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The Terror - Prompt Post 1
This is for prompts for all things AMC's The Terror (2018). Go nuts!
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Fitzier fuck inside the iguanondon
(Anonymous) 2022-12-27 05:10 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: Fun in a fossil, Francis/James, E, public sex
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 04:06 pm (UTC)(link)The food is acceptable - at least now that he and James are able to stomach the variety of game presented in the fourth course without their stomachs turning. Eight courses seemed excessive, but Francis has remind himself that Mr Hawkins is in no danger of running out, and there’s no reason why he might not lavish them on this celebratory day. The year is turning over, and this exhibit will be truly something to behold when the whole collection is unveiled. Never before have they been able to stand among these great creatures as if truly with them. It will be magnificent, surely.
But for now, it’s yet another night of sitting at a table full of men, attempting to follow conversations and not check his pocket watch too often.
James gives the impression of having a merry time, generously sampling all five wines on offer and regaling the men with the most palateable tales about their time in the Arctic. There are newspaper editors in attendance, asking probing questions neither of them would like to answer, and Francis is in no position to begrudge the man for seeking relief at the bottom of a glass.
“We’re going to fondle a pteradactyl,” Gould tells them with a sly grin after the plates are finally cleared away. “I hear their necks are really quite provocative. Will you be joining us?”
“Shortly, I expect,” Francis tells him, meaning not at all. He’s not sure how steady James will be on his feet, and the steps down from this ridiculous dinner party don’t stand perfectly level. “We’ll finish our drinks and join you out there.”
It’s New Year’s Eve, after all, and the opportunity to be this close to the cutting edge of paleontological research has everybody giddy with excitement, keen to climb out of the Iguanadon and leave the tent to get close to the other sculptures that loom out at them from the darkness before the islands are separated from the park around them and it becomes impossible to get so close.
James waits for the last man to leave before turning his body back to Francis, his tone mischevious.
“This setting feels not too disimilar from one we’ve been in before,” he says, words rounded at the edges from the drink. Francis raises an eyebrow, casting a look around them for show.
“I don’t seem to recall us being in the belly of a dinosaur.” The model reminds him of unspeakable things, far north from here, gutted and open. But he won’t sully the mood by drawing attention to it when James is swaying in his seat and looking so at ease.
“No—” James gestures, an overaggerated sweep of his hand between them that barely avoids knocking the stem of his glass. “You, me, sat across from each other at a dinner. You look just as miserable now as you did back then.”
“And you’re just as insufferable,” Francis agrees, though his words lack any real heat.
“You know, I wanted you even then.” James admits, a flush high on his cheeks betraying his state. “I wanted to crawl beneath the table and—” A pause, then, as if James seems to finally remember where they are.
Francis watches him squirm for a moment before deciding to press on.
“And what?”
“I wanted to get under the table,” James starts again, haltingly, “and see what you feel like in my mouth.”
Throughout the evening, Francis has been feeling increasingly uncomfortable. All the pressures of sitting through such a long meal with men he didn’t care about enough to learn the first names of had set him off kilter. The night has been pulling at the ends of him, fraying what little decorum he had to begin with, and with no solace to be found through his preferred means.
But in the hooded eyes of James, sat across from him at the empty table, Francis begins to feel that soothing hum, like lifting the stopper from a full decanter, secure in the knowledge that he will feel better imminently.
“Go on, then.” Francis musters up a tone of voice he hasn’t employed much since they stepped foot back in London, adding in a pointed look at the surface of the table for good measure. “Why don’t you find out?”
It’s closure, in a way. Rounding off their shared memory of a dismal part of their lives, replacing it with something better. Something eager and alive.
James looks at him, tilting his head forward in an attempt to level his inebriated gaze, moving a little as if they’re still at sea and shifting weight from one side to the other will counteract the pitching of the deck. For a moment, Francis thinks James will back out—some claim or another about bad knees on uneven flooring, or the risk of being caught. But then James drains the rest of his wine and slides his chair back, ducking beneath the table. Francis feels the anticipatory rush of blood, James’ fingers wrapping carefully around the seam of his boot where it meets his calf.
They’ve not tried this setup before. There’s the unmistakable sound of James hitting his head against the underside of the tabletop while also trying to unbutton Francis’ trousers. He starts laughing while trying to find a good position and has to be shushed. Francis, for his part, does nothing to help except obscure his own laughter behind his fist. This is James’ fantasy, and he’s content to play the figure he would have been then.
James’ mouth, when he finally paws his way through the layers of material, first finds purchase on his stomach. He presses his nose into the slowly returning soft skin at Francis’ waist, teeth grazing the light hairs there before plastering them in place with his tongue, making quiet sounds like a creature settling in to nest. It’s a surprise when his mouth moves south once more, a furnace around his prick with no warning at all. The Crystal Palace gardens are not warm in at this time of year, and the rustle of canvas from the tent around them adds a chill to the air that none of the other men around them have stored in the memory of their bones. There’s a stark contrast between the part of him nestled safely in James’ mouth, and the rest of his body trying to remember they’re in London, safe and sound.
