The thing is that when everything is said and done, Childermass no longer has a place to live. For twenty years, he has been not-living at Hurtfew Abbey; it has been his not-home for fully half his lifetime. This is strange to think about, but more practically he has a problem. He does not particularly want to live in an inn. He does not particularly want to sleep out in the open. He has indeed, he thinks, grown very soft. So when John Segundus invites him to stay at Starecross, he makes a show of reluctance but takes the man up on it.
This leads in time to friendship, which leads in time to affection, which leads to— well.
Only when Segundus kisses him, Childermass finds himself rather lost. He had not expected to ever be in such a position. He is not much interested, as a rule, in anything other than magic and libraries. There had been a girl or two, back when he was young still, in Hull, but after that he had thought: it's not worth it. He feels affection for some few, but never passion. Perhaps he might've married one of the Hurtfew girls, in another world. She would not have minded. It would have been simple and easy. He would not have made a poor husband, he thinks, for all that half of him would have forever been elsewhere— inaccessible, to a girl who could not write or read.
But now this world: with this small gentle lively-minded scholar, who touches him very carefully, and who wants— what? What does he want? Well: to kiss, which Childermass does tentatively. He is afraid that he may be a clumsy kisser. He has not had much practice. And he does not quite understand the goal of the thing. That is, it has no goal, not like other acts. Though it is nice, he supposes. Nice to be so close, to be held so softly. Still— he pulls back slightly.
"I have not ever," he begins and then stops. How to express the range of his inexperience? It is too tangled up with his experience, which he will not share. He cannot cut one from the other; it will make no sense.
Segundus looks at him without judgement. "Been with a man?"
"No— I mean to say I have been with men, but not with someone I..." Childermass shakes his head. "It is no matter. You will have to teach me to please you."
"And you me as well," Segundus says, touching his face.
Childermass laughs shortly. "I would not know where to begin."
Segundus gives him an uncertain look, but is eager to resume kissing. Childermass is fascinated by his lips, by how time passes and they do not grow dull. As though they are speaking a language to him. Kissing is a trance-like state in which pleasure is subtle, and somehow personal, and intimate. He pulls Segundus into his lap to kiss him more closely, enjoying the warmth of him. They are both aroused, but there is no demand here. Segundus, he thinks, would never demand.
And indeed Segundus offers instead of demanding. He slides down out of Childermass's lap, adorably flustered and pink-faced, hair mussed. Childermass represses the urge to kiss him again.
"May I?" Segundus asks with his hands at Childermass's breeches.
Tentatively, Childermass nods. He does not have a great deal of experience with this act, either— being on the receiving end of it. A whore here and there who needed the money and had nurtured a special fondness for him. He has always felt a certain rapport with such people. They are as much his people as any people are to him. They had told him how extremely polite he was, and even gently mocked him for it, and for his offer to return the favour. But it was fair, he thought. It was only fair.
Segundus's mouth is warm and amateurish on Childermass's prick, and he appears so enthused— shutting his eyes and making small sounds as he sucks, his erection tenting his own trousers— that Childermass is amazed by it. That is what makes him harder, even more than Segundus's mouth; that is what makes his prick twitch. The idea of Segundus enjoying himself. Well, and then, inevitably, the quicker work of that mouth, the tongue pressing against him, the feel of those little sounds like lit vibrations... he has to clench his fists down so as not to press up or grip at Segundus's head. He tips his head back, panting, but then he wants to watch, because he wants to know that it is Segundus doing this. He watches every moment: those red lips sliding up and down his slick shaft, the flickers of visible tongue, Segundus darting a glance up at him— which is what makes him gasp out a sound. The look of daring in Segundus's eyes, somehow coy and amused and self-conscious and wry, so much a person engaged in giving pleasure. Childermass cannot stand it. It gets under his skin like lightning. It is unbelievably erotic to him, and Segundus need not do much more to push him over the edge. Childermass manages, "I'm, you should, you..." and tries to hold off for a moment before he finishes with a little cry, and Segundus does not move, but lets him spurt into his mouth, so that the entirety of his orgasm is warm and wet, the last shivers still safely and tenderly enclosed.
He is still gasping as Segundus climbs up to him, wiping his mouth, and curls again in his lap.
"Thank you," Childermass says, and presses his face against Segundus's hair. "Thank you."
"There is no need to thank me," Segundus says with a hint of a laugh. He is squirming a little, pleasantly, an aroused and lively bundle that Childermass wraps his arms around, breathes against.
"Let me repay you, then. Tell me how you would have me."
Segundus makes a sound and thrusts harder against him. "I have thought about your mouth," he admits breathlessly. "I have thought about everything, I have thought about your hands on me, I have thought about you—" His breath stutters. "About you taking me..."
This is an idea that does not particularly appeal to Childermass. He does not want to visit such an act upon Segundus; he does not want to make Segundus submit in such a way. But the mouth— he knows how to use his mouth for pleasure. So he moves smoothly from the sopha to the floor, getting Segundus's breeches open rapidly. He experiences a moment of regret that the last person he had in his mouth was Lascelles; it does not seem quite fair to Segundus, to force him into that category. He thinks Segundus sees the shadow of the thought on his face, because he frowns very briefly. But Childermass solves this problem by setting to work.
