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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.
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!
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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
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Any/any, m/m, permawinter post-apocalypse in England
(Anonymous) 2022-10-21 01:51 am (UTC)(link)Feel free to throw in any other hardships you want to if the cold, hunger, and collapse of society isn’t enough. Ice zombies? Bears? roving herds of man-eating murder sheep?
Just want to see a couple cold boys forced to depend on each other to survive! Do they meet cute as strangers during this cataclysm or are they colleagues, friends, rivals… ex-boyfriends?
Any m/m ships welcome, prefer no poly though. If you need an idea my faves that I ship with everyone are Crozier, Hickey, Tozer, Goodsir, Irving but really any means any.
Re: Any/any, m/m, permawinter post-apocalypse in England
(Anonymous) 2022-12-14 06:19 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Any/any, m/m, permawinter post-apocalypse in England
(Anonymous) 2022-12-15 03:49 am (UTC)(link)FILL: Farewell to the Fairground, Armitage/Tozer, M, permawinter post-apocalypse in England cont.
(Anonymous) 2022-12-15 09:53 pm (UTC)(link)I'll try to post a more polished version of this when I de-anon on AO3. For the moment, I hope you enjoy and forgive my possible mistakes at writing post-apocaliptic England from Spain :')
I had a blast with this fill, so a couple more one-shots to fully fledge their dynamics and this verse could be coming if y'all are onboard with that 👀
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Solomon finds the boy in one of the London shelters, blue eyes clear as ice following him through the motions of checking the latest supply drop along with Edward, careful and curious.
“Seems like everything has been properly accounted for,” Edward is saying when Solomon first realises the boy is looking, arms heavy with a number of blankets that should be enough to keep a couple of families warm when the weather worsens come October. “You going North or South next?” The tell-tale weariness that perpetually dogs him making the question sound like a plea.
“North,” Solomon responds, taking a long sip from the warm thermos Edward had proffered as a welcome gift, the comforting taste of homemade chicken broth flooding his senses. This is why he still makes sure to come by Terror often, make his drops frequent. They pay well, friends abound, and they still run a pretty steady underground farming operation, which makes most of their food the real deal. “Want to check with the bunkers up to Inverness before autumn hits,” he explains, surveying one last time that his van has been properly unloaded before locking it for the night, watching the boy follow the pocketing of his keys with those piercing eyes. In a matter of seconds he scurries down the same corridor young Hartnell had, coal black curls vanishing into the enveloping dark.
Edward hums in understanding, walking with Solomon after he orders the guards to lock the elevator gates proper. There won’t be any more entrances into what used to be the old Russel Square tube station for the night. Only silence. Silence and cold. “Will you try to make it for the winter like last year? I’m sure the Captain would be thankful to have you around. I know I would be,” Edward admits with a small smile, his warm brown eyes gazing at Solomon with concern.
“Just another mouth to feed, don’t know what would be so great about that,” he huffs good humoured, patting Edward on the back before getting rid of his mittens, relishing the sharp bite of the cold over his fingertips.
“And another pair of strong arms to help around,” Edward remarks, his boots crunching from the gravel underneath as Solomon follows. It is not a noise dissimilar to the one of frozen snow out there. “You know Tom and I have room to spare. He really took a liking to you last winter.” The shadows the lamp that Edward carries project make the warm smile that draws up his lips acquire a macabre edge, its cold white light casting the blackened tiles of the passage completely naked under their watching eyes.
“You are a shit liar, Eddie,” Solomon says. A hot gust of wind courses through the tunnel, a beast exhaling, ruffling Edwards long hair and making Solomon lower his scarf, properly allowing him to breathe in a long gulp of stale underground air. “Just tell Beautiful Tom I said hi, I’ll try to bring some nice tea for him next time.” His fingerless gloves go next, Solomon doesn’t remember when he had completely bared his hands last. Probably two shelters prior to this, down in Brighton, where they still had a working heating system and a bed to spare.
Edward pauses for a second midway, hands clutching and releasing a few times before he is able to speak again. It’s been a tell-tale sign of his anxiety since they met, under a sun that warmed their bodies and a grass that did not shatter into pieces the moment he touched a blade. “I worry about you—a lot.” Edward doesn’t struggle through his words, even if he does look as if he were about to choke. “Knowing that you were safe for the winter would make it a lot easier every time you go…out there.”
