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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"I told you Strange should be tamed!"

In which Norrell gets his way and Strange is... tamed. By whomever and whatever means, imprisonment and/or magical restraints (the magical equivalent of an ankle tracker?) a plus. Unstable Strange a double plus.

Oh, this. This.

I can think of some great options here. Does Strange also get sent to Starecross for safekeeping? I would absolutely read Strange/Segundus, for example: they have a great friendship in the books and it doesn't get any screentime in the TV series. Or I would read something darker where the Gentleman is absolutely delighted to toy with Strange now that he's had his wings clipped and can't put up any defense to whatever the Gentleman might do. Or straight up Strange/Norrell, because maybe here Norrell doesn't really see why you can't keep a thing in a cage and also have it love you. NO END TO THE POSSIBILITIES, EXCELLENT PROMPT. :D

I would read like 100 fucked-up fills for this but here is my contribution:

***

At first Strange worried at the forged iron bracelet till the thin skin of his wrist had bled, incessantly trying to dig underneath it with the dirty nails of his right hand. It was a heavy thing, of course, the bracelet— more like a cuff than an ornament, though this was not how Norrell chose to think of it, and though he had told Strange, "You are not a prisoner here, you know."

Norrell felt a deep conviction that this was the truth. Strange was no convict. He was a very gifted young man. He had a bedroom here at Hurtfew, a bed with fine linens and feather pillows, an east-facing window and a little wooden writing desk, and if the window were enchanted so that Strange could not go near it, this was only because he had tried to throw himself out it, and if he could not write because he was not allowed any quill pens, it was because he had used such a pen to open his own vein.

Norrell had healed him upon that occasion. He did not wish for Strange's death.

And he had bandaged the deep welts caused by Strange's scratching, holding Strange's left wrist gently in his hands. Strange's whole body had gone unnaturally still, though a thin trembling ran all throughout it.

"I do not know why you carry on so," Norrell told him. "It seems to me that you create your own suffering."

Strange would not look at him. His hair had grown quite long and very tangled. He had a tendency to let it fall in his face. It was doing so now. When he spoke, his voice was flat and distant. "Please. You must take it off. Please. Please take it off. Please."

"Now, Mr Strange, you know I cannot do that." Finished, Norrell folded Strange's hands into his lap. He was as limp and unresisting as a dressmaker's doll. At first he had been very, very angry, but now he mostly let Norrell move him about, watching as though from far away. Norrell said, "It is for your own good. And for the good of English magic."

"I'll do whatever you want," Strange said in the same dead voice. "Tell me what you want."

Norrell reached out and smoothed Strange's unruly hair, tucking the wayward curls behind his ear. "I want nothing more than your health and well-being. As I have promised you," he said. "You are precious to me. There is no-one more precious."

It was true, he thought. Lord Liverpool and Lord Pole had at first been hard to convince— "If the man is such a threat to the nation of Great Britain, hadn't we better to think of a— well, you know— a more permanent solution?" Lord Liverpool had asked. But Norrell hadn't been able to stomach the idea. Quite literally: he'd felt his stomach grip, nausea seize him. "No," he'd said. "No. I can manage Strange." After all: "He is nothing without magic."

Nothing: just an empty-eyed ghost, increasingly slender, who haunted the rooms Norrell let him in, and who sobbed at night sometimes in the grip of dreams, calling for his wife, or shouting in French and shielding his face with his hands.

(There were only they two in the house, now, with Childermass long gone, so it was Norrell who took mercy on him and shook him awake. "Mr Strange," he said, touching one feverishly hot shoulder. "You are dreaming, sir. Only dreaming."

Strange's eyes, when he woke, were an animal's eyes. There was something wild and ferocious and hunted in them. By morning they'd be back to depthless circles. But in the dark, there, sometimes, Norrell was frightened by him.)

"Come now," he said to Strange, resting his hand on the man's shoulder. "Shall we walk in the garden?" Strange could leave the house only if Norrell were with him, so he rarely saw the light of day; it would be good, Norrell thought, to put colour in his cheeks.

"I'll do whatever you want," Strange said again. His face was still turned away. "I'll be— I won't— if you'll take it off—"

"Let's have none of that, now," Norrell said, pulling him to his feet. He turned to leave, knowing that Strange would follow. It wasn't a magical compulsion, though it might as well have been. In the early days, Strange had tried to deny Norrell his presence, refusing to stay in a room with him, but slowly he had learned that the more docile he proved— the more civilised and acquiescent— the more he was rewarded: with books from the library, and time to spend out-of-doors, and other rare forms of access.

(Norrell had asked him once if he played the pianoforte, and Strange, with a sort of slow spiritless nod, had acknowledged that he did. So Norrell granted him an hour in the music room. He had done so expecting that Strange would make music, but instead Strange sat running his hands over the instrument: its keys, the gilt inlay and the burnished wood, almost as though it were the body of a woman, and not an inanimate box. Heavy, soundless tears slid down his cheeks; they spotted the silk of his dressing gown. Norrell was embarrassed for him; he looked away.)

Indeed, Strange trailed after him, down the staircase. He was barefoot, but Norrell had largely abandoned the effort of trying to dress him correctly. If Strange did not wish to look like a gentleman, it was the least of Norrell's concerns. They could address it in time, when Strange was better adjusted. For now, there was no-one at Hurtfew to be offended. It was only the two of them.

And it was a warm spring morning. Strange would not catch a chill. He would be quite all right; he would be perfectly comfortable. Norrell took great care of him.

The sun outside was as heavy as sun got in northern England. Strange shielded his eyes with his hand, unused to it. His hair shone auburn in the light. He moved uncertainly, almost as though sleepwalking. The iron bracelet looked large on his rather gaunt wrist.

