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/Irving, ageplay

[(Anonymous)]

Hodgson as the caring figure, Irving as good boy (or girl). Gender fuckery optional but encouraged. Doesn't have to be sexual.

Goodsir/Hickey or Goodsir Mutiny Trash Party - modern AU

[(Anonymous)]

My needs are simple: torment that poor surgeon. But, much as I do love the grime and the cold and the impending death vibes of canon setting mutineer camp, sometimes I long for extended sexual torture with modern amenities, modern sex toys/bdsm equipment, and modern hygiene. Let Goodsir suffer and struggle in cruel restraints being used and abused in a comfortably air conditioned trash party dungeon of iniquity! Give him a nice new ballgag! Your choice of reason for how this situation came to this, if necessary - but pure porn without plot works fine too.

Also good with Goodsir/Hickey consensual rape roleplay.

Re: Goodsir/Hickey or Goodsir Mutiny Trash Party - modern AU

[(Anonymous)]

+1000 to this. OP your MIND

Hickey/Tozer, breeding kink

[(Anonymous)]

Tozer has a breeding kink (as in, he wants to be the one getting someone pregnant) but Hickey is the first man he's been with, and he feels like he has to abstain due to that fact, until some of it slips out during dirty talk. Hickey is surprised but he rolls with it.

Re: Hickey/Tozer, breeding kink

[(Anonymous)]

OP your mind..... I need this 👀

Goodsir/any, oral fixation, rimming

[(Anonymous)]

Goodsir being absolutely enamoured with eating ass. Maybe he read about it in passing and was instantly obsessed with the idea. Maybe he did it one time and was instantly hooked. In any case, he adores it and seeks out the opportunity. Writer's choice how he goes about it, be it arrangements with some of the men or some odd medical reasoning. Bonus if the rimming is his main focus and he does not touch the recipients' genitals, and/or they masturbate while he is busy. In short I simply want Goodsir enthusiastically french kissing some buttholes

Tozer/multiple, Tom of Finland AU

[(Anonymous)]

Let Tozer live his best size queen life by hooking up with any and all Cold Boys of your choice; Tom of Finland scenarios heartily encouraged (I.e.: a biker, construction worker, sailor, just a guy at the beach, train compartments, bars, etc). Group sex not mandatory but very much welcome.

Re: Tozer/multiple, Tom of Finland AU (more details)

[(Anonymous)]

Most importantly, everyone checks everyone out openly. You see a guy you like, you go for it and grope him (flirting). Everyone is into everything. They all top and bottom and live perfect cock hungry, cock sluts lives.

Any m/m - scurvy dick comes inconveniently back to life

[(Anonymous)]

Impotence is usually rather unhelpful, except when you are a repressed mid-victorian polar explorer who wants to spoon your sole co-survivor at night (f-for warmth! WARMTH!) but doesn’t want to come to grips with your burgeoning forbidden desire much less let him become aware of it. But after getting more food or lichen or thanks to magically healing Tuunsteak, the dick reawakens. What to do? :O

I’m open to any ship but here are some that came to mind with this scenario: Hickey/Tozer, Hickey/Irving, any two out of the three lieutenants, Irving/Tozer, Goodsir/Tozer, Hickey/Crozier (Crozier was only holding onto him for security reasons, of course), Fitzier, Fitzjames/Dundy, Hickey/Hodgson, Goodsir/Hickey…

Re: Any m/m - scurvy dick comes inconveniently back to life

[(Anonymous)]

I have no idea how this fill got so long, and I’m almost mad about it. (It’s over 3000 words now? Well over? I’ll post it as soon as it’s done… hope you enjoy, anon!)

Tom Hartnell/any, facial

[(Anonymous)]

He's pretty and someone should come on his face. Imagine that sweet little face looking up for approval (or in defiance?), all covered in come

FILL: do better, Hartnell/Tozer, E, facial, mild humiliation, mild dirty talk

[(Anonymous)]

[OP this prompt wrapped itself around my brain like a vice and made this happen. I feel like we as a fandom need a Corrupt Tom Hartnell week or something because look at him.]

Sergeant Tozer’s hand is in Tom’s hair, pushing his cock deeper. Tom swallows around it, breathing hard through his nose to avoid gagging. His eyes water. Above him, Tozer stifles a groan, and Tom glances up to see Tozer pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as if to silence his own pleasure. Tom wishes he wouldn’t.

Tozer notices Tom’s loss of focus and looks down, tightening his grip in Tom’s hair. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants, canting his hips forward with little warning, and this time Tom does nearly choke on it. “C’mon, love. That’s it.”

Tom wonders if the sergeant does have a sweetheart back home, if this is how he speaks to her. He can’t imagine Tozer putting a lady on her knees like this or fucking her mouth half as forceful – though he also can’t imagine Tozer’s sweetheart giving him half as much pleasure, and that gives Tom a surge of pride, a desire to do better, to make him feel better, to prove –

Tozer pulls out of Tom’s mouth with a wet pop, saliva trickling from Tom’s lips and clinging to the tip of Tozer’s shaft. Tom hears himself make a soft noise of disappointment but Tozer shakes his head, beginning to jerk himself quick and efficient. “Look at me,” Tozer says under his breath, and Tom does, knowing he must look…debauched. He can feel how damp his face is with tears and spit, and Tozer groans softly, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock before returning to the task at hand.

“What is it about this that gets you off, Tom?” Tozer asks. His brow shines with sweat, and Tom glimpses his tongue as he moistens his lips. His cock is thick, wet from Tom’s mouth and from the sergeant’s own arousal. “That desperate to feel useful?”

Tozer’s gotten meaner since the day Sir John died. Tom doesn’t let it bother him; he’d tell Tozer it’s all right if he asked. Grief will do strange things to a man, Tom knows that all too well.

Tozer tightens his grip on his cock. “Fuck. C’mere.” He puts his hand on Tom’s head and pulls him closer, rubbing the head against Tom’s lips, which he obediently opens just enough to take the tip.

Tozer swears again and Tom hears a soft thud, like he’s tipped his head back enough to bang it against the wall. “Or is it more that you like feeling a bit dirty? Is that all it is?”

Tom mouths at Tozer’s prick with a soft moan, knowing that’s what Tozer wants, and looks up at him with damp eyes, and then Tozer shudders, thrusting hard into his fist. Tom feels the hot streaks of Tozer’s spend hit his face, painting his lips and cheek, a bit catching in his eyelashes. Tom blinks quickly but doesn’t move, stays there looking up at Tozer. He likes seeing the sergeant like this, this moment of vulnerability after intense pleasure, youthful and wide-eyed.