A hug is not something he expected to give away freely today, but bringing Edward in between his arms and squeezing is as natural for him as it is now to always watch his back. “I’ll try to phone more often, mum. I promise.” Solomon laughs the moment Edward’ elbow connects with the padding over his ribcage, a shuddering breath fluttering against Solomon’s neck before Edward lets go.
“You never learnt to lie either,” Edward chastises before he takes the lead down the tunnel once again. Gait steady, eyes crinkling along with the rest of his face the moment he sees Solomon’s entire body relax at the noise of a bustling crowd. The sound of life.
X(x)
“Take me with you.” The fact that a command can leave such a hesitant face is what shocks him the most.
“I’m a courier, lad, not a babysitter,” Solomon says, continuing his way down the dimly lit corridors to the little closet of a room Edward has offered him for the night. It’s wall to wall with the furnaces, can’t miss it he had explained with one of his elusive smiles.
“I know that! I can take care of myself, I swear,” the boy insists, the North thick on his tongue. He’s taller than Solomon, a lot leaner too, the woollen jumper he’s wearing hanging off his thin frame making him look like a bent scarecrow with a frizzy disco wig. A pretty one at that. “I just need transport. My mum was in Sheffield last time I spoke to her, managed to snag a place in the tunnels underneath the Town Hall with my aunt.”
“Lucky woman, your mum.”
“She hasn’t responded to any letter or radio call since April. I need to know she’s alright! Please sir!” he begs, his voice far deeper than Solomon would have pegged it the first time he saw him.
“Look, lad—what’s your name again?”
“Tommy,” he says, eyes still pleading.
“Look, Tommy, I can’t just be ferrying people around. There’s a reason I work with things and not people.” His name is Bill and he was lying in a bunker under Axbridge last time he had the guts to stop by.
“I could keep you warm at night,” Tommy says, a shy smile drawing up his tantalisingly soft pink lips. Danger.
“Christ, kid. Don’t offer yourself up like that to the first guy with a car and the balls to get out there. You’ll get in trouble.”
“I don’t mean none. I just—I need to go there, please, sir,” he insists with a pout, his body standing in between Solomon and the narrow passageway he has to take next, head practically brushing against the ceiling. “I just need to know if I’ve been mourning her too early or if…”
“Probably not,” Solomon says, going for gruff. From the hurt look the boy has in his eyes he must have succeeded. With a well-timed move he elbows past him, Tommy’s breath rattling slightly the moment Solomon gets past him before he can hear his voice one last time, trying to call his attention.
“Sir!”
“It’s Solomon to you, lad. And that’s a no.” The small metal door of his room stands before him when he finally decides to turn around, the clanking and wheezing of the pipes that line the grey bricked corridor making his voice echo, a secondary spectre of his words traversing the dim lit passage. “Stay here and maybe I’ll bring you something nice for Christmas, eh?”
But the boy is already gone. Swallowed whole by the earth.
FILL: Farewell to the Fairground, Armitage/Tozer, M, permawinter post-apocalypse in England (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2022-12-15 09:55 pm (UTC)(link)“Alright,” he exhales, doing quick deft work of parking the vehicle on one side of the derelict road, close to where a crumbling tour bus had been hastily abandoned in the middle of the frozen tarmac, its shiny black body beginning to peel under layers of snow and frost.
A quick look out of his binoculars reveal no changes in the vast white horizon, no man or car coming in the hundreds of miles ahead of empty road. They click back unobtrusively into place, on the side of his seat, Solomon’s finger inching for the glove compartment before he decides against it. No point in revealing all his cards yet.
“G’wed, lad. Get out,” he says turning around to the darkened back of the van, half empty crates and undelivered cargo sitting in silence along with his meagre belongings. “Ain’t gonna bite you,” he tries after a beat, gentling his tone.
