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The Terror - Prompt Post 1
This is for prompts for all things AMC's The Terror (2018). Go nuts!
Cast RPF also goes here, shine on you crazy diamonds.
Cast RPF also goes here, shine on you crazy diamonds.
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Hickey/Crozier, CNC knifeplay
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Gen, Edward Little, having a nice day
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[title of your choice], joplittle, E - blindfold/control over senses
(Anonymous) 2022-10-08 09:09 pm (UTC)(link)+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) 2022-10-10 10:08 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: different kinds of light
(Anonymous) 2024-07-22 03:26 am (UTC)(link)“No,” answers Jopson, a bit more curtly than is necessary. Little nods in acquiescence, submitting to the blindfold whose ends Jopson has just finished tying into a neat square knot. He pats it down at the base of Little’s skull, right where his dark hair starts to curl. Jopson adds, “You may turn around now — let me see you.”
Little obliges. He keeps his head bowed, deferential, as he turns to face Jopson, seeming to stare blindly towards the center of Jopson’s chest.
Jopson notes his handiwork with satisfaction. He’d cut the blindfold from a badly torn shirt, one that had been consigned to rags before he’d so serendipitously thought of a better use for it. Just to make sure, he touches the linen covering Little’s eyes, pressing and smoothing it out to make sure he can’t see through. Little’s composure breaks the slightest amount — he blinks rapidly, brushing Jopson’s fingertips through the blindfold, and his breath catches. This is good enough for Jopson. It’s quite gratifying how easy it is to fluster Little when he hasn’t his sense of sight.
Were it not for the limited privacy of the steward’s pantry, Little would hardly look so meek. Normally he possesses all the dignity and reserve of a commissioned officer, but Jopson finds he likes to see Little stripped of such qualities. He intends to make the most of it while he can (which is why Armitage and Gibson have been warned to stick off until first watch, if they know what’s good for them).
What do you do with a first lieutenant? Jopson doesn’t bother to hide his smile.
“Hands above your head,” he orders, just for the pleasure of seeing Little obey him without question. Little’s freckled cheeks turn ruddy as he raises his arms, palms forward, elbows slightly bent.
Jopson steps forward, then, deliberately crowding Little till his back hits the door to the pantry. That will give him all the more incentive to keep still as Jopson reaches for Little’s neck-tie and begins loosening it, tugging at the knot, exposing his bare throat. Little flinches, then straightens, even tilts his chin upward for Jopson without being asked.
Another half-step, and there’s no distance left between them at all. Jopson lays his fingertips on Little’s throat, experimenting with pressure, then takes Little by the jaw and turns his head to the side. He puts his mouth on the side of Little’s face, letting his teeth graze his jawline, tasting him, testing him.
Little responds, not in words but rather with the swelling in his trousers that Jopson is now close enough to feel pressing unavoidably into his thigh.
“Lieutenant,” he says, amusement suffusing his words beneath the show of reproach, “I don’t think that’s quite proper.” And he moves his leg away.
Little opens his mouth as if to say something, doesn’t, and shuts it, growing redder by the second.
Jopson pulls aside the front of Little’s coat and starts undoing the buttons on his vest. Once it’s open, he slips his hands inside, resting them for a moment on Little’s narrow hips. His shirt-linen, though fine to the touch, prevents Jopson from reaching what he wants, and so he tugs Little’s shirt out of his trousers as well. Jopson’s fingers tread along the soft skin at Little’s waist. He moves up Little’s chest, rucking up his shirt in the process, ignoring his usual instinct to be neat about it — Little’s uniform suits him even more in disarray.
As Jopson charts his exploration of Little’s body, Little’s arms begin to tremble. He’s still holding them above his head as instructed, but the strain is clearly starting to bear.
Jopson decides to take pity on him. “Hands,” he orders, and Little hesitantly brings them down in front of him. Quick as anything, Jopson slides the now-undone cravat off Little’s neck and wraps it around his wrists. Little swallows. Jopson’s eyes flick up briefly to watch his Adam’s apple move under his stubbled throat, then he returns to tying another knot, this one looser than the blindfold. It should be enough to keep Little from breaking his ties without being tight enough to hurt.
Jopson takes Little’s bound wrists and hoists them above his head again. On the pantry door behind them is a coathook, and on this, Jopson pins the makeshift cuffs.
There’ll be no taking his hands down now. Not until Jopson wants him to.
