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

Hodgson/Des Voeux, last two standing

[(Anonymous)]

I’m just very curious how this combination might shake out! Feel free to work in the rl history with them having known each other before the expedition, or not, it’s fine either way.

Bonus: dealing with injury, neither of them being doctors (deus ex magic bear meat or whatever you want to do to keep them alive is fine, I don’t need realism I just crave bonding through (more) suffering and desperation)

Bonus2: they find dying/dead Little and evidence of cannibalism; how does each react?

FILL: Lead On, Hodgson/Des Voeux, last two standing, cw canon typical xenophobia, homophobia

[(Anonymous)]

Charles thought it might have been God or an angel or his mother, perhaps, pouring water down his throat and pushing warm meat between his teeth. It was a bit of a nasty shock to at last open his eyes and see through crusted tears that it was in fact Lieutenant Hodgson.

"Oh," Charles said. "It's you." Then he vomited and passed out again.

When he came to later he was alone and began to panic. If he was going to hallucinate anyone as he sank into sweet death, why on Earth would it have been George Henry fucking Hodgson? This occupied his febrile mind until Hodgson himself returned, very much not a hallucination, with more water and plate of meat which he began to eat quietly off of, sitting beside Charles on the shale.

It was embarrassing, a little bit. He had to admit that to himself. Hodgson looked relatively hale, considering; and here Charles was, half-dead, retching and wheezing as he struggled to push himself into a seated position. "You could have just left me," observed Charles when enough of his breath returned, "that's what that bitch did," but the insult felt dull and sour on his tongue, giving him none of the renewed strength he had said it in expectation of, and so he went on a little quieter, "I mean the Eski girl. She walked on. Did you see her?"

Hodgson shook his head.

"Why didn't you leave me? Is everyone else dead? Why aren't you? Is that them we're eating? Or is that the bear? Is the bear dead? Do you think we can get back to the ships?"

It was strange that Hodgson wasn't speaking. That was what had always peeved Charles about him the most, his inability to ever shut the fuck up. It had been a sick delight in Hickey's camp to loom over Hodgson and threaten him with the butt of a gun should he make a sound. The happiest he’d been in months. After all it had been something he’d longed to do for so many years hearing Hodgson's endless prattle in the gunroom of the Cornwallis, and then the Excellent, and then finally the Erebus, where Hodgson hardly belonged anyway, only Fitzjames and Le Vesconte were forever inviting him over, despite or perhaps because they knew well of Hodgson’s long-running pash for Charles, thought it silly, perhaps, instead of the disgusting and pathetic inversion it really was.

“Come on,” groaned Charles. “What happened?”

It must have been the first time Charles had ever looked forward to hearing Hodgson's voice, waiting to hear what he might say to all of his questions. Some fucking answers at last, please, he just wanted to know what to do next, surely there was something that could be done next, other than die.

Instead of deigning to give a verbal response Hodgson instead began to shrug off his greatcoat, which dangled loosely off his skeletal shoulders, and Charles caught a glimpse of a mangled arm, all crushed bone and blood, horrible and red and wet, and perhaps Hodgson was saying something at last then but Charles did not hear it.

In his dream it was 1842; the cockpit of the Cornwallis where the mates and middies messed; hot as anything, hot and reeking with the sweat of young healthy men and gun oil, a cacophony of flute and fiddle echoing. Hodgson was there, handing Charles a beautiful enamel-handled comb; looking at him with those weak watery eyes, speaking to him in a queasy, pleading tone. Back behind him, where Hodgson could not see, Charles’s friends pulled faces and mocked Hodgson’s pigeon-toed gait and wispy hair.

“I shall never let you touch me,” said Charles in the dream, grinning; Hodgson reached desperately out to him but he kept darting away, ever out of reach; the laughter of his messmates mounted and the fiddle grew faster. “And I shall put a bullet in your head when I get bored of you.” More gifts came his way, beautiful things dredged up from the ocean floor, ambergris and pearls and gold, too many to count, too many to hold, he stumbled under the weight of them and fell, and then Hodgson was upon him at last, pouncing, and he awoke gasping for breath.

The sound and heat of the Cornwallis was gone. The land was still and cold. Hodgson’s hand on Charles’s face was clammy. They were both dying, probably.

Hodgson held Charles’s gaze. Always looking at him. Always thinking something horrible, probably, you couldn’t encourage these sorts of things, this kind of men, except Charles had, he could not deny it, because he used to be told he was pretty all the time, as a sweet young volunteer, and then it had become rarer and rarer, and he had developed a certain hysterical paranoia of losing his youth and coming to look like his father or his older brothers, jowly and dark, ugly and unloved; all the money and titles in the world could not help you if nobody loved you. But Hodgson been there dogging after him like a stray even after his voice had dropped and he’d come out in spots. Years after that he’d mooned at him in Hickey’s camp even as Charles bent his fingers back till they nearly broke. He couldn’t help himself, the sorry fucker.

Charles coughed out, “Do you still think I’m beautiful?”

“Does it matter now?” Hodgson said at last.

“Answer the fucking question.”

“Yes,” Hodgson said, or perhaps Charles was dreaming again by then, but in any case he smiled, far too close to the end now to pretend he did not care.

Stanley/Crozier, historical medical CBT

[(Anonymous)]

Something inspired by bullshit Victorian dick diagnoses like spermatorrhea. Crozier brings his broken dick to the doctor, who prescribes some horrifying treatment, real historical or made up. Spiky rings and cages, cauterization, circumcision... Anything, as long as it's painful and humiliating and done strictly for serious medical reasons (mostly).

Little/Any, Little/Jopson, wet dreams

[(Anonymous)]

Ned Little's loser wet dreams. He's desperate for any sort of contact, totally moon-eyed over imagined warmth and dream lovers; some are faceless, others crewmates. In the mornings Edward has to suffer the particular humiliation of Jopson tending his bedclothes. Jopson's kindness and tact over the whole situation just embarrass him more.

Crozier/TerrorLieuts, sex pollen

[(Anonymous)]

The captain is deathly sick and the only way to save him is a thorough, multi-person fucking. His lieutenants must do their duty. (Bonus points if Jopson is involved)

Re: Crozier/TerrorLieuts, sex pollen

[(Anonymous)]

This might be of interest to you OP: https://twitter.com/vdrawsing/status/1572905009833975809

Fitzjames/William Coningham, pseudo-incest

[(Anonymous)]

James and Will are closer than brothers, do with that what you will. (Bonus points if Elizabeth knows and accepts it and/or joins in)

Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

[(Anonymous)]

In the grips of his detox-related illness, Crozier pisses the bed and Jopson cleans him up...very thoroughly. Emphasis on Crozier's humiliation and Jopson getting off on touching/cleaning his soft cock.

FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

[(Anonymous)]

Hi OP this prompt possessed me. Will be crossposted to ao3 as well. Hope you like it :)



It is towards the end of the first week and in the cold light of the morning that Jopson enters the captain's berth and finds it reeking of piss.
When he arrives with warm water, the sound of him setting down the basin pulls the captain from his restless delirium enough to notice him and make a pathetic attempt at clutching at his blankets as if it was any way to preserve his dignity, and not just additional inconvenience to his care.
"Let me, captain." Jopson says. He tugs the blankets aside and takes a look. With how little liquid the captain can keep down, it is a wonder he managed to lose that much. The front of his shirt is stained. The sheets underneath are darkened by a large, wet stain, and the acrid stench is stale and potent. Incapacitated as he is, the man did not even manage to roll aside and away from the soiled spot.
He is so completely and utterly helpless, and Jopson chooses not to acknowledge the warmth that pools in his groin at the thought.
Instead, he rolls up his sleeves. Between the throwing up and sweating, he had somewhat expected this, and with some luck, the sheets he piled atop the mattress for protection should have soaked up the worst of it. He untucks them and bunches them against the captain's flank, folded over to cover the wetness with fabric steeped only in stale sweat.
"We'll roll you over, sir.", he announces, since Crozier looks in no shape to be sat on a chair and trusted to remain in it for even a moment. He does not wait for the captain to stammer out his reply from between cracked lips, but swiftly grips him by the hip where he is pressed against the wall as if trying to creep backwards through it, to plummet towards the ice and be swallowed by it, a sentiment Crozier has expressed to him often in fewer and less coherent words over the last week.
"Give a push, sir."
The captain barely manages more than a limp wriggle that encumbers the action more than it helps, but at Jopson's calculated tug, he flops over with a pained groan like a sack of green potatoes. His nightshirt has slipped up, and Jopson suppresses the urge to smack his pale buttocks like a boy's: for not ringing the bell during the night, because now the skin is clearly irritated by the urine, and he will have to lather it with soap to prevent infected sores, and bear the complaints about the sting.
He manages to pull the doubled sheets out under the captain and chucks the bundle into the corner to launder later. A small damp patch remains on the mattress. He will have to flip it, but he needs McDonald around to do so, because the captain cannot stand or sit. He shall have to tuck one of the towels he brought underneath him for now.
The captain creaks and groans under his swift hands much like his ship does under the pressure of the ice, but Jopson manages to situate him, and roll up his shirt to fully reveal his behind. He covers his feet with the fresh blankets he brought to keep the toes warm, and sets about his task.
Jopson tips some of the steaming water into a smaller basin, drops in soap and washcloths, and ignores the protesting murmur coming from where Crozier's face is pressed into the pillow.
No, he thinks, he will not leave him to lay in it, no matter if he deserved it or not.
He will, he resolves, refuse to think about how familiar the motions are to him.
He starts with Crozier's thick thighs, rubs the damp cloth over them with efficiency. Crozier, shivering in the chill, moans at the warmth in a manner that ought to evoke pity, but instead it makes Jopson's prick fill out. He could wonder whether this is his own kind of sickness, but he does not stop to do so. Runs the cloth all the way to the hollow back of the captain's knees, and up again, firmly and properly because that is how it is done. Next, the same with the towelette that is dunked just in clear hot water. Then back to the suds.
Crozier groans in surprise when he unflinchingly attends his buttocks with his soapy cloth, then drags it, firmly, between them. The captain hasn't shat himself, so there's that - all he needs to do is lather his crack and his stones where he can reach them between his heavy thighs, and make sure to wipe properly, so the bite of his concentrated piss can not eat at him. There is feeble resistance when he uses his free hand to spread the captain's arse to see better, but he simply must be diligent about this. The captain's arsehole is dusky and surrounded by soft, fleshy folds and an unkempt thicket of hair drenched with sour sweat. He cleans thoroughly even as the man twitches under his touch and murmurs something incomprehensible into the fist that covers his mouth.
Last, a dry towel to dab him.