For a moment, for a brief uneasy breath, Solomon thinks he’s going to have to stand and check himself, neither the first time nor probably the last he’s mistaken the skidding of rubber against ice or the creak of metal as a human cry. But then something moves, small and tottering, blankets and worn linens falling down onto the floor to reveal a small nest of dark curls surfacing in between them, a pair of clear blue eyes immediately connecting with his gaze.
“You promise?” Tommy asks, voice small, the muggy heat coming from the rigged electric stove sitting back there making perspiration bead over his forehead, small droplets glistening down his sharp cheeks.
“Cross my heart,” Solomon finally sighs, watching with attentive eyes how the lad shuffles out of the pile, zipping his thick navy coat closed before he folds every piece of cloth that had constituted his hiding spot back into place.
His steps are unsteady as he makes his way to the front of the car, forehead thumping against the ceiling before he steps onto the front, long legs clad in trousers far too thin for the weather and boots which will not keep the lad steady if they find themselves in the need to run.
“Should dump you out there on the curb, leave you to freeze in the middle of the road,” Solomon sighs, wiping his hand over his face. Bless the shelter for their warm water and sharp razors.
“You wouldn’t,” Tommy pipes up, mouth half obscured by the handmade scarf looped around his neck, worn strands of yellow and blue wool giving him an even softer look.
“Nah, I wouldn’t. Would if I was a bit smarter, mind.”
An uneasy silence settles over the inside of the van, Tommy’s hands gripping the faded grey upholstery of the seat he’s perched himself over as if he was waiting for Solomon to inflict some horrible punishment upon him, shoulders bunched up in a way that almost makes him want to give the lad a proper hug. Almost.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asks instead.
“Aren’t you going to turn around?” Tommy looks aghast, eyes blown impossibly wide.
Solomon shrugs. “What? And waste more gas? I don’t think so,” he explains, turning so that his hips are digging against the seat, his whole body aimed towards the boy. “Every mile I make with this lady is precious.” He pats the dashboard twice for emphasis, Tommy’s posture relaxing minutely at the affirmation. He had truly believed that Solomon was going to kick him out there, huh? “Name’s Tozer, Solomon Tozer. Call me Sol,” he says instead, watching the boy close his naked hand against his with an uneasy flinch the moment their skin touches. That won’t do.
“Thank you,” Tommy whispers, his hands carefully wrapping around the mittens Solomon offers him, that almost secret smile curling up his lips. The boy’s too sweet, too soft in places topside will not favour—but that Solomon does, painfully so.
“Can you drive, Tommy lad?”
“Got my license before it all went to shit,” he nods, eyes fixed on Solomon, that same determination he had seen the first time he spoke to him shining through.
“How old are you?” Solomon asks more to himself than to the boy.
“Twenty five.” Tommy quirks his eyebrows up, apparently used to be challenged. “I also can cook, sew, get an engine back running and hunt, if it ever comes to that,” he explains sounding the proudest of himself Solomon has ever heard him, an easy feat.
“Can you fight?” he asks before that thread gets lost in the conversation, Tommy’s eyes widening at the question.
“I—well, I’m more used to running,” he confesses, a little sheepish, dark curls hiding his downcast eyes. There’s something he’s hiding, Solomon can practically smell it. It doesn’t bother him, not as much as it should. Everyone who was not born into the world frozen still has them, surviving the end of times is a nasty piece of business after all. That’s what his own rat-shaped demons taught him.
“Good.” A coward is better than a hot headed bastard any day of the week; they already have enough of that with Solomon himself. “Here’s what we are gonna do. I’m not driving straight to your mum, got a couple of places I have to visit before that.”
“That’s alright, I can help.” And God, does the boy sound eager.
“You better, especially after—”
Two strong bangs rattle the van from its full trunk to its worn tires. Solomon stills on his seat, eyes flying to the rear-view mirror on his left before they still over the glove compartment. They’ve got company.
“Wait inside,” Solomon says under his breath. The gun sits cold and loaded under a spare pair of mittens and his goggles, waiting. He slides the goggles around his neck, the gun coming to rest on the inside of his wide coat pocket with the same heaviness it had carried the last time he had had to bring it outside. The last time he had fired it and it had smoked hot under the cold evening sun, like a living breathing thing.