Little’s muscles are all in strain. Eagerness and dismay mingle in his expression, or what Jopson can see of it below the blindfold.
He pushes Little’s shirt up again, exposing his dusky brown nipples to the air, before covering one of them with his mouth. His free hand tweaks the other, brushes his thumb over it, then pinches, hard. There’s a clattering sound as Little bucks and arches against the door where he’s been cornered so helplessly. Jopson laughs into Little’s chest. Let him writhe all he wants — he’s enjoying it, too.
Not that Jopson isn’t getting anything out of it himself. He straightens up and backs Little into the door, letting him feel the predicament he’s in: how vulnerable he is, unable to see his next move, or even to twist his own half-clothed body away from Jopson’s.
“If you make enough noise, someone might hear,” he says, letting his fingers press lightly on various areas of exposed skin — sternum, collarbone, navel — then taking them away, so he can watch Little turn his head this way and that, anticipating his next touch. “They might come and see what’s going on. Shall I show them?”
A whimper from Little, whose lips are pressed so tightly together that they’ve gone pale. Jopson likes that he hasn’t spoken since the blindfold went on. There was no need to tell him not to. He just understood, without words, what kind of relationship the two of them have in this small, confined space. It is not the kind of relationship where one repeats his orders after they’ve been given, adding “sir” at the end. It’s just this: Jopson does what he is going to do, and Little accepts it.
He’s so pleased by this thought that he grants Little the favor of undoing his trousers for him.
“Imagine,” Jopson says softly, “if I were to open this door, and invite whoever’s standing out there to come look what I’ve got inside…”
On the last word, he reaches into Little’s trousers. His fingers close on Little’s prick. Teasingly slow, he pulls it out. His other hand reaches further down; Little finally stops squirming when Jopson cups his balls.
“…What I’ve got,” Jopson repeats, giving Little a quick squeeze. “And imagine if someone were to see you… see this—” (another squeeze, firmer now, as Little huffs for breath) “—that would be quite the surprise, wouldn’t it?”
“Please,” Little says hoarsely, “don’t—”
Jopson takes on a severe tone: “I could have you in front of the whole crew like this and you’d never know it, not with that blindfold on.”
Little shudders — not quite a flinch — responding to this fancy of Jopson’s with unmistakable arousal.
“But I won’t,” Jopson says, softer than before. “Because…” He lets his fingers play over Little’s cockstand, teasing him again, flexing but not making a fist. Little is hard and aching in his hand, the tip of his cock beginning to show a bead of moisture, like an unshed tear.
“Because this is mine.” So saying, Jopson grips him firmly, plunges his fist down in a swift stroke, and Little bucks once more, unable to stop himself, jerking his hips toward Jopson.
Jopson doesn’t mind. Much as he loves to tease, he’s not cruel, not really. His smile widens as he gives Little another stroke, slower this time, and Little responds by shifting his hips, spreading his legs a little wider, while his upper half remains pinned in place and his face twists into such expressions as befit a man almost tortured by his own pleasure.
“Mine,” Jopson repeats, and to emphasize his words he falls into a kneel, takes the tip of Little’s cock into his mouth.
Pursing his lips so Little is enveloped bit by bit into warmth and wet, Jopson tongues at the underside of Little’s cock, his hand still firmly wrapped around it at the base, and the lieutenant makes a most ungentlemanly noise — something between a whimper and a wail, all the more extraordinary coming from his naturally deep register.
He draws his lips off of Little’s cockhead as slowly as possible, relishing it like an unearned sweetie. He keeps his mouth pressed to the tip, kissing it open-mouthed the way he would never dare to kiss Little on the lips. He uses his tongue to draw loving rings round the head of Little’s prick. In his hands and mouth, Little is warm, melting almost — his thighs shake, less than inches from Jopson’s cheeks, and above him Little’s face is turned up as if in prayer. While Jopson watches, it goes from half-grimace to a look of such ecstasy that Jopson is inclined to give him everything he wants right then and there.
He draws it out instead, wetting Little’s cock with his mouth, following it with his clenched fist, until the entire length of him is slick with spit. Then he stands, brings his other hand around to the back of Little’s neck, and presses their cheeks together. Like this, Jopson breathes, “You’re doing well, you know, keeping so quiet—” while he works Little up and down, relentless. Above his blindfold Jopson sees Little’s eyebrows furrow upwards, forming a mute entreaty, though his mouth is still set firmly into the line of forbearance that he wears so often outside of this pantry.
