The Terror - Prompt Post 1

[coldboys]

This is for prompts for all things AMC's The Terror (2018). Go nuts! 

Cast RPF also goes here, shine on you crazy diamonds. 

If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!

If you have questions or comments please contact us in the comments of the Mod Post.

Just to reiterate from the Mod Post, here are the RULES: 


1. Be fucking nice. YKINMATO/KINKTOMATO at all times.

 

2. This meme is CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) but warnings are highly encouraged.

 

3. Prompts should use this format in the subject line: [SHIP], [DESCRIPTION]

e.g.

Hickey/Crozier, CNC knifeplay

 

Solo gen can be prompted as well alongside (a) character name and description

e.g.

Gen, Edward Little, having a nice day

 

4. Fills should use this format in the subject line: FILL: [TITLE], [PAIRING], [RATING], [ANY WARNINGS]

e.g.

Fill: The Last Hour, Hickey/Tozer, E, cw dubcon

 

5. One prompt per comment please. 

 

6. Multiple fills for each prompt are welcome! 

 

7. You don't have to be anon for your prompts or your fills but we do encourage it because of the vibe. You're also welcome to deanon your stuff by posting on AO3/Tumblr as you please! 

 

8. Feedback on prompts and fills is AWESOME; please take longer conversations to the discussion post.


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Comments

Hickey/Goodsir, Hickey topping from the bottom

[(Anonymous)]

+1 for bitchy Goodsir.

Jopson/Little, play piercing

[(Anonymous)]

Author's choice for who and what gets pierced 👀

Re: Jopson/Little, play piercing

[(Anonymous)]

i am Looking
+1 for ned getting pierced, jopson's sewing needle etc etc

Fitzier, dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

I would simply like some legit skeezy dubcon. Circumstances (intoxication? fuck or die? straight-up terrible behavior?) totally up to you.

Re: Fitzier, dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

please god. Seconded

Gen, Hodge, eating ham

[(Anonymous)]

Or he can eat it sexily if you prefer

Re: Gen, Hodge, eating ham

[(Anonymous)]

op you are my inspiration

Hickey/Tozer, non-con somnophilia

[(Anonymous)]

Tozer has to be out for a while after Hickey clocks him with the gun stock, right? At least long enough to be chained to the boat. Perhaps long enough for a few other things as well.

Re: Hickey/Tozer, non-con somnophilia

[(Anonymous)]

Oh my god please let this be filled

Hickey/Crozier, oral sex baggage

[(Anonymous)]

Crozier has so much baggage in general and idk something something he treats sucking Hickey’s dick like a cold necessity he must solemnly request to do rather than a thing Hickey might enjoy and find intimate. Hickey enjoys it and finds it intimate anyway.

Tozer/Tartnell(/Irving), frottage, dirty talk

[(Anonymous)]

Tozer & Tarts' bitchy convo about Irving's spyglass later devolves into a different one about what they'd do with Irving's, um, flesh spyglass

Fill: Friendly Conversation, Tozer/Tartnell(/Irving), M, dirty talk feat. Jirv's Giant Shame Cock

[(Anonymous)]

Tom's still thinking about Mr. Blanky's praise (praise! For Tom!) meager as it was but kinder words than he's heard in months for knowing to call for him.

There's a strange beauty to the North, the top of the World entire, and the ice is somehow, impossibly, not horrid. It's actually, in a way he never knew before, lovely to him.

He can see something in the others can't, except the Ice Masters. He never thought that might be him. Not here, and yet here he is. Here he is.

A big hand on his chest, moving him not to sweetly into the corridor's wall snaps him out of it. Brings him back to what here really is.

"The glass. If you please," Solomon Tozer growls at him, looking like a bear himself between his beard and his Welsh wig, pulled down low over his eyes. For one moment Tom just looks at him stupidly, until he feels in his hands that he's not only still holding the spyglass, but he's been rubbing it softly between his fingers as he thinks.

He flushes, and the way it always does, teased as he was as a boy for being so ginger and so pink, he shifts and comes up swinging.

"S'not yours, is it? Could give it to the Lieutenant m'self," he says though he means to do no such thing.

Irving's the hardest of the three of them to deal with, by a country mile. And Tom's not handsome enough to get his better side. Tozer is, clearly.

"Lent it to me, d'int he?" Tozer rumbles, dragging that meaty hand down Tom's chest when he doesn't have to, wrapping around the metal and Tom's own fingers, pressing the thumb into the tool so hard it hurts. It's how he talks, more than with his mouth.

