☆ Round Two!

[jsmn_kink]

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

Below are some basic guidelines, but please make sure you also check out our complete Rules & Guidelines.

Guidelines:
■ Anonymously comment with your request – a character/pairing/nthsome, and a kink or prompt.
■ Only one prompt per post.
■ Fillers please link your fills in the Fills Post!
■ Have fun! :)

Keep in mind:
■ Any kinks welcomed!
■ The fill/request does not need to be sexual or porny.
■ Multiple fills are allowed.
■ Fills can be any sort of creative work: fic, art, song, photomanip, etc.
■ Beware of spoilers! Prompters and requesters are encouraged to warn for spoilers, but this rule is not enforced.
■ Warning for non-con, dub-con, abuse, slurs/language, and other potentially disturbing subjects is encouraged but be aware we do not enforce this.
■ Would fillers please make sure when posting a fill in multiple parts that they thread their comments by replying to previous parts.

Links:
☆ Mod Post
☆ Fills Post
☆ Discussion Post
☆ Misfire deletion requests
☆ Previous Rounds: Round One

Comments

FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

[soooooo I really want to read other people's fills as well but here's my bit. with warning for potential underage depending on area]

1.

He has no birthday and cannot say the year he was born in, but John Childermass will later reckon he was sixteen or thereabouts when he learned he had been born fortunate in looks.

He is not handsome and he is not fashionable. He has black hair and large dark sullen eyes and an expression— everyone says so— of insolence. He is gawky, with a lean look of starvation. "The little crow," Mr Douglass the bookseller calls him. He has never owned a shirt without a hole in it. In his experience, these qualities are not appealing. He cannot walk into a shop without the shopkeeper eyeing him (barring Mr Douglass the bookseller, with whom he has an arrangement). If he sees a constable, the constable will call him up, and likely shake out all of his pockets before walking away with a little sneer, so that Childermass must stoop and scrabble at the dirty cobbles for whatever scraps of paper and ha'pennies he had secreted there. Thief, his looks say, and: pauper.

So it is a great surprise when on one occasion, after the constable has had his fun with him, Childermass is helped to his feet by a rich gentleman who smells of tobacco and violets.

"Terrible, the manners of these people," is what the gentleman says. He brushes the shoulders of Childermass's coat very lightly with a gloved hand.

Childermass stares at him warily and says nothing. He has been informed that this is one of his defects, the tendency to not speak when spoken to, as well as a tendency to speak out of turn.

The gentleman asks, "He did not do you any harm, did he?" He takes Childermass's face in the palm of his hand and turns it from side to side in a slow, coolly measuring manner.

Childermass jerks away from him.

The gentleman smiles. It is a very thin-lipped smile. "How rude of me," he says. "You are quite right. I have not even given you my name. However shall we be friends if I do not give you my name? It is Edward Rutherford."

"I am not an idiot," Childermass says. And indeed he is not an idiot; he has known for a long time that his mind works quicker than the minds of other men. He finds them all very simple to outsmart, though much good it does him; at the end of the day cleverness does not get you a guinea. More often than not, it gets you a whip to the back.

"Are you not," Edward Rutherford says. His eyes sharpen a little where they rest on Childermass. "No. You are a businessman, correct? Of course you are."

Childermass senses some sarcasm in this. He stares unflinchingly at Rutherford, refusing the bait.

"Allow me to make you an offer, then. One businessman to another." Rutherford takes a little coin-purse from his pocket. "Six shillings for you if you will accompany to my home so that we may become... friends." He opens the coin-purse to display the shillings.

At this point in his life, Childermass regards six shillings as a good deal of money. It is half the cost of an entire book— a thing that Childermass has never owned. It is enough to buy him a good coat or to get him out of Hull, both of which he has a powerful desire for. It is enough to pay off Mr Douglass the bookseller, who takes thruppence from Childermass here and there in exchange for letting him read merchandise in the off-hours, so long as he scrubs his dirty hands and presents them for inspection first.

"Double it," he says.

Rutherford's smile grows thinner. "You've a high opinion of yourself, haven't you? Eight shillings."

"Twelve."

"Ten."

No one has ever offered Childermass ten shillings for anything.

He knows what Edward Rutherford is offering him the money for.

He says very neutrally, "It seems a fair enough price."

So that is how he comes to be on his knees in Rutherford's townhouse. It is a very fine townhouse. Very fine carpet. When he had taken off his coat, Rutherford had said with a look of disgust, "Not on the furnishings." The coat had gone on the floor, and so had Childermass. Now he is sucking Rutherford's prick, with Rutherford's hand in his hair, forcing his head down lower and lower till he can barely breathe. He has not done this before, which he had not confessed. He understands the mechanics of the thing; he has seen whores do it. The noises Rutherford makes suggest he is not doing badly.

After a while Rutherford leans back and slides his prick out of Childermass's mouth, taking it lazily into his own hand. "Take yourself out," he says to Childermass. "I want to see you touch yourself."

Childermass does not comment on the order or look at him directly. He unbuttons his breeches and works himself into a state of arousal. He stares at the fine carpet and thinks of nothing at all. He thinks of ten shillings. It gets easier as he goes along, because pleasure breeds itself. When he feels himself begin gasping a little on each stroke, Rutherford reaches out and takes hold of his chin.