Then Tozer quickly tucks himself back into his trousers and swipes his fingers through the mess on Tom’s face. He offers Tom his fingers and Tom takes them into his mouth, sucking them clean. “Thought it’d be that,” Tozer says with satisfaction. “The dirty one. I’m right, yeah?”

Tom hesitates, then nods. Tozer smiles. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He pushes his fingers a bit deeper, pressing down on Tom’s tongue. “Look good like that, Tom. Like you belong there.”

Tom, mouth too full to speak, nods again. His own cock is so hard he can scarcely ignore it. He’ll have to wait until Tozer is gone and then bring himself off, won’t take more than a moment.

Tozer turns and strides away, leaving Tom on his knees and filthy. He listens to Tozer’s heavy footfalls walking away, then he hears them pause, turn, and come back.

Tom sees Tozer’s boots reenter his line of sight, then he sees Tozer’s face as he kneels down next to him, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and shaking it out. Tozer puts his hand on Tom’s face and Tom closes his eyes as Tozer gently wipes his face clean. “There,” Tozer says gently, almost apologetically. He strokes Tom’s cheek then stands.

“Better hurry before you’re missed,” Tozer says, and Tom listens to his footsteps as he leaves again.

francis/sophia, femdom

[(Anonymous)]

preferably canon era so we get to imagine sophia serving pussy serving cunt

all details to your specification but would prefer it if francis is authentically into her/the experience (even if he’s confusedhorny about it)

Irving/Hodgson/Little, sex dreams and shame

[(Anonymous)]

Irving keeps having INCREDIBLY vivid sex dreams about his fellow lieutenants. It makes breakfast in the wardroom super awkward… and its not like he has chill about it.

Bonus points if he’s convinced he’s dreaming at some point, but no, this is really happening, his dreams have never felt like this before.

Any M/M, hiccups

[(Anonymous)]

Boy of your choice has hiccups. He's tried everything to get rid of them and he's at his wits end. Enter Boy The Second, who has a creative (read: sexy) solution. Maybe Boy The First is a bit reluctant but he'll try anything, up to and including getting the hiccups fucked out of him. Feel free to take it in any direction you like:)

Re: Any M/M, hiccups

[(Anonymous)]

... you ever start to write something like "this should be fun" and then midway through you realize "huh, this is... considerably hotter than I thought" and you realize a few things about yourself you weren't prepared to realize? Because. It happens on occasion. So I've heard.

Fitzier, Firewatch AU

[(Anonymous)]

Francis sees an ad in the paper for a job.

FILL: spark, Francis/James, T, the rocky mountains: run away, recover, fall in love.

[(Anonymous)]

Estes Park, 1989

Francis Crozier was no stranger to running away.

He’d run away to the navy when the crush of Bainbridge became too close and his father’s drunkenness too sad.

He’d run away to Italy when James Ross told him he was going to marry Ann.

He should have run away the first time Sophia said no, but Francis Crozier was a man weak in his vices, and like the last drop at the bottom of the bottle, couldn’t resist the pull of asking one more time.

Finally he had done the right thing, and ran away to the states.

New York had entertained, for a time, but he felt suffocated by the crowds, the noise, how big everyone’s hair seemed to be. He came west, to Denver, like in the poem by that beatnik he hadn’t understood very well but liked the rhythm of. In Denver one could breath, could feel the bracing air and the cold whip of the wind and feel alive.

What one could not do, apparently, was find a job.

Until now, that is.

It had been an innocuous ad in the classifieds. “Seeking Firewatch for temporary posting in Rocky Mountain National Park. Competitive Salary. Room and Board.” The money he’d brought with him was dwindling, his sad little apartment off of Curtis street held no fond memories that might extend his stay, and how best to spend a summer in Colorado than sitting up in a cabin scanning the treeline for a tell-tale wisp of smoke?

“What better way,” he mutters, what seems like the fiftieth mile into this fucking trail but is surely only the fifth. “What better way to have a fucking heart attack and die in the Colorado wilderness?”

He hadn’t anticipated the change in altitude. Denver was one thing - just a mile high city. This was at least eight thousand. Thin oxygen. Hard to breathe. A hundred and ninety five pounds of red faced, sweating Irishman struggling down a simple trail he would have scrambled down in his youth.

At least it was a nice day.

When he reached the tower, he briefly argued the merits of simply sitting down at the base of the stairs and dying rather than climb up the intimidating fifty seven steps. Unfortunately, that strange sense of survivalism that had dogged him despite his best efforts won out in the end, and he stumbled through the door at the very top of the tower twenty minutes later.

Francis had expected worst, honestly. A fine coating of dust on everything, a musty blanket and a pillow that smelled like mildew and someone else’s sweat.

The silence he had hoped for, however, was absent.

“Hello?” The walkie-talkie on the little desk was chirping at him. “Are you there yet? If you’ve died I have to send someone out there.” The voice was deep, masculine. English, of all things, here in the American wilderness. And it was still talking. “I might even have to hike out there. Well, not that it would be such a burden, once to deliver the mail I walked over -” Francis snatched the radio out of it’s cradle.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said.

“Oh! They didn’t tell me you were Irish,” said the voice at the other end of the line. Francis’ hackles instantly rose.

“They didn’t tell me you would be some toff fresh from Oxford,” he snapped. But the voice only chuckled. The low laughter blended with the vibrations through the radio in Francis’ hand did not help his aggravated state, though they did redirect some of the blood flow from his head.

“Some toff fresh from Oxford, that’s a good one, I’ll have to remember that. Most of the time all I get out here is people begging me to say different words so they can hear my accent. I’m glad we won’t have to worry about that, Francis.”

“So you know my name?”

“As well I should. It’s right here on my paperwork. Francis Crozier. Fifty-one. Denver address, no mention of your origins. I must say it’s a pleasant surprise.”

Francis didn’t know what to say to that. A “pleasant surprise” wasn’t the usual reaction he got when someone heard his voice and knew his roots. Especially now, when some stupid fucking Americans who called themselves Irish because their great-great grandmothers fled the famine would slap him on the back at a bar and said some pithy nonsense about the Troubles and offer to buy him a drink.

He avoids the bars for more than one reason, nowadays.

“What do I call you then?” Francis asked, when he realized the silence had gone on too long.

“How darling of you to ask!” Francis rolled his eyes. “You can call me James.”

James.

Fuck.

“James Fitzjames, if we’re going to be formal about it.”

“Pull the other one.”

“It's true!” James laughed. “I’d show you my license but I don’t believe you’ve got a fax machine out there.”

“Next time, then,” Francis said.