When he makes to roll the captain over again, Crozier makes himself heavy as an anchor.
"Sir, you will feel much refreshed," Jopson promises, but the captain squeezes his eyes shut and pretends not to hear.
"I'm afraid I must insist," Jopson tells him.
There is not much space left in the small bunk, but without any kind of support, it is easier to pull Crozier towards him than to help him return against the wall, and so he uses his leg for leverage. The captain makes an unwilling noise deep in his throat at being moved, one hand clenching furtively at the pillow. But once he sags onto his back and the edge of the bunk discomforts him as it digs into his back, he squirms himself back inside and comes to rest quite conveniently arranged.
"Now there we go, sir," Jopson hums, and pulls up his shirt.

At once, Crozier ceases the displeased snuffling, and lays very still.
Bared for Jopson, he is so very much simply a man - perhaps less, in the current state, and he seems to be feeling it keenly. He absolutely reeks of piss and sweat, his belly-fat has sagged gently sideways elongating his navel, his prick lays limp and mundane. Goosebumps rise on his thighs as the cold air in the cabin sucks the animal heat out of his clammy skin. His face flushes up scarlet, and Jopson reaches for his washcloth. "Still now, sir," he orders, and again, he starts with the thighs.
No, this is different than what he knew, though the motions are familiar. This is his captain, and his helpless, private body beneath him, aching and stinking and in need of care and attention. Jopson simply must provide: would do so especially for the chubby, lopsided sausage of a prick that flops demurely aside when he nudges it away to wipe at Crozier's paunch, imagining that he feels the anxious gurgle of his gut underneath his fingertips.
When he next wrings out the sudsy cloth, Crozier breathes out a shaky syllable.
"Pardon me, sir?"

He glances up at the captain's reddened face while he slips his hand between barrel thighs to wipe at his sac.
"Jopson," Crozier croaks, almost inaudibly, and Jopson's prick twitches with it, at the unspoken plea in his name, no matter its meaning.
"It's alright, captain," he tells him, softly, much like he imagines he would if Crozier had asked for what's next: that is, him gently encircling his shaft to be able to wipe around it, lather the nest of reddish hair it grows from, smoothe his washcloth along the crease of Crozier's thigh.
The sigh that comes from the captain sounds close to tears, and Jopson pauses to reach for and squeeze his hand on a whim, and finds it clammy and urine-wet also, likely from discovering the malheur, or from failing to prevent it. He pulls it close, balances the basin on his knees, and dips the captain's cold hand into the cleansing warmth.
The captain moans with relief - and pisses himself again. His limp penis, which Jopson happens to glance at, just starts going, and Crozier seems unaware of the stream that runs down his thigh until Jopson puts a towel to the tip to prevent the mess, and even then, though the captain gives a delayed, choked gasp of horror, the yellowish stain does not stop growing: Jopson can feel the warmth of it against his palm, and the washbasin against his own throbbing yard.
Beside him, Crozier's body jerks through a soundless sob.
"That is alright, sir," murmurs Jopson, "it is alright."
The liquid heat does not let up until the towel is almost soaked.
"All done, sir?" he asks gently, and the captain manages a nod that he directs at the ceiling rather than at him. If he could, Jopson thinks, he might guide the freshly saturated towel to his nose, get a whiff of the captain's filtered essence just on its own, just on a whim, to know him better, carve away yet another unique morsel of the man that only he is familiar with, no matter how unpleasant.
Instead, he puts the bundle aside, and dries the captain's hand which lays motionless in his own as he does, and that does not move from where he tucks it under the blanket on the man's chest. He takes up the other hand, too, but it seems it is not tainted. He runs the clean wet towelette along the fingers anyway, and in between, and beds them back next to Crozier's head on the pillow.
"Jopson-" Crozier attempts again when he returns to attending his prick.
"That is alright, sir," he says.
And it is.
The captain's shaft is soft and cold. Jopson decides he will not use thumb and index and hold it like some kind of specimen, but simply take it properly in hand, shield it from the chill of the room that has already made the poor thing draw in on itself and hide beneath the foreskin. He makes sure to take the washcloth quickly from water to skin, so it is still warm when it reaches, and attentively smoothes it along the curve of the pliable member without pressing it too hard. He wonders whether, if he could, Crozier would rise under his ministrations. Surely, any man would from being handled, rubbed and wiped at like this: all the more does it excite Jopson's own stiff prick, hidden beneath the basin, how the captain's tool stays pliant and impotent in his grasp.
When Jopson carefully circles his tip, Crozier sniffs once, an unpleasant sound. Tension ripples through his thighs, but he says and does nothing, perhaps back in his delirious daze even as Jopson carefully eases back his foreskin and uses a moistened corner of the towelette to wipe underneath, around the pink glans. He retrieves a little bit of lint, and the captain's discomforted intake of breath as he dislodges it tells him he ought to wash him here more carefully, more often. He would not mind. It is such a sweet, stout tool, politely soft in his hands while Jopson's own is vying for attention with heated vigor. He will ignore it in favour of his captain's own.
With the captain's handsome prick-head cleaned, Jopson wraps the warm wet cloth around his shaft and wipes him from root to tip, almost like pulling him off. To dry him, he dabs with the towel, and then he arranges him gently back to where he deems it comfortable.
"There we go, captain," he soothes when he notices that, for the first time in minutes, the captain's bleary eyes are gazing at him with fever-dim attention, "just a fresh nightshirt, now."
The wash basin has to be put aside, but if the captain can make out the state of Jopson through the veil of the tears in his eyes, he does not show it. Jopson has to roll him over a little again to get the stained nightshirt over his head, has to get his arms out one by one. This time, the captain tries to help, but by the end of it he is huffing and puffing and groaning under his breath as he sinks heavily into the pillows, naked as Adam. Jopson fancies him just as erroneously beautiful, cast out from paradise as he is.
"I will fetch a fresh shirt, sir." he tells his captain, and folds the clean blankets up and over him so he can take the soiled ones for laundering.
As he gathers them up and elbows open the door, he thinks he might have heard the beginning of a mutter, a sigh. And as he reaches the laundry and briefly presses his nose into the cold damp of the fabric, Jopson contemplates how his captain lies naked beneath the covers, in need and in wait for him.

Little/any, boot polishing, CBT

[(Anonymous)]

Little is kneeling on the floor licking someone's boots (Crozier? Jopson? Anyone you think would work well). When he gets close to coming, the owner of the boots threatens to step on his cock in 'punishment'. (Bonus points if they actually do it and the pain/humiliation triggers Little's orgasm)

Re: Little/any, boot polishing, CBT

[(Anonymous)]

Holy shit OP - YES!!!

Little/Tozer, dubcon (sex pollen? fuck or die? plain ol’ coercion?)

[(Anonymous)]

What it says on the tin - would love some Little/Tozer dubcon. Well, it starts dubious but turns very, very enthusiastic. Basically I want Little’s buttoned-up repression to turn into a surprising desperation to get fucked. Tozer could be a reluctant participant at first too if this is a sex pollen/fuck or die situation, or he could be the coercer who ends up pleasantly shocked by how willing Little is by the end.

Fill: Say It, Little/Tozer, sex pollen (or is it just a convenient excuse?)

[(Anonymous)]

"Feel my forehead," said Edward.

"Fuck off," said Sol. He'd closed but for a few stragglers and for Edward, who had drooped around behind the bar all evening, scooping ice with the energy of a listless sloth.

"It's hot. I'm hot. I think I'm allergic to whatever came in with the new shipment."