"Very pretty," Rutherford says. He slaps Childermass hard across the face. Hard enough to knock his head to the side. Then, while he is gasping, blinking: again. Harder the second time. "Don't stop," he says gently, when Childermass's hand falters. "Don't stop, kitten."

Childermass clenches his eyes shut. Ten shillings, he reminds himself. His hand works faster. He feels Rutherford's hand on his face, stroking the white-hot skin he had struck. Then— a rustle of movement— the wet touch of his tongue at the same place, tracing Childermass's cheekbone with slow consideration; after a moment: kissing him. Childermass would like to bite that tongue out, bite off those fingers—the thought of it makes his breath come quick—his hand works faster— ten shillings— he is getting out of Hull— a whole book, someday— a whole book—

"Good," Rutherford murmurs into his ear. "Good boy. Good kitten. That's right."

Childermass heaves in a breath—another breath— bites back his hatred— and climaxes.

Almost at once Rutherford is dragging his head down, shoving his prick into his mouth, as deep as it can get. Childermass chokes a little but perseveres. Rutherford does not seem very interested in him— is more interested in riding his face very roughly, grunting out a variety of unpleasant things (good kitten, so pretty, yes, like that) his breath becoming shorter and his thrusts more violent.

At the last moment he jerks himself back and spends himself on Childermass's face.

Childermass coughs and coughs, wiping at his eyelashes, wiping at the wet mixture of semen and saliva that coats his chin. His own hands are not terribly clean, so it doesn't really help. The only result is that he soils the cuffs of his shirtsleeves.

Rutherford is watching him with a heavy look of satisfaction. "Look at you," he says. "Can't even clean yourself up properly, can you?"

Childermass stares at him and deliberately wipes his face with his sleeve. He gets to his feet and tucks his hair behind his ears. He picks up his dirty coat and puts it on. "You called me pretty," he says. "Am I?"

"What, are you fishing for another shilling? You won't get one."

"No. I just wanted to know."

Rutherford stands, considers him. He leans in and traces a cheekbone roughly. Childermass does not flinch, even though it hurts— his skin still hot where Rutherford's hand had been. Rutherford says, "Pretty enough, I suppose. The kind of boy that men like me pay to fuck."

"Thank you for the information," Childermass says.



2.

He performs the same act for the coach driver while on the road to Whitby. Three times. It saves him the cost of the trip. It had taken him several tries before he found the right man, one who would be receptive to his offer. When Rutherford had said "men like me," Childermass thinks, he had not meant "men who like a bit of rough," but something more specific. It has to do, perhaps, with the insolent expression. Men like Rutherford would like to fuck it off of him. Childermass had not known that such a breed of man existed. This is a new and valuable piece of knowledge.

He has time to consider it while he is on his knees behind the inn in Scarborough, the cold seeping up from the ground through his breeches, the back of his head hitting the wall with every thrust. The coach driver is not gentle— he has a hand fisted in Childermass's hair, and a big prick that he likes to push until it hits the wall of Childermass's throat— but his voice is, very strangely. "That's right, lad," he says. "That's just right." As though Childermass were his apprentice or son, instead of the boy whose mouth he has come in twice already, holding his head down until he swallows each time.

What peculiar creatures men are, Childermass thinks.

The next day ,the coach driver offers to take him to Newcastle if Childermass will let him put it up his arse. Childermass thinks of three nights of that, and the man already none too gentle. It does not seem the right way to come to the King's city. Not that he thinks John Uskglass would mind. But he would mind.

He says, "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll stay in Whitby."

That does not please the coach driver; his face turns ugly. "You think you'll make your fortune? Come a sailor? Boy, they wipe the gutters with the likes of you. There's plenty of cheap whores already in Whitby."

"Be that as it may," Childermass says, "that's where I'm staying."

The man has a go at pinning him against a wall, but Childermass is too quick for that— and anyway, he recognizes the look of violence coming. He gets out of the room and he gets the man's purse. Anger is a distraction. A weakness. Someone should have taught the coach driver that. That, and maybe another lesson:

"Don't get greedy," Childermass says. He is out of the door by then; it will do the coach driver no good. But it is a reminder, maybe, to Childermass. Don't get greedy.

He is riding high, though, on this newfound skill. He is out of Hull. He has a whole pound to his name. He is going places now. He can feel it in his fingertips. He smell it in the foreign tang of the sea.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Ohhhh, this is both grim and fabulous. And very blackly humorous, I laughed at the "stay in Whitby" line.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

This is WONDERFUL. So gritty and real. Little Childermass is scrappy as hell, but man am I worried for him. Poor kid. :(

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

This is fantastic! Very grim, but I agree with the first commenter - blackly humorous too. Poor, sharp young Childermass! Can't wait to see more of this.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Wow this is wonderfully dark and disturbing, love it! Poor, poor Childermass though :(

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (1/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Poor little Childermass! Author, this is so wonderful, realistic, rough and sad, but Childermass is so clever and above everything, you can't help but marvel at him!

FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

It is a year and a half later that he meets the sailor. It has not been an easy era for Childermass. Ships will not take him on, on account of they do not like the look of him. No one can really explain why this is; some say he is too pale, or too smart-tongued. Others say more plainly that he has a certain Otherlandish aspect. Sailors are very superstitious creatures, and when they get a notion in their heads, there is no denying it. So Childermass has remained impoverished, on shore, in England. He has taken to picking pockets again. He has only been beaten twice so far for this offense. This is a measure of how quick his hands are.