“I’d like that.” The radio went quiet, and Francis busied himself with putting away his few scant things. He had a few changes of clothes besides his uniform shirts, some books he’d brought, a notebook with the vague promise of keeping a diary or writing a novel or making lists or one of the million other things he always promised he’d do with a notebook and never got around to.

“So what do you think?” The radio sprang back to life.

“What do I think about what?” Francis asked.

“What’s your fire prediction for the summer?” James replied. “A quiet few months? A raging inferno?”

“Not sure yet,” Francis answered. The radio was warm in his hand. “But I think there might be a spark.”

Tozer/anyone, drunk and needy

[(Anonymous)]

Sloppy drunk Tozer loves to be touched, and whoever he’s with is more than happy to oblige. (No noncon, please — dubbon is just fine, esp if Toze is a little too out of it to do much besides let himself be puppeted around…)

Re: Tozer/anyone, drunk and needy

[(Anonymous)]

Ohhhh you have awoken something in me with this one anon... 🥴

Fitzier- multiple orgasms/overstimulation

[(Anonymous)]

Francis makes James come over and over, reducing him to a shaking crying mess. Hands, mouth, toys, by straight up fucking him silly, all of the above… dealer’s choice
Bonus points for trans man James

FILL: passing through, Fitzier, E, overstimulation

[(Anonymous)]

I hope you enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44124537

Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

[(Anonymous)]

Some era after canon (can be modern day, can be any time in between), reincarnated cold boys hook up. They have no idea of their past lives until they fuck.

Particularly into idea of a still kinda rat bastard-y (or at minimum, annoying) but significantly less dangerous reincarnated!Hickey… getting possessed by mad bad dangerous to know canon!Hickey during sex. Is it frightening? Is it hot? Does the ghostly past Hickey sneakily attempt to take over full time? How does the past and present resolve? (If you even want to bother with plot stuff - a single PWP scene is fine by me!)

But it could be the reverse! Reincarnated!Hickey surprised by reincarnated!Tozer getting possessed and suddenly being both angry at him and much sadder and needier for him than their contemporary relationship warrants? Or surprised by reincarnated!Irving getting possessed and suddenly being both freaked out by the sex that is after all the only reason they’re meeting, and sure that Hickey’s killed him?

Re: Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

[(Anonymous)]

Gonna give this a go …! But already it’s starting to run away from me lololol. Stay tuned

Jopson/Little, hypnosis (possibly turned seduction...)

[(Anonymous)]

Jopson has an unorthodox way to get Lt. Little to relax; and Little enjoys surrendering his mind for a while, going brainless and drowsy, guided by the sound of Jopson's voice. Jopson's happy to take care of the Lieutenant while he's in this state... whatever he needs.

Dealer's choice if it turns sexy or not! I'd just love to see a hypnotized, relaxed Little, and soft-dom Jopson taking care of him.

FILL Jopson/Little, hypnosis (possibly turned seduction...)

[(Anonymous)]

This prompt was so inspiring, thank you! This is not beta'd, but I hope you enjoy it! I'll probably put it up on ao3 sometime.


Doe (Jopson/Little, hypnosis, rated M)

"Good evening, sir."

Lieutenant Little waves the honorific away with a little gesture. He is sat, slumped and forlorn, at his small desk, his coat still heavy upon his shoulders. Thomas slides the door shut behind him and lingers in the small space until a timid sideways glance wordlessly invites his approach, invites him to help the man shrug out of his heavy woolen armour and put it up on its hanger for the day.
Once he has done so, he turns back to Little, whose eyes dart away from him like startled fawns caught admiring the luscious grass in a clearing from the very edge of the protective forest.
"Sir, if you would like me to help, then you shall have to look at me," Thomas tries, softly, and smiles when the reprise of formal address does return the man's eyes to him, if only to signal the dismissal of rank.
"Just like that," he praises, and understanding dawns on Little and the very tips of his ears, half-hidden in tousled strands, turn a lovely, healthy colour.
"If you'd recline on your berth?"
"Oh," Little nods, mutters 'yes, yes', and does just that. He moves, Thomas finds, a little bit like a marionette: a little too wooden, a little too hectic, a little uncoordinated, as if his joints are hinged in ways he does not fully understand. It is what a long day does to Edward Little, now in the ice at the very latest. He arranges himself like a little paper doll, leans himself against the wood and anxiously clasps his hands, tries to stuff them into his vest, finally tucks them under his thighs, sits on them, so they cannot flutter all over the place.
Thomas draws up the chair for himself. "You needn't do this, you know," Little mutters, like he does every time.
"I know," says Thomas, like he does every time. "Give me your foot?"
As he starts working off the lieutenant's left boot, he can feel where the worn-in leather has taken on the warmth of the body beneath. He grips it firmly above the heel and pulls, and says: "Pull out," and Little does, easily with his aid. Thomas sets his foot down and asks for the other, which Little gives without thought. The boots set aside, one socked foot remains in Thomas' lap for him to rub the ankle. A few days prior, Little had said it troubled him towards the end of the day, so now Thomas presses his fingertips against the wool, traces the bone and sinew with massaging strokes. "That feel alright?" he asks, and Little hums.
Yes, Thomas is theoretically not responsible for helping lieutenant Little dress down for the night. But it happened once by chance, and now it is a routine. Because when Thomas eventually says: "Look at me?"
Little does.
His eyes appear almost black in the dim of the cabin, but Thomas thinks he knows them to be brown. They are skittish, still, and blink often, the handsome lashes a fluttering curtain in the breeze of too many thoughts. Doe eyes. Thomas rests his hand on Little's shin and gazes back at him.
"You've had a long, long day," he says, softly, and Little's eyes seem to blacken with feeling. The man's lips half heartedly start forming a syllable, his head inclines toward a nod, but neither motion is finished because Thomas says: "I know," and squeezes his leg, and leans forward a little. "But now it is night," he narrates, "and it is time to slow down."
This time, only the nod even begins: Little's lips remain parted but do not attempt words.
"Look at me," Thomas reminds him, softly.
"Now it is night," he repeats, "and your body is heavy from all the work you did."
The blinking is slowing down.
Thomas wets his lips.
"Your legs, they are heavy," he says, stroking along the one that rests in his lap, and feels how it seems to grow heavy indeed. "And your arms, oh they are heavy… they have done so much today."
Little's shoulders sag with the weight, a different slump. Softer. His eyes, too, appear all the softer in the quiet dim.
Thomas leans a little further forward, and Little does not shy away.
"Your mind is heavy, too, is it not? You do not need to answer. I know your head is heavy, I know."
And it tilts, slightly, as he says it: follows gravity as if him speaking the words was what made it real. He tilts his own as well, to keep level with doe eyes that are now blinking slowly, naturally rather than consciously.
"Look at me," he murmurs, gently.
"Can you feel where your breath is?"
Little's eyes narrow the tiniest bit as he queries his body, and Thomas watches with interest for the spark of recognition that will tell him: "Is it in your chest?"
Little breathes in deeply, and Thomas narrates: "going in…. going out?"
It is a long, soothing breath.
"Or is it in your belly?"
Promptly, Little sucks his next breath deeper, and Thomas paces: "going in... going out?"
With every exhale, Little grows… pliant. Softer around the edges. Thomas mirrors the droop of his head to keep him with him.
"And does it go in through the nose? Going in… and flow out between your lips, and carry all heavy thoughts away… going out…"
Little follows the rhythm. His arms have gone slack: his hands, previously consciously restrained, now truly lay forgotten where he put them. His pupils are wide and dark and soft. Thomas need not tell them to look at him.
"All those heavy thoughts… wadded up like wet paper… breathe in… and let them come out… and out… breathe out…"
Little does. He breathes in sweetly, deeply, and exhales debris until his eyes slowly glaze over. His lids droop gently, his lashes drape placidly. His lips are parted still, his jaw slack.
Thomas rubs his thumb back and forth, back and forth where his hand rests on Little's shin.
"...theeere we go," he murmurs, now both to Little and himself. "Let them come out on their own. Breathe in… let them out…"