Coordination is lacking, tonight. James is always an eager partner, but the sounds he makes are obscene, wet things with far too much saliva. Francis is going to have to carefully arrange his coat to hide the spit. James’ palms wrap around Francis’ thighs as he sinks as far down the length as he can, lips working to reach further down on Francis’ heated skin with each retreat and advance. He can take it all, on a good day, and for a moment this seems to be one of them until James makes a choked off sound that Francis recognsies all too well.
“Christ, James.” Francis slides a hand under the table to push at his shoulder, easing the man off before the head of his cock can aggravate his throat too much. “Steady, now. You don’t have to take it all.” James is stubbornly refusing to let go of Francis completely, though he seems to understand they can’t make a mess here. “You’ve got such a warm mouth, I’d almost like to keep my prick in there all night.”
Out of sight, James moans around him with muffled longing and pleasure. Francis can picture James, knees spread wide to make room for the height of his torso, hair only just long enough now to get in his eyes, mouth stretched to accomodate the swell of Francis on his tongue, how the lines on his cheeks are elongated into shadowy chasms.
Laughter echoes outside the tent, drawing closer to them rather than moving further away. Francis sits as still as he can, one hand securely around his glass of water, the other moving to grab hold of James’ hair. Rather than pulling him away, he tightens the hold in a silent instruction to stay completely still.
“Ah, Captain Crozier!” It’s Mr Hawkins himself. Of course it is. “What are you doing here sat all alone?”
“One comes accustomed to being a bit solitary after great amounts of conversation, after a life at sea,” Francis tries, smiling weakly. “I’m afraid I can’t quite keep up with all you young men these days.”
“Where is Commander Fitzjames?” Mr Owen asks.
With the angle of the men on the ground there’s thankfully no chance they can see over the body of the Iguanodon to the sprawled from of James Fitzjames, tenderly holding Francis’ prick in the cavern of his mouth, keeping it warm and pillowed. There’s a hint of teeth, James making damned sure Francis know exactly where he is.
“You must have just missed him,” Francis tells them, feigning disinterest. “He wanted to see the Teleosaurus.” Beneath the table, James shifts, one arm dropping from Francis thigh, though Francis isn’t sure if it’s to reach for himself or just to gain better purchase in his position. Not knowing is almost better, intoxicating to have to imagine rather that being able to look.
“Ah, an excellent choice of viewing material.”
Francis tries his best to smile enough to be cordial, but not enough to invite further conversation. James does something with his tongue that feels like the first taste of whiskey after waking.
Hawkins and Owen leave, at last, with a promise to keep an eye out for James. Francis couldn’t care less what they do, not when James clears his throat under the table after staying still for so long, only to press down again and take Francis almost to the base. He shifts again, arranging his long limbs over Francis’ boot to press up against his shin. James is likely too drunk to reach his own end, but that’s never stopped him trying.
It’s unlikely he’s going to last much longer. There’s something incredibly sordid about being seated in the model of an exctinct creature that will be on display for all of London, having his melancholy steadily being sucked out of him in waves under the table. “That’s good, James,” he breathes. “You keep doing that.”
Francis drops his hand again to James’ shoulder, and feels James’ own cold fingers close over his own, grounding them both. James eases off, replacing his mouth with his other confident hand. His mouth dips lower, taking one and then both of his bollocks into his mouth delicately. His tongue rolls over them, lathing them with the perfect pressure. Francis bucks, twisting fingers into James’ hair behind his ear. James emits a filthy moan, one that would likely have him making a killing in a molly house.
“James,” he mutters, wanting to give him the courtesy of a warning. They can’t leave any evidence, after all. James hums in understanding, and wastes no time in suckling at the head of his prick. James hollows out his cheeks, and Francis feels the telltale heat unfurl low in his belly, rapidly growing until it consumes his every fibre of being. He keeps up the quiet encouragements, but hears his own words become muddy with each moment, the sibilants distorting without his attention fully on the placement of his tongue.
Francis has to jam his own fist into his mouth to keep quiet, in the end. He bites little grooves into the skin around his knuckles while James works him over, seemingly having forgotten that they’re supposed to be silent when Francis empties into his mouth, and feels James’ diligent tongue cleaning him completely.
The world comes back to Francis in parts. He takes stock of his body, first, slumped in his chair. His prick is cold, released from James’ mouth but not yet safely back in his clothes. James’ head is resting against the inside of his thigh, still astride his other leg and giving little thrusts against him. Their fingers are tangled together in the crease of Francis’ hip. Experimentally, he gives a squeeze of the long fingers in his grasp, and gets a twitch of recognition.