The sailor's name is Jack. He catches Childermass picking his pocket, and for a moment Childermass thinks things will go very badly indeed. Jack— well, Childermass does not know his name then— is a big man, built like a boxer where Childermass is built like a whip, and it seems another beating is due to go down. Childermass curses himself; he had only been distracted by something very curious that happened when he reached into the pocket. He does not know what it was but cannot worry about it now, as Jack-the-sailor has a wrist in a painful grip.

"And what do we have here, then," Jack-the-sailor says. "Street rat, eh? Little shadow-looking, skulking thing?"

But curiously enough, he does not seem angry. He seems more interested, astonished almost. He drags Childermass closer, inspecting him with a careful eye.

Childermass lowers his eyelashes and bites his lip. "I didn't mean nothing," he says with a deliberately sulky expression. He thinks that if he has read the man right, he may yet make a profit, and if he has read the man wrong, then things will hardly be worse than they had been.

The sailor narrows his gaze. "You are that witch boy," he says. "I've seen you before. You tried for a place on board our ship."

Childermass says, "There's no witches in England. Nor magicians either. Everybody knows that."

"Do they," the sailor says. "Do they."

Childermass does not know what to make of this.

The sailor relaxes his grip a little. He says, "You want a meal, street rat?"

What Childermass ought to want is to run away from him. But he is intrigued: by the curiosity of the man's pocket, by the unexpected offer, by his odd gentleness— the last of which is to say: he did not strike what it was his right to strike. This makes him, in Childermass's experience, unprecedented.

Childermass measures him up. He says, "What do you want?"

The sailor shrugs. "Solve a mystery. Bit of companionship, maybe."

"Companionship."

"You were going to try to sell me it, weren't you?"

"No. Trade it for not getting hit."

"Get hit often?"

Childermass stares at him coldly. "No," he says. "Do you?"

The sailor sighs; turns, rubs his chin. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. Just feed you up a bit, ask you a few questions, we'll see how it goes."

This seems an unlikely story. But Childermass believes the part about not hurting him; if he were going to, he'd've done it already. No point in wasting the money on food. So he says, warily, "We'll see how it goes."

They sit in an alehouse and eat roast chicken. Childermass eats fast and keeps his eyes fixed across the table. The sailor— Childermass knows by now his name is Jack— watches him with a thoughtful air. When the bones of the chicken are gone, he lights a pipe and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a deck of cards.

"Know what these are?" he asks.

Childermass reaches out; touches. He feels the same curious spark that he felt before. He draws his hand back reluctantly. He would like to keep touching. "Yes," he says. "I've seen them in a book."

"You have, have you?" An unreadable tone. An unreadable expression.

"I'm not stupid; I can read."

"Never said you couldn't." Jack lays the cards out on the table. Death. The Emperor. The Knight of Wands. Childermass's gaze strays to them, as though drawn by a magnet. "I got these in Genoa," Jack says, "but they were not meant for me. I knew it at the time, but still I bought 'em. I cannot read them, you see."

"What do you mean?" The words are in French, it's true, but the pictures should be simple enough to read. It is a standard deck.

"You tell me," Jack says. "You can read them, can't you?"

He has finished laying out the cards by then. Childermass looks down at them. He sees the printed words and the color pictures. He sees the patterns they make between them. The way a poem works, assonance and rhyme, alliteration, motif, all the little unseen strings. They form a web and the web is meaning. He touches one of the cards. He says, "You're going back to sea."

"I'm a sailor," Jack says. "Anyone can tell me that."

"Soon. Much sooner than you wished for. You broke someone's heart— a wife or a mother? The mother of your child? I cannot see it. Just as well, I would say; you won't return. This is the last time you'll see England."

"Come off it," Jack says.

Childermass's voice has taken on a trance-like metre. He is aware of it, but cannot seem to stop. "You'll die at sea," he says.

Jack says hoarsely, "Anyone can tell me that. Anyone can say to a sailor—"

"No," Childermass says matter-of-factly. He isn't fully in himself at that moment. He is lost in this act of learning to read. There is an energy, a wonder that runs all through him. This is good; this is easy; this, here, this is his skill: making signs, letters, pictures into meaning. He has never been so sure of anything. "Soon. The cards say soon. No more than a fortnight."

They sit in silence for a time like that: smoke drifting up from the long-sticked pipe, woodsmoke heavy in the alehouse room, and the cards on the tabletop in mocking bright squares. All around them, away from their small corner, conversation hums. But the cards set them apart. They alone now know what is coming. Foretelling briskly forks apart men.

"Well, what do you know," Jack says after a long time, his lip curling. "What do you know, anyway. A rat like you." He reaches out to gather the cards towards him.

"No," Childermass says, and reaches out unthinking. He feels as though Jack has tried to take away his hand. He stops himself. He says, idiotically, "Sell them to me."

Jack laughs. "Got no money, have you?"

"I can copy them. Let me copy them." He has no clean paper, but people in the room have pockets. Pockets have bits of paper in them. He will beg, steal, trade... His eyes plead with Jack. He can feel the need in him. He has never needed anything more than this.

Jack tilts his head curiously. He watches Childermass with a dark fascination. "I thought you were the one," he says. "I could feel it when you reached into my pocket. Funny old world. Woman who sold 'em said. Said they were meant for you: magician boy. I said, There's no magicians left in England."