"And we know why, don't we?" Tom says, because Tozer's too big and too close and it's the only way he can fight back.

Irving's gaze lingers on the marines especially, their fetching uniforms. It's a small ship and they all know their vices. Tom can almost admire Irving's resolve in not indulging. Almost.

Since his brother went, all of Tom's kindness had dried up. Gone as hard as the ice.

He wouldn't have talked to Tozer like this, before.

"Jealous, are we?" Tozer says, but only after he flinches. Blow landed. Good.

"Not of you," Tom says and manages to pull his hand out from under Tozer's paw. It's a rough thing, gun calloused and strong. Must be frightening to be under those hands, that solid, soldier's body. Exciting too.

Comes close to how Tom feels about the ice, the only thing he feels now, this far north, in this endless cold. That one spark.

Tozer considers. Tom watches him consider, the slow wheel turning in those eyes. Cautious, at least. A good thing in a man.

What he says next could make them friends or enemies. Tom hopes he'll walk away in silence. He's too tired for anything else.

"It is a lovely bit of equipment, that," Tozer says finally, "shame he don't know what to do with it."

Tom knows what he means. There's not a soul aboard who doesn't, and likely not on Erebus either.

It's a small ship and sailors aren't men given to modesty. That the was the way of life shipboard; the relentless categorization of men by rank and class and accent and build and the size of their most precious unit. There was no end to the side glances and open looking, judging and sharing, trying to find both the biggest one and hoping not to have the smallest.

Everybody knows where they stand, and it's the ends of it that get talked about, shamelessly because they all know and that's where the interesting oddities lie.

The lieutenants are a quiet joke, among the men, fitting like a story. Hogdson's very small, Little's not little but average really, like Tom himself, and Irving. Well, everybody knows about Irving.

When a man's that size, beastly is the best word for it, it gave men something to talk about. When it was that incredibly big, there was no embarassment, no shame or misunderstanding in mentioning it, not a thing like what the Lieutenant had and everybody wanted so long as they did not actually have it.

They laughed about how, if they had that six-pounder, that marvellous gun, they'd have their pick of the pussies, how the mawks would pay them just to say they'd had it, how even society ladies would throw themselves upon it to die happily impaled.
That was the first part of the laughter, and then came the jab at how maybe there was something to Irving's piety if that man's God saw fit to give him such a cockstand.

Or maybe not, someone would say, what a waste of a thing on such a cold fish, such a thing on one too icy and pious to use it.

That was when they thought, but didn't say, that it was too much. That they didn't really want it, that women might run from it screaming, if they saw it. Doxies might charge double or refuse service at all.

Maybe that was God's plan for Irving, and that magnificent thing, inch by inch, pound by pound. Shame.

Tom's mouth watered thinking of it, another thing he didn't say. Just rubbed his fingers against his tongue when he could.

"Maybe you could show him," Tom said, standing on either side of the line. A joke, if need be. Not, if not. A game, a dangerous one. He did like danger, shining like the ice.

"Never seen the thing," Tozer says, breath warm where he stands closer, and then carefully adds, "to know. If it's true, what they say about it." Tom's choice then, which side to stand on. Mock Irving or be a mawk for Tozer. Easy choice.

"It's true. Very true," Tom says and watches how it lands on Tozer's face, wondering and then lustful and irritated at his own want.

Tozer's closer to Irving's end of the scale than Tom is, he knows that too. Wonders how he feels about it. One either side of him are the stewards, Jopson's ahead of him. Gibson's behind.

"Had a go with it?" Tozer says and he tries to sound dark but Tom can see it now. The fright, the excitement. The desire, for whatever Tom will do next. A big man, and he likes it when another leads.

"Not that lucky. I was in his hunting party, in Baffin Bay. He stopped to piss. If it looks like that soft..." Tom let it lie. Not that he did when he had time and solitude enough to give his hand some company.

They could still turn back, but he knows they won't. Flowing with it, like the ice.

"Wouldn't that be a sight?" Tozer says, laying his forehead carefully on Tom's. They're very much alone now, down here, deep in the ship's hidden belly. Not in this, in the wanting or the acting, Tom knows. But it's enough.

Tozer is so very near, so very warm, so very large. So very easy to lead.