“Come up here,” he murmurs, tugging a little to coax James back above the table. He emerges flushed, breathing a little heavily with his hair ruined by rubbing up against the wood so much, eyes glassy. His activities are plain to anyone who would care to look at him. “Christ, you’re a marvel.” Francis can’t help but reach out, pressing his thumb against James’ red mouth. James closes his eyes, tongue darting out and mouth opening for him, easy as anything.
“Let’s get you home,” Francis tells him. “We’ll sneak out of here, get back for midnight. We can't leave you in this state.”
James smiles at him lazily, leaning into his palm and seeming entirely at peace. Francis feels as drunk on James as he ever did on the oldest bottle of whisky.
Re: FILL: Fun in a fossil, Francis/James, E, public sex
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 08:59 pm (UTC)(link)and YES i am also so delighted by the places where we were thinking along the same track…great minds! but yours is the greater mind for having hawkins actually walk back in on them, i was CACKLING
Re: FILL: Fun in a fossil, Francis/James, E, public sex
(Anonymous) 2023-01-09 12:16 am (UTC)(link)FILL: the jolly old beast is not deceased, crozier/fitzjames, M, no warnings (1/3)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 06:17 pm (UTC)(link)Mr. Waterhouse Hawkins requests the honor
of Captain Francis R. M. Crozier’s company
at dinner in the mould of the Iguanodon
at the Crystal Palace on Saturday evening
December the thirty first at five o’clock 1853.
An answer will oblige
The words are written on the outstretched wing of a contorted draconic creature, obviously drawn by the able pen of Mr. Waterhouse Hawkins himself. Francis turns the invitation card over in his hand with a grimace. He remembers admiring Hawkins’s illustrations in a set of books he’d purchased about the discoveries of the HMS Beagle. Skinks and finches brought to life with vivid delicate detail. A shame that he’s sunk to sculpting monsters for children to gawk at in an amusement park. Another victim of this age of spectacle.
His brooding is interrupted by James bounding into the drawing room with a delighted grin. “Darling you won’t believe what I’ve—oh wonderful, he’s sent you one as well?”
Francis looks up from his armchair, tries to school his wince into a neutral expression. He’d intended to burn the invitation and never think of it again. This complicates things.
“I mean, of course he sent you one, I should have assumed. Our premier magnetologist! Man of science and all that. The question is why I’ve made the list.”
“He’s doing this for publicity, James. We’ve both recognizable names. Ones that would catch the eye in a news article, especially as a match set.” Francis means it cynically, but the words match set only make James smile brighter. “And there’s no reason I warrant an invitation more than you. Magnets have nothing to do with dinosaurs, I can’t imagine what I’d add to the dinner conversation.”
His papers on the Earth’s magnetic field have been well received in certain circles, but whatever motley collection of public figures and celebrity scientists attend this event he doubts they’ll give a damn. He knows what they’ll actually want to discuss, the way they’ll say what an incredible tragedy, I can’t imagine how you got through while their eyes gleam avidly.
“Oh tosh, you’ll have plenty to talk about with these chaps. You keep up with all sorts of research. And I think it’s splendid that Hawkins wants people from all the disciplines. I’m sure good old Forbes will have been invited, do you think he might wrangle an invitation for Harry?”
I am sure Goodsir is even less interested in this farce than I am, Francis thinks but does not say.
“Marvelous what they can do these days, isn’t it? An animal from God knows how many millions of years ago, recreated in every particular so that we can have dinner in him. How many people do you think will fit?” James has sat down on a footstool and is squinting at the invitation. Behind the ugly winged thing there is also a crosshatched drawing of the Iguanodon, with a ladder leading up to its back and little dinner guests inside, but it’s hard to get a sense of scale.
Francis snorts. “Hardly in every particular. I’m sure Hawkins and his paleontologist friends have had to invent quite a lot. In some cases all they have to go off is a handful of teeth.”
“You can tell a lot from teeth! I daresay a paleontologist could tell a lot from my teeth, what I have left of them.”
“But one can only tell so much. What Hawkins is selling is ninety percent fantasy. And he is selling it, James, make no mistake. We get a first look for free, but when the park opens the general populace will be paying a mint to look at his guesses.”
Francis’ tone comes out with more contempt than he means to express, and James bristles in response. “My, aren’t we suspicious today. Must it be a sham just because he’s making a living wage off it? And I think there can be great value in an educated guess.”
The Open Polar Sea was an educated guess. Every route we tried through the Arctic Archipelago was an educated bloody guess. Francis literally bites his tongue. How he would have loved to throw that in James’ face once upon a time, see him crumple. Now he would rather die. But he’s angry, much angrier than he should be about something so absurd.
James is sitting ramrod straight and his jaw is tight, preparing for an argument. Then he sighs, deflates, passes a hand over his eyes.
“Alright, let’s get down to it. You think I’m an awful fool for wanting to go.”
