jsmn_kinkmeme | ☆ Round Two!

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☆ Round Two!

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

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In the Darkness -- sympathetic to both characters

Hah, I can't believe this hasn't been done yet. Seconded!

That is a Good Prompt! Enthusiastically seconded.

Thirded!

The whole trouble was Mr Strange trying Ormskirk again. He would certainly not have condoned it, pointing out that Ormskirk was erratic at the best of times, and this Faerie prison was certainly not the best of times. But he had to admit that the unpromising Ormskirk was one of the few authors whose work had been left in sufficient quantities.

It was a few weeks since the somewhat apocalyptic events which had bereaved Mr Norrell of his books and Mr Strange of his wife. The chaos of ravens had left rocking, windblown heaps of feathers and pages around the library.

He, of course, was most unhappy. Mr Strange had managed to attain contact, of a sort, with his wife, but had merely set her free with the most tender nobility imaginable, so that she should be happy. He himself could never imagine letting go of his home and library, or of whatever fragment he retained of Mr Strange's esteem, even though he realised it was the right thing to do. It simply wouldn't be fair for Mr Strange to get what he wanted, but not him.

In the first week both felt relief and joy; in Mr Strange's case, presumably, that such a gregarious person as himself was not reduced to utter solitude; in his own, a bittersweet awareness that at least he had not ruined it all for ungrudging friendship, if nothing more. He loved the friendship, he did, the warmth and ungrudging kindness unspoilt by the difference in station that had made Childermass impatient with his minor crotchets and troubles.

After that, embarrassment slowly crept in. Mainly on Mr Norrell's own part, particularly the part which had been merrily misinterpreting such careless phrases as "Oh, I imagine we should both rub along together tolerably well," from Mr Strange.

Mr Strange seemed to be trying to work out why his conversation was suddenly reducing an eminently-respectable middle-aged magician to squeaks and blushes. Luckily this was not successful.

The night (if it was night) Mr Strange interrupted Mr Norrell's post-prandial doze over the ten pages of the Sutton-Grove remaining to him, with a terse, "Sir? Sir, you must see this!", Mr Norrell sighed, "Oh, very well."

Changing places? Discovering the right place? Well, it was indicative of something. He felt a small, grudging ache in his heart at the thought of going home. He would lose what he had of Jonathan, and he had never entirely possessed Childermass, particularly the way he had occasionally dreamed of both of them. Especially now, in the added intimacy of Mr Strange and himself being not only the only magicians but the only human men for uncountable miles (saving only the Nameless King, whose beauty was undeniable but whose concerns were far more involved with Faerie than humanity).

It took them a few weeks to gather the paraphernalia for the spell. It would have been much quicker anywhere in Christendom. Here it was necessary to check for inimical possibilities or disasters (where any bird, any fox, any tree might be a hidden Faerie, or answer to one).

Mr Strange did the standing about singing to trees, because in some way Mr Norrell did not entirely comprehend, his experiences in the war had often involved woodland. Mr Strange had laughed and said, "It's a good job they've forgiven me for some of the tricks I played on them on the Peninsula."

"Mr Strange, those are not the same trees!"

"Not in our terms, perhaps, but I saw enough of the unexplained over there to realise that forest can speak to forest about dangers. They live long enough to carry a grudge, but they can be surprisingly forgiving." He made a long and fairly elegant leg, with every sign of deference, to a rowan (one of the few trees loyal to humans more than to Faerie).

Mr Norrell himself came up with an epitome of home. One part was a cover from one of the ruined books (a duplicated copy of Martin Pale, which mutely reproached him for how many books he had destroyed over the years to keep them from undesirables), and there was an old wig that he remembered settling on him more cosily than his own hair. He did feel (still) so exposed without going from daily wig to evening nightcap, though.

Mr Strange's choice was one of his better colourful waistcoats and a piece of mirror-frame. Mr Norrell found the latter dubious, but Mr Strange said, "For quite a while mirrors were my way to step between worlds. It exposed me to dangers, but we need something to symbolise that step."

Sniffing crossly (the way he did when he didn't want to admit Mr Strange had a point), Mr Norrell had to admit they needed something of the sort. He liked being implicitly included in the "we".

The world swung all around Mr Norrell's centre, and left it reconfigured. He felt much taller and stronger, with mysteriously unpracticed but functional muscles.

Mr Norrell had time to think, "How curious I am not afraid!" before he paced quickly across the room to find an opportune pail to vomit into. This being briskly achieved, he turned around to find himself sitting miserably in a chair, with that particular lack of expression that meant he was trying very hard not to be sick. Find himself? No, very definitely 'see' himself.

"Is that what I look like?" he thought. "Well, no wonder I never appealed to Mr Strange--or anyone else!"

A faint wail of horror came from the other, and Norrell (marvelling at how he could be in two places at once) vanished the noxious contents of the pail and placed it in "his" lap. He watched with disturbed fascination as "he" went pale with waves of nausea, and managed to choke up a very little bile in the next hour, just the same way as he normally reacted to being sick--and very bizarrely unlike the unusual decisive behaviour he had shewn with the direct effect of the spell.

