No; possessiveness. Strange was his; he did not care if De Lancey wanted— but here De Lancey was guiding Strange's head forward, tangling fingers in his curls, and Strange was taking his cock in obediently. Strange made the most obscene wet mouthing sounds as De Lancey shut his eyes and clenched his hand in Strange's hair and said, "Oh, oh, yes."

Grant turned his back on them and got his own boots and breeches and shirt off, his motions short and choppy and dense with rage. He realized after a moment that Wellington was watching— not the more obvious spectacle of Strange sucking De Lancey's cock, but the far too naked emotion on Grant's own face. He straightened and returned the regard coolly.

Wellington said nothing.

Re: FILL: the duke of wellington's man (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

"De Lancey said very neutrally, "His Grace the Duke feels that perhaps we could... remind Mr Strange of the particular demands of the body, to which he has been so remiss in giving attention."

Grant blinked. "Do you mean...?" It took him a moment to really comprehend the intimation. "

Me too - I thought he'd called Grant in to make him a sandwich!

Re: FILL: the duke of wellington's man (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

Grant looked around the tent, which did not seem very well stocked for such matters. He looked at Wellington, who was considering a map on his desk. "... Here, sir?" he asked.

Wellington looked up. "It is as good a place as any, is it not? Have you a better suggestion, Major Grant?"

Yes, Grant thought. I shall take him back to Brussels and buy him a magnificent creme eclair, and the little cakes which Buonaparte was so fond of, and raspberry jellies. I shall offer him sugared plums with my own hands, and smile at him and say, "You see, Merlin, is this not better?" And then I shall— The thought was so strange and extraordinary that it floored him. He did not even know if Strange liked cakes. "No, sir," he said finally.

"Excellent," the Duke said. He had already returned to his map. "Continue, then, Grant. On the table in the corner you shall find the bread and cheese."

Grant looked back at Strange.

Strange shrugged. "Well," he said, "I am very hungry."

Re: FILL: the duke of wellington's man (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

Best outtake for best fic.

Re: FILL: the duke of wellington's man (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

Bwahahahahaha! Superb :)