“I didn’t—”
“No, you didn’t say it, but you’ve made it clear enough. God love you Francis, you’ve never successfully hidden a thought in your life. You think our names, and the notoriety of what we’ve suffered, are being used as part of a gimmick to advertise the Crystal Palace grounds. And that the science the Iguanodon is based on is rubbish, and that the other guests will be insufferable.”
“James—”
“And you’re right.”
Francis blinks. James scoots the footstool closer, takes his hand (balled into a tight fist, when had that happened?) and kisses his knuckles.
“You’re probably entirely right. You usually are; that’s your curse. But Francis, I don’t really care. Dinner in a dinosaur! On New Year’s Eve! Out of everyone in London, we’ve been invited to something that has never happened before and probably never will again. I’ll admit it’s nonsense, but it’s harmless nonsense, and I’m not sure why it’s got you this riled. Could you see your way clear to enjoying it for the lark it is? Or is it all too much for a self respecting magnetologist to bear?”
His anger has washed out like the tide, leaving him drained. “No, it’s not that really, it…”
It is that, a little.
Four harrowing years in the Antarctic had produced what he considers the best work of his life: groundbreaking discoveries of all kinds and a huge amount of magnetic data that will take decades to fully analyze. But none of it had been flashy enough to catch the imagination of the public, or perhaps neither he or Ross had known how to sell it as such. So by the time they got home they had already been forgotten. He’s proud of the papers he’s written on that data, but it rankles sometimes that very few will ever read them, while shoddy sensationalist science continues to win attention.
But there’s more, some deeper uneasiness of uncertain origin. He probes down into himself, which is always an unpleasant task, but he does it because James is asking him to, is still looking at him with earnest and patient eyes while he growls at the world from the recesses of his armchair.
“I’m afraid, I think.” he says quietly. “To go so far out of our little sphere. It’s been awhile.”
James nods, kisses his knuckles again. “I am too. That’s why I want to go, think we should go, before our sphere becomes permanently shrunk. I’ll attend with or without you, but I would like it very much if you’d come.”
After the rescue they had been shattered in body and mind. There had been bouts of weeping, attacks of crippling panic with no clear cause or remedy, periods of black despair and self hatred. Two raw nerves in a world that seemed made of sharp edges. The newspapers had been beastly of course, hounding them for the grisly details. They were alternately celebrated as heroes and condemned as murderous incompetents, and it was hard to say which was more unbearable. But during the worst of it everything had the potential to send them spiraling into the depths again, even things innocent and coincidental. Offhand remarks could wound, the curiosity of strangers felt like a violation. Just the sight of a red can or a black dog could throw Francis into a depression that lasted weeks. And so they had retreated into this London flat, made a cocoon where they could be undone and vulnerable in peace. They had loved each other when they could not love themselves and fought their way back to equilibrium together.
They have rejoined the world now, but cautiously. James writes fiction under a pen name, and Francis has his quiet methodical work at Greenwich Observatory. They go to theaters and galleries that they know to be agreeable. They visit with dear friends who are accepting of their peculiarities and who do not prod or pry. There have been no unfamiliar places or gatherings of strangers these last few years, no voyages into the unknown. Francis is not an explorer any longer but he is content, has adjusted to this smaller and safer life and finds it does not chafe much. He should have known that it would be a different matter for James.
And perhaps he’s more a slave to fear than he’d realized if he’s ready to chew James’ head off over the idea of a dinner party. Perhaps their long retreat has left him more distrustful of the world than is warranted or useful. Perhaps there’s some capacity for taking joy in the unexpected that they’ve let atrophy from disuse. Francis has never had much of a capacity for joy anyways, but James does, and he deserves to utilize it to its full extent.
Francis takes that beloved face between his hands and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Forgive me for being wretched. I’ll go. I can’t promise to enjoy it as much as you will, but you’re right, I think it will do us good. Besides, I’m not leaving you alone with a bunch of geologists, they’re all rakes who can’t be trusted.”
And James is laughing, and all is right with the world.
—
The weather is not on the side of Hawkins and his publicity stunt. London had enjoyed mild weather in the week after Christmas, but New Year’s Eve is chill and snowy.
“Slippery out. Perhaps best to stay in. If we don’t make it I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“Francis.”
“They may very well have canceled the whole thing already.”
“In which case we will still enjoy a lovely carriage ride in the snow. I refuse to accept that the man who made me walk eight hundred miles is now unwilling to travel as far as Sydenham.”
And so they go rattling down the icy streets. James is resplendent in formalwear, wearing his tall hat at a jaunty angle and carrying a brass tipped cane. Francis feels almost shy of him in his finery, which is an odd way to feel about a man you've been living with for over four years and have fucked on and against every piece of furniture you own. But he has become accustomed to the James who lounges about their flat in a dressing gown and socks. Not since the early days of their acquaintance has he been polished to so high a sheen. And he has only become more dazzling in the years since, cut like a diamond by hardship, crisp and authentic and self possessed in a way he was not before. Francis feels like a withered turnip beside him. He also feels that he has been selfish, that he has deprived the world of something precious and beautiful by sequestering James away for his own comfort.