A cold shudder came over him: could this be his 'fetch', as the Scotch had it? Was he going to die soon? Yet he felt impelled to offer comfort, and stroked his hair (one of the few comforts he admitted in such a condition. Rubbing his back soothingly invariably made him retch again).

His hands! No, not his hands; he had watched these lovely long muscular hands covertly for a very long time.

"Is that...can that possibly be you, Mr Strange?" he asked weakly.

The figure looking like himself gulped. "I fear you find me very much disguised, sir. Devil of it is I cannot quite remember how, because I certainly haven't been drinking since we found ourselves in this particular pickle.

"Sh, sh, let me get you some water to freshen your mouth," he said. Water was brought, and a soothing cup of weak sweet tea after that. He noticed he was flapping his (well, Mr Strange's) hands in distress, as he watched the other sip, and master the urge to gulp.

Mr Strange, still distressingly in his (Norrell’s) own form, asked him for a mirror. “You know,” he said, still apparently musing on the change, “I still can’t read the expression on your face when I know what I’m feeling.”

“Childermass used to say something of the sort,” said Mr Norrell. “Even if he knew when I was in a bad mood, or an exceptionally good mood, from the way I behaved, he could never read it in my face, and he was generally quite good at that.” In fact, the things Mr Norrell was used to doing either to cheer himself up or express his contentment were usually physical: rubbing or flapping his hands, tapping his feet or rocking in place. An obscure sense of embarrassment kept him from performing most of these in public, although he'd occasionally done them in front of Childermass, who had never seen fit to express an opinion on them.

He could already tell that Mr Strange's face was far more flexible and expressive than his own.

Yet the change in their respective persons was not the most important.

Looking around the room for a distressing increase in the number of black feathers, considering the cawing that had accompanied the magic, Mr Norrell found instead heaps of untidy but not mangled books.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, rushing forward to greet his old friends. There were nothing like as many as his full collection, and indeed many of them were not from his original collection, but covered various subjects involving a Christian magician’s use of magic in Faerie. But there were no duplicates (at a quick glance) and they were indeed a very creditable collection, particularly for somebody who wanted to learn magic appropriate to his new geographical position.

Jonathan Strange sighed. “Well, at least one of us got something out of it,” he said.

“I believe that one of these may contain some clues to the answers you seek,’ explained Mr Norrell. “These are not only from my original collection, but there are many volumes for the use of a Christian magician in our current land. If he has forgiven me, even in part, it augurs well for magic we may both continue in future.”

He saw his face smile just a little. “Well, sir,” said Jonathan Strange, “as long as you don’t disappear off into a pile of books and leave me to my own devices with your face and body.”

“Indeed I cannot imagine what possible business you might have with an appearance so unpleasant," said Mr Norrell, quite repressively. His heart seemed to twitch painfully within him at the comparison: now he had this beautiful, beautiful man entirely at his disposal, but he didn’t have the right to touch and explore him as he would so much like to do.

A stiffening in his breeches reminded him that, yes, normally, he would be perfectly free to go aside and frig himself senseless, because normally he was in his own body and had a right to, but somehow he didn’t have the right to Mr Strange’s. It wasn't his. He wasn't a barbarian, a thief. He'd done a few bad things in his life and been rewarded more than he had any right to expect by the freedom to continue being a magician, in congenial company, in a place where (despite its oddness) he did not have to react to the company of far too many people. The last thing he wanted was to lose his own hard-won self-respect, and any implied forgiveness from the Raven King, by misbehaving again, and “taking advantage of” Mr Strange’s body without Mr Strange’s consent.

To say nothing of the fact that if he were such a wicked man as to take advantage, he would then be entirely unable to forget what Mr Strange’s muscles, and chest, and thighs, and balls, and virile member, felt like to the touch, or how it would feel even to do something innocuous like stroke Mr Strange’s hair, and all these delicious memories would bedevil him for life, and quite right too!

His own face smiled again, a little broader. “Well, you’re not that bad!”

“What do you mean by that?” snapped Mr Norrell, who was now just a little sensitive about his looks, and felt he had a right to be as he had no illusions.

“I mean, I’ve met a good many men far uglier in the Army, and even Sir Walter’s looks are rather against him, say (not that that’s to say anything, he’s of excellent character).”

Mr Norrell made some effort to observe himself more objectively. “Well, maybe I won’t shatter any mirrors. And I’m of excellent character, all things considered.”

He watched his mouth twitch at that.

“And what does that mean?”

“Well, you’re not the most sweet-natured fellow I’ve had the chance to meet,” said Jonathan Strange in his body.

“I have high standards!" snapped Mr Norrell.

"I know, sir,” said Jonathan Strange, perhaps slightly contrite. “The world doesn't often come up to your exacting standards, and I think it might sometimes be better if it did. You've a corkscrew kind of a mind, and it's often difficult to think when you're kind and thoughtful, because you do it gracelessly and have a good deal of difficulty thinking your way into the minds of others. You generally behave to people in an unsociable manner, because you like a rest after dealing with people, and you don't find it easy to remember that there are people who would sooner meet other people every day, or who aren't as fascinated by your art as you are. But I've seen you be kind. I've seen you send Davey to Brewer if Childermass is worn out from travelling, and send good food to Childermass in his room. I've seen you give him what looks like a severe dressing-down for wearing leaky boots--but he's then left the room with a purse you gave him,"

Jonathan Strange smiled again. That sweet, ironical smile on his own face.

