fic: A Lesson in Patience
Title: A Lesson in Patience
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Pairing: Wellington/De Lancey
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Extremely dubious consent
Wordcount: 1560
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: De Lancey receives a lesson in patience from Lord Wellington.
A/N: Written as a fill for this prompt on the JSMN kinkmeme, asking for "a really randy De Lancey being taught a lesson in patience by Lord Wellington".
Apparently this is what happens in my brain after tea and Team Peninsula conversation with etave and nothinghamshire; this fic is for them and for onstraysod, the OP of the prompt. Thanks to Owl_by_Night for her encouragement both before and after the fact.
“De Lancey!”
“Yes, my lord?”
De Lancey pushed back his chair and stood to attention, awaiting his lordship’s orders. The Quartermaster’s (long) list of provisions required and his (unhappily still much shorter) list of provisions secured lay on the table in front of him. Lord Wellington had been out of humour all morning, and De Lancey knew he could not hope to escape a reprimand, though he was doing his utmost in difficult circumstances: the only question was how bad it would be.
What he saw in his lordship’s face made him catch his breath. He knew that look: it was the same one Lord Wellington had worn on the occasion, months ago now, when he summoned De Lancey to his tent and told him he needed a lesson in patience. The form that lesson had taken still made De Lancey feel hot all over every time he thought about it, which was far more often than he should. Everything that had happened that day was imprinted on his mind; he did not think he would ever forget it.
***
“It pleases me that my officers are young men of spirit,” Lord Wellington said, “but to be a good officer also requires patience, and I do not see the signs of that in you, De Lancey.”
“My lord,” De Lancey said, obediently enough, though he felt the charge was unjustified.
There was a short silence, in which Lord Wellington appeared to be studying the dispatches on the desk before him.
“You are to do exactly as I command,” his lordship said.
“Of course, my lord!” De Lancey said, his indignation getting the better of him.
“You have not heard what it is yet,” said Lord Wellington, looking up at him with an air of mockery that was not quite comfortable.
“Whatever your lordship commands, you may be sure I shall perform it,” said De Lancey, rather stiffly.
“I am glad to hear it,” said his lordship. “Let us see how you fare when put to the proof.”
De Lancey waited, acutely aware of the sharpness of his lordship’s gaze but determined not to flinch or fidget under it.
“Take off your uniform.”
The command was so unexpected that he could not immediately respond to it, but stood gaping like a codfish.
“I believe I spoke clearly enough,” his lordship said in an irritated tone. “Strip, man.”
De Lancey took off his boots, neckcloth, coat and breeches with clumsy haste. His hands were shaking, which vexed him greatly.
Lord Wellington did not speak, but looked him up and down with evident disapproval and impatience at an order incompletely carried out. Gasping a little at the realization of what was expected of him, De Lancey stripped off his remaining garments and stood naked before his commanding officer.
“Come here.”
De Lancey approached the desk, and faced his lordship’s inspection. The gaze that raked his body was as acute as any Lord Wellington had ever turned on his uniform.
“You are a well made fellow,” his lordship said, as if remarking that it was a fine day. “Turn around.”
De Lancey obeyed. It was even more unsettling to be looked at so intently when he could not see his lordship. Unsettling, and, he found to his dismay, exciting: his traitorous prick was already beginning to swell with it.
“Now face me,” said his lordship.
De Lancey would have liked to cover himself, but felt that this would only draw further mockery or disapproval. He turned around obediently.
“Very pretty,” said his lordship, with a smirk. “You like to be looked at, do you not?”
There was no use in denying it when the accusation itself made him harder than before. “Yes, my lord,” he said, looking at the ground.
“Has Major Grant seen you like this?”
De Lancey was silent, crimsoning at the memories that flooded into his mind. He did not want to give Grant away.
“Complete obedience,” said his lordship.
“Yes, my lord,” De Lancey said, praying that he would not pursue the subject.
“Take it in your hand,” Lord Wellington said, with a gesture that left no room for doubt.
As an answer to prayer this was somewhat of a mixed blessing. De Lancey gasped, but did as he was told, shuddering a little at the touch of his own hand on his prick.