"He'd be clumsy. Fumbling," Tom says, and part of what quickens his blood is the speaking of the man, their ranking superior, like that. Their officer and a virgin, too. Tom also thinks about that, in the dark.

"D'have to teach him. He might not even notice at first, that that's what it was," Tozer says and his breathing is changing. They'll have to be quick.

"Oh Sir, what is it, ooh let me help you with that?" Tom jokes, in the high lilt of a loose woman, but Solomon likes it, crowds him closer.

Tom feels the rub of his knuckle, knows Tozer's palming himself. Knows Tom's straining his breeches too.

"Might not be possible, really, that thing's so big. Might be better to make him turn 'round. Bend over," and Tozer's hand moves faster, tighter in the narrow space, and Tom can feel it, lets himself. Such a tiny thing to take. No one will miss it.

"Has a nice arse too, don't he?" and Tozer groans, nods, begs for more with his eyes. He begs very well.

"Lovely thing, fat and thick, and it would look better, prettier, paired with that cock stand, all pink and wet," and Tozer stops pretending now, wraps those enormous hands around Tom's waist, fingers meeting at the middle of his back, and ruts right against him.

Tom pants and Tozer nips at him, right on the lip, wanting more. Beastly and clumsy himself. It's almost endearing.

"He'd cry pretty, with those big blue eyes, don't you think? Want it, beg for it, hate it and spread himself for more," and it's mean and filthy and he's going to ruin both their breeches.

He likes it.

Tozer's curled around him like a dying thing, a predator held back by a tiny chain, by the dig of Tom's fingers in his hair, driving him like reins.

"A waste of a tool. He must be frightened of it. You think he prays to God to take it away? Holding it and trying to pull it off? Asking for forgiveness after it feels good?"

Tozer nods frantically against his neck and the way his hair rubs is going to a leave a mark, Tom's sure.

Something he can press his hand against later. Nothing that anyone will see, under the scarves and the layers. It's Tom's, alone.

"What if He granted it? That cock's no good for that man. What if he woke up tomorrow with a soft wet pussy, for a man to fuck? There'd be no sin in that. Do you think he'd come to you first?" and Tozer makes a strangled sound and makes it hot and wet where their breeches press together and Tom lets his eyes roll back into his head to follow.

For a moment, he almost feels alive.

Then Tozer's peeling himself off, wincing, and Tom thinks distantly he might get mean, and he's got the size and rank to do it.

Tozer's clutching the spyglass to his chest, like a child's doll, and that thing with its heavy glass and metal could be a formidable tool in the right hands. The ones of a soldier.

"Ought to get this back to him. Thank him for his Christian charity," Tozer mumbles, which means that phrase is Irving's, the bloody fool, who will surely keep Tozer around for a longer conversation than the Sergeant would like, just to be around a man he'll never let himself have.

Fortune favors the bold, Tom's found.

"You ought to get back to me later. Don't have many conversation partners on Terror," Tom says, easy, take or leave.

He's only on this ship because John died and Erebus suddenly felt stiffling. Now he's behind and back-footed, on the webs of friends and enemies on the boat.

Tozer nods, like he's understood. Like he will.

"Later, then," and he's gone. But he lingers, in how Tom doesn't feel cold anymore. Not for now.

Little/Irving, under the table, HJ or BJ

[(Anonymous)]

Either Little or Irving is at a table or desk. The other one's getting either handsy or mouthy underneath, and your lieutenant of choice has to pretend that eeeeeverything is okay. :)

Re: Little/Irving, under the table, HJ or BJ

[(Anonymous)]

OH my goodness excellent

Stanley/Fitzjames, begging

[(Anonymous)]

Before our boy knows what Crozier is capable of, he goes to the man he’s already trusted with his body. Bonus points for: obedience, patronizing, overstimulation, improvised collar, and/or other various dom!Stanley metaphorically digging his fingers in where it hurts. [Bad Bhabie I_see_the_type_of_person_you_are.gif]

Re: Stanley/Fitzjames, begging

[(Anonymous)]

"the man he’s already trusted with his body" is driving me crazy. I hope someone fills this!

Collins/Des Voeux (possible dub-con?)

[(Anonymous)]

In the aftermath of Bill Orren's death, Des Voeux goes to Collins to ~comfort him, is insufferable, bottoms from the top

FILL: Billy Orren, Collins/Des Voeux, mild dubcon, discussion of character death, E, 1/3

[(Anonymous)]

His name was Billy Orren. And now he’s dead.