The carriage deposits them near the south gate of Crystal Palace Park, where they join a gaggle of about twenty other men in dress coats who are shuffling about in the snow trying to stay warm. Like penguins, Francis thinks. Edward Forbes, eccentric naturalist and friend of the Goodsir family, is indeed in attendance. They ask after Harry and are told that he is well. “Something of a recluse these days, prefers polyps to people, but then again perhaps we all should. He seems happy enough. We’ve kept up a wonderful correspondence about trilobites.”
Re: FILL: the jolly old beast is not deceased, crozier/fitzjames, M, no warnings (2/3)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 06:31 pm (UTC)(link)Then Mr. Waterhouse Hawkins is opening the gate and ushering them in with a showman’s smile. He holds up a lantern to show the way, but it almost isn't needed; the snow is falling only lightly now and the flat white sky bathes the landscape in just enough pale light to see by. The Crystal Palace itself, a behemoth of glass and iron, squats in the distance at the top of Sydenham Hill. It is surrounded by acres of man-made lakes and fountains that all drain into this boggy (and currently very slushy) corner of the park.
As they walk towards the sculptor’s studio where the Iguanodon awaits them, Hawkins gives a talk that is part science lecture and part sales pitch. He tells them how his bold visual designs, created with the input of the leading lights of the field, will both educate the masses and provide income for the park. When completed his installation will take visitors on a journey through the different eras of the antediluvian world: starting with the most primitive amphibious creatures, onto the great dinosaurs of the Mesozoic, ending with warm blooded beasts such as the giant ground sloth and the Irish elk.
A few of his concrete creations are already in place and Hawkins points them out as the dinner guests walk past. Thus far most are representations of water dwelling creatures, taking full advantage of the swampy location he has been given to work with. Snake necked Plesiosaurs and Ichthyosaurs with huge wheel-like eyes bask in the shallows. Fanged turtles called Dicynodons crawl out of the icy muck. James is wide eyed and enthusiastic, asking questions about which features are conjecture and which are known for sure. Hawkins readily admits that the shells of the Dicynodons are a guess based on the turtleish look of their fossilized snouts, but the tusks are quite real. It occurs to Francis that these animals look like the sort of creatures that sometimes appear in the margins of James' letters and manuscripts. No doubt he will be doodling Dicynodons for weeks.
Francis had thought the dinosaurs would look entirely fantastical, like Gothic gargoyles or sea monsters on the edge of a map. But the artist has retained his keen eye for the natural world. These animals are strange and monstrous and mostly conjecture, but he has somehow made them look possible. Their poses are naturalistic and they seem at home in their environment.
They have come to the highlight of the menagerie: the hulking Megalosaurus, which does not loll half submerged in the water but stands over three meters tall on four sturdy limbs. It looks like it could move those limbs if it chose to, like its stillness is only the stillness of a predator waiting out its prey. There is a predator's avidity in its stony eye. Hawkins is speaking about his collaboration with the groundbreaking theories of Sir Richard Owen. He is explaining that while the name “dinosaur” might suggest otherwise, these Terrible Lizards did not crawl on their bellies like lizards at all, but walked with their legs beneath them as mammals do. And Francis can see now that despite the Megalosaurus’s scales and crocodile grin its stance is entirely mammalian. Indeed, Francis thinks, suddenly nauseous, indeed it must be said that the Megalosaurus's humped shoulders and powerful legs and great clawed feet make it look very much, in the deepening snowy twilight, like an enormous bear.
The first thing he thinks after he beats back the vertiginous wave of panic is Let James not see it that way, let him not be troubled by anything tonight. But when he looks around he finds that James has fallen behind the rest of the group and is standing very still, staring at the Megalosaurus with an unnaturally fixed smile, his face drained of color. Francis shakes off his own terror as best he can and steps back to put a hand on James’ shoulder, gets close to his ear to say “Looks like we may need the Congreves again, dearest, I do hope you remembered to bring them along,” in the warmest and wryest tone he can muster. That earns him a bark of a laugh and they're moving again, arm in arm now, down the path towards Hawkins’s studio.
—
The studio is a cave of wonders, a barnlike building filled with fossils and skeletons, drawings and drafts, half completed clay sculptures of even stranger monsters than they have yet seen. In the center of the room a huge tent of pink and white striped canvas is suspended from the rafters. And inside the tent, under a blazing chandelier, encircled by a raised wooden platform like a gem in a setting, is the Iguanodon. An immense rectangular sort of fellow, like a rhinoceros with the head and tail of an iguana. It holds its horned snout up proudly, even though the back half of its head has been left off to leave room for the table within. Its mouth is slightly open as if it might speak.