This is the point at which he slowly, slowly starts moving. He inches closer, still, sitting at the edge of the chair, because eventually, Little slowly slumps forward, and Thomas will not let him fall. Instead, he carefully, progressively rearranges him into place, until he is sat on the bed himself, with Little halfway in his lap, drowsy and pliant and sweet.
"So quiet now," he tells him, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, a soothing murmur to keep Little tethered to him as he starts undoing the buttons of his vest. "So quiet and still… two more buttons…"
When he suggests, "take it off, hm?" Little moves sluggishly, but easily: slowly takes off his vest as if he were sleepwalking, and just lets it fall where it is, does not look for a place to put it but simply goes boneless against him again, endearingly passive. "Good," Thomas praises, "just like that…"

He likes to touch Little, when he is like this. He did not give in to the urge the first time it happened: forced himself to wait, and ask about it before he next guided him to this place where Little so readily, so willingly follows if Thomas only bids him to, ever so gently. All the more fulfilling, then, to soothe his fingers down the man's back, down his chest. Brush his knuckles over his cheek, down over the shirt where they come across the soft bud of a nipple beneath. Ask, "where is your breath?", lay his palm on his sternum and say "...there you are," when it gives way or greets his touch with the flow of it.
Little is tranquil now, sedate. His head lolls against Thomas' shoulder. He reacts to nothing and everything alike: does not tense in anticipation or guilt when Thomas slips his fingers underneath his shirt, but breaks out in goosebumps all the same. Does not press closer or reach out to him, but grows silently, unquestioningly hard in his smalls.
"Look at me," Thomas tells him, and holds his head cradled in his arm while Little gazes up at him with his handsome empty doe eyes. He pets along the rigid yard where it strains against the fabric, rubs the hidden softness of Little's belly, nudges his hand between two heavy, heavy legs to cradle heavy stones.
"Where is your breath?", he asks, and Little draws it all the way down there in one slow, steady motion, eyes vacant in the dim. For a moment, Thomas says nothing. Gently rolls his bollocks, and Little holds that breath until Thomas slides his hand up and away and hums: "...and out", as it smoothes up and over the clothed prick. The breath flows out, a sigh, and in a while, Edward Little will spill with the release of a breath and the gentling of Thomas' hand, and his handsome doe eyes will be gazing up at him all the while, quiet and sweet and so perfectly dumb.

Irving - touch starved and oversensitive

[(Anonymous)]

Poor boy doesn’t have much experience with touch (or any kind of intimacy) so any kind of touch against his bare skin gets him riled. Bonus points if he’s ashamed of being so “susceptible to sin!”

Fill: frosty wind made moan, M, Irving/various

[(Anonymous)]

John watches the pigment disperse through the light wash of water on the page. It is a pleasing sight; it does the heart good to admire these simple pleasures. The cares of the day seem to spread out with the colour, becoming ever less raw and vivid as they dissipate and leaving him in a state of relative tranquillity.

"Oh, hullo John!"

John jumps. So absorbed is he in his task he must not have heard the door go. It is a mercy his brush was nowhere near the page.

"Good evening, George," he replies. He is careful to sound friendly rather than annoyed - he has been enjoying some time in solitude and so does not pause in his work, but Lieutenant Hodgson is his friend and ought to be greeted as such.

"How goes the daubing?" George asks him. He leans on the back of John's chair, the wood creaking as it bears his weight. "Oh, you have captured her very well!"

John has been painting a view of Erebus as seen from Terror, the stern of the other ship forcing her way through the pack.

"I have not got the ice right," he tells him, "there are so many colours in it and yet it is white. I must sacrifice the variety or risk making a muddle."

George shuffles his legs backwards and leans down, his head just behind John's so he might admire the work from his level.

They are so close. George makes a humming sound in the back of his throat and John feels his breath on the back of his neck. It has been so long since anyone touched him; it might as well be a caress.

George looks at the picture for what feels like an age. John does not dare try and continue his work while he is being watched, for he is sure to make some novice mistake. He cannot apply himself, not while he can still feel every soft exhale of the other lieutenant on his neck, on the lobe of his ear. If he turned his face he could feel it on his lips.

"Well I think you have done splendidly," says George at last, "I would never have even known what elements of the scene I should attempt to get right!"

John holds himself very still until George has backed away.

"My problem is the opposite," he tells him, "I know very well what I should like to get down only to fumble it in the execution."

*

Working in silence, Mr Gibson deftly unbuttons John's waistcoat. He is very quiet about his work, never one for keeping a conversation going beyond politeness' sake. He does not compare in that way to Mr Jopson, the Captain's steward, who is ever on hand for a cheerful dialogue with his charge, a pleasant and easy conversation.

Still, John does not wish to encourage conversation for its own sake. He has little skill in that direction himself. One must always be thinking of new questions and remarks and eventually one runs out. Better to never start the thing in the first place.

It is difficult to know where to look when dealing with Mr Gibson. They are of a height, or thereabouts, and it is hard to avoid looking at his face. John looks down instead, watching the steward's fingers on the golden buttons. They are long and thin, rather like the man himself, but red and rough at the knuckles. The redness spreads down in the delicate webs in between them.