"And you've often been perfectly lovely to me. Sometimes when I had done the least to deserve it."

For some reason, it was a lot easier coping with criticisms when they came with Jonathan's sweet smile, wrapped with a good few compliments and delivered in his own dry scholarly voice.

He smiled back wholeheartedly.

“There now,” said Jonathan. “And I always thought your face would crack if you gave a proper smile.”

“Technically, it’s your face,” explained Mr Norrell. He cleared his (well, Mr Strange's) throat. “We are rather better-prepared with the Raven King's gift than we were before, and at least that may give us a chance to figure

out exactly what misfired."

Alas, his confidence was misplaced. Several hours of rather intense work later, he could not figure out what had gone wrong with the spell. Which was odd. Given Ormskirk's well-known unreliability, there was actually a spell in one of Mr Norrell's other books for "What Went Wrong With Ormskirk".

He prepared for that spell with his silver bowl, clean water from the beck, one of the pears from the Raven King's own pear-tree, and a good-quality candle. Jonathan Strange double-checked every part of it.

It should have worked, curse the thing! They’d eaten the pear, sharing it, since both were affected by the spell, and lit the candle between them. The water in the bowl was silvery, flat and untroubled, which was the sign for "nothing is wrong with the spell", yet something must have been very considerably wrong with the spell, for here they still were inhabiting each other's bodies.

With horrified fascination, he opened his mouth and began to swear. Words he had never heard, let alone spoken, expressed with a soldier's creative vocabulary. Being unable to control it, he merely waited for himself to run down.

"Quite," said his own voice, very dryly, from across the room. "I apologise for the language, sir. It appears that one's manner of speaking under stress goes with the body rather than the current personality."

"I have no idea what you mean, sir," said Mr Norrell, rather ruffled.

Mr Strange sighed, from his current position in Mr Norrell's own body. "Haven't you ever... no, it's quite likely that you never have. Suffice it to say that if you are an ordinary man in the Army and you drop a heavy instrument on your own foot, the language that spills from your mouth is largely involuntary. Not only that, but actually swearing seems to make it hurt rather less, or at least improves your ability to cope with it."

"I have not dropped anything on anybody," said Mr Norrell.

"But my body seems to have decided it's under strain and helpless, and is doing its best to cope," said Jonathan Strange from Mr Norrell's body.

"I wish I was home," said Mr Norrell sadly, and opened and closed his eyes several times in quick succession in the hope that that statement might magically transfer them to their proper bodies. It didn't.

"So do I, sir," said Jonathan Strange, sounding unusually serious. "I think it's beginning to sink in. I feel more scared than I ever have in my life, even under battle conditions, or facing the Fairy. Tell me, how do you bear it?"

Mr Norrell opened his mouth to give a quick answer, or simply to deny being afraid at all--but no, he couldn't lie to Jonathan again.

"I have never known any other way to be," he said, quite simply."I have always been afraid of something, and whether or not I had someone to help me, I never quite stopped except when I knew I was in my own bed or my own library, with no cats or mice or draughts or street-sorcerers about. It is why I hated Vinculus' attempt to steal from me: it was bringing closer the time when I might be unable to defend either my home or myself."

Jonathan Strange held out his (well, Mr Norrell's) hand blindly. "I think my body wants to be there, in bed, in the warm with nothing to be afraid of."

Mr Norrell's heart was wrung with pity, and lust, and irritation. "So do I," he said, not enjoying the novel sensation of understanding how irritated people usually felt about him, and trying not to think about Jonathan's entire body (in a manner of speaking) wrapped around him.

"I think dinner may make things a bit better, for now," Mr Norrell suggested, mainly in a desperate attempt to defer being "in bed with Jonathan". Because if he was in bed with Jonathan-in-his-own-body, that version of Jonathan might notice something odd about him, but even if he was left alone, the torture of trying not to touch himself/not-himself would be even worse.

Was it because he was now Jonathan that he was trying so hard to cling to his own moral principles? He thought not. Although Mr Strange's ethical principles were probably finer-tuned than his own, he had decided beforehand that after the things he had already done that were self-serving or frankly immoral, he had better not behave that way in the Darkness. More evidence today that the Raven King had stayed his hand from vengeance (by repairing and improving his library) implied that he had better keep his own hands very clean indeed. Which reminded him, and after using Jonathan's expensive scented soap to wash Jonathan's lovely hands the problem was even harder and more aching...it was dreadfully unfair that he got no credit for all this self-control!

Jonathan washed his (Mr Norrell's) hands before dinner, probably because it did not occur to him not to.

Mr Norrell prepared dinner. It took his mind off things, and he was interested to discover that muscle-memory provided several recipes that he did not know, and quite an alien fashion of tossing them into the pot while whistling cheerfully, instead of using careful measurement the way he did on the rare occasions he cooked. After checking them for any ingredients he disliked, or that had a deleterious effect on him, he prepared fricassee of chicken with a light sauce, some fresh bread Jonathan had baked yesterday, and some garden vegetables. He did not like vegetables, but since Childermass had once pointed out what a good effect they had on his digestion, he remembered to eat them regularly.