He takes Segundus's prick all the way in at once, sinking down to the base of it, savoring the sense of it so deep into his mouth. He feels rather than hears Segundus's gasp; feels his hands clutching at his hair like little birds. He pulls back and sinks slowly down again, taking time to caress the skin with his tongue. It is so easy to wring cries out of Segundus. He expresses his pleasure so freely. He seems unable to speak. He keeps moving his hands: from hair to face to hair and back again. Childermass mercilessly, methodically drives him towards climax. It is not until the very end— when he is breathing out little shuddering moans and trembling all over— that Segundus's hands clench a little in his hair, and then Segundus cries out very loudly and is finishing. Childermass swallows him down, licking his prick clean.
Segundus looks very beautifully exhausted. Dark tendrils of his hair are damp with sweat, curling against his forehead, and the colour is very high in his cheeks. He sprawls out on the sopha, rumpled and debauched, and reaches out a hand for Childermass. "Here; now here," he says with amusing imperiousness. "I want to hold you."
Childermass gazes at him and feels inexplicably close to tears. He can't do anything for a moment except look at him. He thinks that quite probably he should not be allowed to touch him, but now that he has got the opportunity, he does not mean to let go of it. "Can I kiss you again?" he says at last.
Segundus frowns at him, befuddled. "Of course, why would I not... ?"
So Childermass kisses him. Not urgently, but softly, nakedly, shakily. He crawls up and takes Segundus in his arms, all without stopping kissing. At some point his mouth drifts and he rests it at Segundus's collar and half falls asleep like that.
"You are not at all as I expected," Segundus remarks. His voice seems to come from far away.
"Have I disappointed?" Childermass mumbles. He feels a vague sense of unease. He lifts his head a little and blinks.
But Segundus is watching him fondly, his mouth curving. "Of course not," he says. "Only, I do not know, you are very sweet. Very gentle."
Childermass lets his head drop again. Drowsily he pets Segundus's shoulder. "I will not hurt you," he says. "I will not ever hurt you."
"I know," Segundus says. He sounds oddly puzzled. "I did not think you would, why would I..." His voice trails off. After a moment, his hand comes up and touches Childermass's head, stroking his hair in slow long sweeps. "I will not hurt you, either," he says very carefully. "If such a thing needs saying."
FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (5/5)
The thing is that when everything is said and done, Childermass no longer has a place to live. For twenty years, he has been not-living at Hurtfew Abbey; it has been his not-home for fully half his lifetime. This is strange to think about, but more practically he has a problem. He does not particularly want to live in an inn. He does not particularly want to sleep out in the open. He has indeed, he thinks, grown very soft. So when John Segundus invites him to stay at Starecross, he makes a show of reluctance but takes the man up on it.
This leads in time to friendship, which leads in time to affection, which leads to— well.
Only when Segundus kisses him, Childermass finds himself rather lost. He had not expected to ever be in such a position. He is not much interested, as a rule, in anything other than magic and libraries. There had been a girl or two, back when he was young still, in Hull, but after that he had thought: it's not worth it. He feels affection for some few, but never passion. Perhaps he might've married one of the Hurtfew girls, in another world. She would not have minded. It would have been simple and easy. He would not have made a poor husband, he thinks, for all that half of him would have forever been elsewhere— inaccessible, to a girl who could not write or read.
But now this world: with this small gentle lively-minded scholar, who touches him very carefully, and who wants— what? What does he want? Well: to kiss, which Childermass does tentatively. He is afraid that he may be a clumsy kisser. He has not had much practice. And he does not quite understand the goal of the thing. That is, it has no goal, not like other acts. Though it is nice, he supposes. Nice to be so close, to be held so softly. Still— he pulls back slightly.
"I have not ever," he begins and then stops. How to express the range of his inexperience? It is too tangled up with his experience, which he will not share. He cannot cut one from the other; it will make no sense.
Segundus looks at him without judgement. "Been with a man?"
"No— I mean to say I have been with men, but not with someone I..." Childermass shakes his head. "It is no matter. You will have to teach me to please you."
"And you me as well," Segundus says, touching his face.
Childermass laughs shortly. "I would not know where to begin."
Segundus gives him an uncertain look, but is eager to resume kissing. Childermass is fascinated by his lips, by how time passes and they do not grow dull. As though they are speaking a language to him. Kissing is a trance-like state in which pleasure is subtle, and somehow personal, and intimate. He pulls Segundus into his lap to kiss him more closely, enjoying the warmth of him. They are both aroused, but there is no demand here. Segundus, he thinks, would never demand.
And indeed Segundus offers instead of demanding. He slides down out of Childermass's lap, adorably flustered and pink-faced, hair mussed. Childermass represses the urge to kiss him again.
"May I?" Segundus asks with his hands at Childermass's breeches.