Childermass says nothing; just stares at him steadily. He says, "I'll trade you." He does not have to specify what with.

Jack considers this offer, puffing on his pipe. His eyes measure Childermass's body frankly, perhaps putting a valuation on it. "I've got a room," he says finally. "I leave in the morning. But then, you already know that. I get my pleasure, you get your cards, so long as you finish 'em by then."

"In the mouth," Childermass says. Best to be specific. After all, they are negotiating a business deal.

"No. The other way."

"I don't do it the other way."

"You want a look at the cards or not?" Jack asks. Then, relenting a little, "I told you, I won't hurt you. That's more than you can say for most."

This is true. But still, when they get to Jack's room, when Childermass has wholly undressed, he feels very nervous about it. Need, he thinks, makes you vulnerable. Better not to need anything you don't have. Better not to need anything from other people. Then you don't end up here, in this narrow room, with Jack-the-sailor pressing you down onto the bed, guiding you on your hands and knees, putting you how he likes you, how he can enjoy you best.

It is not a position Childermass feels comfortable in— naked, with his back to a stranger, his neck exposed. But Jack is rather laid-back. In a sense this is calming. Very business-like. Anything else is what makes people dangerous.

Childermass watches over his shoulder as Jack slathers his fingers up with oil and rubs them up against him. It hurts to crane his neck, but he wants to know. At least, he thinks, he will get some knowledge out of this. He feels the strange, violating sensation of as Jack briefly sticks one, then almost immediately two fingers in. This is raw, sore; it digs noise out of Childermass, which he does not like, because he cannot control it. He bites hard on his lip to mute the noise and breathes hard through his nose. Jack forces him open, widening his fingers in slow, steady motions. It feels like being bent backwards, a contortionist act. But Jack says, "Relax, it's not so bad. I daresay you will yet get some pleasure."

He lines himself up, spreading Childermass's legs carefully, and without any warning pushes in. Childermass sucks in a breath and swears and drops to his elbows. It is huge, the head of Jack's prick, and if he thought that his fingers were forcing him open— this is splitting, this is merciless. And Jack does not stop, but shoves and shoves, inch by inch, slick and slowly, until Childermass has admitted the entirety of him. "Oh, yes," Jack says. "There we go. That's lovely, that is. That's very sweet and very tight." He wastes no time in getting down to his fucking, short fast strokes that take exactly what they want— brisk and business-like fucking, is what it is.

Childermass grips the sheets and bends his head down. It is a odd feeling, the in-and-out of being penetrated, the hard head of Jack's prick pushing at him inside, probing against his tense soft flesh. Sometimes it makes him jerk and cry out. He is not happy with how his limbs spasm. But Jack laughs and slaps his hip lightly and says, "Might as well like it, eh? Have a bit of fun being ridden?"

Ridden is the right word. It's as rough and casual as riding. And something of the same rhythm to the out and in, the thrusts that grow longer and harder as Childermass loosens slightly, as Jack gradually fucks him more open. He hadn't realized he had such a deepness in his body until Jack grips his hips and shoves impossibly far in and rolls his hips in a slow, lazy circle, saying, breathless, "Nice and deep, you feel that? Feel how deep that is?"

No, Childermass thinks acidly. I didn't notice. But Jack doesn't want an answer. He is talking for himself, and not for Childermass. He continues: "That's how I like it. Get that whole thing in you, make you take it hard and deep—" He breaks off to swear and pound out a few thrusts. Childermass rolls his eyes: men who make themselves hot and don't see how absurd it is!

It seems to help Jack along though, because he's doing it harder and faster, which at least means he should be finished soon. He's groaning out something inarticulate, pushing Childermass's legs wider apart, and then his noises coalesce into words: "Teach you what you know— what do you know— gutter whore— street rat—"

That does make Childermass tense a little, though he knows he should let it roll off him. I know more than you do, he thinks. He thinks, At least I'm not a dead man. Resentment briefly suffocates him. But Jack is pulling his hips up, making him cry out as he sinks in very deep, and fucking out a few last hard heavy thrusts before he spills, filling Childermass with his hot seed. Another new strange sensation, the spreading wetness. He feels somewhat sullied. And Jack is in him still, shoved forwards as far as he can go, tensing and untensing, gripping Childermass's hips with hands that won't let go.

It's long minutes before he finally slides out, and releases Childermass to collapse on the sheets. "Christ," he says. "Not a half-bad fuck."

Childermass ignores him. He has done his part. He gets off the bed— wincing, wobbly-legged— and digs in the pocket of Jack's coat for the cards. In his own shirt pocket for the paper he'd filched, and for a pen and some ink. In the lamplight he rifles through the little deck.

"Sorry about," Jack says from the bed. "You know. Didn't mean anything by it. Could give you a hand if you like."

Childermass says absently, "Copying?"

A sigh. "Right, then. Suppose not."

Childermass works for the next three hours solid. He is aware only that Jack does not sleep— thinking, probably, that Childermass would nick the cards, which of course he would. Jack talks instead, but Childermass does not listen. He is absorbed in his drawing. He sees only the lines and shadows.

At some point daylight leaks through the window. Childermass would not notice this, but it's the point at which Jack says, "Put your clothes on, then. We're done here."

Childermass blinks. "No," he says. "I am not done."