"Your hands, Mr Gibson," says John, as the steward helps him out of his waistcoat.

Gibson sets the garment down, turns his hands slowly this way and that in front of him.

"Sir?"

Evidently uncomprehending he returns to his duties, going to untie John's cravat. John tenses at the proximity. He much prefers the nights he does not wear his dress uniform, the nights where he has the time and the privacy to undress himself before Gibson works his way down to his cabin. It is no disrespect to the man's work - although - perhaps, perhaps he wishes Gibson were a little more grateful for John's efforts to lighten his load - it is the closeness, the way he sweats and palpitates in anticipation of being touched.

"My hands, sir?" Gibson is tugs at the cravat but it is unusually unyielding. Perhaps John tugged on it nervously at the dinner table.

"Yes, Mr Gibson your hands are red-raw."

Gibson pulls away, his hands disappearing to his sides where they clench into fists.

"I'm sorry about it, sir. I use a salve Mr Jopson swears by but it's the cold, I think. It is not my carelessness that leaves them so unsightly."

"Oh, no," says John, feeling a little frantic, "it was not for appearances, I meant only… they look sore."

Gibson's shoulders relax, and he returns to the knotted cravat.

"I'm grateful for your concern, sir," he says. John ought to take his thanks as given, but a resentful imp on his shoulder is aggrieved that Gibson doesn't sound all that grateful.

Gibson steadies one hand at John's neck while the other unpicks the knot. His fingers overlap skin and collar, his thumb is almost in the hollow of his throat.

In a sharp motion Gibson tugs one length of fabric free. John swallows. His Adam's apple presses into Gibson's thumb.

He is having trouble with the knot still. John closes his eyes. What if Mr Gibson were to press deeper with those roughened hands of his? Those hands as slender as a musician's yet hardened by toil. He has John at his mercy. He could tug hard and tight on the ends of the cravat and throttle him. They are the hands of a scoundrel. He could close those long fingers fully around John's neck and squeeze-

"There!" Mr Gibson pulls the length of fabric away, a look of triumph on his face. It is the most joy John has observed in him at close quarters and it is strange to see on the steward's pale, ascetic face. It is as if a painting of Christ crucified had suddenly winked at him.

John feels ashamed of having imagined malign intent on Gibson's part. It must be the consequence of having another man so close - he must guard against these instances of undressing ever more vigilantly.

*

"With respect, Captain, while the men might notice an increase in the rum ration more, we will surely all be stronger and better fit to sail out in spring if we were to increase their food."

John pauses for breath after making his speech. There is a moment of silence at the wardroom table.

"Here, Francis, Lieutenant Irving may be right," says Mr Blanky, turning to the Captain, "increase the grog, they'll be hell to pay if we have to cut back in the new year. Increase the food… well, we’ll to take to hunting soon enough, might as well be fit and healthy for it."

Another tense silence. The Captain nods his assent. The meeting continues.

John looks up at Mr Blanky thankfully and the Ice Master winks at him. John blinks stupidly, and Blanky seems to suppress a chuckle before turning to the continuing discussion of stocks and practicalities.

He feels his face grow hot.

When the meeting concludes he is slow to react, still sorting his logbooks when he finds he and Mr Blanky are the only men left in the room. John is quite distracted in comparison to his earlier brilliance. Blanky approaches him.

"Francis can be a stubborn old bugger at the best of times, Lieutenant, but you did a grand job there of standing up to him. Good lad." Mr Blnanky pats John's shoulder approvingly, keeping his hand there to five him a little squeeze.

"Hah!" John makes an involuntary sound of surprise at the confident touch.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Asks Blanky in concerned tones. He rubs his thumb in a soothing motions, grazing the bare skin where John's collar meets his neck. He makes another noise, yet more mortifying than the first.

"Hnngh…"

John almost relaxes into the touch, then remembers himself, tugging abruptly away.

"Yes, Mr Blanky, I am quite well," he announces, before continuing in more gracious tones. "Thank you. For your concern."

Blanky withdraws his hands, hold them out in front of him, gesturing having meant no harm. John feels the absence of the weight of the older man's hand, of his rough thumb on the delicate flesh of John's neck. He ought to have leant into it. He oughtn’t to have to enjoyed it so much.

He feels awful, worse than awful, for having reacted so oddly to such an innocent gesture. He thinks to apologise to him, but when he turns to do so Blanky has already left the room.

*

John is struggling with his gloves. They were knitted for him by Kate and are very handsomely done, but he has discovered since they reached the Arctic that they are not the most practical for the weather. In the warmth of the lower deck he wants to be free of them, but his hands are clumsy from the cold air.

"Let me help, sir."

John glances up to see the smiling face of Sergeant Tozer. The Marine Sergeant's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. His whole face crinkles, as if it were made of mirth.

The Sergeant takes John's wrist in one hand, and neatly slides two fingers of the other inside his glove.

John makes a choked little sound. For that tiniest fraction of time he feels the rough, big fingers of the Sergeant resting in the sensitive trough of his palm, cradled between the pad of flesh at the base of his thumb and the rising mound that runs down from his littlest finger. The touch is light, surprisingly so for one as strong as the Sergeant. When was John last touched so delicately?

The moment passes as the Sergeant presses his fingers into John's palm and tilts his wrist away from John’s hand, levering the glove off. Their hands slide out from under it together.

"Thank you," says John, shakily, taking the glove in his wobbling hand.

"A pleasure, sir," grins Tozer. John scrutinises his beaming expression. He feels as if he is the subject of some queer joke but cannot rebuke the man without seeming ridiculous. He nods, biting his lip in confusion.

The Sergeant's smile broadens.

*

“Do you know,” says Dr Macdonald as John tugs his shirt over his head, “It is a rare thing for me to have to chase down a lieutenant and not a ship’s boy for a physical.”

John perches on the edge of the examination table, shoulders hunching in embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I have been very busy.”

Dr Macdonald smiles as he sorts through the instruments of his trade.

“Oh, certainly. But you’re here now, eh?”

He moves closer, until he is standing very close indeed, his chest almost pressing against John’s arm. He has in his hand his little listening trumpet, the instrument John has seen him use to listen for a heartbeat.

“Have you been feeling well, Lieutenant? You had Mr Blanky worrying about you the other day.”

“Yes - yes, I - oh!” John makes a noise of surprise as the chill end of the instrument touches his chest. “I have. Quite well, thank you.”

“My apologies,” says the doctor, “for the shock.”

He withdraws the instrument and sighs deeply onto the end of it, warming it with his breath. He presses it back to John’s chest. Now it is pleasantly warm, a warmth that has come from the doctor’s mouth onto John’s naked body, as surely as if he had pressed it there directly.