Jonathan said, "Do I have to eat the greens?" and Mr Norrell felt a sharp flare of indignation before remembering that yes, he himself often complained about the vegetable issue (but really, cabbage was the outside of enough) and that Jonathan was guilty of nothing worse than wanting comforting food while he was not at his best, and he himself had been like that frequently.

Then Jonathan said, "I don't know why I said that. I have been used to a fairly varied diet, given the war, and my travels abroad." Mr Norrell was not sure, but thought he sounded troubled.

Mr Norrell told him not to worry. "I think you've simply ended up with my touchy stomach. Vegetables are not at all to my taste but I know they are good for the digestion." In point of fact he had started to heed Childermass' comments on eating his greens following a rare book-collecting journey he'd gone on with Childermass. Due to the lack of gruel or vegetables, and the comparative over-supply of bread, cheese and the sweet, dense and delicious cake they had brought, he had come home feeling decidedly less-than-his-best, and when Childermass had kept him on a nutritious and unpleasant diet for a fortnight, he was far more comfortable. (He had no idea how Childermass managed to keep his health on an apparent diet of bread-and-cheese whenever he went travelling, and rather wished he had Childermass' iron digestion).

It wasn't a bad dinner at all (using Jonathan Strange's tastes), and he couldn't help finding the faces Jonathan Strange was pulling using his taste rather funny. Until, of course, he remembered that all things being well he would be back to hating vegetables again soon--and if they were not so fortunate, they would have far bigger problems.

One of those problems made itself felt again, and really, considering the size of Jonathan Strange's...natural advantages, he should like to see how he was expected to ignore the bloody thing! (He was going to have to find a useful spell for de-soldier-ising his vocabulary when he got back home).

How strange that was to think! Of course, he was home, in Hurtfew. He was even at home in their own small corner of Faerie by now. But in the most important sense he was Not At Home: he and Mr Strange were camping out in one another's bodies, and it was imperative that the situation should be settled before it became impossible to solve.

After dinner, for want of a better idea, they went through the wording of the spell again. Several times.

"I'm sorry, sir," said Jonathan Strange from his body. "You proved to be quite correct in that I had no real idea what I was doing."

"The fault was mine in not exercising proper control over you," said Mr Norrell from Jonathan Strange’s. "I am your senior by some years and your senior in the art for even longer. I have problems stating a case in such a manner that people are convinced, which I can only ascribe to want of natural eloquence. A lifelong acquaintance with words has not, somehow, led to facility." He always found that upsetting.

Jonathan sighed. "You know, you're rather appealing when you're actually being humble."

"What d'you mean?" Mr Norrell snapped, far too loudly, and watched "himself" quiver. Apparently Mr Strange really did have his nerves.

"Never mind. Only...don't leave me alone? Please?" That could have been either of them. Mr Norrell's body reaching out in its loneliness and fear, or Jonathan Strange's natural gregariousness.

Mr Norrell, in Mr Strange's body, led the way to Mr Norrell's bedroom. "Want a hand with your buttons and laces?"

Mr Norrell's head nodded wearily.

After all, Jonathan Strange did help Mr Norrell out when he felt particularly tired or awkward. After a wobble in the first week, when Mr Strange accused him of treating him as an unpaid servant, Mr Strange had realised that Mr Norrell was simply not very good with his hands, and had always been rich enough to rely on servants.

Since then, they kept to a gentleman's agreement where Mr Norrell didn't ask unless he felt particularly tired and stressed, and Mr Strange didn't refuse him when he did ask, or, as now, offered if he thought Mr Norrell could do with it.

Well, Mr Norrell thought hopefully, the muscle-memory would probably work, and in any case it would stop him worrying about the other thing (by which he meant Mr Strange's thing). Nobody could have lewd thoughts about Mr Norrell himself, so he expected a peaceful night's sleep, possibly with Mr Strange holding his hand.

He had forgotten about his sleeping-routine. The odd gestures, the foot-tapping or humming, were one thing, but there was one very particular gesture of self-soothing he always engaged in just before sleep. Always on his own, that is.

Jonathan Strange in Mr Norrell's body had not done what Mr Norrell always did, and reached for a gown. He was lying flat on his back, stark naked, and his rosy-pink phallus was tapping and jerking impatiently at his belly.

For a scandalised half-moment Mr Norrell noticed that it was larger than he would have thought.

"Mr Strange, I forgot that you might see that. My body is a creature of habits. I regret to say I always take care of myself last thing."

"Mr Norrell," said Mr Strange, "never apologise for being human." He reached down and casually stroked his borrowed member.

It looked so exactly like his own, for obvious reasons, that he seemed to feel a flush of heat from the root to the tip of Mr Strange's own organ.

Then Mr Strange reached out for the mirror he'd apparently stashed on the bedside table earlier.

"I have an idea," he said.

Mr Norrell said, "If you'd remember, all this started with you having an idea."