Sol had felt it too, breathing the clouds of dust that had risen from the boxes: the pricking at the back of his throat that would turn into fire. He had banished it for the evening with painkillers and two pints, but now, with nothing but cleaning and counting to do, it demanded his attention again.

"You'll live."

Fill: Say It, Tozer/Little, very vague sex pollen (or is it just an excuse)

"Feel my forehead."

"Fuck off," Sol said, but he felt Edward's forehead with the back of his hand, and then again with the inside of his wrist, the way his mother had done. He remembered, through the haze of years and distance, that safe and cool pressure. Edward felt warm to the touch, but not unduly. "As I said. You'll live."

Edward laid his head on the bar, clanking the bottles at the rail. "Wonderful."

"A long and fucking woeful life. You'll depress your grandchildren."

"Ugh," Edward said into his folded arms, before a long bout of shuddering seized him.

"Are you going to help close?"

"Yes." Edward made no move to rise. Then he made a different, familiar kind of groan, low in his chest. What had been a stinging at Sol's throat knifed south. He steadied himself with a hand on the cash drawer, which raced shut with a clatter of coins.

"What are you--"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," muttered Edward. And, "I'm sorry," again, as if Sol might not have heard him the first time. Like he'd forgotten to do the dishes again.

"Here's what's going to happen," said Sol, who had been shot at in a country full of people just as sick of being shot at as he was; who had been threatened with dismemberment in close proximity to a dumpster by someone who had the tools for the job; who had once, memorably, cracked a tooth during a brawl at the bus station that he had not started but had certainly finished. He had not had two ribs kicked in by a handful of steel-toed assholes only to be felled by a fucking barback ex on a Tuesday night. "You're going to dry storage. What you do there is none of my fucking business."

Edward made a small creaky noise, like an old floorboard. He shuffled past without facing Sol, and made his exit.

The thing was, Sol thought, having counted fives twice and lost count both times, the thing was that Edward had a saintly beauty, the kind you'd see in a church that didn't talk about money except to ask you for it, staring down at you perturbedly from stained glass while waiting his turn to be speared or eaten or beheaded. However it was that saints let themselves be fucked up to prove their piety. Plenty of ways. Probably plenty that hadn't been tried yet.

"All right," he said to himself. Then, "All right," again. The fives could fucking wait.

Edward had made it to dry storage but hadn't managed the door. He slumped against one of the shelves, fly open, working at himself with joyless purpose. The shelf rattled loose a can of pineapple, and Edward opened his eyes at the impact, then squeezed them closed again when he saw he had company. His hand did not pause. "I can't," he said. "It won't--I can't--"

"Settle," said Sol. He wanted it to sound reassuring, the voice you'd use with a scared animal. It came out with a rougher edge than that, its teeth catching at him. "You'll rub yourself raw. Let me see."

Edward folded his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits and shivering. His face flamed red. "It won't stop."

"What do you mean it won't stop."

But Edward shook his head, vehemently, pleading. "It won't stop. I've tried. It's under my skin, like needles. I can't--not without--"

Plenty of ways to fuck someone up. "Turn around," Sol said quietly. He wanted to set his teeth to the place Edward's neck scooped into his shoulder, deep enough to leave a mark. Deep enough to be a reminder, later. So Edward couldn't walk away again and pretend it hadn't happened, so he'd have to see himself and know Sol had done that to him. So he'd feel it.

Edward turned around. His hips made abortive, helpless half-circles. "Make it stop," he said. "Please. Make it stop, make it, it has to--"

"Shut up." Sol had hands on him now, where Edward was impossibly hot across the back of the neck, where his belly tensed as he shivered.

Edward nodded, and then made a high whining sound and pressed his cheek to the metal of the shelf. His breath came in short, grating gasps. Sol wanted to kill him. Sol wanted to fuck him, and kill him, and marry him, probably, too. He wanted to zip-tie him to the metal slats of the shelf and make him beg for it; he wanted to drag his head back by its long dark hair and jab fingers up under the jaw and squeeze. He slid a hand down until he found hair and skin, until Edward jumped and stopped breathing altogether. A part of him, vague and discordant, remembered a fight, a bitter coldness, an agreement to suspend relations--to stop fucking, he'd said, and Edward had said, to break up, and Sol had said, you have to be doing more than fucking to call it a breakup, and Edward had cried, in the stolid way he cried, as if someone had squeezed the spongy parts of him too hard. He was crying now, too, his teeth clenched so tightly his jaw muscles knotted.

"You wanted me to fuck you, all you had to do was ask," Sol said, crowding in. He imagined the health inspector clicking her blue pen over his shoulder. Biological contamination.

"I don't want you to--" said Edward, who still couldn't say 'fuck me,' even though he'd gagged for it, had begged; had pretended, afterwards, that he'd done it out of a selfless interest in Sol's holistic wellbeing.

"You don't want it, I'll go."

"No," said Edward, jerking quickly enough to jolt the shelf.

"Then ask."

Edward buried his face in his elbow. "I can't."

Sol twisted two fingers in the back of Edward's shirt collar and pulled it tight. "Ask. You want it, ask."

With a growl, Edward spun around and shoved. "You want it, I know you want it, come and--"

Sol caught him by the wrists. "Come and what? Come and make you? So you can tell yourself oh it wasn't me, it wasn't me, Edward hungry for it--"

Edward yanked, but while they were of a height, Sol had twenty pounds of muscle on him, and twenty years' practice using it. In a moment he had Edward pinned again. "You want me to fuck you. Say it."

"I need you to--"

"I want you to--"

For one brilliant moment, Edward went perfectly still. Then he snarled, like a dog surprised by the end of its chain, and said, "I want you to fuck me." Each word lanced.

"Yeah, all right," said Sol, for whom thought had been abruptly washed away by a tide of fierce and focused desire. "Hold your fucking horses." It was the work of ten minutes, of digging frantically through his go bag, of muttering and twisting fingers as Edward made impossible sounds and said, yes, there while Sol tried and failed not to lose his fucking mind, and then Sol was sliding in and watching a can of butterscotch pudding jump in time with his rhythm.

"Oh my god," Edward said, and "oh my god, god," like he had forgotten the rest of his vocabulary and had returned to prayer as the surest bet. His knuckles flashed red and white as they clenched and released.

"You want it," said Sol. He pulled Edward up by the throat, and cupped the ripple as he swallowed. "Say it."

"I want it."

"You fucking want me."

"Of course I want you."

But that was wrong. He hadn't--he hadn't wanted Sol, in the end. Or he had wanted something Sol wasn't, which amounted to the same thing. "You don't," said Sol, so close to the edge he was vibrating with it, feeling as if he already teetered at the top of a skyscraper and was considering climbing the lightning rod.

"I do. I did. You wouldn't listen."

"You said--"

"You said. You were the jerk about it."

It was, Sol thought distantly, in the very small and shrinking portion of his brain still available to process such a thing, possible he had made several miscalculations. Then, for a long white moment, none of his brain made itself available at all.

"Come on," Edward said, from very far away, "come on, come on." Sol laughed, empty as a tipped cup, and dragged a hand over him.

"You come on," he said. "That's a good boy. My good fucking boy," and Edward said, "Sol," choking on it, which was a thought, and was done.

Sol rested his forehead on the point where Edward's vertebrae rose closest to the skin. He felt wrung dry, and exhausted in a way that dragged at his viscera. Edward reached a hand back, and Sol's found it. They stood together in warm silence. Then, separately, they tidied themselves. Sol counted the cash drawer. Edward wiped the bar. They wrapped scarves against the winter and walked out into the night.

Little/Jopson, piss desperation, situational humiliation

[(Anonymous)]

After coming in from the cold, Little's hands are too numb to undo his trousers and he's desperate to piss. Jopson finds him struggling and takes charge, opening his trousers and holding his cock for him. What happens after that is up to you~

Re: Little/Jopson, piss desperation, situational humiliation

[(Anonymous)]

op i have fantastic news for you, please enjoy my fav joplittle fic of all time https://archiveofourown.org/works/29816547

Fitzier/Jopson, Threesome

[(Anonymous)]

Fitzjames and Crozier involve Jopson. Up to the writer how and why. Maybe it's to somehow shame Crozier's sad dick, so that Fitzjames gets to be railed by a young, virile sailor, or maybe it's just that Jopson is a striking lad who follows directions exceedingly well.

Anyone/everyone, but no pairings - sex pollen

[(Anonymous)]

The whole crew (or a group of several people) get sex-pollened. But for Reasons (shame/embarrassment? Concerns about cheating on their wives back home? Christian values? Straight up Victorian Repression? Dealer’s choice!) absolutely no one gets off with anyone else.

You can resolve this by having them fuck eventually if you like! But before that, I’d love some sweaty, shaking desperation, awkward conversations, furious masturbation??? Please just show us the whole crew almost crying with horny frustration and bafflement at wtf their dicks are doing.