Macdonald leans down to press his ear against the listening end of the instrument. His head is just below John’s chin. His shirtsleeve brushes John’s belly. He can feel the doctor’s breath on his arm, turning it to goose-pimples. He can smell him - the sweet mustiness of unwashed hair under oil, the deeper, sharper smell of his sweat, his body under his clothes.

“Your heartbeat is a little quick,” observes Macdonald, “But as long as it isn’t always thus you're well within a healthy range. Not nervous, are you, Lieutenant?”

John feels his face heating. He shakes his head perhaps a little too emphatically. The doctor straightens up, removes the instrument from his skin. It makes a small, slightly tacky sound as it is pulled away. With the doctor looming over him and his own legs dangling awkwardly from the examination table he feels like a truculent schoolboy.

The doctor moves round to his back, placing the listening instrument on him once again. John can feel the pressure of the doctor’s arm on his back, he can feel the warmth of the doctor’s flesh pressing against it through the thin fabric of his shirt. The doctor can’t see his reactions now - John might - he might enjoy it -

No, he mustn’t. And yet he can feel the horrid beast between his legs rearing its head, just as it has done for many such innocent touches from his comrades. John wriggles in his seat, trying to find a posture that might adequately disguise his mortifying predicament.

“Breathe in.”

John does so. If he can conclude the examination quickly then there will be no further shameful displays. He breathes in as deeply as possible, determined to demonstrate his health and vitality, determined to -

“That’s excellent, Lieutenant. Now out again.”

It is satisfying, to follow simple instructions well. It fills John with a precious warmth to be spoken to so, to be handled like a doll as the doctor continues his work, raising arms, tilting his head this way and that.

It helps, of course, that the doctor’s pleasant Scotch accent recalls those of the servants who raised him, the succession of bony nursemaids who pinched him when he was naughty and told him "good boy" when he pleased them. It is pleasant to be touched, so pleasant a haze that John loses sight for a moment of where he is, lost in the caring ministrations of Doctor Macdonald.

“Lieutenant?”

John jumps, brought back from his reverie. The doctor seems to have finished his examination but still stands very close, looking down on him with a gentleness of expression.

“Yes?”

“I cannot find anything physically wrong with you,” Macdonald looks down at John’s lap and he realises to his horror that his rearrangement of limbs and fabric has done nothing to disguise the unseemly interest his piece has taken in the doctor’s careful work. “However, I must now make an enquiry of a rather delicate nature, if you’ll forgive me, Lieutenant.”

“I cannot help it,” John blurts out, folding in on himself. “Is it,” he continues, more cautiously, “a disease?”

The doctor shakes his head.

“As I said, you are physically well. When you find yourself in this state have you been… taking care of matters yourself?”

John looks at him in frank shock.

“No, of course not!”

“Or, have you perhaps asked a mate to help you to, ah, alleviate the pressure?”

John shakes his head vehemently.

“No, that would be - that is a sin - surely you cannot - “

The doctor pats his knee, surely only aiming to reassure him.

“That’s all right, Lieutenant. I understand your wariness of these matters. But it does not do a man good to keep these matters all pent up inside him I can assure you. And, given our situation… well, I am sure God would understand if certain measures were taken, eh?”

John shakes his head. He feels even hotter than before. His head is spinning and still his middle part will not abate.

“I cannot do it to myself, that would be wrong,” he insists, feeling like a silly child faced with the doctor’s temperate manner, “And if I asked… surely they would have the wrong idea. Or… it would… that would be bad.”

His shame and embarrassment is turning to sorrow, but he cannot blubber in front of Dr Macdonald like a ship's boy.

“Well, Lieutenant,” smiles Macdonald, “I am always here to help if there is nowhere else to turn.”

He places a hand on John’s shoulder. His naked hand on John’s naked body. John writhes in place once again, as if struggling to be free from the little grasp. Dr Macdonald is handsome and kind, he has the pleasant Scots tones that John was schooled out of, he is surely only meaning to advise as a father and yet his horrible body. He ought to be pinned here like a fly, good only for scientific study of sin.

John swallows. He can feel a sob rising in his throat, ready to burst out in an unseemly squawk.

“Thank you, doctor,” he says, “but I am sure this will not happen again.”

Goodsir/Hickey, AU, hanged criminal reviving on surgeon's table

[(Anonymous)]

It did happen sometimes, especially if the condemned was very slim and light. That was usually a disadvantage in execution, resulting in slow tortuous death by strangulation - but on the other hand, if you were incredibly lucky, there was a also a tiny chance it could result in your body only seeming dead until you miraculously sat up on the dissection table like William Duell in 1740. But then again, your miraculously sitting up on the dissecting table could so alarm the presiding surgeon that he then promptly beat you to death with a mallet like Ewen MacDonald in 1752.

But no amateur re-execution hour for this prompt, please! I'd like Hickey alive to fuck, fuck with, or at least flirt with Goodsir.

And consider the moral quandary for medical student Goodsir: help a criminal get away, or send a man who's technically already served his sentence and is arguably sort of Goodsir's patient back to gallows? Then again, how is he meant to tell the school that the new cadaver just got up and left? Where is he supposed to hide a whole fugitive - in his room?!

Bonus: Hickey doesn't manage to revive until just before Goodsir starts the dissection - or perhaps even right as he's starting the first incision. There's a meet cute for you!

Re: Goodsir/Hickey, AU, hanged criminal reviving on surgeon's table

[(Anonymous)]

OP I love this and I badly want to write it but I will NOT have time until midway through next week (so if someone else wants to fill it please do lol) but just know this is going to live rent free in my brain all weekend

Tozer/anyone, completely SFW snuggling

[(Anonymous)]

I don’t even need to see him get railed, this touch-starved lad deserves to be held + feel loved. Bonus points if he’s reluctant at first, but gives in so so quickly, because he finally feels safe with someone!

Re: Tozer/anyone, completely SFW snuggling

[(Anonymous)]

are you thinking canon or are aus (modern, canon divergence, etc) alright?

Tozer/Heather, fisting

[(Anonymous)]

Big men with big hands

Hickey/Gibson, sexy ghostly vengeance dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

Hickey survives, with or without other mutineers, and thinks he’s got away scot-free. But there’s trouble in paradise, in the form of the restless spirit of Billy Gibson come back from the dead to vindictively ride Hickey’s dick.

Or he can vindictively dick Hickey instead/in addition! They’ve got all the time in the world to try new things, now. And so much unfinished business. Hickey shouldn’t have put a ring on it or a knife in it if he didn’t mean forever.