He thought Jonathan Strange (in his body) was trying to rise above that remark. "In the Peninsula, sir, I saw a surgeon working with someone with his limb taken off. He used a mirror, sir. The man was screaming with pain which was in the limb he didn't have, but when the surgeon put the mirror so it reflected the leg he did have twice, if you see what I mean, it fooled his mind into thinking that leg was still there, and he was able to relax. If we use a magic mirror (no, not a travelling one, sir) we can watch each other and try to think ourselves across the space between."

Mr Norrell was having great difficulty concentrating. He managed to grasp that somehow he was going to be allowed to do something. He whined, and, in his Mr Strange body, lay down beside "himself".

"All right, Gilbert," said the man inside/not-inside him. "Show me how you feel."

Gilbert Norrell panted and spread his legs, still dimly amazed at the size of his/not his own prick.

"Yes, it's a nice big thick one, isn't it?" said Jonathan Strange. "Give you a bit of incentive to get home and play with it."

Soon all he could see as he looked at himself was Jonathan, and his heart beat Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan, and he could see Jonathan's thighs nestling close around Jonathan's prick as he stared down his own body. Yet it wasn't quite right, because what he actually wanted was to enjoy having that brute of a thing in his own small hands...

Meanwhile, Jonathan was crooning, Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert! and Gilbert Norrell knew exactly what he was doing because he was watching his own hand on his own prick in the mirror. Suddenly he felt frankly selfishly in need of just feeling those lovely tight strokes along his own prick, and they weren't quite right, so the whole of him slammed bodily/not-bodily to one side, in through the brain-pan and the beating heart and the stiff prick to his familiar self, feeling the warm wind of Jonathan slamming equally past in the opposite direction into Jonathan's own cocky intelligence and breathing lungs and hard prick.

He could hear Jonathan Strange noisily pleasuring himself, but then Mr Norrell got his stroking hand just right on his own prick at last, and he was coming so hard he nearly fainted.

After some considerable time, Jonathan Strange said, "Damn. I perfected the most ambitious working I've done in a while, and all you actually cared about was tossing yourself off."

"And it felt so good," sighed Mr Norrell. He noticed something, and a smile came to his face. "You did it! We're home!"

"I regret to say that I cannot honestly claim to have defeated Ormskirk," said Jonathan Strange.

Mr Norrell looked out quickly, relieved to see his perceptions hadn't let him down and they were indeed home.

"Yes, we are back. But I cannot claim to have defeated Ormskirk when I have only the vaguest idea what I did, how it worked, or indeed what the other spell meant in claiming that Ormskirk had been working."

"Did not you enjoy it, Mr Strange?"

"Of course I bloody enjoyed it. I'd like to have you again, in our proper bodies. But I'm not sure how you feel about it, and I don't want you to feel awkward."

"Good," said Mr Norrell. "It's perfectly simple," and kissed him. "I would rather like you to fuck me, if you're not too tired?"

Jonathan Strange looked worried. "One, I am too tired--have some sense of practicality!--and two, I've been inside you already today, and I'd rather not encourage magic to take a wrong turning before I can be sure that I can be inside you in the normal manner."

"Will we go and read about what we may have been doing with the magic, then you shall fuck me?" suggested Mr Norrell. He got up, enjoying the sensation that he need not worry about physical modesty, and got himself dressed, with only a little help from Mr Strange. He was already half-hard just thinking about getting what he'd always wanted from Mr Strange.

"So, you're always like that."

"Always thinking of you? Yes, usually."

This time, he picked up his copy of Ormskirk, and discovered a later addendum that he could have sworn hadn't been there when he last looked. "Ah. That's interesting. It says here, the spell was written for the wife of a madman who wouldn't listen to reason when she told him he was really an ordinary man and not a secret inhabitant of Faerie. Ormskirk told the man that if he were indeed a secret inhabitant of Faerie, the spell would send his to his own world. If not, the spell would place him and his wife in each other's bodies and force them to work together to discover a way out, to deal with the way he ignored what she said. When he couldn't ignore what she said, and when he had to cope with his own lack of Faerie abilities and the fact he remained in Christendom, he was restored to sanity, and both of them to their marriage. It says here he was a deal more respectful of her once he'd shared her experience, and had to go out in public showing deference to her."

"So in fact the spell worked as designed?" said Jonathan Strange. "There is some purpose to us being here, known only to the Raven King?"

Mr Norrell nodded "Most likely. And it has drawn us together, trying to understand how to escape. Well, at any rate, in my case, it has encouraged my feelings for you."

"And mine for you, sir!" said Jonathan Strange with a smile.

"Even though I didn't enjoy a lot of it because I was trying to be virtuous and not touch you," said Mr Norrell.

"But that would only have been touching yourself," said Jonathan Strange.

"I didn't have the right," said Mr Norrell simply. "I am trying to improve my moral principles after how very badly I behaved when I was last in Christendom. That includes touching other people's possessions when I am left in charge of them."

Jonathan Strange patted him on the hand. "Well, I hope you realise you may make free of any part of my body you like, just as you please."

Mr Norrell moaned with lust, and licked his lips, just at the thought of it.

Jonathan Strange picked up Mr Norrell's hand, placed a kiss on it, and gently laid it against the front of his own breeches, which were somewhat--delightfully--distended.

