jsmn_kinkmeme | ☆ Round Two!

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☆ Round Two!

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

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☆ Previous Rounds: Round One

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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.

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...

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~~

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.

Ha, Lascelles was in the prompt, but I am glad I had forgotten that, because it was an enjoyable OMGGGG moment.

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

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!

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!)

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.

+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.

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......

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

Oh, thank goodness, I'm not the only one who's having that reaction.

The way they're having two completely different experiences that are ALSO one shared, complementary one is just...aaah. ♥

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

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

The description of Segundus' mouth as "warm and amateurish" just about killed me, it was so charged with so much meaning in the context of this fic.

Just a delightful final chapter, wow.

This is so lovely and bits of it are so painful and wow, that end. Seriously, this is an absolutely brilliant fic, I love it.

Omg this, just THIS.

My own Childermass headcanon for these two is that it's the first time Childermass can be vulnerable with anyone (and this is without the whore backstory) - and it would be a surprise to him as it's something he doesn't really know exists in himself - AND YOU JUST FUCKING NAILED IT

Oh God I will now spend all day wallowing in massive feels.

*Whimpers* Oh god this is so wonderful and moving (and hot of course). Vulnerable and gentle Childermass is a real treat to read and I could not think of a better person to take care of him than Segundus. UGH so many feelings right now, THANK YOU for this <3

This whole fic is just wonderful. I adore the backstory you've given Childermass, and I laughed a lot at the delightfully handwavey way you got him into Norrell's service (it was perfect). I thought things couldn't get better when we got to the part with Lascelles, but then you gave us Segundus and all these sweet, fluffy emotions and, man, this was a great read. Really great.

so so beautiful and clever. i sigh!

This fic was painful to read - of course, not because of the writing style, which was beautiful, I may add, but because of the subject matter.

Despite it being painful and sad, the glimpses into Childermass's life were totally believable, to the point where they are now my headcanon for his backstory. I wish I had your imagination.

Is it bad that after part three, I really want to read your version of how Childermass came to be employed at Hurtfew? I liked the idea of Childermass deliberately doing the opposite of what the house wants - very Susanna Clarke, that idea.

Poor Childermass. I'm glad he found someone kind and gentle in the end. I felt grateful on his behalf that Segundus managed to read between the lines without prying.

This was such a perfect ending to a painful (but very good) story! Seeing Childermass faced with something so different from his previous experiences with English Gentlemen, it was at once heart-breaking and heart-warming to follow his thoughts and reactions.

I would give this a standing ovation, if the emotional rollercoaster of it all hadn't made it necessary for me to stay seated. Bravo, A!A, bravo!

While the content of the first 5 were hard to read, but the last with Segundus was so lovely <3

I hope in time Segundus will teach Childermass that penetration is not necessarily something one is subjected to, but that it can be beautiful and pleasurable and loving and lovely <3

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

☆ Round Two!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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