No character death unless it’s a gateway to more bitchy ghostsex ever after, please. I’m not too fussed about the exact degree of shading between dubcon and noncon, as long as both of them do get off on it eventually. Bonus if there’s knifeplay! Perhaps Hickey instinctively attempts to stab his way out of trouble again but ghosts are only as corporeal as they want to be. Perhaps Billy floats Hickey’s own knife of damascus over his head, or at his throat, the whole time he’s using him.

[title of your choice], joplittle, E - blindfold/control over senses

[(Anonymous)]

Jopson is fully in charge (and enjoying it), making sure Ned gets properly hot and bothered without any chance at relief before he allows it. Ned is blindfolded and perhaps restrained in some way, for some reason.
+1 if it gets steamy in a public place and they have to be on their toes not to get caught (but they're both into it)
Also +1 if Jop praises Ned for how well he is doing as things get hotter

Re: [title of your choice], joplittle, E - blindfold/control over senses

[(Anonymous)]

YES all of this +1000

Goodsir(?)/any, soft dom medical kink

[(Anonymous)]

We have some fantastic medfet in this fandom with sadist!Stanley. How about expanding the tasty buffet with some gentle dom Goodsir or other doctor and invasive/painful/humiliating medkink? Id love to see more of the "just keep still, it's for your own good" medfet flavor (~*u*)~

Any m/m - inconvenient awakening to bondage kink

[(Anonymous)]

While watching or applying or being subject to non-sexual punitive bondage for practical reasons e.g. preventing prisoner from escaping, or special occasions such as lashing or hanging, some cold boy gets a definitely sexual feeling about it.

Up to you if anything comes of it or if it’s just a private fantasy, but I’d love some focus on the (shameful? thrilling? confusing?) discovery of it.

You don’t have to stick to canon either, of course, make up whatever you need to to tie up your faves!

Fill: Pull In Leviathan, Irving(/Little/Hodge technically), M, feat. Jirv's Giant Shame Cock

[(Anonymous)]

This is not so much “punitive” as it is a “prank” but if it helps Little is most likely having his own inconvenient awakening in the opposite direction. And John is definitely a mix of shamed/thrilled/confused...

John knows they’re just playing a game.

They’ve hardly shipped from port, England barely out of sight, and yet the boredom is already beginning to set in.

It’s the easy leg of the journey of course; the real problem will come after Disko Bay and in the Arctic Labyrinth. They’re exotic, appealing names, to John anyway.

But he’s also the youngest of them, the lowest ranking, the least experienced. The one to end up on the biting end of it.

It’s just a game, he tries to remember, a way to welcome him in and give them all something to laugh about. John has brothers, after all, he knows how these things go. He’ll grin and bear it.

He still yelps, in mortified delight over any real surprise, when they pounce on him.
He’d had the sense it was coming, from the conspiratorial air between Little and Hodgson, the long dead stretches of time they’ve had, and their being ignored in favor of Crozier’s intent to pour over ledgers until supper time.

There’s no one watching, and no one needs them, even Jopson’s sharp eyes turned right from their mischief onto their Captain’s grumbling at the size of their lettering. John used to think his numbers were elegant, not damnably thin.

They’re smiling, of course, teeth shining and lips broad when they come at him, in one practiced swoop, dropping their cups onto the table to grab him.

Little holds his shoulders back, hands firm and almost touching down to John’s chest. He struggles, though not too much.

They’re not really fighting, and it’s not in them to be really cruel.

Hodgson’s too quick anyway, for to have been much use to struggle, looping a quick length of rope around him and securing it behind John’s back, tying him down as securely as cargo. John might as well be a box of Goldner’s tins.

Except that those don’t arch against their bonds when Hodgson teases those fine, strong fingers over the back of their neck where it tickles. John might have lost the metaphor.

He doesn’t miss the joke though.

John doesn’t know half the sailor’s knots, can’t string up a bowline, and certainly wouldn’t be able to do it half fog blind and clinging to a ratline.

Neither can Little or Hodgson, but it falls onto John’s lot to be the one bound up in rope, just enough to get the chair to thump but not tip over, and beg ineffectually for mercy.

From their wide smiles, sparkling eyes, it’ll be a while before they give it.

A hot flush of pleasure blooms over John at it, that he’s making them so happy, that he’s being good.

The coils wrapped around his body are taught but not too tight, holding him snugly. Almost like he’s locked in someone’s arms. Someone strong.

Hodgson tickles at his neck again, making John shake and bite his lip to stifle the giggles. He pleads, his heart not in it, for him to stop, feeling his own mouth grin.
It’s strangely satisfying to be the focus of their attention, to be able to sit and watch them stand over him, looking at nothing but him.

Edward’s eyes are dark but satisfied somehow, like he’s forgotten all about his burdens and responsibilities and only cares to have John under his thumb to do whatever he likes.

Something in that long, considering gaze makes John try to sit up straighter, to… he’s not sure but he wants to give Edward something, wants to be worth it. This. Whatever it is.

John usually avoids men’s looks, and leers, and his own temptation to do the same.

But he holds his breath for this, following his stare like a flower follows the sun. He does admire Edward so, his strength, his experience, his rank.

His kindness, that John isn’t sure he deserves. His hands, his dark hair, his freckled face.

“Let’s step out for a moment, George,” he says, after a moment, his eyes never leaving John’s face.

It cuts off George midstream, babbling something about ropes being used to crack men’s skulls open when combined with salt water, not that either of them was really listening. Edward was straining his ears for the little gasp that escapes John, mouth hanging open and lip sticking out in a thoughtless pout.

John realizes it suddenly, with a strange shiver up his spine, from the way Edward closes his eyes to savor it.

Please he wants to say, and he doesn’t know what for. If he’s asking Edward to stop… or for something else entirely.

Nothing he can name, but it is that knowledge, dark and slippery as it is, makes his skin prickle all over in a way that the binding hadn’t managed.

“Whatever for?” George sputters, mystified, and then looks down at John like he’d completely forgotten what they’d just done and what state they’d left him in.

His eyes go from curious to concerned, caring: “are you sure—” and then Lieutenant Little is marching him out of the Great Room and closing the door behind them.

John’s skin doesn’t prickle at the sound of the latch. It burns.

They can’t see him, and the way he starts to strain, without thinking. Mindless. Like an animal.

He doesn’t understand. Not himself, and not what’s happening.

His pulse quickens, but what he feels isn’t fear. Not even close. He feels held.
He likes that it doesn’t matter that he arches, the rope remains unmovable. Well, not entirely, it rubs against his chest in a way that thrills and horrifies him. Not in itself but in the way it shoots through his whole body.