FILL: a relentless fever, (everyone, pairings implied), M, slight dubcon, horny sir john [part 1/2]

[(Anonymous)]

The Lord saw fit to punish them for their hubris. Here, at the end of the world, it all fell away. Dignity, decorum, sanity. The words lost their meaning, swallowed by the tides which raged harder every moment, threatening to sweep the men away. They were losing themselves — and the fear of this was greater, somehow, than the need raging through every part of them, as it threatened to burn them alive.

Remember, we are not beasts, Sir John had declared, his eyes wild and brow glistening with fever. We are men. Good English men! Hold onto your minds, men, hold onto your morals. We are strong enough to overcome this, and any challenge!

“Men, not beasts,” became the refrain echoed in the bowels of the ship. The men clung to it like a proverb, whispering it like a prayer in the heat of their turmoil. Anywhere a man could be found, curled in on himself to hide his… indignity. Though they were all the same. They all suffered the same way: swollen, shaking, plagued by strange visions and raging need.

The fire burning beneath their skin was catching. So they learned, when Mr. Collins came up from the below, gasping for breath; the man’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes unnaturally bright. When the other men tried to help him out of his diving suit, he keened, leaning into their touches — “His skin’s so hot, Cap’n! He’s burning up!” — and by the time Collins was finally free of it, his indisposition was apparent.

“I say, man,” Commander Fitzjames gasped, staring unabashedly at the bulge in Collins’ trousers.

He had a hand on Collins' shoulder, helping to steady him when the man almost keeled over. Collins leaned into the touch as though possessed. “Sir, please,” he gasped, sounding wrecked already. “Please, I need — h-help me, please, something — ohh.”

On instinct, Fitzjames rubbed up and down Collins’s back, hoping to comfort the poor fellow; Collins shuddered at the touch, seeking out more like a starving man. When he bore down against Fitzjames’s knee, a ripple of surprise rolled through the crowd of surrounding sailors.

Fitzjames looked mortified; Collins looked debauched; and Sir John was borderline apoplectic.

Collins wept to be pulled away from his Commander’s gentle touches and soothing voice; it took three men to haul him off to the infirmary. By the time the diving equipment was put away, and Fitzjames had given a report to Sir John below, he too was starting to feel hot under the collar.

“Sir John,” he gasped, when he stumbled on his way out the door. The name summoned images in his brain, visions of the most shocking nature — he had never thought of his captain that way before, but suddenly, he couldn’t escape it. Fitzjames braced himself against the doorframe, breathing heavily. Beneath his uniform, he could feel his blood boiling. His skin… he could feel his skin. Was that normal? Every touch, every brush of clothing or object which would have gone unnoticed on an ordinary day… suddenly it was unbearable.

He wanted — he needed — yes, need, it was boiling in him, seeping into his thoughts like seawater, drenching him in raw, aching lust —

Oh, Fitzjames thought, aware of a sudden tightness in his pants.

“Sir John,” he panted again, forcing the lewd images from his mind. “It seems we have a problem.”

There was to be no defying the Articles on Erebus. Sir John made that very clear — even once the fever had taken him, too.

By evening, twenty men had been taken with the fever. By midnight, half the ship. By morning, Erebus was a hotbed of desperation — and when Terror sent over a group of men to check on the flagship’s progress, it became apparent they were not immune, either.

Within twenty-four hours, both ships were stopped dead in the water, their crews overtaken by the strange, burning fever. They could not work; they could not think; there was only want, pure want, and the sensations their bodies demanded. These… unholy sensations, unnatural needs which drove them to sheer distraction.

Sir John locked himself in his cabin, and did not emerge again. No one knew what the man was doing in there, but at least he had a portrait of his wife for company. The men with wives or sweethearts at home clung to these thoughts desperately. With all the men afflicted, no one would have begrudged them — but they still sought out private corners, empty spaces in the ship to be alone with their memories, and their hands. (Thomas Blanky roared his wife’s name in the darkness of the hold; Lieutenant LeVesconte could be heard inside his berth, gasping “sweet Henrietta, yes, my dear…”; inside the Captain’s Cabin on Terror, the name Sophia was, notably, never uttered.)

Every man tried to relieve themselves at least once - sometimes more, in a frenzy of desperation and half0stifled sobs. It was shameful, yes — but God could forgive them, for the suffering was worse. It brought some relief, but not for long. The fever ebbed, then flowed back in with the blood to their cocks. Again, they were burning, and this time, there was no release.

Curled up in their bunks, sailors trembled and whimpered; the few men who could find sleep were left moaning, pawing at their crotches until a well-meaning crewmate nudged them awake. Sobs echoed through the lower decks. Men moaned the Lord’s name, and prayed they would not be damned for their desires.

“I’m not a sinner,” Tom Hartnell rasped, bent double in his berth, trembling with repressed need. “I’m not a sodomite… I can’t do that to my mum. I can’t.” His poor mother would already have to learn one of her sons had died on the long expedition — but another son, succumbed to sin and lust? Oh, she’d never forgive him… yet even as Hartnell thought this, home drifted into his thoughts, sweet as honey and seductive as a trap. The buxom milkmaids and shopgirls, who smiled so sweetly when he passed them; the strong-jawed altar boys who met his eye in the midst of Sunday service. He’d always seen, he’d always wanted — but never allowed himself to sin. Not in action, at least, though in the dead of night… Hartnell groaned, rocking back and forth, just to give his cock some friction. The brush of clothes against his skin was nigh-unbearable, and he railed against the confinement. Off, off, he needed them off. Could he — surrounded by his fellow crewmen, could he possibly —

His hands were moving without his consent. A blast of cool air hit his chest, and he gasped in shock and relief.

“Tom,” someone was saying, from far away. “Tom, stop it — hold steady, man, you’re alright.”

Then, they touched him — and Christ, it was heaven, those strong hands locked around his wrists. Hartnell surged forward without meaning to, but a firm hand against his chest pushed him back.

“Steady,” someone was saying, over and over. The grip on Tom’s shoulders stayed, but the hand pulled away; Tom sobbed at the absence, but slowly, slowly came back to himself.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he rasped, staring up into the face of Mr. Peglar.

Peglar shook his head, and clapped him on the shoulder, offering a brief smile. “No harm in it. Be strong, alright? This fever will pass soon.”

Hartnell nodded, dazed; Peglar clapped him once more, then left, deftly dodging the bodies huddled on the ground, moaning men hunched all around. His steps were steady, Hartnell realized. Peglar’s eyes were focused, he didn’t walk as though fighting his own body… and his skin was so cool.

Considering yesterday evening, Peglar was flushed and trembling from lust, same as the rest of them… a bud of hope bloomed in Hartnell’s chest. Maybe this fever was abating, after all.

------------

“They’re not getting better.”

“Not on Erebus, either.” John Bridgens ran a hand through his hair, heaving a deep sigh. Beneath the moonlight, he looked like a medieval king, crowned in silver and moonlight. Henry Peglar felt the sudden desire to bury his hands in John’s hair, to kiss along his hairline while tugging just to, until the man was trembling against him…

But that wasn’t the fever talking. He had those thoughts any given Wednesday.

“What do we do?” Henry asked, restlessly twisting a length of rope in his hands. “They’re burning up, all of them, and it’s driving them mad. Yet they won’t — none of them.” He shook his head, breathless. “I mean, Christ, why won’t they?”

John shrugged. “Some men are very set in their ways.”

“Yes, but… they’re suffering!” Henry’s eyes were wide. “When it’s all they want, and all of it could be cured if they’d just let the man next to them frig them. I mean —“ He flailed. “We figured it out as soon as we got a moment alone!”

John shook his head, and laid a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He had this way about him — always able to calm some raging storm inside of Henry that he’d never even realized could be settled, ‘til John came along. The world made sense when John was near. Henry could see clearly.

Why were the damned men too set in their For-Queen-and-Country morals to even consider being loved by another man?

“Don’t judge them too harshly,” John counseled. “They are in pain, and they need kindness. We cannot force them to do what they don’t want to. With any luck, this affliction will pass on its own.”

“Sure,” Henry retorted. “Or they might just go insane and throw themselves into the sea for relief, like Odysseus and the sirens.”

“I am afraid,” said another voice, “that is a very real concern.”

Doctor McDonald emerged from below-decks, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal strong forearms and deft hands. His bright eyes were clear, his skin free of fever-flush.

(Who on earth did he — Henry wondered — then considered McDonald’s camaraderie with the whole crew, and his penchant for tight trousers, and decided it wasn’t surprising at all.)

“The afflicted men’s temperatures continue to rise,” McDonald reported gravely. “The longer they go without relief, the worse they will get. They are already losing their minds from fever and desperation. We may expect it will get worse, if they do not find relief.”

John and Henry exchanged uneasy looks. McDonald stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We must encourage them to take the cure — or, in dire cases, intervene. It is more than mercy now, lads. It may be a choice between their morals, or their very lives.”

Jopson/Crozier, post-rescue poisoning/unwellness

[(Anonymous)]

CW dubcon/noncon depending on how the fill goes

Only a handful of men survived the expedition, and the ravages of the Arctic leave Captain Crozier so unwell that his health causes him to withdraw from society at times. Fortunately, he has his loyal steward to care for him.