“Stroke it as you would if you were alone and unobserved,” his lordship said, still in the same conversational tones.
De Lancey looked at him in disbelief, but he was clearly in earnest; there was nothing for it but to obey.
“How long can you do that without spending?” Lord Wellington asked, watching his actions with an air of scientific interest.
“I don’t know, my lord,” De Lancey said, rather breathlessly. The sensation was making him slightly dizzy.
“Keep on until I tell you to stop.”
He obeyed, somewhat awkwardly, acutely conscious of his lordship’s curious scrutiny. He was sure that being watched in this way by his superior officer should have dampened his ardour, but it did not: his body seemed to respond mechanically to the familiar touches, and he felt it would not be long before Lord Wellington’s question was answered.
His lordship, however, seemed to lose interest in his experiment, and returned to the survey of his documents. This was even more disconcerting to De Lancey than the scrutiny had been. It was maddening to have Lord Wellington right there in front of him and not looking at him; he was half tempted to stop, just to make him look up.
“Faster,” his lordship said after a while, his eyes still on the page. “Do it as you would to bring yourself off, but do not spend.”
“My lord,” De Lancey said, obeying, and found that he could say nothing else. His prick was hot and tight, aching for release as he stroked faster. He was close now, too close, he must stop or he would go over -
“Did I tell you to stop?”
“No, my lord, but I must - I cannot help it - I am so -”
“Find a way!” his lordship barked.
The craving for release and the desire to obey were both alike desperate; he felt his reason would snap under the strain if this continued. He knew that he would fail, that he must fail, that he could not sustain this. The need to spend was so urgent now that he could barely stand, and still Lord Wellington would not look at him. De Lancey choked back a moan of frustration and bit the inside of his mouth, as if the pain could hold him back.
As if on cue, Lord Wellington got up from his desk and came to stand behind him, so close that De Lancey could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of his neck.
“Harder.”
He hissed an indrawn breath at the order, but complied, feeling the betraying tightness in his balls.
“My lord, please - ”
He was so close now that he could taste it; there was nothing between him and the release he ached for but his lordship’s command.
“Stop,” Lord Wellington said.
De Lancey could not suppress a cry at that. He stilled his hand on his prick and then let go of it altogether, because not to thrust into his fist and reach his completion was unbearable.
Lord Wellington closed his hand around De Lancey’s aching prick and squeezed it, hard. “Now,” he said, and bit the nape of his neck.
De Lancey’s vision went white and he spent, shuddering as he spilled over his lordship’s hand. He staggered and almost fell, but Lord Wellington held him up, his arm tight around his waist. They stood together, swaying, as De Lancey shook and gasped. Then Lord Wellington let go of him and moved away, leaving him feeling more naked than before.
When his vision cleared, De Lancey saw that his lordship was again seated behind his desk, looking at his dispatches as if nothing had happened. There was a faint colour in his face - surely, De Lancey thought, he could not be completely unaffected. Perhaps he would order him to suck his cock now, and oh god, he wanted that so much the thought of it almost doubled him up.
“You may go,” his lordship said, not bothering to look up from his papers.
With shaking hands and in disbelief, he dressed himself again and left. He stumbled back to his own tent, lay down on the camp-bed and fell instantly and heavily asleep.
***
De Lancey had waited ever since that day to see that look of Lord Wellington’s again, and now -
“Send Grant to my tent,” his lordship ordered. “And Merlin.”
So the look was not for him, or not today. De Lancey went about his orders, summoning Grant and Merlin and then returning to his wretched lists, trying not to think of what was happening in Lord Wellington’s tent.
He could wait, he told himself. It would be his turn again, some time or other. Until then he had his memories of what had passed, and his imagination of what might have been, to keep him occupied on the nights when sleep was slow in coming. If his lordship had not yet finished teaching him that lesson in patience, De Lancey was determined to prove himself an apt pupil.
***
I think of this fic as taking place in the same 'verse as Toy Soldiers, which offers one version of what happens with Grant and Merlin in Wellington's tent, but it can also be read as a standalone.