Liveried waiters are there to take hats and coats and usher them up the stairs onto the platform, from which they can step over the outer rim of the Iguanodon into the hollow space in its back. Into the belly of the beast is the phrase that Francis’ traitorous mind provides, and he has to stifle another wave of queasiness. They all shuffle to their assigned places, and must crowd in very close. Hawkins has been optimistic in his estimate of how many guests will fit.
Soups are served round, hare and mock turtle and vegetable julienne. The crystal chandelier and many candelabras make the interior of the tent hot and blindingly bright, and two dozen voices combine into a bewildering wall of sound. It’s a shock to the system after the hushed chill evening outside. Francis shifts in his seat, tries not to feel trapped. He thinks ruefully that this is the sort of evening he used to get through with the help of whiskey. Something must show on his face because James surreptitiously finds his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
The guest of honor is Sir Richard Owen, the man who coined the name Dinosauria and serves as Hawkins’s closest advisor on the sculptures. As such he sits at the literal “head” of the table under the arch of the Iguanodon’s cranium. Many awful bon mots are made about him being the brains of the operation. Francis is seated at the rump, and jokes are attempted about that too, but a couple of well timed withering looks put an end to it. James sits to his right, and to his left is Mr. Fuller, a railway entrepreneur who tells them of his plans to build a branch line that will take passengers from London directly to the new Crystal Palace Park Station. “And you’re one of our scientists, yes? Are you a paleontologist as well?”
“No. Magnets.”
“Ah,” says Fuller, immediately losing interest, thank God. “What about you, Captain Fitzjames? Your name sounds familiar to me but I’m afraid I can’t quite place it. What’s your field?”
Francis’ world tilts as he realizes that they are, blessedly, no longer the news of the moment. In his self-aggrandizing despair he had imagined that they would be infamous household names forever. But the years have marched on, distracted the public with new triumphs and tragedies. James for his part looks both relieved not to have to talk about the Passage and embarrassed about having no other reason to be here. “Well, I’m more of a generalist, really,” he prevaricates.
“He put together an experimental steam boat once,” says Francis, gambling that steam will be of interest to the railway man. “Assembled it piece by piece on the banks of the Euphrates.”
That does the trick, and an animated conversation ensues. James’ foot finds Francis’ ankle under the table and gives it a grateful nudge.
—
They reach course four out of seven, which is all fussy French style entrées. Francis picks at them suspiciously. People have stopped trying to talk to him, which suits him fine, and he lets the overlapping conversations wash over him. There’s a lively debate going about whether pterosaurs are more like birds or bats or gliding lizards. James and Forbes are having a shouted discussion about phosphorescent jellyfish.
“Excuse me, Captain.”
Francis looks up from his plate and sees that the fellow with the trains has moved up the table to talk business with Hawkins. His place has been taken by the ornithologist, John Gould, a man with a soft drooping face and a stolid demeanor.
“Do you mind if I sit here a moment? I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’ve been wanting to meet you properly. I’m sure you don’t remember it but you were a help to me once. I traveled to Van Diemen’s Land in ‘39 to study the birds there, had to leave just as your ships were stopping by on their way south. I managed to get a letter to Captain Ross explaining that I was putting together a comprehensive work on Australian ornithology, and would greatly appreciate being sent whatever extra specimens he could spare as he went about his own collecting. He and you and all the officers were exceedingly generous, especially Mr. McCormick and your own Dr. Robertson. Your crews are credited in my book.”
“My God.” Francis remembers himself, reaches out to shake the man’s hand. “I’ll admit I don’t remember, Mr. Gould, but I’m glad of it. Ross and Robertson remain dear friends of mine, you must come visit with us someday.”
“I often think of you all. What an incredible voyage. The birds you must have seen. You never did send me any penguins, as they were outside my purview at the time. I’ve taxidermied nearly every sort of bird in the world, but never a penguin. It’s a dream of mine.”
Francis grins. “On Erebus they all used to fight over who got to taxidermy which birds. A shame you weren’t along with us, you’d have fit right in.”
Gould smiles, then clears his throat. His eyes seem to have gone a bit wet. “I met the Franklins in Hobart. They were very kind to me, very supportive of my work. I left my wife in their care when I went looking for bowerbirds in the mountains of New South Wales. My fifth child was born in their household. We named him Franklin. I don’t…I don’t want to dwell on anything sad, tonight of all nights, and I’m sure you don’t either. But I’d just like to say how very sorry I am. About the whole thing.”
He means it, simply and purely. Francis can’t speak, but manages a nod that he hopes conveys his meaning. Gould nods back. “Now, Captain, might I ask you a few things about petrels?”
—
Dessert is served: pastries, nougats, Bavarian cream, and many large and elaborate jellies. After that the exhausted looking waiters disappear for the evening and leave the guests to pour their own wine, which they do liberally. Only Francis and James remain sober. The party becomes increasingly raucous and jovial, until even Owen, heretofore a serious and dyspeptic little man, is giggling at dinosaur related puns.