OR, Crozier returns home with severe a PTSD/survivor's guilt/depression combo and Jopson isn't much better (although he is better at hiding it). Jopson starts to poison Crozier when things start getting too bad for him to handle. Crozier is smart enough to see the pattern but doesn't do anything about it. For Crozier, being physically unwell and allowing himself to be taken care of is the closest he can get to acknowledging a depth of grief and trauma he can hardly acknowledge, if he even feels he has the right to it (after all, he's lucky, he survived). For Jopson, putting himself in a caretaking role is probably both familiar and secure-feeling, but he's probably dealing with some of the same grief/trauma issues as Crozier is.

Oh, and they can fuck about it too.

+one or both of them really do have long-term physical effects from the expedition
+Crozier's "ill health" gives them an excuse to live together
+rescue (or whatever) happened after Fitzjames' and Blanky's canonical deaths, both of which are a huge part of Crozier's guilt
+dealer's choice if either of them had a past relationship where the other person is dead
+I don't know much detail but I do know that physical manifestations of trauma vary a lot depending on time and place, so if you want to throw some of that stuff in, go nuts!

Re: Jopson/Crozier, post-rescue poisoning/unwellness

[(Anonymous)]

+1 All the messed up Jopson/Crozier post-canon dynamic please!

In the meantime, hope it's alright to post a rec if you haven't read it (PTSD and physical injury, no poisoning):
https://archiveofourown.org/works/36110038/chapters/90016726

Fitzier, incest

[(Anonymous)]

CW: incest

James Fitzjames is the product of 17-year-old Francis Crozier’s one-time dalliance. Now, 32 years later, he joins the expedition with a desperate desire to earn his father’s attention and love - and finds himself suddenly intensely attracted to this melancholy captain and pushing all of his buttons.

Whether Francis is aware of their relationship when they fuck is entirely up to you.

Re: Fitzier, incest

[(Anonymous)]

+1

Holy hell I want this

Hickey/anyone, Hickey with cat ears

[(Anonymous)]

That's it, that's the whole prompt. Maybe a tail too if you so desire.

Little/Le Vesconte, ABO Alpha!Little Alpha!Le Vesconte, Breeding kink

[(Anonymous)]

Bonus points if they're still not on the best of terms

FILL: Conceit, Little/Le Vesconte, E, cw under-negotiated kink, power dynamics, minor gender feels

[(Anonymous)]

this comes with a generous helping of Feelings and a small side of gender, but I hope it's something close to what you're thinking of! once I thought about the prompt for more than 30 seconds this idea seized me by the throat and wouldn't let go.

Henry corners him in the kitchen before supper, smelling rank with arousal and high temper. The house is empty, Henry having dismissed most of the servants entirely, and banished anyone else from living here. There is no one to witness their depravity.

Edward half-wishes he were also dismissed, for it is a wretched pleasure he knows he is about to partake in, and maybe it would be best to not be tempted. It doesn’t help that Henry sometimes acts like he wishes Edward weren’t here, that he’d never joined Henry in this too-big falling-apart family home. But neither of them seem to know how to live without each other, and given what they’ve lived through together, that’s part of the problem.

At least, after what they’ve seen each other do, there’s no shame in this.

There’s no shame in Henry, teeth bared, backing Edward into a corner, counter biting into his lower back. He looms over Edward, nearly eight inches taller, and broader (handsome, too, the ideal of an alpha where Edward is skinny and small, with his pretty doe-eyes). Edward glances to the side as if he could escape, but then he’s bracketed with long arms, white shirt rolled up at the sleeves to expose broad, hairy forearms.

He tries to stand up straighter, square his shoulders, puff out his chest, and ignore his yard firming in his trousers. It puts his face a little too close to Henry’s since he’s leaning over Edward. Nevertheless, he snarls, baring his own teeth, and Henry scoffs.

“Come now, we both know that’s not what you want,” he says coolly, arching one eyebrow in a display of superiority that makes Edward’s prick twitch.

“Maybe it is,” Edward snaps pettishly, savoring the clack of his own teeth, wishing for something to bite down on.

“Alright,” Henry replies easily, standing up straight to let him go if he wishes. His eyes, simmering between anger and desire, stay on Edward, however, and their feet are still tangled.

Edward stares up at him, fists clenched. He’s aware that he’s trembling, red-faced, and panting, whereas the other alpha surveys him calmly, as one might an ox at market. As much as this attitude, this superiority, irritates him, it also arouses him more than any demurring omega or beta ever has. And he desperately wants Henry’s touch, the affirmation that he’s wanted, needed, that they’re both alive and that Henry will stay with him, that they will both stay alive.

Edward lets his eyes drop, and the fight go out of his body, head tipping to the side to expose his neck. Henry lifts a hand to caress it, running a nail down the unblemished skin, then abruptly turns around, jerking his head for Edward to follow.

Edward nearly whines at the loss of contact, but trails Henry meekly. He always gives in too easily, but it is so good, and there is so little left that is good.

---

They fuck on the bed. They’ve spent enough time sleeping and fucking on cots and shale and bunks (it had been one of desperate few comforts offered on that long march, and Edward wonders if he would have survived without it, if it would have better if it never began).

Henry is good enough about preparing him -- for all the snarling and posturing this is when he is most tender with Edward, now. Edward opens easily enough these days, but still Henry licks at him first, and he melts into the bed. He’s fully, painfully hard now, but is shamefully content to rut aimlessly against the sheets, waste himself for someone licking at his hole.

When Henry withdraws, he bites into the meat of Edward’s arse, making him cry out and arch his back. Henry takes the opportunity to grasp one of Edward’s breasts, fondle it with a hum of appreciation.

“Not such a skinny thing anymore,” he says, the sort of detached praise you give to an animal that can’t understand you. Edward gasps for it anyway, knowing what comes next. Henry stretches out, pantherine, to cover his back, mouth at his ear with the promise of a bite, a mark, and whisper, “Maybe this time it’ll take.”

The conceit has truly begun now, and Edward whines, high and needy, thrusting back into Henry to feel his arousal. He needs it, needs to be filled, to stay filled, to be used, to be a vessel for Henry, to be something besides his own wretched self. He needs to know Henry wants him, needs him, will keep him.

Breath hot on his ear, Henry murmurs, “What a delightful whore. So desperate for it.” He shushes Edward, stroking along his side. “It’s alright, darling. I’ll take care of you.” He nips Edward’s neck, then sits back up, fitting his big hands easily around Edward’s hips, and helping him tuck his thighs up under himself. Thus presented, Edward turns his head to the side, panting, and looks up through mussed hair and long lashes at Henry. He’s flushed, fringe in his eyes, which are black with desire and his prick, long and thick over heavy stones (at the sight of those, Edward’s own prick twitches), is rigid and leaking. He smells pungent with arousal, musky and sharp.

Edward whines again, pleased that he has brought Henry to this state. He’s too far gone to despair that he’s whining at another alpha, offering submission and debasement with pleasure.

Henry, cool detachment all but gone, growls in reply, and it sends a shiver down Edward’s spine as he finally thrusts in. Immediately he’s back over Edward, gripping his hair to move his head and expose his neck, kissing and nibbling at it. His pace is instantly relentless, his thrusts deep, leaving no doubt as to his need and purpose. Edward, wanton, presses back against him, and attempts fruitlessly to twist his head to kiss Henry’s mouth or neck.

He feels feral, the way he might in his rut, but this is so much better than knotting someone. He can buck and writhe against Henry, and be restrained, owned. It feels safer, and there is an aching satisfaction in being fucked.

As though Henry knows he needs to be quieted, controlled, he presses Edward into the mattress, stilling his desperate movements with his bulk. As he quiets, his world narrows only to Henry’s prick driving into him, hot and hard, his sharp teeth against his neck, and the press of his body, forcing submission.

“You always were a bit of a sorry excuse for an alpha, weren't you?” He murmurs near Edward’s ear. One hand slips down to his chest, to roll a nipple in his fingers. Edward gasps, and shakes his head. “Shh, it’s alright.” His place slows, just a bit, and now the hand is stroking over Edward’s chest, cupping it softly, as if it’s plumper than it is. “You tried, though, sweet thing. And you mustn't anymore.” He lays a kiss on Edward’s neck, licks at it. Edward squirms his hand underneath himself to clutch at Henry’s wrist, trying to focus even as Henry strikes the spot inside him that makes his pleasure peak.

He continues. “Now you can do what you’re good for: take my cock,” he pauses to suck in a breath, “and take my pups, yeah?”

“Yes!” Edward cries out. He can feel Henry’s knot swelling, his own prick leaking on the sheets.

“Get fat with them, be my little alpha-wife. You’d have as many pups as I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasps. He’s so close, teetering on the edge. Henry’s knot is stretching him, and in this mindless state he can imagine it: body soft and plump and heavy with pups, with the proof of this shared pleasure, of Henry’s desire, of his own fertility and desirability. He’d be Henry’s, his placid, sweet wife, Henry’s to fuck as he pleased, as pleased Edward, Henry’s to care for in all ways, an extension of him as he has been since the shale.