And Henry Collins is responsible for it.

It was Collins, after all, who sent him up the rigging with the task of watching another lad; Collins who should have been watching the climbers; Collins who didn’t leap into the water to pull Billy back out. Henry may not have been the reason the ship stopped so abruptly, or the physical force that knocked the boy loose, but it’s his fault all the same. His fault, and his burden.

So, of course Henry volunteers for the dive. It’s the same thing he did yesterday, after all: sit there in silence and watch the world happen around him, stare blankly at the ice surrounding Erebus while better men make sure the other sailors are safe and sound. As they pull the suit on around him, he tells himself he’s looking forward to the silence. To being useful again. And maybe, Henry tells himself as the ropes are lowered, maybe he’ll see something interesting down there, something alive, something he can fix in his mind and describe in great detail for Mr. Goodsir so that he might make the kind naturalist smile or even laugh. That would be real nice, Henry thinks, real nice to have a proper excuse to talk to the man about something other than headaches or stores. And then his suit hits the water and Henry Collins’s thoughts are entirely ice.

His name was Billy Orren, and now he’s dead, and he’s coming to take Henry Collins’s soul in exchange for the loss of his own.

Nothing moves fast enough. Not Henry’s hands, or the rope, or the men above him; everything is stuck in impossibly slow motion as Billy Orren’s frozen corpse floats closer and closer to Henry’s muffled screams. He doesn’t really breathe until the helmet’s off. And his first breath is a knife and his second breath is rum, hot and spiced and poured down his throat without warning, and when Henry manages another ragged breath he finds himself face to face with Captain Franklin’s delighted, inquisitive grin. He wants to throw up. He wants to start screaming again. He manages:

“Like a dream, sir.”

When Henry finds his berth and stumbles in, he collapses, halfway on his bunk and halfway slumped to the floor in a puddle of sobs. He knows he is crying because of the sounds, and the salt in his mouth, but he’s not truly conscious of it, only conscious that he killed Billy Orren as surely as if he put a gun to the boy’s head and now the lad’s frozen body will haunt the Arctic seas for the rest of time. Henry cries until he can’t anymore, and then everything is black, and he slips into a dream.

In the dream, Billy Orren is dead, and it was Charles Des Voeux who killed him.

Henry Collins is walking through a dark hall, listening to the building’s heartbeat as if hearing the ocean’s waves lapping against a ship. He opens a door and finds Des Voeux looking at him. There’s a body on the floor. It’s an unnatural shade of blue.

“He’s gone,” Des Voeux says firmly, “he’s gone.”

“What have you done!? You can’t—no! No,” Henry moans as he runs, but the dream does not wish to play nicely, and the room stretches itself out so that he can’t reach Des Voeux. The young officer is smiling. “Des Voeux! You killed him!”

“Did I? Oops,” Des Voeux giggles, prodding the corpse with the toe of his boot. He shrugs and his body grows, expands in height and girth until he’s nearly twice the size of Henry Collins and can cover him with his shadow. “Mr. Orren,” Des Voeux says in a horrid sing-song, “Mr. Orren, sweetheart, it seems Mr. Collins is looking for you, don’t you think you oughta get up now, mate? Mr. Orrrreeennn… wake up, sailor…”

The corpse opens its white eyes with a low groan. Henry screams, and Des Voeux laughs, and then Captain Franklin enters the room in a flash of light and picks Billy Orren up by his frozen hair. “Enough,” dream-Franklin booms, “enough, we must carve him now, open him up and see who is at fault. Someone has killed this man!”

Henry tries to speak but finds that his mouth is full of water. He gags and spits it up. Des Voeux, who is now wearing a Royal Marine uniform for some reason, is pointing a gun at his head. “It was Collins, sir,” he growls at Franklin, “saw ‘im push the boy overboard, just now, sir, an’ he laughed as it were done.” His voice is wrong. He sounds like Sergeant Bryant.

“Mr. Collins,” Franklin says sternly, “do you know what this means?”

“No, sir, I didn’t do it, I swear it, sir, I’d never hurt nobody,” Henry sobs, falling to his knees as the captain approaches him with the corpse, “please, sir, it weren’t me, I swear I’d nothing to do with it, sir, I just got here, I didn’t know—”

“He’s a sodomite,” another voice says, and Henry doesn’t need to turn to know the dream has just brought Mr. Goodsir into the nightmare. The kindly doctor is shivering and terrified, pointing a shaky finger in Henry’s direction as Dr. Stanley scowls over his shoulder. “A sodomite, I tell you,” Goodsir squeaks frantically, “he’s tried it, I know he has, you can see it in his eyes, men, he’s a danger to us all!”