"See, it is a fine day," Norrell said, and it was. Birds were singing in the trees. There were wild tulips and march orchids blooming in the far-off grass, and more orderly sorts of flowers in the garden beds. Norrell did not particularly care for flowers, but he had paid a landscape architect— some modern, respectable sort from London— to design where they ought to go and lay them in. It was important, Norrell thought, to delineate his domain. To mark the civilized out from the wilderness.

Strange said, so quietly that Norrell almost could not hear him, "They can't— speak to me."

"Whatever do you mean," Norrell said.

"The— stones. And the rain. They are— they are trying to speak to me." He was already worrying at the iron again, shoving his restless fingers at it.

Norrell said, "You have been mad. That is why you think so. But soon you will be better. You will learn to be better."

"No, I..." Strange collapsed to the ground in a lurch of limbs. He pawed at the earth as though he were a dog, raking it up: black soil, new grass, an odd scurrying beetle. His hands turned filthy and flecked with mica. "There is a thing," he said desperately, "a thing I must do, but I can't, I can't, I can't hear it!"

Norrell hauled him up by his shirt-collar. "Enough!" he said sharply. "Is this how an Englishman behaves? An English magician? One would think you wish to be mad!"

Strange cringed away from him as though he expected to be struck. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'll be— I'll be— Please take it off."

"It is for your own well-being," Norrell said. He had said it before. He felt tired, exhausted by having to explain such a simple precept so many times. He wondered if it was the same with all sorts of genius— because geniuses were children, really, weren't they? They were like feral children with obscure gifts. They were skilled, but not yet full human beings. You had to teach them, you had to make them human. It was hard. But it was a sort of holy task that you couldn't turn away.

He sighed. "Perhaps it was unwise to go out of doors," he said. "I can see that you are not ready. We will try again next week, weather permitting."

He steered Strange back up the slope, to-wards the door. But at the last Strange balked, his body jerking to one side, as though he could not enter the house. His toes curled in the grass. "No," he said. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no—"

Exasperated now, Norrell seized his manacled wrist. "Come now," he said. "You are being a child. You bring this on yourself. If you behaved yourself, you would have a book from the library, but instead you insist on this infantile defiance—"

Strange briefly struggled with him, but he was not a well man, nor in his right mind. Norrell did not even have to use magic. He half-shoved Strange through the door and into the entryway. Strange had mostly given up by then. He was shaking his head back and forth, making a low keening sound.

"I'm dreaming," Strange muttered, seemingly to himself. "I'm dreaming. I knew I was still in Belgium. I knew, I didn't fall for it, I didn't really think— because I wouldn't, I didn't mean to do it. I didn't meant to do it," he said more clearly to Norrell. His shoulders were hunched in.

"I know," Norrell said gently. "I know you didn't." He had no idea what Strange was referring to— one of his war exploits, no doubt. He ought never to have let the army have Strange. He ought to have kept him here, at Hurtfew, all along. This was where he was meant to be. This was his right place. In time, Strange too would realize that.

Strange was knotting one hand unhappily in his hair. "There is a thing I am meant to do," he insisted plaintively. "There is a man who comes to me in the dark. There is more, I know there is more, but I can't hear it!"

"Hush," Norrell said, touching his shoulder. There were spells he employed when Strange became overwrought. If this proved insufficient, there were herbs; liquids; there were lots of methods he could use. Strange would sleep for two, perhaps three days, and forget. When he woke, he would be calmer. "It's nothing," Norrell said. "You'll find it is nothing."

He tried to believe it. He thought: it does not matter whether I believe it. I will make it so, and that will make it true.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh and the beautiful conclusion. This was fucked up and sad and delicious in all the right ways. <3

NICE. Poor, poor Strange.

omg so fucked up I fucking loved it.

OP-- omggggg, this is deliciously fucked up. A+ work.

Ow. Ow, ow ow. This is brilliant. Fucked up and painful and brilliant. The mentions of Strange trying to take his own life, and Norrell's detachment to the fact. Small details, like Childermass being gone (of course, he would never stand for it). My heart hurts, anon, and I love it.

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeessssss this is all I have ever wanted. It hurts so good!! And it has the bonus of being so beautifully written. Bravo, A!A.

Oh my God this is amazing! I love how coldly rational Norrell is about the whole thing, and how beautifully you broke Strange.

Would A!A be averse to my writing a continuation of sorts? The idea of simply leaving Strange in Hurtfew indefinitely troubles me.

A!A viewed this as sort of a mirror!verse where everything goes horribly warped wrong, but welcomes any and all fic on the subject, so go for a sequel!

Continuation A!A: passerby!commenter wonders if you ever followed this up, because I just read the original fill, and my heart is in pieces. Cruel, cruel Norrell! Please help Joanthan. This is making me very sad. I would do something myself but I have 3 WIPs going on.

...
Oh god.
I think my heart's been torn out.
I need there to be more to this!

He wondered if it was the same with all sorts of genius— because geniuses were children, really, weren't they? They were like feral children with obscure gifts. They were skilled, but not yet full human beings. You had to teach them, you had to make them human. It was hard. But it was a sort of holy task that you couldn't turn away.

^^^^^^^INCREDIBLE LINE. LIKE WOW.

I am not the OP, just the commenter who was seconding this prompt, but oh my God, A!A, do please continue. This is one variation of everything I could have possibly wanted, oh yes. :D

This is breaking my heart! Please send Childermass to rescue him and make him well again, and read the Riot Act to Norrell. Poor Jonathan!

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☆ Round One!

Strange/Anyone - Tamed

Re: Strange/Anyone - Tamed

FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (1/2)

FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (2/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (1/2)

Re: FILL: Cold iron is master of them all (1/2)