James is holding court with the ‘ologists, who by now have all come to adore him. His stories get laughs but he’s an intelligent and appreciative listener as well, delights in their pet obsessions with them and knows the right questions to ask to get them gesticulating excitedly about their theories. Francis grins as he watches them actually compete for James’ attention. Strange to think it would have disgusted him once. Now all he feels is fondness and pride. Though when James engages Mr. Gould on the topic of guano deposits Francis can’t resist interfering with his foot under the table again, and watches him bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.
At some point someone looks at his pocket watch and informs the gathering that midnight has slipped past them unnoticed. It has been 1854 for over an hour now. The New Year is belatedly rung in, and many speeches and toasts of varying comprehensibility are made. Just as it seems the night may finally be coming to a close, Forbes stands up and taps his wine glass to get everyone’s attention. He has composed a song he wishes to share with them, a rhyme celebrating the resurrection of their friend the Iguanodon.
A thousand ages underground
His skeleton had lain;
But now his body’s big and round,
And he’s himself again!
At the end of every verse they are encouraged to sing along with the chorus,
The jolly old beast
Is not deceased,
There’s life in him again!
ROAR!
And roar they all do, and clap, and cheer, and pound the table, loud enough that Francis thinks they might indeed rouse the dead. He becomes aware that he is yelling the words along with the rest of them, that James is looking at him with crescent eyed delight.
After the last deafening chorus Forbes says that they must end the night by serenading the beasts outside as well, as it would be a shame to leave them out of the merriment. This is enthusiastically agreed with and they all begin to clamber and bumble their way out of the studio. But Francis wants a moment of quiet and makes a show of enjoying his orange jelly too much to leave the table just yet. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to find Hawkins wishing him a good night and a Happy New Year. “Thank you for coming. I could tell you were a skeptic the minute I clapped eyes on you, Captain Crozier, but that’s alright. The world needs skeptics. Come back when my little zoo is finished and tell me what you think.”
“I will,” says Francis, and finds he means it.
Re: FILL: the jolly old beast is not deceased, crozier/fitzjames, M, no warnings (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 06:56 pm (UTC)(link)“Christ no, I’m knackered. But this has been tremendous fun. Terrifying, but fun. I’ve been very grateful for your company, I hope the evening wasn’t entirely a misery for you?” He looks at Francis with a soft searching expression.
“No. Truly. I’m glad we came.” He’s not sure yet how to say what this night has made him feel. It’s all been a bit much and enjoy is too straightforward a word. But it has created a buoyancy in him, a new openness to possibility. “I’m sorry if I’ve looked like a miserable lump all night, it’s only that I’ve never been sure what to do with myself at these sorts of things.”
“You were fine, darling. It turns out I find you rather charming when you pick at your food and look grumpy at the dinner table, now that your ire isn’t aimed at me.”
“And I quite enjoy watching you be the belle of the ball, now that I adore you and want nothing in the world but your happiness,” Francis says, before he really knows what he's saying. He closes his eyes, retreats back into himself for a moment to try and find his bearings. He feels drugged by the surreality of the evening, the onslaught of novelty after so many years cloistered away, licking his wounds.
When he opens his eyes James has disappeared. His first ridiculous thought is that the entire night must have been some sort of dream or enchantment that is now melting away. Then he feels hands parting his knees and a face nuzzling between his thighs and he lets out a startled yelp of a laugh.
“James what on earth—”
“Well,” comes a somewhat muffled voice from underneath the table, “I’m awfully fond of you, and you’ve been a very good sport about all this, and I’d like to end the night on a pleasant note. Also,” James continues, mouthing at him, big hands rubbing his thighs, “in my debauched youth I used to pride myself on finding novel locations to be fucked in. This would be my crowning achievement.”
“Far be it for me to thwart your ambitions, but Christ, what if someone walks back in here?” His answer to his own question is that footsteps are loud in the studio and the dinner guests are far too boisterous to catch anyone unawares. His cautioning tone is reflexive, with little force behind it, and no objection he could voice would sound convincing to anyone observing his lower half. Much to his own surprise he finds that the specter of Public Indecency excites him; he can’t see James beneath the heavy white tablecloth but can feel him grinning against the outline of his rapidly stiffening prick.
“That’s why I’m under here! Plausible deniability. If someone drops in you simply have to pretend that you’re enjoying your orange jelly very much.”
Francis laughs and finds he has no more arguments, reaches under the table to stroke his fingers through James’ hair. This is correctly interpreted as acquiescence and very soon his buttons are undone and there is a warm tongue swirling around the head of his cock. Francis closes his eyes and breathes out, lets the tension of the evening bleed away as his awareness of the world narrows down to the hot wet velvet of James’ mouth.