Henry covers his face with his hands and curls into a ball, sobbing weakly as the dream swirls ominously around him. More men are shouting now—and Henry’s mother—and Billy Orren is furious—and Billy Orren’s mother, who in this dream is just Henry’s mother with a different hat, is heartbroken—and the ship is sinking—and it’s all Henry’s fault, all his fault, everything is entirely his fault for he is evil and cursed and a foolish, terrible bastard—

Someone shouts “Collins” and Henry bolts up, slamming his head into his folded-up chair as he jerks back into consciousness. His face is hot and tear-stained. He spits out an acknowledgement of the presence and then a hurried apology and scrambles to his feet, swiping a sleeve over his snotty face a few times before finally flinging the door open. Because the universe finds herself quite amusing: it’s Charles Des Voeux, scowling at Henry just as he was in the dream, only shrunk back to his normal height of really-very-small. “Collins,” he says again, “what the fuck are you on about, mate, everyone’s working themselves into a bloody tizzy about your stupid bloody shouting and so on. You crying in there? Bout that kid still?”

“Um. N-No,” Henry stammers. He shakes his head in confusion and gives Des Voeux a frustrated glare. “Well. It is sad, innit, losing someone so young,” he says angrily, “he’s only—he were only twenty, an’ now he’s never gettin’ any older.”

Des Voeux rolls his eyes. “Eh. People die,” he shrugs, “and I’m twenty, and you don’t see me whining up a storm about it.” He snorts and shoves past Henry, inviting himself into the berth and plopping right down on Henry’s bunk as if they’re good mates. “You can’t cry him back to life, y’know,” he adds in a snide little voice.

Henry Collins is not a violent man, but he is sort of considering what it might feel like to slap Mr. Des Voeux at the moment. Or maybe punch him, hard, right in his stupid, pointy nose. Henry takes a deep breath and folds his arms over his chest. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Des Voeux was quite young, but twenty!? Henry knows they had a birthday for the boy on this voyage already. He would’ve been nineteen when they set sail. Nineteen and an officer of the same title as Henry himself. Probably a thousand miles closer to becoming a lieutenant than Henry Collins ever will be, too. Maybe that’s why he’s such a little prick all the time, Henry muses, the lad’s well aware of his own inexperience and wants desperately to prove himself. “And I don’t mean to do so,” he says slowly, keeping his voice calm, “it’s called mourning, Mr. Des Voeux, though per’aps you’re too young yet to know the meaning of the word.”

“Fuck off, I’m being nice here,” Des Voeux snarls, crossing his arms in an obvious mockery of Henry’s own stance. He sighs and breaks eye contact, staring glumly at the floor. “I’m trying to help you, ya big bloody lobcock, just reminding you that life goes on and all that, y’know, so making yerself miserable in here ain’t much use to anyone,” he mumbles, kicking his feet through the air like an overgrown child. Henry nods slowly and sits down, turning his chair to face the bunk. This is an overgrown child, he reminds himself, Des Voeux is a young lad, trying to prove himself, and it may not be entirely his fault that he’s such a horrid little bastard. Des Voeux lets out a loud groan and kicks Henry’s leg. “Seriously. You done, Collins? You’re making the men uncomfortable,” he sighs, “an’ it turns out some other lad died last night, too, so it’s really not even fair of you to only be twisted up about the one of ‘em.”

“When did I ever say I cared about one man more than another!? What is wrong with you, Des Voeux, really you just—my God, man,” Henry snaps, practically spitting the words as his hands ball into fists. “I care for those boys, you hear me? They’re my lads out here, they are, an’ I’m responsible for what happened to Orren, an’ I know damn well poor David Young died last night so don’t dare try t’ tell me I don’ care for somebody’s pain,” he rants, “it’s only been a day, Des Voeux, barely a full one, ‘s only natural for a man to mourn a man he saw fall to his death!”

“It’s bloody stupid is what it is,” Des Voeux retorts, “you’ll never make yourself feel alright about it if you just cry all day. Gotta turn things around, Collins, get back to it, right? Just… don’t fuckin’ think about it, you idiot. Think about anything else, mate, literally just anything, and get yerself back on deck so I don’t hafta cover for these breakdowns! Fuck!” He jumps up and grabs Henry’s shoulders, shaking him roughly as his voice lowers to a threatening hiss. “D’ye need me to get yer fuckin’ mind off it, Collins? Need something drastic, maybe?”