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/197836.html with
comments.
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Pairing: Wellington/De Lancey
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Extremely dubious consent
Wordcount: 1560
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: De Lancey receives a lesson in patience from Lord Wellington.
A/N: Written as a fill for this prompt on the JSMN kinkmeme, asking for "a really randy De Lancey being taught a lesson in patience by Lord Wellington".
Apparently this is what happens in my brain after tea and Team Peninsula conversation with etave and nothinghamshire; this fic is for them and for onstraysod, the OP of the prompt. Thanks to Owl_by_Night for her encouragement both before and after the fact.
“De Lancey!”
“Yes, my lord?”
De Lancey pushed back his chair and stood to attention, awaiting his lordship’s orders. The Quartermaster’s (long) list of provisions required and his (unhappily still much shorter) list of provisions secured lay on the table in front of him. Lord Wellington had been out of humour all morning, and De Lancey knew he could not hope to escape a reprimand, though he was doing his utmost in difficult circumstances: the only question was how bad it would be.
What he saw in his lordship’s face made him catch his breath. He knew that look: it was the same one Lord Wellington had worn on the occasion, months ago now, when he summoned De Lancey to his tent and told him he needed a lesson in patience. The form that lesson had taken still made De Lancey feel hot all over every time he thought about it, which was far more often than he should. Everything that had happened that day was imprinted on his mind; he did not think he would ever forget it.
***
“It pleases me that my officers are young men of spirit,” Lord Wellington said, “but to be a good officer also requires patience, and I do not see the signs of that in you, De Lancey.”
“My lord,” De Lancey said, obediently enough, though he felt the charge was unjustified.
There was a short silence, in which Lord Wellington appeared to be studying the dispatches on the desk before him.
“You are to do exactly as I command,” his lordship said.
“Of course, my lord!” De Lancey said, his indignation getting the better of him.
“You have not heard what it is yet,” said Lord Wellington, looking up at him with an air of mockery that was not quite comfortable.
“Whatever your lordship commands, you may be sure I shall perform it,” said De Lancey, rather stiffly.
“I am glad to hear it,” said his lordship. “Let us see how you fare when put to the proof.”
De Lancey waited, acutely aware of the sharpness of his lordship’s gaze but determined not to flinch or fidget under it.
“Take off your uniform.”
The command was so unexpected that he could not immediately respond to it, but stood gaping like a codfish.
“I believe I spoke clearly enough,” his lordship said in an irritated tone. “Strip, man.”
De Lancey took off his boots, neckcloth, coat and breeches with clumsy haste. His hands were shaking, which vexed him greatly.
Lord Wellington did not speak, but looked him up and down with evident disapproval and impatience at an order incompletely carried out. Gasping a little at the realization of what was expected of him, De Lancey stripped off his remaining garments and stood naked before his commanding officer.
“Come here.”
De Lancey approached the desk, and faced his lordship’s inspection. The gaze that raked his body was as acute as any Lord Wellington had ever turned on his uniform.
“You are a well made fellow,” his lordship said, as if remarking that it was a fine day. “Turn around.”
De Lancey obeyed. It was even more unsettling to be looked at so intently when he could not see his lordship. Unsettling, and, he found to his dismay, exciting: his traitorous prick was already beginning to swell with it.
“Now face me,” said his lordship.
De Lancey would have liked to cover himself, but felt that this would only draw further mockery or disapproval. He turned around obediently.
“Very pretty,” said his lordship, with a smirk. “You like to be looked at, do you not?”
There was no use in denying it when the accusation itself made him harder than before. “Yes, my lord,” he said, looking at the ground.
“Has Major Grant seen you like this?”
De Lancey was silent, crimsoning at the memories that flooded into his mind. He did not want to give Grant away.
“Complete obedience,” said his lordship.
“Yes, my lord,” De Lancey said, praying that he would not pursue the subject.
“Take it in your hand,” Lord Wellington said, with a gesture that left no room for doubt.
As an answer to prayer this was somewhat of a mixed blessing. De Lancey gasped, but did as he was told, shuddering a little at the touch of his own hand on his prick.