"Oh, I've got to have you now!" gasped Mr Norrell, and clumsily undid him. "I want you in my hand, and down my throat, and up my arse, all at once."

"So really you'd only be satisfied with three of me?" suggested Jonathan Strange.

Mr Norrell was reduced to gasping and mumbling as he handled Jonathan's impressive endowment. It looked and felt even better than in his heated imaginings.

"Mm?" said Jonathan Strange. "Well, if you're at a loss for words you must really like it. Come on, go and bend over before I bring myself off all over you just thinking about it."

"You'd come on me, just from that?" said Mr Norrell, stroking himself absent-mindedly through his breeches.

"Yes, and if it's all the same to you I'd rather give you a proper seeing-to," said Mr Strange.

Mr Norrell sighed, and unclothed his lower half.

"Naked, please," said Mr Strange. "I'd like to see you, and you're going to find it easier to move that way."

Mr Norrell shivered rather.

Mr Strange gestured at the fire until it came up hotter.

"Thank you," Mr Norrell said gratefully, and removed the rest of his clothes.

"Now, how much experience have you had?"

"I fail to see how that's anything to the point!" snapped Mr Norrell crossly.

"Trust me, sir. I'm not making any kind of moral judgement on you. I could imagine you had a thing with Childermass, and indeed I hope you did, because I hope you had some amatory happiness in your life. I can equally imagine you keeping your nose in your books for fifty years. I don't judge you if you did, but what I do need is to know which, because it simply affects how I shall be able to handle you."

Mr Norrell snapped his head up and glared, then said, "I sent Mr Childermass out to fetch me whores from the molly-houses. I like to have men!" He thought, If only I were braver or had different principles it would be quite true. And anyway, if I found someone like him I would already have done all of it, and not have to wait, so it's not really a lie. Just...anticipating the truth.

Jonathan Strange said, "Luckily I can tell if you're lying. You do like, or want to have, men, but you can't compensate for years of inexperience all at once."

Mr Norrell hung his head a little. "Is it really so unreasonable to want to do all of it?"

"Not in the least," said Jonathan Strange from behind him, quite as though he'd realised that Mr Norrell was more comfortable in a conversation without looking him in the face. "It's just unreasonable to try for all of it in the first half-hour."

"What do you think I need?"Mr Norrell asked.

"A good slow, comfortable fuck where I can take my time and not hurt you," said Jonathan Strange, from where he was subjecting the back of Mr Norrell's neck to slow kissing.

Mr Norrell shuddered hard, and humped up welcomingly.

"Now, have you touched yourself behind at all?"

"No. You saw what I did to comfort myself at night. I remained on my back, in the dark, and I touched my, ah, virile member. It didn't occur to me to elaborate on this, although I had extraordinarily vivid dreams sometimes of men using me in another manner."

"I'm not used to virgins, so we'll have to teach each other..."

"But, Mr Strange, your wife!"

"Eh? Oh, well, as to Bell, she was physically a virgin, but the least 'maidenly' person imaginable, as she was inventive, lively, funny, enjoyed outdoor sports, and it would never have occurred to her to wonder whether she liked any bedroom sport too much, or not enough, or was doing it wrong."

"Do you think I could learn to be a little bit like her, at least in that way?" said Mr Norrell, out of a complicated mixture of envy and wishing to give more satisfaction.

"Come up and kiss me, Gilbert," said Jonathan Strange. "You have absolutely no reason to worry that since I loved her I could not love you."

So they kissed. That was indeed luscious, tongue-stroking right into him. Suddenly, a new feeling throbbed through him: Jonathan Strange had begun to finger that little place between balls and arse, that little place which he hadn't realised was so sensitive.

He fell back out of the kiss, and gasped, "Ah!" A feeling of embarrassed heat seemed to fill him; this was clearly not gentlemanly in some way, especially since he felt very strongly that if Mr Strange continued it while he himself touched his own organ, he would spend.

But Jonathan Strange had not finished. He slid a greased fingertip in and rubbed around a bit more, until he reached a very particular place, even more sensitive. That felt as if, as if even if Mr Norrell left his member alone, such restraint would not prevent him from reaching completion thoroughly, noisily and copiously, just from the rubbing and thrusting.

He gasped, "Stop, stop!" and Mr Strange withdrew the finger.

He looked round, once he'd recovered himself a little, and saw Jonathan Strange looked...perhaps a little worried.

"I didn't mean I didn't like it," he explained. "I meant not to waste it."

"You want to come on my cock," suggested Mr Strange.

"Well, ah, I would not quite have put it that way, but...essentially, yes." He looked round and admired it.

Alas, the promised treat proved disappointing. However lovely it was to admire or touch, and however much he'd had occasional wild dreams of having men, well, put it in him, the result was a decided...pain in the arse. It didn't get any better. He, in his innocence, had imagined that the man would just hold still, in the right place, while he himself worked his way to ecstasy around the man's organ, and it would feel rather similar to when Mr Strange had fingered him inside. But Jonathan Strange just didn't...come to a stop. He just kept going, too deep. So it wasn't going to get any better.