"I've got a ship to catch. You're done."

Childermass stares at him in mute anger. Maybe, he thinks, he could make it out the door— down the stairs— if he was quick enough, he could vanish in the street. But he sees Jack see him consider the notion, and it is already too late. He says flatly, "Please."

"Do the rest from your memory, can't you? I'd just bet you can." Jack looks tired. "Get your clothes on; get out of here."

So Childermass gathers up his breeches and shirt, tugging them on with short frustrated movements. His whole body feels dirty, and much of its hurts, and he don't know when he will wash again. But he thinks of only the cards, the cards, the cards.

At the doorway Jack hands him a slip of paper. "Couple of mates of mine in town," he says. "Decent blokes. Same sort of tastes, if you see what I mean. If you run short of money, they'll pay for a fuck."

Childermass accepts the paper coldly. He wants to chew it up and spit it out. But it's not the worst thing that could happen, he thinks. Better than getting gaol. Better than transport. Better even than getting beat. He shoves it in his pocket, but he says nothing.

"Watch out for yourself," Jack says. "Not a lot of magicians in England. Can't afford to lose one."

Childermass looks at him. Jack smiles and gives him a mock salute.

By the next day, of course, he is dead. Childermass hears it from one of the mates a good month later. He doesn't know what to think about it. He thinks, should I have said thank you? Had Jack done anything to merit thanks? Is it strange to feel slightly sad? And, if so, is he sad for Jack, or for himself, or sad with an odd sort of grief that marks the end of his innocence? From here on out he has the future in his hand. He knows it. Things will begin to change for him.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

I absolutely loved this prompt, and you're filling it very well! Thank you so much a!a.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

So glad to see more of this. I will always have this as my backstory for the cards now.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

This is wonderful and sad! And I absolutely love this idea for how Childermass got his cards. Thanks a!a, this is great, can't wait to read the next part.

FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (3/?)

[(Anonymous)]

4.

By the time Childermass comes into the service of Gilbert Norrell, some two and a half years later, he likes to think that he has come up in the world. He has sold himself a few times more, here and there, as needed— mostly in those early days, when he was still meeting the cards. He is still a thief, but nowadays he can supplement his income by reading the cards for people who'll pay for it. He will never make a fortuneteller— he is too accurate by half, and has no interest in telling folk what they want to hear, and furthermore he has still that crow-like aspect and that off-putting, insolent, witchy look— but it something.

And then, to his surprise, he is in service: with a steady income and a library full of magic books. How has this come about? Well, that is another story. What is perhaps significant to tell here is the strangeness of those first few months at Hurtfew Abbey. Childermass has never been in such a house before, nor worked in such a position. He is not well adapted to either. It is a house that is designed, he thinks, as all grand houses are, to make folk such as him feel as low as dirt— to make him feel uncouth and uneasy. He responds to this in a very typical manner: by doing the opposite of what the house wants, which is to say by become ever-more-exaggeratedly ragged, by preserving his accent and refusing to put on airs, by being as much himself as he can muster. Perhaps this is a kind of arrogance. Certainly it is viewed as such by those around him, who already wonder why he is there.

Norrell seems not to notice such behaviour. It certainly does not seem to occur to him that anyone else— servants, visitors, booksellers— might in some way disapprove of it. In the second year of Childermass's employment, Norrell begins sending him out across the country in search of books. Childermass goes to many grand houses, and some not so grand that show the sad signs that once they were. He meets each one with the same obtuseness. They will not have an effect on him. The owners are offended, or at best only startled. But it becomes known that Childermass is Norrell's man, and that Norrell is not someone you want to cross.

Still, here and there he runs into resistance. In the third year of his employment, out in Derbyshire, he deals with a middle-aged baron named Thomas Hurttles. Hurttles has just come into his title and lands, after resentful years waiting on his father's decease. His father knew the worth of the family library, but the younger Hurttles does not care for books, and is just has happy to sell the lot of them. Childermass has come to inspect what is on offer.

Hurttles, however, is resistant to this idea. When Childermass is shown into the room, Hurttles looks him up and down in obvious disbelief. "And who are you supposed to be?" he says.

"I am Mr Norrell's man of business," Childermass informs him.

"Norrell's man of business indeed! I should not be surprised if you had murdered the man and stolen his papers!"

"I am here to inspect the library," Childermass says somewhat wearily. There are times when he quite enjoys these little confrontations— he relishes in creating unpleasant little scenes, for the same reason that he refuses to submit to the houses— but he has ridden a good distance, and is not in the mood.

"Inspect the library? I daresay you cannot even read!"

Childermass says mildly, "Would you like a demonstration?"

Hurttles does not require a demonstration. He looks over Childermass's papers once more very dubiously. He says, "I suppose it is not my business what sort of man Mr Norrell employs. I suppose you have your... uses. I did not know Norrell was that sort of fellow, thogh it does not surprise me."

Childermass rolls his eyes, but says nothing.

"Still, the least he could have done is offered me free use of your services, if he is going to ask me to welcome such a man into my home. Perhaps he does not like to share. It is very ungenerous of him. In fact I find I am quite offended." Hurttles looks at Childermass. "It is a mistake, maybe. He would not want me to be offended. It is a mistake you may remedy."

Childermass stares at him coldly. "I am here to inspect the library," he says again. "That is the instruction I have been given."