“Stroke it as you would if you were alone and unobserved,” his lordship said, still in the same conversational tones.
De Lancey looked at him in disbelief, but he was clearly in earnest; there was nothing for it but to obey.
“How long can you do that without spending?” Lord Wellington asked, watching his actions with an air of scientific interest.
“I don’t know, my lord,” De Lancey said, rather breathlessly. The sensation was making him slightly dizzy.
“Keep on until I tell you to stop.”
He obeyed, somewhat awkwardly, acutely conscious of his lordship’s curious scrutiny. He was sure that being watched in this way by his superior officer should have dampened his ardour, but it did not: his body seemed to respond mechanically to the familiar touches, and he felt it would not be long before Lord Wellington’s question was answered.
His lordship, however, seemed to lose interest in his experiment, and returned to the survey of his documents. This was even more disconcerting to De Lancey than the scrutiny had been. It was maddening to have Lord Wellington right there in front of him and not looking at him; he was half tempted to stop, just to make him look up.
“Faster,” his lordship said after a while, his eyes still on the page. “Do it as you would to bring yourself off, but do not spend.”
“My lord,” De Lancey said, obeying, and found that he could say nothing else. His prick was hot and tight, aching for release as he stroked faster. He was close now, too close, he must stop or he would go over -
“Did I tell you to stop?”
“No, my lord, but I must - I cannot help it - I am so -”
“Find a way!” his lordship barked.
The craving for release and the desire to obey were both alike desperate; he felt his reason would snap under the strain if this continued. He knew that he would fail, that he must fail, that he could not sustain this. The need to spend was so urgent now that he could barely stand, and still Lord Wellington would not look at him. De Lancey choked back a moan of frustration and bit the inside of his mouth, as if the pain could hold him back.
As if on cue, Lord Wellington got up from his desk and came to stand behind him, so close that De Lancey could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of his neck.
“Harder.”
He hissed an indrawn breath at the order, but complied, feeling the betraying tightness in his balls.
“My lord, please - ”
He was so close now that he could taste it; there was nothing between him and the release he ached for but his lordship’s command.
“Stop,” Lord Wellington said.
De Lancey could not suppress a cry at that. He stilled his hand on his prick and then let go of it altogether, because not to thrust into his fist and reach his completion was unbearable.
Lord Wellington closed his hand around De Lancey’s aching prick and squeezed it, hard. “Now,” he said, and bit the nape of his neck.
De Lancey’s vision went white and he spent, shuddering as he spilled over his lordship’s hand. He staggered and almost fell, but Lord Wellington held him up, his arm tight around his waist. They stood together, swaying, as De Lancey shook and gasped. Then Lord Wellington let go of him and moved away, leaving him feeling more naked than before.
When his vision cleared, De Lancey saw that his lordship was again seated behind his desk, looking at his dispatches as if nothing had happened. There was a faint colour in his face - surely, De Lancey thought, he could not be completely unaffected. Perhaps he would order him to suck his cock now, and oh god, he wanted that so much the thought of it almost doubled him up.
“You may go,” his lordship said, not bothering to look up from his papers.
With shaking hands and in disbelief, he dressed himself again and left. He stumbled back to his own tent, lay down on the camp-bed and fell instantly and heavily asleep.
***
De Lancey had waited ever since that day to see that look of Lord Wellington’s again, and now -
“Send Grant to my tent,” his lordship ordered. “And Merlin.”
So the look was not for him, or not today. De Lancey went about his orders, summoning Grant and Merlin and then returning to his wretched lists, trying not to think of what was happening in Lord Wellington’s tent.
He could wait, he told himself. It would be his turn again, some time or other. Until then he had his memories of what had passed, and his imagination of what might have been, to keep him occupied on the nights when sleep was slow in coming. If his lordship had not yet finished teaching him that lesson in patience, De Lancey was determined to prove himself an apt pupil.
***
I think of this fic as taking place in the same 'verse as Toy Soldiers, which offers one version of what happens with Grant and Merlin in Wellington's tent, but it can also be read as a standalone.
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/197836.html with
comments.