“So desperate for it,” pants Henry, vaguely awed. “So perfect for it. I’ll give it to you.” He drives himself home one last time, and sinks his teeth into the meat of Edward’s shoulder as he comes. He always knows what Edward needs, and Edward follows him, keening. He’s barely aware of his own orgasm, he’s so focused on the feeling of Henry filling him, hot and generous.

As Edward comes back to himself, he hears them both panting, feels Henry rubbing his cheek against Edward’s shoulder, and the just-painful, perfect stretch of his knot, shifting minutely with Henry’s hips. Then, very suddenly, Edward’s trembling as he comes down, clenching weakly. Henry rolls them over to their sides, stroking his chest and belly to soothe him. Edward’s crying, but Henry doesn’t mention it, and Edward doesn't want to break the silence.

It’s more painful to stay like this, with Henry inside, than it would be for an omega, but Edward savors it regardless, savors their closeness. For a little while, he can live in this moment. He can imagine Henry loves him, hopes for a child as he strokes Edward’s belly. That when they disentangle they’ll do nothing but smile at each other and laugh, instead of avoiding eye contact for the rest of the evening, then settling on opposite sides of the bed (too nervous to sleep apart but too resentful, too proud to hold each other, at least when awake).

But that is all impossible.

Eventually, Henry softens and slips from him, and Edward sighs, feeling numb misery set in. He starts to sit up, sore muscles protesting and come starting to drip from him, but Henry puts a strong hand on his shoulder, presses him down. Edward goes easily, happy to be cowed by Henry’s strength, size, and confidence. He’s then rolled over onto his stomach, and Henry strokes over his back, down to his rear.

“Stay like this a bit?” Edward nods, letting himself be doe-eyed and sleepy and easy. They’ve never extended the conceit this far, but he’s not opposed. Especially not when Henry stretches out next to him, warm and smelling mostly of satisfaction (pleasant and slightly sweet, like baking bread) and pulls a blanket over them. He idly traces fingers on Edward’s back and in his hair until Edward dozes.

When Edward wakes, his mind is clearer. He quickly registers that he is warm and clean, and that his head is pillowed on Henry’s chest, one arm curled around him, and one of Henry’s arms around his own shoulders. At first, he thinks Henry must be asleep -- they almost never hold each other awake (except when Henry knots him) -- but then he hears a page turn.

Thinking quickly, Edward tries to steady his breathing -- perhaps Henry hasn’t noticed he’s awake. Taking deep breaths, and willing himself to relax (it’s easier than it should be), he notices something else surprising: he can smell himself on Henry’s chest, not the musk of his arousal from where they’d pressed together as they fucked, but a mild, relaxed smell, as if he’d marked him right before falling asleep. Edward doesn’t remember doing such a thing, but the thought jogs a different memory: Henry had scent-marked him when Edward was still recovering from his crisis, when he’d been too overwhelmed to register it.

It seems Henry has done the same for himself, probably using Edward’s wrist. The realization sends a thrill down Edward’s spine, first at the possessiveness, then at the possibility that it means something -- wearing Edward’s scent is not necessary for their conceit, especially after it’s done.

Perhaps, it never was, or is no longer, a conceit, then. Maybe in some small way it can be real.

Hickey/Irving - artist!Irving AU

[(Anonymous)]

It’s still the 19th century (or earlier), but John Irving is a professional artist. And one Cornelius Hickey is a very unprofessional model. ;)

If it comes to topping/bottoming, I’m happy either way.

Optional ideas (seriously just optional! only trying to sow more seeds of potential inspiration(/torment for Irving, but you know, don’t we all suffer for our art)):

-Irving picks Hickey off the street (which wouldn’t have been abnormal—many artists’ figure models were working class men, being conveniently well muscled from their jobs and presumably more willing to undress for pay). Hickey of course insinuates ulterior motives.

-Irving thoughtfully provides a Modesty Drapery.

-Hickey hasn’t modeled before and finds it boring… so of course, he takes it upon himself to make things interesting. :)

-At some point, Irving has to hide a hard-on; happily he is seated behind a large canvas. Unhappily, Hickey still knows something is up. Does he innocently come around to see the progress? Oops, did he lose the pose just now, and need Irving to come over and manually adjust his limbs to the exact correct position?

-Whatever subject Hickey is posing for is ironic. A saint? A penitent? A freshly stabbed martyr?

-Hickey mockingly roleplays as said unfitting saint.

-If they’re getting busy in the studio and in need of that historical fanfic inventory staple the Little Vial of Oil may I point out that most likely there would be a little jar of linseed oil among a painter’s supplies. Although I do not know if pure linseed oil was as expensive back then as it is now, either way, just picture Irving’s face at the suggestion. Defiled by own art supplies! :D

FILL: Sometimes I Draw You With Fangs, HickeyIrving, E, period typical everything, (cws cont. below)

[(Anonymous)]

( CWs: Mostly rather canon, period, and also character-typical CWs for you here tbh, such as manipulation, devious seduction, unhealthy coping mechanisms & practice, some drug use, dubcon, under-negotiated kink, probably no small amount of religious blasphemy... period-typical everything, internalized yadda yadda, so on and so forth. I think I've covered it all, but if I've accidentally overlooked something I apologize! )

And actually, OP, I've got a bit of a weird one for you here! :D; So, in my excitement to fill your prompt I initially planned on blending it somewhat with an AU I was also hoping to write, since the two blended very, very well together so it just felt very "2 birds, 1 stone!" in that sense. However, about 4k in I realized the fully realized (AU) work might run a bit counter to what you were looking for here, so... I've decided to give you both versions, if that's cool!! Here is the pure fill version, and I will respond with the link to the extended (and vastly stranger) version on my ao3 once it's done. Otherwise, um, I really do hope you enjoy!!

---

John Irving finally found his muse in one of the very last places he would have ever thought to search, at a foggy grey intersection separating the edge of town from what thereafter became dry, sprawling acres of sparsely occupied farmland. Right at that barrier sat a forlorn and untended cemetery, populated with little more than dead grass, moldering headstones, and the poor, long forgotten dead buried within that dark, ashen soil.

It was altogether more a haunting eyesore than much the usual grim reminder of one’s own mortality, bleeding out steadily beyond its boundaries through the wrought-iron gate which once had housed it, but now gaped open in wide gaps around the perimeter like rotten teeth. So gothic was the image that Irving could still not help the chill that overtook him when first he’d sighted it, reconsidering his reasons for coming as he unsteadily rolled and lit himself a cigarette, the strike of his match unearthly loud in the growing dark.

And why, he asked himself through the growing unease, thickening around him like the late night’s fog, Must it be at such a Godforsaken hour?

Nearly Midnight, but not quite; Irving was no fool to go wandering alone that late at the edge of town. He was here for no other reason but to meet someone, though why this had been the location chosen seemed increasingly unfathomable. Perhaps, he considered for not the first time that evening, it was all just a prank, and he could be home again within less than an hour’s time drawing himself a warm bath, which was a thought Irving allowed to briefly soothe him before he then noticed one of the graveyard’s dark shadows beginning to move towards him.

Irving swallowed down the thick, salty fear suddenly filling his mouth like high tide, like brine, as the shadow advanced upon him quickly, resolving finally into the shape of a man.

Captivated, Irving found himself suddenly staring into blue eyes as ice-cold as glaciers, set in a pointed, fox-like face framed by russet-colored hair the shade of autumn leaves. To look at him, in fact, felt somehow uncanny, as if Irving were a lost and desperate fairy-tale hero who was just for the first time crossing paths with the fox, the wolf, the changeling or trickster that could never entirely mask its innately malevolent aspect, not the glisten of mischief in its eyes or of hunger in its knowing, sharp-toothed grin.

But was he truly sinister, or was he merely just a man? Surely it was merely the hour and location that made him appear that way, not to mention his hair, red as dried blood, hanging long and loose around a face so pale it almost seemed to glow in the moonlight. Below a bristly mustache curved his lips as he smirked around a cigarette of his own.

“You must be Mr. Irving?” He drawled expectantly, in a voice far more mild-mannered and polite than somehow Irving had been braced for.

"E.C.," Irving greeted back curtly, half statement, half question. It was the only name the man had provided throughout their initial correspondence, those two anonymous initials, which had done nothing to ease Irving’s mind in advance of their meeting tonight. His own intentions may have been as pure as advertised, but who could say the same about a man he knew not by sight, voice, or name?

"Oh, just 'Cornelius' is fine," said the man blithely, as if reading Irving’s very thoughts and concerns writ large across his face in headlines. Anyone, of course, could simply make up a Christian name (though, was it that?) and nothing else, but Irving let the matter go for now. To a point, caution and paranoia eventually began to stink like cowardice instead.

Cornelius stood a good half foot shorter than Irving, his manner of dress neither foppish nor precisely shabby, but somewhere functionally in between. His accent, more than anything, is what gave Irving some pause, finding it strangely unidentifiable to his ears-- and whenever he felt as though he’d cracked it at last, the regional lilt then seemed to imperceptibly shift again somehow.