Hurttles shrugs with faux-indifference. "I suppose you must crawl back to Yorkshire, then. I find I do not believe you. I require further evidence of your sincerity."

Silence lies between them. Childermass considers the matter. He can, of course, return to Yorkshire and describe this misbehaviour to Norrell. Norrell will not tolerate it. However, this would require describing and, possibly, explaining the Norrell the distasteful assumptions that Hurttles had made. Childermass does not care to discuss these with Norrell, nor does he like the very slim risk that it will raise questions about his own familiarity with the topic. Returning would also mean admitting defeat, which he does not like to do. It would cast doubt on his ability to conduct his business.

He says rather icily, "What evidence do you require, sir?"

Hurttles looks him up and down, a lazy and distasteful smile beginning. "Oh, I'm sure we can think of something."

He has Childermass get on his knees first, right there in the parlour, and take him in his mouth.

"I assume you know what you're doing," Hurttles says. "I suppose you've had a great deal of practice."

Childermass says nothing. He applies his tongue and lips. He could, he thinks, probably finish Hurttles off quite quickly— he acquired some small skill at this, during his time in Whitby. He could have a look at the library and be back in Yorkshire tomorrow. Back in the clean, remote, isolated silences of Hurtfew. Back in the library. Warm dust smells. Scent of leather.

Hurttles puts a heavy hand on his head. "Slowly," he says. "I'm going to enjoy this a great deal."

Childermass closes his eyes briefly in frustration. Slow it is, then: applying suction, allowing Hurttles' prick to slide against his tongue, feeling it wetly jab at the back of his throat.

"Yes, very nice," Hurttles says. "You have the right kind of mouth for it. I suppose Norrell has you do this constantly."

Childermass cannot imagine Norrell even considering such a notion. He suspects Norrell does not know the act exists. It is something he appreciates about Norrell, that curious streak of ignorance in him.

Hurttles grips his head hard and rides his mouth for a moment, thrusting in and out and all the way in, dragging Childermass's mouth down to the base— then pulls him off, panting a little. "Lick it," he says. "Lick it. Just your tongue. All over."

Baffled as ever by the mysterious things that men desire, Childermass obliges him: painting his prick with long licks, running his tongue along the head, tilting his head to caress the underside. When prompted, he sinks lower and laps at the scrotum as well. He is aware that Hurttles is watching him— presumably enjoying the spectacle.

"This is where you belong," Hurttles says, "on your knees before your betters. I'm going to have you after this, fuck you hard, send you back to your master still full and wet with my seed. Perhaps he will think better of employing such offensive servants."

Childermass has such a contrary nature that he cannot resist pausing to comment, "I do not seem to be giving much offense at the moment."

Hurttles clearly struggles for a moment to believe that Childermass can actually have been so openly insolent. Then he seizes Childermass's hair and shoves his prick in his mouth. All the way down, until Childermass chokes on it. He stays there for a long, long, agonizing moment, until Childermass sees white lights in his vision, and thinks that in a moment he will be unconscious. Then Hurttles withdraws and proceeds to fuck his mouth savagely, thrusting into his throat over and over again. When he finally restrains himself and pushes Childermass violently away, Childermass feels quite weak and light-headed. A lesson to himself, he thinks. Don't indulge your mouth. But: oh, it had been satisfying to say.

"Get your breeches off,' Hurttles commands curtly. To Childermass's look: "Yes, here, on the floor. You think I would take you into my bed?"

Of course not, Childermass thinks tiredly. Perhaps he is getting spoiled by Hurtfew Abbey's comforts, that he would think about such a thing as a bed. He kicks his shoes off and removes his breeches, kneeling.

Almost immediately Hurttles is on him, pushing two wet fingers inside his hole. Childermass cannot help a wince. The man clearly has little idea what he's doing, or else his own pleasure is secondary to him; at least the sailors in Whitby were after enjoyment, and were courteous customers, for the most part. This is rough and unpretty, and Hurttles does not stretch him very much before he starts to shove his prick in.

"Slower," Childermass hisses.

"Does Norrell do it slower?" Hurttles ask mockingly. "Does Norrell take his time? Is he very sweet?" He responds by taking hold of Childermass's hips and pushing himself in more forcefully; pushing, in fact, until he is all the way in, until his prick is stretching Childermass rather painfully. He starts fucking him roughly almost at once.

Childermass tries to relax, and it does get easier— his body accepts Hurttles' prick, and Hurttles gets distracted by his own pleasure, forgets to be rough, starts giving him long thorough strokes instead, moaning and pushing deeper and deeper. It isn't easy, but it doesn't smack so much of violence.

He doesn't last very long before he's groaning and gasping and finishing in a burst of wetness. When he pulls out, he sticks his fingers back in Childermass, rubbing that wetness into him, pushing it deeper, making Childermass feel it acutely. "Take that back to Norrell," he says, "you insolent filth."

He would be disappointed, presumably, to know that Childermass does not— that he stops at an inn in rural Derbyshire and scrubs himself clean. Childermass is meticulous about his own cleanliness, these days. No one can call him dirty, filthy, and find any truth to it— not at Hurtfew.

Nevertheless there are things he cannot hide. When he reports to Norrell, he is still sore enough that he has the barest hint of a limp. It had not been easy riding from Derbyshire. He sees Norrell notice it; waits for him to ask. But he does not ask. It is as he had suspected, he thinks: Norrell doesn't know what to ask. Norrell hasn't the slightest idea about things like this.