He can’t move, he can’t leave. They’ve tied him here and they can do whatever they want with him.

It wouldn’t matter that John won’t, John can’t—

Stop, he tells himself, they’re his friends, his fellows, his superior officers and if Edward had followed the tracks of that gasp back to the source with his calloused fingers into John’s mouth and onto his tongue he would have sucked them, lathed them and Oh God what is wrong with him?

This is a joke, a friendly overture, it’s just what men do.

What real men do amongst themselves, the ones that are not weak, sinful, like John.
He has prayed, night after night, to be rid of his weakness, of his susceptibility, of his inverted desires. And finally, he has been given a trial to pass, a challenge by his superior officers, these far more experienced sailors, who are trying to teach him something.

John cannot pervert that.

He focuses on how he can hear them easily; George isn’t hushed at the best of times, much less now that John’s senses seem sharpened in the extreme.

He’s chattering again, right behind the doorway, Edward’s lower voice an infrequent counter tone.

They haven’t left. They wouldn’t really leave, wouldn’t leave John here vulnerable to anybody who might come in. Who might chide him for it. Who might take advantage.

He shakes his head hard to clear it, tries to think rationally.

If anybody would come it’d be Jopson, with his perfect hair and skin and wave’s crest colored eyes, gentling John who’s done this to you sir, it’s all right now I’ll take care of you. He has such fine, clever hands…

Not like Sergeant Tozer, who won’t come in here, he can’t, it’s officers’ country, he can’t put those large rough paws of his on John, can’t breathe that accent into his ear well what have we here? that beard tickling his skin.

John bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. trying to get himself in order. His thoughts are unmannered, unprincipled, ungodly.

But it doesn’t help.

He’s thickened in his pants, the base of his, his —the word is so vulgar but what other is there?— cockstand pressing hard against the lowest coil of the rope, where it has slipped down lower than his hips with his writhing.

He should be grateful, should think of it as pain and punitive, a small mercy that hides his… excitation.

But it feels firm instead.

Like the flat of man’s hand, of George’s who did the tying or of Edward’s who held John down.

The great ugly beast between his legs pulses at that, straining harder against the braided cord. It is so ungainly, so brutal. For once, its repellent size is a godsend.
He has to tuck it into the leg of his pants, favoring the left, because it won’t fit otherwise. He knows that’s not true for others, that John is unnatural in many ways.

But it can’t tent the fabric the way it might otherwise, just rest too-hot on his thigh. He truly hates it sometimes, can’t picture using it even in the godliest of ways, with a good woman in the marriage bed. He feels like a monster at the idea of looming over someone innocent to force that thing inside. It must hurt.

And not the squirming, insidious kind of hurt that feels strangely good like the one John feels now.

He tries to get his breathing under control, to not dwell on the fact that even so, when they return they might… they might still see it. The evidence of how wrongly made John is.

They might mock John, jeer at him. Pull it out from under the rope and expose it. They might— John arches not to please himself this time, base and vulgar, but to cut himself off.

It hurts, truly now, and the chair makes a sound.

George’s voice rises a little, and Edward’s cuts in, so close on the other side of the wood. He’s made them worried.

He doesn't want to, he wants so very badly to be good, to be pure and clean, to be told he did well and passed his trial. Wants his ugly, dirty thoughts to go away, to leave him alone and not wake him in the middle of the night with how lonely he feels, how untouched.

But if they come in right now, they’ll see he isn’t worthy, not of his uniform or their friendship or of being a man at all. They could do… anything they saw fit to someone so debased. Anything at all.

John’s helpless, totally at their mercy. They could take and take, and John could do nothing but give it. If they did… it wouldn’t be his fault. Not really.

He hadn’t asked and he couldn’t stop them and if your hand or something else was forced it wouldn’t be something he did. He’d be innocent, wouldn’t he?

His cockstand throbs and he tosses his head and just waits for something to happen. For deliverance.

The door opens so quietly he almost misses it.

And then a heavy, manly hand wraps around the back of his neck and he shoots up. As much as he can, tied down as he is.

“It’s just us, old boy,” George says, his dear voice near and warm, with a note of reproach that John knows isn’t aimed at him.

His trousers grow damp, but not wet, and he is glad, once more, that the fabric is so dark. So heavy.

He sends up fervent prayers that he might finally pass this test, that he might be purified.

He can feel George working at the knots, the loosening of the rope, the ease of his breathing and the blood rushing back through his arms. It’s. He could cry from it, the relief. He’s well, he’s free, he did not embarrass himself.

“Thank you, both of you, for, for. It was, thank you, I—” John babbles, trying to stand even though his muscles feel like they’re made of the same water their ship is cutting through.

“Yes, of course. You were very good,” Edward says, low and close, with a final squeeze to his neck and John spends, helpless, inside his smallclothes.

Hickey/Crozier, fucknavy mutineer custodianship world

[(Anonymous)]

The sentiment in this tweet in fucknavy mutineer custodianship AU.*

https://twitter.com/TRAlNCAMP/status/1578498867796267009

*more info here: https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/518285.html?thread=3134118029#cmt3134118029, but tl;dr, post-expedition Hickey is turned over to Crozier's custody in order to become a functioning member of society again, which somehow in the fucknavy universe involves a lot of sexy punishments occurring.

NOT A FILL, fucknavy mutineer custodianship world

[(Anonymous)]

Hello, this is such a beautiful prompt and the forum post it linked to was so inspiring and idea generating… i wrote something set in some version of this universe BUT it is for a different pairing and it doesn’t have the same “mood” as your extremely evocative prompt.
So I don’t know if it will interest you. I credited both your prompt and the forum post so don’t worry about that. I will link the ao3 doc in this thread so you can look at it if you want to. But it is for a different (“over-hyped”?)pairing and a lot less playful. so feel free to skip over

Hickey/Tozer, Hickey has to rescue Tozer

[(Anonymous)]

Break Tozer out of jail? Nurse Tozer back to health? Choose to stand by Tozer in the shoot-out instead of taking the money and running while the cops are distracted?

I just want to see Mr. Hickey’s hard little rat heart grow three sizes that day, to his great dismay. I want to watch the moment he makes that call going against his own best interests for Tozer and be confused by and/or furious at and/or lying to himself the whole way through this frankly baffling endeavor because he is better (read: worse) than this! he is smarter than this! what is he doing!

Bonus: Tozer assumed Hickey had abandoned/betrayed him. What’d he expect? And then…

Re: Hickey/Tozer, Hickey has to rescue Tozer

[(Anonymous)]

This, this is what I crave.