A strange man indeed, this E.C. already seemed to be, but dangerous? Were Irving not to give into cowardice so soon, then it did seem much too early to say, however much his instincts warned and warned him that there was something to this man that wasn’t quite right… and yet, that might well have also been the very thing Irving has found so immediately compelling about him, a striking burst of color amidst their bleak, monochromatic surroundings. It felt easy, far too easy, to imagine the sharp contours of this man's face rendered beneath layers of oil or watercolor brushstrokes, the surrounding canvas either pulling him even deeper into shadow, or else pushing him out into the light. Sinner or saint. Sacred or profane.

His model. His muse.

Irving was an artist who did not always feel truly in possession of an artist’s soul. Creativity was often known to elude him, to dance and taunt him just beyond his range of vision, and to plumb the depths of his imagination seemed more akin to trying to wring water out of stone. Every spark of inspiration was therefore, to him, unspeakably precious, almost as rare as gold.

“Would you like a job?” Irving asked into the cold, still night, and despite the darkness, he was able to see the man’s smile stretch itself into a grin.


❄︎❅❄︎


Model Needed, the advert had read in plain, unobtrusive type, providing what seemed to be no more but the very bare minimum of information required. Rate of pay, duration of time expected, if interested (SERIOUS INTEREST ONLY!) please to straightaway contact John Irving by any of the following means. . .

Though Irving was blessed with plenty, much of which was even good, a font of creativity he was certainly not. Therefore, when the urge did strike him suddenly and brilliantly, a burst of flint casting sparks into the depths of darkness, there was naturally nothing else to do but nurture those sparks into bright, blazing flame. He did not often care to linger upon his own limitations, but Irving had always by nature been more practical than he was proud when it came to matters that were real and tangible, pure fact like numbers, like coin, like his very own livelihood; Irving was not one to live beyond his means even to chase the false promise of a future return, an investment in his craft, but was instead appropriately frugal with his expenses, buying much the same grade of supplies as any student or beginner might, and regularly hiring off the street for his assistants and models.

For this work, however, he had broadened his search quite a bit wider than he normally would, because no one had been quite the right fit for what he was looking for, and for once, he felt very strongly that there was a right (and therefore, also wrong) fit for it.

Enter E.C.

“What I aim to depict with you is the Inferno,” he’d begun, breathlessly struggling to explain the scope of his vision to Cornelius, “In the familiar narrative of the triptych: three complimentary tableaus demonstrating the demonic influence still at work today and among us, as we live and breathe. Hell on Earth.”

“Is that so?” Cornelius did not so much appear bewildered, as Irving had first anticipated he might, but rather, almost amused. “Then pray tell me, Mr. Irving, what have you in mind to cast me as?”

“Your role will be sitting for both the faithful and the demonic alike,” Irving responded briskly, offering no room for argument or interruption. What he most yearned to capture within this particular work was the perversely angelic quality he believed many devils -- on Earth, in Hell, or otherwise -- still retained, a mocking residue of their heavenly origins worn now like masks, for little other purpose than for deceiving mankind. So too, then, the logic follows that man must in turn reveal some hint of what darker natures are concealed within him, heart and soul, as well, the insidious influence of evil and sin which has burdened every man’s and woman’s soul with temptation since as far back as the Garden itself.

Irving explained this with a passion he’d not yet shown to Cornelius before, anxious that the man might refuse the job, like had the several others who had come and gone before him, now that he’d heard Irving’s intentions laid bare. The man pondered them as described, chewing them over slowly like gristle, then smiled again, the expression taking on a strange new innocence in the bright, vivid light of Irving’s studio than it had the night before.

“And when shall we start?”

Irving blinked, pleasantly surprised.

“If you’re agreeable to these terms, then I would like very much to get started immediately, on the morrow.”

anyone/Crozier, noncon

[(Anonymous)]

(i.e. Crozier is the one getting nonconned)

Any/Evil!Any, mirrorverse

[(Anonymous)]

The possibilities are endless when you go full Star Trek Goatee!Verse.

-Perhaps Crozier slips sideways into the Eldritch Empire and meets a handsome cruel James (with a Dramatic Facial Scar) who is a loyal lieutenant in the Navy of some tentacled creature.
-Or maybe Irving is cursed to wake up after dying in a topsy-turvy world where Hodgson is Sexily Evil and Wants To Fuck.
-Evil!Lady Jane is a trope in a lot of terribad FE novels but please, do us all a favor by bringing her into fanfic land and letting her seduce someone menacingly. (Tozer...? Yes.)

Re: Any/Evil!Any, mirrorverse

[(Anonymous)]

Omg I’m here for this :D

Dark Fuck Hodgson tinkling an evil little tune on his clavier of debauchery

Any cold boy/Tuunbaq, anal training for the Tuuncoq

[(Anonymous)]

The Tuunbaq’s anger cannot be appeased! Except by porn logic.

But wait, you can’t just shove a bear peg into a man hole. That would be an act of hubris! No, some practice, patience, and perhaps a series of expertly whittled anal plugs is needed.

Your choice whether this is happening in mutiny camp, in the fucknavy where sex as solution is normal, or in the regular navy where sex as solution is madness but they’re doing it anyway. Is our bare butt bear tribute willingly taking one XXL bear pizzle for the team, or unwillingly tied down and forced to it? Did they…cast lots for the role?

No permanent injury, scat, or snuff, please, but other kinks welcome.

(incomplete) FILL: Any cold boy/Tuunbaq, anal training for the Tuuncoq

[(Anonymous)]

Hello I LOVE this, and I couldn't help but start typing something up. I have some ideas but time and effort wise I don't know yet whether or when I'll manage any more, but - have this for now because I too love this idea and want to see more monsterfucking! :)

In hindsight, something must have gotten lost in translation. Travelling between tongues, something that Lady Silence had tried to convey must have gone a little bit sideways, veered off the beaten path, tipped down an incline and plummeted merrily on into a roadside ditch. What they ended up with was a suggestion that had the command table - quite understandably - frowning at the supposed rite needed to placate the vengeful Tuunbaq.
The key factor was: even if it had been a mistranslation, it must have been a really consistent one, since they all agreed on the meaning they thought to have caught: Doctor McDonald frowned but nodded his understanding, Captain Crozier listened intently then heaved a sigh, shook his head and took a greater-than-advisable sip from his crystal cut glass, and Mister Blanky gave a single whoop of laughter before declaring he would volunteer, on the grounds of "being the creature's betrothed and thus the morally sensible choice."

Absurdity aside however, a consensus had been found that they would have to go about this with the appropriate measure of English sense and reason, and so the doctors had convened to eke out how the delicate matter might best be attended without risking life and limb, or rather, kin and rim.
They reckoned that there were three pivotal factors to the endeavour:
a) a man's given talent for the task in terms of stamina, perseverance through hardship, and notably flexibility of the sphincter (since, at least to their immediate knowledge, they had not a single cunny between them);
b) the time spent preparing for the task, which the captain had determined to be a week, as they had little time to spare with a volatile bear-spirit in the neighbourhood;
and, of course,
c) the method with which to go about the preparatory work, which was the only factor they could manipulate in this unprecedented experiment.

All in all, given that the safety of the men was thought to hinge on the success of it, they truly could not do with only one participant.

Pitching the idea to the men was difficult in ways fully expected, and in ways previously not expected, and required the artful narration of Commander Fitzjames who somehow managed to relieve the men of the fear of being accused of being habitual sodomites, should they volunteer their arse to the good cause. The right words were found, and by the end of the day they had a handful of volunteers which they all accepted, not least on the grounds that, as Doctor Stanley had rightfully noted, they were likely to lose some of the roster to cold feet - or rather, sore behinds - during the week.
So with about twenty men, they began their first selection process, that is mustering the men and giving them a first once-over.
Indeed, this first pass already eliminated some participants. Young Tommy Hartnell had an emission not two minutes that he'd been up on the table, and tapped out looking winded like a marathon runner when Doctor Peddie tried to conclude the examination, citing exhaustion and overwhelming sensitivity of the prostate. Mister Morfin, who had openly admitted to having some experience with sodomite acts when asked (the punishment thereof suspended and void under the given circumstances), concluded the examination successfully but was crossed from the list due to his general condition, which seemed too frail at the current time to brave the preparatory week and valiant duty itself.
Lieutenant Irving, who had volunteered with all the burdened piety and resolve of a modern day martyr in joining the good example of his fellow lieutenants of Terror, undertook the examination with commendable stoicism despite the anxious grip of his fingers on the table's edge and the copious drips of Cowper’s fluid leaving his membrum. Lieutenant Hodgson spent his own examination chatting animatedly with and at Doctor McDonald, starting at the Hippocratic oath and ending on sea urchins, a conversation he cheerfully continued with Mister Goodsir while lieutenant Little got into position to be evaluated. Both would have happily continued on the topic of marine invertebrates, but it soon became clear that Little’s ability to relax his sphincter was negatively correlated with the amount of information exchanged about the (oral) sphincter of the common starfish, and that likely at high significance. Luckily, substituting this for a running narration of the examination procedure both relaxed the man and indeed seemed to encourage good progress.