It makes him feel oddly happy. He is glad to be home. Not that Hurtfew is his home; it isn't. He has no home. And Gilbert Norrell is not his friend. Still, as a place to come back to, it could be worse.

FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

5. Lascelles

Childermass has always known that it would come to this. He is far too adept at reading men not to have noticed that Lascelles— whether or not he realizes it— wants him. He has pondered what the best course of action would be: ought he to prompt Lascelles to take action? Would it make the man less dangerous? Would it bring him under Childermass's thumb? Should he deny Lascelles what he wants? Can he do this, and get away with it? (Childermass is not so certain of Norrell, these days. If Lascelles went to him and fabricated some form of accusation, is it possible that Norrell would send Childermass away?) Various other strategies occur.

The unpredictable factor, of course— aside from Lascelles's smouldering temper— is Childermass's irresistable need to give offense. Time has not really cured him of this problem. If presented with an opportunity, he tends to take it. So when he is in the library alone with Lascelles, at his writing desk, and Lascelles says with faux-casualness to him, "You know, I never can quite work out if you were a thief or a prostitute. Before Norrell was taken in by you, I mean"—

Well, Childermass scarcely pauses before responding matter-of-factly, "I was both."

Lascelles seems not sure whether to believe him. Probably he does not. But he says, as though he is going along with the joke, "And what did you cost? I have never purchased a cheap whore in Yorkshire."

Childermass does not look up from his desk "It depends on the act."

"In the mouth, say."

"Why, Mr Lascelles? Do you require such a service?"

The brief silence is slightly surprising. Childermass does look up then, and catches Lascelles's eyes on him. Lascelles immediately looks away, but it is too late. Childermass has seen the hunger there. An unpleasant kind of hunger. He is amused for a moment, thinking of how consistent it is: this category of men who want to fuck the insolence out of him. Ever since he was sixteen, it has been the same. He also thinks, equally amused, that Lascelles would quite literally not believe him if he confessed how cheaply he had sold himself when he was sixteen.

He sets his pen aside. "I'm afraid I am retired from that profession. But perhaps something could be arranged. What did you have in mind?"

"I am not serious!" Lascelles is quick to say, with a cutting laugh. "You think I would demean myself in such a manner? You think I would sully my body with a— a—"

Childermass stands and crosses the room. Lascelles seems unnerved by the motion. He is breathing quickly. Something about his face suggests he feels in danger. Perhaps, Childermass considers, this would in fact give him the upper hand. Lascelles does not like to betray his true nature. He likes to maintain control over all things. In this area, he appears to have little control.

Childermass drops to his knees before him and gazes at him calmly. "Would you want only my mouth? Would you want to watch me touch myself? It costs extra for that, I'm afraid. Extra to hit me, as you clearly desire. Extra for—"

Lascelles reaches out and physically covers his mouth with a hand to shut him up. Childermass smiles rather viciously, unseen. Oh, such weakness in this gesture! It is not something that Lascelles meant to do, he thinks. Certainly it was very poor planning; he parts his lip and works his warm tongue across Lascelles's palm, in the crevices of his fingers.

Lascelles's mouth drops open. There is naked fascination on his face. He doesn't move his hand.

Childermass continues, employing just the edge of his teeth. He moves his head to reach the tips of Lascelles's fingers, takes two of them into his mouth and sucks on them gently. He leans back to ask, "Is that what you want on your prick?"

Lascelles is already unbuttoning himself shakily, taking his hard prick out. He reaches out without a word and digs a hand into Childermass's hair, then wrenches him forwards by it and drags it down to his lap. This is not very polite, and indeed a little painful, but Childermass goes along with it: taking Lascelles's prick obligingly into his mouth and immediately setting to work on it. Lascelles is big, bigger than he would have expected, and— exactly as he would have expected— extremely demanding. He gets his other hand into Childermass's hair as well and sets the pace himself, thrusting his hips up as well. And he talks incessantly in a breathless murmur: "God, yes, you filthy— you disgusting— how many pricks have you had in your mouth, you whore— you enjoy it— yes, take it, you filthy whore—"

Childermass decides to ignore this for now. It is a sign, more than anything else, of Lascelles's weakness. Lascelles is evidently very excited by the whole scenario. He is half off the couch, pushing his prick down Childermass's throat, his hands trembling on Childermass's head.

"Look at you taking my prick," Lascelles whispers fiercely. "You like it, don't you, you like it, being down on your knees, you like me shoving my prick in your clever— fucking— mouth!" These last words are punctuated by very hard thrusts. Childermass chokes a little on them. Now they are getting to the heart of the matter, he thinks.

And indeed, Lascelles keeps talking on this theme as he slides the spit-wet length of his prick between Childermass's lips: "Let's see you be clever now, now that you're where you belong, let's see you insult me after I've had my prick halfway down your throat. I am a gentleman, and you will— you will—"

He is getting close to the edge. He drags Childermass down farther each times he pushes his prick in, and he is going fast, fucking Childermass's throat. Then he seems to grasp at a shred of control. He stops and move slower; his hands slide down to Childermass's face. He says in a barely even voice, "Look up, look at me."

Childermass does so. Lascelles seems wholly transfixed. He pushes his thumb at the corner of Childermass's lips, traces the outline of those lips stretched around his prick.