James takes his time, savoring him like a gourmand. The heat and light under the tent have become an almost tangible sensation on Francis’ skin, pressing against his eyelids, melding with the coiling heat in his belly. He feels like he is both weightless and pleasantly weighed down, like James is touching him everywhere at once. When James swallows him deeper he rouses himself to put a firm hand at the back of his neck and fucks into his mouth, setting a slow steady pace, just enough to make James feel used in the way Francis knows he likes. Murmurs things like sweetheart, you feel so good, you’re so good to me as James shudders and moans around his prick. There’s a hand resting on his ankle, thumb rubbing an encouraging circle into his skin. For some reason it is this sensation that tips him over the edge, and he spends down James’ throat in a moment that seems to last impossibly long, time gone elastic.
When he comes back to himself James has already tucked him neatly back into his trousers (that endearing combination of abandon and fastidiousness) and is emerging from under the table. With, to his credit, only a very few grunts of effort and audible joint cracks. He kicks at Francis’ chair to indicate that he should scoot back a bit, then deposits himself in his lap, the whole lanky but gloriously solid length of him pressed close. The chair creaks under their combined weight. James is hard against his belly but seems in no hurry to do anything about it, content to nuzzle into the crook of his neck while they both catch their breath. Francis anchors him in place with an arm around his waist, runs the other hand up and down his back, breathes in the sweetly familiar smell of his hair. He is distantly aware that being inside the Iguanodon no longer makes him feel trapped, or like he has been consumed by something monstrous. The sense of enclosure makes him feel safe now, as if he is in a shelter. A cradle. A ship.
Eventually he has the presence of mind to get a hand between them and palms James through his trousers while nibbling at his earlobe. James makes pleased noises, somehow manages to wriggle even closer. But the angle is hell on Francis’ wrist and he’s starting to have serious doubts about the structural integrity of the chair they’re on. So he says “Here, up with you,” and maneuvers James’ rump out of his lap and onto the table, pushing several jellies out of the way to make room.
James sits back on his hands and grins, says “So much for plausible deniability!” in a deliciously hoarse voice. Francis takes a moment just to look at him. James Fitzjames, slightly disarrayed but still dressed to the nines, legs spread and cock straining at his perfectly tailored trousers. Chestnut hair streaked with silver gleaming under the light of the chandelier, dear handsome face flushed and beaming, looking like the cat that got the cream. He realizes they haven’t properly kissed all evening and leans down to remedy that as thoroughly as possible. It feels like coming home, as it always does. An arm and a leg wind around his back, keeping him close.
Francis is suddenly ravenous to get his mouth on James’s neck and breaks away to attack his cravat with a violence that makes James laugh. Then the lovely marble column of his throat is bare and Francis goes to work on it, which James seems to enjoy very much, until his gasps turn to pleading and the rutting of his hips against Francis’ stomach takes on a desperate edge. He nearly sobs with relief when Francis finally frees him from his trousers, bucks up helplessly into his fist. Francis jacks him off tight and fast while sucking a bruise into the base of his throat and James comes with the sort of long low groan that means his toes are curling in his shoes.
He flops bonelessly back on the table, allows Francis to dab at him with a napkin and right his clothes and retie his cravat, which does not look quite as nice as before but will suffice for the journey home. “I’m in the mood to steal a pudding,” he says, still flat on his back, “but I think that’s the one dish we weren’t offered tonight.”
“Take a nougat,” suggests Francis. They kiss again.
Their legs are still wobbly as they help each other step out of the Iguanodon. Its round eyes and downturned mouth now strike Francis as having a somewhat scandalized expression. James looks back and gives it a wink and a tip of the hat on the way out the door. “You’re a most obliging host, old chap. Thank you for the lovely evening.”
-
As they walk back through the park they can hear Forbes singing Auld Lang Syne to the Ichthyosaurs. Snow has continued to fall and the Megalosaurus is now thoroughly capped with white, which somehow makes it look no longer fearsome but like a huge marvelous child's toy left out on the lawn overnight. James stands on tiptoe to knock some of the snow off its head with his cane. “This one is a jolly old beast too,” he says decidedly, after some consideration. “A noble beast. Actually looks a bit like you, I think. Something about the set of the brow.”
Francis grins up at the dinosaur and gives its scaly elbow a pat. “Happy New Year.”
Re: FILL: the jolly old beast is not deceased, crozier/fitzjames, M, no warnings (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 08:12 pm (UTC)(link)Very charmed by the fact that we both went for a slightly haunted feeling about the dinosaurs, and the tuunbaq comparisons. And James giving Francis a secret blowjob!
I particularly loved the moment of them both looking up at the beasts and trying to be calm, and all the descriptions about how they look ready to move at any moment. And James being so lovely at dinner!
Re: FILL: the jolly old beast is not deceased, crozier/fitzjames, M, no warnings (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-11 05:53 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: the jolly old beast is not deceased, crozier/fitzjames, M, no warnings (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-11 02:26 pm (UTC)(link)