He froze up and yelped. Mr Strange, very fortunately, appeared able to tell it was the wrong sort of response, because he instantly withdrew himself as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Mr Norrell was crying, small hiccupping sobs, hiding his face in his hands. "I've ruined it. The one thing I really wanted, except for magic, was to be with you, and it's cruel to find out we're physically incompatible."

Mr Strange kissed him. "This is entirely my fault, Gilbert, my love. I tell you we need practice, and time, and then what do I do? Rush in just the way I've told you not to. I got it wrong pretty-much immediately."

"I'm the wrong build," complained Mr Norrell.

"You're smaller-built, it's true. But all that means is we have to use care. I'm larger, and more experienced, but I was randy enough to let you talk me into doing it the wrong way. Now, come and have a comfortable chat on the sopha."

That was warmer, and cosier, and more relaxing.

"Where I went wrong," said Jonathan Strange, "was not getting us comfortable, and not talking about it the right way. I said the right things. More or less. But I got you prickly and defensive about your lack of experience. I was absolutely right that the best thing for you would be a nice, slow, comfortable fuck--and then instead of taking you to your safe warm bed where you could relax, I bent you over a chair.”

Mr Norrell thought about it. He nodded. He had been excited, but tense.

“Not content with that, I touched you the wrong way,” went on Mr Strange. “Oh, not painfully, just the way I'd touch an experienced man who wanted preparation. But you were so ready; what I should have done is just make you come that way, get you used to the pleasure, not shove something three times as thick in and terrify the wits out of you. Then I'd have encouraged you to please me, we could have had a good night's sleep--and we'd have had a decent chance of having a good fuck the next day, or in the next few days. If you don't remember any thing else I'm telling you about physical love, remember this: there's always another chance, at least if what you did was merely a bit embarrassing."

Mr Norrell said. “It was partly my fault. I was so sure I wanted you to do that to me!”

“To be fair, you do want me to do it to you,” said Mr Strange. “You just didn’t want me to push ahead like a brute when your nerves made you tense up. Now, tomorrow, when you’re all sleepy and relaxed in the morning, I’ll massage your back, then I’ll put some oil in you, trying not to get you worked up. Then I’ll try fucking you, and if you’re still not ready, you’re still not ready, and we’ll wait.”

Mr Norrell muttered, “Not fair,” sulkily.

“Oh, what is it now, for heaven’s sake! I happen to think that is a very handsome offer,” said Jonathan Strange.

“Yes, but don’t forget... the being-frightened was only the last five minutes of something I seemed to enjoy to start with. Now, when you described doing it slowly, I also remembered both of us are going to have to wait."

Jonathan Strange exclaimed, "All right, that explains why you were looking as though you lost a shilling and found sixpence just now."

After explaining that idiom of mild, sulky disappointment to Mr Norrell, Jonathan Strange continued: "Well, I certainly am not going to wait that long to come--and nor are you, you randy little devil!" Jonathan Strange sniggered, slapped him on the rump, and said, “Bed. Now."

They went to Mr Norrell's bed, that being slightly bigger, and better up to his exacting standards for warmth, and undressed.

“I'm first," said Jonathan Strange. "I don't trust you not to go straight to sleep after I've done you."

Mr Norrell thought about it. Of course it was most unfair. On the other hand (and probably overflowing both his hands) he would be able to come to a closer acquaintance with Mr Strange's impressive endowment, enjoy that thoroughly, and then lie down and be comprehensively pleasured.

“I defer to your greater experience, sir," he said.

Jonathan Strange's lips twitched in a grin. "Meaning, no doubt, that you'd like a feel of it. Well, go ahead!"

Mr Norrell started gently, caressing his thighs and balls and letting the anticipation rise up. Then he took him in hand. (Both hands. He had been quite right about that). He had only himself to go by, so of course it would be Mr Strange's own fault if Mr Norrell proved atrocious through mere inexperience.

Apparently he wasn't too bad. There was an attractive flush on Jonathan Strange's cheeks and body, and he shifted restlessly on the bed as Mr Norrell stroked him and handled him, gently at first.

Mr Strange started swearing again, under his breath.

Mr Norrell handled him a lot firmer.

Mr Strange said, "Hold the base in your one hand, sir, and really go at it with the other at the tip; short, hard strokes."

This sounded almost painful to Mr Norrell, but he seemed to be able to provide, and Mr Strange came off in a real gusher, groaning and gasping.

Mr Norrell said, "Can I be disgraceful?"

Mr Strange (still panting) said, "After that you can have anything you like!"

Mr Norrell whispered in his ear, "I should like to play with my own prick while you get your fingers all wet with your own seed and stroke my hole." He reached for himself. It was quite the most depraved thing he'd ever thought of. He whispered, "Sorry! You don't..." he began to say. He meant, of course, "You don't have to!" but he was unable to finish the sentence because a couple of wet fingertips had slid unerringly into that most sensitive place. Rubbing and rubbing, as he frigged himself eagerly, and the only thing out of his mouth was a deep groan of pleasure as he brought himself off. He'd wanted that!

"I'm really looking forward to tomorrow now," said Mr Strange, with a huge yawn and a squeeze of Mr Norrell's bottom.

Mr Norrell sighed complainingly. "Don't do that. I like it."