Henry squirms, but Des Voeux is surprisingly strong, or at least he’s got himself at the right angle to press his full weight down on Henry’s shoulders and keep him in place. He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be alright, Mr. Des Voeux. Don’t gotta worry ‘bout me none, I’ll only—”

“Nah. Listen to me,” Des Voeux cuts in, waving a hand in Henry’s face to dismiss his words. “Look. Here’s the deal. I do this for you, you gotta promise to stop crying, at least about that stupid Orren bloke, alright?”

“Um. What? Do—do what!?”

Dex Voeux snorts and leans closer, pausing just when their noses are a hair’s breadth from colliding. He sticks his tongue out to poke one of Henry’s nostrils. “You need to take or get taken, mate? Which one d’you want?”

Goodsir/Stanley, praise kink, multiple orgasms

[nerdypipsqueak]

Dom Goodsir (preferably soft dom), sub Stanley. Can be modern au. Bonus points for kathartic crying, prostate orgasms and a bit of aftercare.

JopLittle 1940's AU

[(Anonymous)]

I keep seeing this fantastic gifset over at Tumblr https://at.tumblr.com/rubysharkruby/615120084579614720/6vjdzhf2s75a and as I lack the time to research and write it, I've come here to scream into the void.
I'd love LOVE a post WWII JopLittle fic, maybe Little and Jopson served together during the war and parted ways or maybe they'd met before and found each other later on. The thing is Edward comes back to London after some years away and finds Thomas playing the piano in a pub when he's not busy working serving the drinks. Bonus points if the bar is part of the queer scene at the time and finding Jopson there makes Ned realize many things.
From then on it's your call, I'd really appreciate a happy ending and gender shenanigans regarding Jopson, but whether you want to make it a PWP or develop a bit more of a plot trying to build some romance in between them I leave up to you.

Tozer/Irving, crossdressing

[(Anonymous)]

👏Make👏John👏 experience 👏some👏gender👏
Would appreciate stablished relationship, feminization and degradation

Re: Tozer/Irving, crossdressing

[(Anonymous)]

yessss your mind OP

Little&Hodgson&Irving, Assembling Ikea furniture

[(Anonymous)]

I want to watch them go through the hero's journey while trying to assemble a Billy soooooo badly, you have no idea

Re: Little&Hodgson&Irving, Assembling Ikea furniture

[(Anonymous)]

... like a Billy Gibson, OP?

Des Voeux/Goodsir, Dacryphilia

[(Anonymous)]

Dealer's choice for who's crying. Maybe they're both crying? The possibilities are endless. AUs A-OK.

Francis/James, Public use/gangbang

[(Anonymous)]

James has a fantasy about being filled with as much cum as he can take, and Francis is here to direct traffic/listen for safewords/make sure he gets as much as he wants/stopper him up with a plug to keep it all in between men

Re: Francis/James, Public use/gangbang

[(Anonymous)]

oh my GOD yes

Jopson/Little, topJop using 'sir'

[(Anonymous)]

Calling Little 'sir' while fucking him or topping from the bottom, really playing with the power dynamics, making ~sir~ tell jopson what he wants etc as ned gets more and more desperate

Re: Jopson/Little, topJop using 'sir'

[(Anonymous)]

Question for OP, how would you feel about this being set in stewardfuck navyworld/AU where it's codified that part of a steward's job is providing sex? Or do you prefer the illicit nature of the hook-up? I have some thoughts...

Macca/whoever - daddy kink

[(Anonymous)]

Yes, I know fic of this exists but I need more. Bonus points for an age difference.

McDonald/historical!McDonald, seduction

[(Anonymous)]

Twink!Macca stages a devious section; his older counterpart sees right through him, but plays along anyway. Bonus points if one of them asks the other to borrow some money.

Hickey/Tozer/Little, general psychological fuckery

[(Anonymous)]

AU where either Tozer's able to coax Little into coming along with the mutineers, or they take him anyway when he's knocked out, or he gets lost and ends up with them like Hodgson did- he's in Mutiny Camp somehow, anyway. And Little is not what you'd call authoritative, but he's not shy about bringing up problems, and he and and Tozer have had a thing, and in general he makes Tozer, perhaps, a little more able to hang onto misgivings about Hickey's increasingly unhinged behavior rather than burrowing further and further into denial.