In short, once every anus in question had been thoroughly probed by a minimum of two medically proficient fingers, thirteen participants remained and were presented with the plan of action: based on calculations informed by the combined experience with the beast and all zoological expertise aboard, a likely size of the creature's membrum virile had been established and a margin of error added for additional safety: this was to be the dilation they would aim to prepare for to minimise risk of injury or worse. This in itself likely disqualified more lithely built volunteers like Mister Armitage, but for the good of the expedition, all men decided to attempt the programme regardless.

Thus, to achieve the necessary state of precaution, the men were asked to wear dilator devices for every hour of the day, with short breaks for any necessities. Sizes would be incrementally increased in a 12-hour rhythm to keep the difference between sizes at a manageable pace. In addition, massages and other relaxants would be given where necessary to ease the transition along the scale. The man most successful in the endeavour would then, at the end of the week, perform his heroic duty and, upon return from the expedition, be awarded with the appropriate honours under some agreed upon, more appropriate pretence.
At least, thus far went the plan.

Edward Little/anyone, humiliation, scat(?)

[(Anonymous)]

Edward Little takes cock and his humiliation kink latches onto the question of whether he's actually clean enough to be dicked at that moment, bc lets be real they dont have time for tactical enemas on ship. Up to writer whether he's actually dirty but he IS thinking about it and the shame is absolutely getting him off & he is SO mortified about it. Could also have the top teasing him about it. Victorian attitudes about sodomy for extra shame welcome. So is scat if you want to go for it. Go wild.

Hartnell/Dealer’s Choice - over-the-knee spanking

[(Anonymous)]

The fact that we’ve done so little with Tarts’ innocent face and eager-to-please docility is CRIMINAL. Can be mutually consensually erotic play, or a Schrodinger’s boner type situation or even start out as dubcon. But Tarts should be enjoying it by the end. It’s up to you whether there’s other sexual activity or anyone gets off.

Anyone (preferably at least a little older than him) can be the one spanking him. Crozier is the obvious choice but consider Blanky, Stanley, or Macca.

Manson/Hartnell, mutual masturbation leads to first kiss

[(Anonymous)]

The two of them have a habit of "helping each other out" in the hold. Manson has a crush on Hartnell but thinks that he would never reciprocate. (Maybe Manson's internalized homophobia is mixed up in some internalized ableism – he thinks that he likes men because he's "wrong" but Hartnell is smart and good, so he must be different.) Post lashing, they take comfort in each other and it leads to a first kiss/feelings reveal.

If that doesn't appeal, literally anything with these two! Give Manson a boyfriend!

Re: Manson/Hartnell, mutual masturbation leads to first kiss

[(Anonymous)]

Magnus wants to have the right words for Tom—wants to be clever, enticing, playful like a doxy or a proper lass maybe, like the type of person a handsome man like Tom Hartnell would want to touch and kiss and hold on purpose. Instead he’s just big, dumb Magnus Manson, and he’s got a cock instead of a cunny, and Tom just happens to be nice enough to lend him a hand every so often because there’s not much else to do to keep warm in the Arctic.

rated E, ~7k words. this isn't post-lashing exactly but otherwise I hope you like it! https://archiveofourown.org/works/43996792

Armitage/Tozer, Armitage/other, Tommy is "popular" with the Marines

[(Anonymous)]

Sol stumbles on Tommy being fucked by a Marine in the hold. Sol thinks he's straight (lol) and thought Tommy was too. He's furious at Tommy and the Marine for breaking the articles, and more furious when the Marine tries to excuse it by saying that Tommy will bend over for any Marine, and half of them have already had him. Sol thought Tommy was a good lad who followed him around just because he wanted to be a Marine. Now he can't stop thinking about how he looked being fucked, and he's mad about it…

Re: Armitage/Tozer, Armitage/other, Tommy is "popular" with the Marines

[(Anonymous)]

Oh no. This has awakened something…

Hodgson/Tozer(or other mutineer), last two survivors - Hodgson unsure if he’s a prisoner

[(Anonymous)]

Now it’s just the two of them, they have no choice but to depend on each other.

But Hodgson still wonders if he’s a prisoner who’s being kept alive while useful, to be killed as soon as he becomes a liability. And the paradox is the closer they get to safety, the more of a liability an officer’s account of the mutiny would be. Maybe Hodgson needs to show that he won’t, that he’ll do and say anything to live.

Tozer doesn’t see it that way, and besides couldn’t kill his only companion - but he too wants to live. And a frightened and cowed Hodgson is a complicit Hodgson is a safe Hodgson.

Can swap in a different mutineer, I just think Tozer is particularly interesting as I could see him going either way. But then again Hickey would know exactly what to do with desperate supplicant Hodgson and that’d be fun to read too. (Though idk, maybe getting publicly rejected by a monster bear shakes up even the ruthless Mr Hickey?)

No character death of last two please! But be as cruel or merciful as you’d like. I enjoy coercion, dubcon, noncon, but I also enjoy unexpected kindness.

FILL (incomplete): Bad Miracles, Hodgson/Hickey/Tozer, T, implied dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

“What a miracle…”

Oh no, George thought, and then, so is this Hell?

“Open your eyes, lufftenant,” the voice murmured, “here, pet, I can see you breathing…”

George shook his head. It took nearly all of his strength to do so; still, he moved his head from side to side in a pathetic attempt to deny his continued survival. Slowly, gently, a hand touched his cheek. The tears came after that—and water, warm and clean against his lips, water which should not have existed for him to drink but came to him all the same. George does not know how he managed to swallow without drowning. Hickey—the voice—held him up, perhaps, or coaxed the liquid down his throat somehow, or was otherwise entirely responsible for the fact that Lieutenant George Henry Hodgson continued to live. It was when George felt Hickey press something that wasn’t water to his lips when he opened his eyes. “Mm…”

“Oh, good morning,” Hickey teased quietly, beaming at George as if they were old friends, or even lovers; Hickey smiled at George as if they’d been bonded their entire life and he couldn’t imagine another man he’d rather find laying half-dead on the dusty shale. George coughed. Hickey stroked his hair gently, lovingly, as though one might stroke the head of a dog. George did not want to think about dogs. He did not think he was likely to see another dog for however many days he had left to live, but if for some cursed reason he did encounter one, he knew surely he’d burst into tears and try to apologize to the poor thing for what happened to Neptune. Hickey held something up to George’s lips again. “Hafta eat up, lufftenant,” he said firmly, “gonna need your strength back soon, y’know. We’ve got a long walk ahead of us.”

George closed his eyes again, but Hickey sighed, and George found that he was actually quite frightened by the prospect of disappointing Hickey and being left to die here so he decided to not only open his eyes back up but do so with the addition of the closest thing to a smile that his cracked lips could muster. He tried raising his eyebrows rather than asking the question: who is it this time? Poor, sweet Manson? Hoar, because he ran? Tozer? He wouldn’t be the first lover Cornelius Hickey killed and ate. George wondered, as he raised his eyebrows, if that was the reason Hickey wanted to keep him alive. Perhaps George, too, would be a meal. Take of my body, he thought irritably, and then his empty stomach lurched halfway up his throat as he wondered if Hickey’s member was still working. It certainly seemed to be the last night Tozer was alive.

Hickey’s eyes crinkled slightly. “It’s bear meat, lufftenant,” he said in that teasing little voice, “you didn’t think I’d waste another man so soon, did you?”

“Surely thought it were me,” another voice said, and this time when George turned his head it hurt from how fast he moved. Tozer. Sergeant Tozer was alive. “Hullo,” he said sullenly, “how d’ye do, le’tennant. Looks like we’re stuck here a little longer.”

“Oh,” George said somehow, “hello.”

“You’ll greet the Sergeant but not me, lufftenant? Oh, that hurts,” Hickey sighed, pouting down at George as he placed the bear meat on his chest. He took George’s face in both hands and pulled him up, frowning at him as he held his thumbs out to block George’s peripheral vision. “After I’ve made you my second and everything!”

George frowned back at Hickey. “Hmm?”

Hickey’s frown flipped into an unsettling grin. “You’re a first lieutenant now, pet,” he said cheerfully, stretching the word out in a poor imitation of George’s voice, “my second in command! Couldn’t have a Marine for it, after all.”

“Oh,” George said again, “okay.” He closed his eyes again, needing rest, and then opened them, wondering something. “Um. Why?”

“Why don’t I tell you while you eat? After all,” Hickey murmured, stroking George’s hair again, “I saved you a piece.”



(OP this prompt awoke something in me, I have more on this in mind but wanted to post for the fill fest <3)

Hickey/Tozer, heist AU

[(Anonymous)]

Hickey's got a (probably horrifically dysfunctional) crew and his eye on something valuable; Tozer the security guard is his man on the inside. Tozer doesn't know he's his man on the inside yet, but that's only a minor obstacle.

Re: Hickey/Tozer, heist AU

[(Anonymous)]

+1 love this!