"Not even you could...oh. Do you not have the normal limits human men do?"

Mr Norrell sighed again, slightly more crossly. "Of course I can't get it up again, but if you say and do something suggestive, the blasted thing can manage a slight twitch."

"My vocabulary has affected you. Sorry."

"Damn nuisance!" said Mr Norrell ambiguously, and went to sleep.

The next morning, Mr Strange gave Mr Norrell a bath and a massage until he was relaxed, squirming a little with pleasure, and ready to practice.

"I want to come again, does that mean I'm too tense?" said Mr Norrell.

"Not necessarily. I've taken the edge off you last night, and you've had a good night's sleep, a bath and a massage. I don't think either of us is eager enough to rush it too fast."

"Mm," said Mr Norrell happily, as he appreciated being fingered from behind when he wasn't quite ready to come.

Mr Strange withdrew his fingers

"All right. This is me, now, properly greased. If you're not quite up for a fuck I can rub myself against your bum and do it that way. As I told you, there are always options."

But this time, Mr Norrell remembered his arse being teased, and how good it had felt. He noticed how smooth and delicious the tip of a firm prick felt compared to the slightly bony nature of fingers. He knew that either or both of them would be able to stop if they needed to stop.

He said, "More!"

So Jonathan Strange gave him more. Inch by tortuous inch--and every fraction of an inch so deeply appreciated, because it felt good and because he knew that if it ever hurt, they could stop and go back to it later. After a bit, Jonathan said, "I'm half-way in you. You want to settle like that for a while?" and he realised that Jonathan would do that for him, if he wished; let him enjoy himself like this, wait as long as it took.

He said, "Full stretch, please. If...if you can do it without hurting me."

Jonathan Strange knew, probably from the betraying stammer, that he wasn't quite sure of his body's limits.

"Well, first," said Mr Strange. "I'm going to play with you for a little while, see if your body votes for letting me in." Despite his words, he was far short of fondling Mr Norrell's prick, settling for teasing his nipples, thighs and balls.

Apparently all of those voted an unambiguous 'yes!' because he soon felt Mr Strange more deeply within him, and more to the point felt his body opening to let him in. "Oh! Yes, please," he said.

The second half of Mr Strange's member went in rather easier.

"All right, you've got me!" panted Jonathan Strange, although the warm, slightly sweaty feeling of his body pressed tight against Mr Norrell did rather make that clear.

"Mm...doesn't hurt at all, lovely!" He squirmed.

"I hope there's enough of me, after all that," said Mr Strange.

"Very much so," said Mr Norrell, pausing to pant. "Could you do it properly now?"

The slow back-and-forth thrusting felt even better than being fingered, both physically and because he knew it was for both of them, not one at a time. "We were both right," he suggested, very slightly smugly. "It does feel good."

After a little while, he demanded it harder, and Jonathan Strange did it harder.

He reached for his prick, and whined when Jonathan Strange said, "Not now, Gilbert."

"I'm not doing any thing," he lied.

"Stop it."

Mr Norrell sighed, and removed his hand.

"That's better."

Actually, being told (ordered!) not to bring himself off was oddly exciting.

"Do you know what I was thinking last night?"

"Mm?" said Mr Norrell, not really thinking at all, with the rapid migration of relevant parts of his blood-supply southwards.

"Just that you're so very greedy," murmured Mr Strange in his ear, nibbling and licking it. "So very greedy it'll feel marvellous for both of us when you finally come yourself silly on my cock." And suddenly, there was a tight fist squeezing him, and he was squeezing that huge, gorgeous thing inside him, and he spent himself in a roaring uncivilised fury until he was quite drained.

Five minutes of rather muddled shared ecstasy later, Jonathan Strange said, "Can I have my cock back, please? I'm going to have to clean up, knowing you, and it's not a detachable appendage."

Mr Norrell muttered something about wanting a spell for that.

Mr Strange said, "No, Gilbert, I'm the one who comes up with frankly ridiculous and untested spells. You're the other one."

"I want to sleep."

Mr Norrell had a very curious dream involving making toast and honey while Jonathan was away on a journey. As he stood at the fire, he put his hand in his pocket and discovered Jonathan had left him with a...detachable appendage to keep him company, and it kept falling out of his pocket because the pockets were too small.

When he woke up he had been irritably searching his wardrobe for a garment with a large enough pocket.

They both, unusually, drank toasts over their next meal. After the not-entirely-serious toasts to Mr Strange's masculine appendage, "Long may it rise!" and Mr Norrell's extreme lubricity, "And may your appetite never run dry, sir!" there was a pause for more serious toasts.

"To Ormskirk," said Mr Norrell, "for getting us together."

"And to the Raven King himself for making it clear we are in the Right Place," said Jonathan Strange.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

☆ Round Two!

Strange/Norrell body-swap humour

Re: Strange/Norrell body-swap humour

Re: Strange/Norrell body-swap humour

Re: Strange/Norrell body-swap humour

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 1/9

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 2/9

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 3/9

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 4/9

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 5/9

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 6/9

7Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 7/9

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 8/9

Fill: A Spell for Changing Places, thus Discoueryng the Right Place 9/9