Jopson nips at his earlobe. Little gasps, his pretty lips parting just for Jopson, and Jopson pulls at him again, again, heedless of the hardness in his own trousers, wanting only to bring the lieutenant over the edge, to make him pant like he’s been worked to exhaustion.
“Be good,” Jopson breathes into Little’s ear, “be so very good,” and he presses kiss after kiss into Little’s whiskers without thinking, as if to seal a promise. He moves down Little’s neck to where it meets the strong muscle of his shoulder and tugs his shirt aside to bite him there, not gently, and Little voices a tiny cry that goes straight to Jopson’s cock, so he bites down harder. And his hand keeps moving, trapping Little’s cock between them, pulling and tugging in a jerky rhythm that nonetheless proves to be quite sufficient for Lieutenant Little, as the loudest gasp he’s made thus far escapes him and he arches towards Jopson, his hips canting forward, and Jopson has just enough time to take warning from this before Little is spilling into his hand, wanton, uncontrollable, panting all the while, breathy little whines through his nose and mouth that he muffles by unexpectedly pressing his face into Jopson’s coat as he bucks and surges and sighs through his crisis.
He’ll have to go over his uniform later for spots, but at the moment Jopson can’t quite bring himself to care.
Jopson relaxes as Little relaxes against him, at last fully spent. His hand is full of Little’s climax — that can wait. First, there is Little to be taken care of. Jopson pulls his blindfold off over his head and drops it to the ground, smooths the sweaty dark hank of hair away from Little’s forehead. Then he reaches up and, with a slight effort, unhooks his makeshift cuffs from the coathook.
His hand falls to Little’s face by instinct, and with the same instinct Little drops his still-pinioned arms down around Jopson, pulling him closer in one graceless motion. His eyes, Jopson notes, are that shade of brown you get when a piece of wood has been polished to frictionless shine: deep and curiously pigmented, almost radiant with warmth.
Little gazes at Jopson: Lieutenant Edward Little, whose chest heaves with unspoken utterances. Those beautiful eyes rove over his face like they’re searching for something, like he’s hungry to drink in the sight of Jopson after going so long without.
Somehow this look freezes Jopson right where he stands, one hand on Little’s softening cock and the other touching his cheek in what is, by all rights, a caress. He blinks; his thoughts, all his clever thoughts have suddenly fled.
“Did you mean it,” Little asks, still hoarse, not really a question at all.
Jopson nods, slowly, once — not reluctant, but because the notion has just struck him that he did lay claim to Lieutenant Little, here in this cramped little room; and he had meant it, regardless of whatever other purpose he’d served by saying so.
For some reason he hadn’t thought of Little as someone who would take seriously the things he says while they’re locked together in these amorous games. He’d thought — what had he thought? To use Little like a toy; to slake some of his thirst on a man willing to let him, a man who goes about the ship with all due authority but when in private, and in Jopson’s capable hands, can be turned to so much soft clay, consenting to be molded and reshaped as Jopson sees fit.
He knows that when they leave this place, he will go back to being the captain’s steward, and Little will go back to being the captain’s first lieutenant. They will part ways in perfect understanding until the next time, as they have since their dalliances began, resuming their daily duties on HMS Terror, never touching, never exchanging more than the perfunctory word.
But the words he’s said to Little, here — Jopson hesitates. Drawing his hand out from between Little’s legs, he looks down at the mess coating his fingers. He flexes his hand, and thinks.
What it means, he thinks, slowly, puzzledly, working through it like a difficult problem of mathematics, is that Little in some way belongs to him.
He doesn’t know what to make of this new awareness, this understanding. There’s no difference it should make, not really, except that both of them would know — despite their difference in rank, despite the hierarchy that they have both sworn to follow — that Little is Jopson’s, and that this is more meaningfully true than any rule the Royal Navy would allow. That underneath the uniforms they wear, there is an invisible leash leading from Jopson’s hand to Little’s neck.
Little is still looking at him. Jopson, meeting his eyes, comes to a resolve. Theirs is a contract signed in skin against skin, kept close to the chest, deeper than bone, like his heart’s own blood.
It is something that could not be said, only felt. And Jopson hopes, when he kisses Little for the first time, that Little feels it too.