Tommy’s hand wraps around his wrist before he can open the door outside. “Sol! Wait, I can—”
“Wait inside I said!” he hisses under his breath, looking Tommy straight in the eye. “I’ll handle this. Don’t move, and if something happens, you go hide in the back.” He looks scared, Tommy does, his hand still clamped around Solomon’s wrist, frown deepening for a second before he lets go. “Good lad.”
There’s a man standing on the side of the road. Solomon recognises his uniform from the old days, the battered red jacket and white sash a mocking imitation of the clothes a member of the Queen’s Guard would have worn before it all went to shit, another mad soldier of the wastes. Signs of frostbite are evident on his features, the blackened tips of his ears and half there nose making him look more like a body emerged from the grave than a survivor. But there’s still red up on his cheeks, and his glassy eyes don’t fail to follow Solomon’s steady gait from the very moment his boots make contact with the frozen gravel.
“Anything I can help you with, sir?” Solomon says, careful of every step he takes, fully aware of the hunting rifle the man has got slung over what looks like a dumb arm.
“What is your business here, stranger? Brought your offerings to the Queen?” he asks, tone uneven, almost delirious.
Solomon can make do with that. “Nah, just passing through. Gotta deliver some tinned goods to the missus and kids up on Liverpool. Stocking up for the winter!” he says, offering his best costumer friendly smile. It’s a lie that usually works, if to grant him passage or to reveal the other man’s intentions is indifferent to Solomon right now.
“You will allow the Queen’s Guard to register your vehicle and take any goods we see fit as an offering to her Royal Majesty,” the bloke responds, tone firm, edging on something that scares Solomon something fierce.
“Look, mate, I can’t let you do that. Sure I understand that your Queen needs the food too, but I got a family to take care of up there,” Solomon protests, eyes fixed on the twitching hand of the man over his gun. He only has three fingers left. More than enough for him to fire. To kill. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll hand over a crate full of nice tuna and sardines, aye? Maybe even add a couple of bottles of whiskey to sweeten the deal, if you are feeling like it? Help a mate out?”
The man’s throat clicks along with the safe on the gun before he cocks it, barrel aiming straight at Solomon’s chest. “You will allow us to register the vehicle, any resistance you offer will make your blood freeze over the Queen’s land.” Bloody hell.
Solomon holds his hands up in surrender, feeling the cold bite of the chilly air against his naked fingertips, doesn’t feel good this time. “Look mate, I simply can’t—” He’s going to lunge for his gun. Fish it out. Cock it. Shoot.
Too slow.
The cold metal snags against the lining of his coat.
Too late.
It’s hot, the splatter of blood against his face, barely takes a few seconds for it to flake and freeze over his skin, but Solomon can feel its warmth, the same warmth he sees seeping out of the hole in the bloody lunatic’s head before he falls limp onto the ground. Motionless, a black stain forming on the front of his coat before the cold makes it stop forever.
Solomon doesn’t know what he expected to see when he turned around. It wasn’t Tommy, back hunched, eyes wide, peeking from an opening on the back door of the silver van, his hands curled around the trigger of the rifle Solomon keeps hidden on the back, just in case, smoke billowing up its cannon, steady, unlike the quick uneven puffs blooming out of Tommy’s parted lips.
“Jesus fucking Christ, lad. What the fuck was that?” he asks, lacking anything better to say.
And then, the boy smiles, small and unsure, face white as a sheet. “I told you I could take care of myself,” he says. Eyes the blue of morning ice.
Re: FILL: Farewell to the Fairground, Armitage/Tozer, M, permawinter post-apocalypse in England (2/2
(Anonymous) 2022-12-30 10:52 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Farewell to the Fairground, Armitage/Tozer, M, permawinter post-apocalypse in England (2/2
(Anonymous) 2023-01-03 09:17 am (UTC)(link)I don't know if I'll be able to post the next instalment in the kinkmeme or if it'll go straight to AO3 but know that your comment felt like the best kind of encouragement <33
FILL: what makes a (good) man, Armitage/Tozer, M, permawinter post-apocalypse in England (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2023-05-15 08:27 pm (UTC)(link)You can check it out in AO3!!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/47201017/chapters/118928410