Hickey, of course, doesn't like this, and he decides the solution is a mindfucky mean threesome. Distract them from their concerns while reminding them who's boss.

Re: Hickey/Tozer/Little, general psychological fuckery

[(Anonymous)]

YES OP… the disruptive potential of ned in mutiny camp… hickey’s desire to break vs little’s desire to maintain vs tozer’s tumultuous middle point between them… love this prompt love these three

Tozer/Hodge, facefucking (trans male Tozer)

[(Anonymous)]

I think Tozer should get real rough and dommy as Hodge is eating him out and ride/fuck his mouth into oblivion

Hickey/any (m/m), Hickey’s bound and gagged

[(Anonymous)]

Ratboys should be seen and not heard! 😤

Noncon, dubcon, consensual nonconsent are all fine by me. Prefer canon or postcanon setting, but any AU setting/premise that’s still within nineteenth century is good.

Little/Irving/Hodge threesome

[(Anonymous)]

So much cute fic of these three exists, but I would love to see something more intense and maybe a little rancid. Possibly dubcon?

Re: Little/Irving/Hodge threesome

[(Anonymous)]

OP, I have two vague ideas that may interest you. (They do both end on a cuter note though...)
The first is a straight-up double penetration in one jirving with dirty talk, and none of the participants are even remotely shy or unsure about it.
The second is nominally dubcon, as it involves Little and Hodgson luring John into the wardroom under the guise of socializing and doing a little a devious seduction. But it`s all play pretend for John to Allow Himself etc., and John suspects this much and is very on board with that, however, they did not discuss it with him beforehand. Aaand it is more humorous, because Edward and George are not exactly super suave, and also not always able to successfully communicate with each other, so John ends up being a more active participant in his own seduction.
Will something like that do?

Hickey/Crozier/Irving, dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

Ep2 - what if Crozier managed to get a few more drinks into Hickey before Irving walked in? (Bonus points for: Hickey getting spitroasted, Irving's Giant Shame Cock, unsexy sex crying from Irving)

FILL: Through the Desert, Crozier/Hickey/Irving, E, cw: alcohol, power dynamics, dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

A dangerous man one who imbibed without shame or control. Forced to abandon his glass and taste the liquor like a true sailor, Hickey tried to measure his sips with a delicate tongue. Crozier being one such dangerous man tilted the bottle until Hickey also tilted onto his back. The maps, the letters, and the pages on the table crumpled under his weight.

Embarrassment and rage flushed him red like the alcohol heating his skin. Always one for minding his temperament Hickey did his damnedest to bite his tongue. The curses flowed freely in his mind like the current, but nothing would loosen them, not even the pull of hands along his trousers.

Now, if the knock on the door was Jopson then all would be set right. The drunkard opened his ears to only one man, the wide-eyed creature who shadowed his captain with awareness of his station. Likely held his soft prick while he pissed with esteem, that useless little yard that now disappeared in his hand—tucking it to sleep. Hickey wanted him to get firm and fat, full so he could laugh through his whiskey weak thrusts. He had worse. He had better. He fucking had.

But it was Irving who entered the scene. The good lieutenant who followed orders so neatly. Trembled while chastised about his virginity, Irving, do take several swigs of courage. It’ll warm the prick you’ve got between your legs nicely. Captain’s orders. Hickey dared to release a little laugh, a dribble of something that did more to get the blood flowing than the drink did.

Hickey wished for greater sobriety than he had now to fully play with Irving’s cock. Get that shameful part good and ready and see him as someone more than a weakling who fell under the sway of someone who could barely stand. Look at him, flat on his back with a handsome man over him. Tears brimmed in Irving's eyes like he regretted this. They both knew better. Welcome to the orlop deck, Lieutenant. Let us search for the cat together.

A whiskey-wet finger forged a burning path inside him. Crozier stroked his brow and told him he shall never forget this day. Irving split him in two and he huffed his pain into his captain’s hand. It smelled like his prick. When he shut his eyes he only saw the docks, what he left behind when he became Cornelius Hickey.

Vampire!Jopson/Little

[(Anonymous)]

Service top Jop, maybe after a Halloween party?

Re: Vampire!Jopson/Little

[(Anonymous)]

service top jop is SO important to me as is vamp jop; i'd love to see this