"Oh, yes," he says. "If you could see yourself— if you could see yourself taking it from me—"

Childermass blinks and looks up at him through his lashes. He remembers men being fond of that sort of thing. And indeed Lascelles utters a wavering cry and begins thrusting very fast and shallowly, working himself towards his climax. He rubs himself hard against Childermass's tongue— the taste of him is unpleasant, sour and salty— and generally uses his mouth like his own hand, a wet hot hole to push into, until he comes to the point of orgasm at last. He holds Childermass's head down as he comes, making him take the rush of bitter fluid, making him swallow it all, until he is quite finished. Then he releases him.

Childermass pulls back. His hair is disarrayed and he is quite breathless. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he looks at Lascelles.

Lascelles looks stunned. For all his talking, he does not now appear to know what to say.

"Well," Childermass says. "What an edifying encounter."

Lascelles lashes out at him with a boot suddenly, catching him in the ribs. It is a sharp, heavy pain. Childermass jerks back, out of range. Lascelles looks furious, and cornered, and shameful, and oddly young: an echo of the past, perhaps, former unhappy encounters. Childermass thinks: we are both the ghosts of our younger selves today.

"Careful, Mr Lascelles," he says rather tauntingly. "I do not think you would like to leave a mark. Such a thing would be very hard to explain." He pauses deliberately. "That is, I assume you do not plan on describing to my master how you have seen fit to pass the afternoon."

Lascelles directs at him a look of unfettered hatred. "You! You made me do this," he hisses.

"That is a curious interpretation of events," Childermass observes. "I do not recall you struggling at all. Indeed—" he touches the back of his head rather gingerly— "you were very forceful about your insistence on the act."

"You will not tell Norrell," Lascelles says— more to himself than Childermass. "He would dismiss you. He would not want a sodomite for a servant. It is not respectable."

"You may choose to think so," Childermass says mildly. "Perhaps, you know, I tire of my employment. Perhaps I wish to return to Yorkshire. I have not decided yet. So I would advise you, sir..." He meets Lascelles's gaze levelly. "To be mindful of your behaviour."

He stands, and leaves the room. Though he would not admit to any effect from the encounter, in fact he has a very powerful wish to wash. Not just his teeth, but to scrub himself all over. He does so in his tiny room. He observes, darkening on his skin, the red-purple mark of Lascelles's shoe. Violence these days astonishes him. Being shot; this. Perhaps he is growing soft in his old age. But there are certain kinds of skills that don't go away. Certain types of experiences. Perhaps if Lascelles had learned this, he would not fall prey to them so quickly. Everyone in the world was at war with their ghosts. It could not be escaped. You either looked them in the eye, or fell prey to ambush by them.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

A!A this whole series is amazing! So much depth and darkness and your Childermass voice is so very on point. This last scene with Lascelles was filthywronghot; I loved how it was Childermass in charge of the whole situation from the start and how unmanned (LOL) Lascelles was at the end of it.

Now I am seriously waiting on tenterhooks for the next installment. Will we be seeing Mr Segundus soon? I can't wait to find out...

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

This fic continues to amaze with every part, and be hot in a Very Very Wrong way.

I was wondering who would turn up, and literally gasped when I saw Lascelles' name. The dynamic here is beautifully-written. I also love how, even though it is still under the "transaction" heading, Childermass gains control.

Suspect we are in for even more of a treat in the forthcoming "and one time it wasn't" part will not hit "refresh refresh refresh" until it turns up

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Just to add that I have no idea how you are going to play the last part, or what is going to be revealed about Childermass/other character (Segundus?), quite apart from anything else, and this is intriguing/compelling.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Wow. This was so fantastic. Your Lascelles is perfect. Thank you thank you thank you!

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

This is amazing and wonderful and painful to read. So good, A!A - it's a subject that can so easily tip into melodramatic, but you totally avoid that, and keep it grim and subtle and all the more terrible for it. Your Childermass is absolutely spot on. I can't wait to see the next part, Childermass needs some happiness!

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh this is wonderful, I love the insights into Childermass and how you've explored that through these (really rather hot) encounters. I cannot wait for the next part (please let it be Segundus!)

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (4/?)

[(Anonymous)]

holy fucking shit. this entire series is phenomenal but this section literally had me holding my head between my hands for five solid minutes. holy. shit.

FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (5/5)

[(Anonymous)]

+1

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.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (5/5)

[(Anonymous)]

jesus im speechless?? im trying to come up with words to express just how amazing this is but my mind is blanking. the tenderness and intimacy, how it's sweet without being saccharine, and childermass being the vulnerable one....IT'S SO MUCH......

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (5/5)

[(Anonymous)]

God, that's painful. Achingly, beautifully painful. That is a lovely thing.

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (5/5)

[(Anonymous)]

everyone else go home this wins the kink meme. yes I know it's not technically a competition but even so. this fill wins

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (5/5)

[(Anonymous)]

Wow wow wow. I check the kink meme like it's the morning paper and had been so excited for an update on this incredible fic. Now that it's over, I know I'll be thinking about it ALL. DAY. So beautiful and tender and I just love your writing style yes yes yes thank you

Re: FILL: Childermass/various, 5 times (2/?)

[(Anonymous)]

God, this is so great. This will be my headcanon for his cards forever now.