Tentatively, Childermass nods. He does not have a great deal of experience with this act, either— being on the receiving end of it. A whore here and there who needed the money and had nurtured a special fondness for him. He has always felt a certain rapport with such people. They are as much his people as any people are to him. They had told him how extremely polite he was, and even gently mocked him for it, and for his offer to return the favour. But it was fair, he thought. It was only fair.
Segundus's mouth is warm and amateurish on Childermass's prick, and he appears so enthused— shutting his eyes and making small sounds as he sucks, his erection tenting his own trousers— that Childermass is amazed by it. That is what makes him harder, even more than Segundus's mouth; that is what makes his prick twitch. The idea of Segundus enjoying himself. Well, and then, inevitably, the quicker work of that mouth, the tongue pressing against him, the feel of those little sounds like lit vibrations... he has to clench his fists down so as not to press up or grip at Segundus's head. He tips his head back, panting, but then he wants to watch, because he wants to know that it is Segundus doing this. He watches every moment: those red lips sliding up and down his slick shaft, the flickers of visible tongue, Segundus darting a glance up at him— which is what makes him gasp out a sound. The look of daring in Segundus's eyes, somehow coy and amused and self-conscious and wry, so much a person engaged in giving pleasure. Childermass cannot stand it. It gets under his skin like lightning. It is unbelievably erotic to him, and Segundus need not do much more to push him over the edge. Childermass manages, "I'm, you should, you..." and tries to hold off for a moment before he finishes with a little cry, and Segundus does not move, but lets him spurt into his mouth, so that the entirety of his orgasm is warm and wet, the last shivers still safely and tenderly enclosed.
He is still gasping as Segundus climbs up to him, wiping his mouth, and curls again in his lap.
"Thank you," Childermass says, and presses his face against Segundus's hair. "Thank you."
"There is no need to thank me," Segundus says with a hint of a laugh. He is squirming a little, pleasantly, an aroused and lively bundle that Childermass wraps his arms around, breathes against.
"Let me repay you, then. Tell me how you would have me."
Segundus makes a sound and thrusts harder against him. "I have thought about your mouth," he admits breathlessly. "I have thought about everything, I have thought about your hands on me, I have thought about you—" His breath stutters. "About you taking me..."
This is an idea that does not particularly appeal to Childermass. He does not want to visit such an act upon Segundus; he does not want to make Segundus submit in such a way. But the mouth— he knows how to use his mouth for pleasure. So he moves smoothly from the sopha to the floor, getting Segundus's breeches open rapidly. He experiences a moment of regret that the last person he had in his mouth was Lascelles; it does not seem quite fair to Segundus, to force him into that category. He thinks Segundus sees the shadow of the thought on his face, because he frowns very briefly. But Childermass solves this problem by setting to work.
He takes Segundus's prick all the way in at once, sinking down to the base of it, savoring the sense of it so deep into his mouth. He feels rather than hears Segundus's gasp; feels his hands clutching at his hair like little birds. He pulls back and sinks slowly down again, taking time to caress the skin with his tongue. It is so easy to wring cries out of Segundus. He expresses his pleasure so freely. He seems unable to speak. He keeps moving his hands: from hair to face to hair and back again. Childermass mercilessly, methodically drives him towards climax. It is not until the very end— when he is breathing out little shuddering moans and trembling all over— that Segundus's hands clench a little in his hair, and then Segundus cries out very loudly and is finishing. Childermass swallows him down, licking his prick clean.
Segundus looks very beautifully exhausted. Dark tendrils of his hair are damp with sweat, curling against his forehead, and the colour is very high in his cheeks. He sprawls out on the sopha, rumpled and debauched, and reaches out a hand for Childermass. "Here; now here," he says with amusing imperiousness. "I want to hold you."
Childermass gazes at him and feels inexplicably close to tears. He can't do anything for a moment except look at him. He thinks that quite probably he should not be allowed to touch him, but now that he has got the opportunity, he does not mean to let go of it. "Can I kiss you again?" he says at last.
Segundus frowns at him, befuddled. "Of course, why would I not... ?"
So Childermass kisses him. Not urgently, but softly, nakedly, shakily. He crawls up and takes Segundus in his arms, all without stopping kissing. At some point his mouth drifts and he rests it at Segundus's collar and half falls asleep like that.
"You are not at all as I expected," Segundus remarks. His voice seems to come from far away.
"Have I disappointed?" Childermass mumbles. He feels a vague sense of unease. He lifts his head a little and blinks.
But Segundus is watching him fondly, his mouth curving. "Of course not," he says. "Only, I do not know, you are very sweet. Very gentle."
Childermass lets his head drop again. Drowsily he pets Segundus's shoulder. "I will not hurt you," he says. "I will not ever hurt you."
"I know," Segundus says. He sounds oddly puzzled. "I did not think you would, why would I..." His voice trails off. After a moment, his hand comes up and touches Childermass's head, stroking his hair in slow long sweeps. "I will not hurt you, either," he says very carefully. "If such a thing needs saying."
"I know," Childermass says.