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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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Fill: The Last Hour, Hickey/Tozer, E, cw dubcon
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somebody/anybody - fever sex
(Anonymous) 2022-12-28 05:17 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: you cooled my mind that burned with longing, Bridgens/Peglar, E, no warnings (1/2)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-07 11:24 pm (UTC)(link)Sorry OP, it's not so much surreal as fever as an excuse for these two to be even more sweetly horny for each other than usual, but I hope it still scratches that itch ♥
For those that prefer it, here's the ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44122131
It’d been four days since a heavy rainstorm caught John and Henry on their way home from the village, and though Henry had come out of it without so much as a stuffed nose, the same couldn’t be said of poor John. The first night had been the worst, with Henry standing constant vigil at his bedside, wiping the sweat from John’s brow and urging him to drink the mixture of water and lemon juice sweetened with honey the old midwife had recommended to him. John had barely managed small sips at first, recoiling from the warm liquid and relenting only after some time of Henry gently coaxing him.
By the third day John had recovered enough to become restless in his bedridden state, eager to have a proper wash and catch up with some of the tidying that Henry had been unable to get to, between nursing John and working odd jobs for the townsfolk. When Henry had arrived from helping a nearby neighbor replace the fencing around his sheep pen, it’d been to an empty bed with fresh sheets, a lovely smell rising from the soup pot bubbling over the fire and John sitting at the table, worn but content as he caught up with the post that had arrived while he was ill.
Henry had been appropriately distressed when he’d come into the cottage, physically bullying John back to the bed whilst simultaneously trying to gauge his temperature with a hand to his brow. John had felt warmer than normal, but even Henry had to admit that it was hardly high enough to raise alarm bells over, and besides, they both knew John to be the more capable cook.
When John had awoke the next day already covered with the fine sheen of sweat of another fever, Henry had not reproached him with the ‘I told you so’ that’d been curled on his tongue since last night, but instead kissed John’s burning brow and gone about the task of preparing the lemon and honey concoction again.
Not wanting to risk even an hour of John needlessly pushing himself, bullheaded as the man was, Henry decided he could afford a day of staying in. Why not indulge them both, just this once? He had plenty to keep him busy in their home as John slept; there was always some bit of mending or sweeping to be done, a garden and hens to tend to, and water to be carried in from the pump down the hill.
Late afternoon found Henry seated at John’s bedside, chair angled away so he could read with what remained of the sun’s light. He held a gently worn paperback that one of the officer’s had sent them over post some weeks ago, a murder mystery that’d absorbed Henry within the first few page turns.
He’s so absorbed, in fact, that he misses John shifting awake, eyes blinking bright but unfocused as he comes to. It’s not until John makes a low, almost obscene groan as he stretches out over the mattress that Henry tears himself away from the words. Just in time to catch a glimpse of John’s belly, curled dark hairs trailing down towards his prick, before John relaxes and the blanket falls back over his waist, hiding him from sight again.
Henry feels his cock twitch lazily in interest, followed by a burst of shame at his own salaciousness. If their roles were reversed and it was him who was unwell, John would never allow himself to get distracted in such a manner while Henry was in his care.
The prickling of guilt is soothed as John raises one of his arms, gesturing for Henry to join him with a plaintive sound that’s very unlike him. It delights Henry to his core. A tiny, selfish part of him feels quite pleased that he should be the one allowed to see his John, always so presentable and composed, in such a sorry state. He’s quick as lightning to join him under the covers, but the heat radiating off of the other man is enough to snap him back to his sense. He resists John’s tug to pull their bodies flush, petting apologetically at John’s bearded cheek instead. “You feel so hot already, love, wouldn’t do for me to add to it.”
But Henry is only human. When John makes that same small, plaintive noise he moves his hand to cradle John’s neck and presses a kiss to his cheek instead, nuzzling at the soft graying hair there. John let’s out a pleased hum as his hand comes to settle heavily on Henry’s hip, pawing until he’s able to press the wide expanse of his fingers to the small of Henry’s bare back, leaving Henry’s shirt half untucked in the process.
“Dear, lovely Henry…I’ve missed you in my arms,” There’s an unfocused quality to John’s voice, but also an open hunger that thrills Henry.
“I’ve missed you too, but I’d prefer to have you well or not at all…” Henry’s words trail off as John shifts his hips in a rocking motion, prick already half-hard as it rubs against Henry’s clothed thigh. John turns his head and presses their lips together in a searing kiss, nipping at Henry’s lower lip before licking hungrily into his mouth—a starved man devouring a feast. Henry quickly loses what little will he’s ever had to deny John.
Stretched out on his side, he let’s go of John’s cheek to slide a hand under his nightshirt and up his bare flank. John’s skin is flushed beneath his palm, and Henry would feel bad for the goosebumps trailing his touch were it not for the way John ruts more insistently against him in response. Henry places a hand on his buttocks and draws him up, slotting their legs together so that John can grind more firmly into Henry’s hip, trousers be damned. John is letting out these breathy, pleased moans into the crook of Henry’s neck as he grinds against him, the hand on Henry’s hip not so much holding him down as holding on to him.
John is a tall man, solidly built from his years working aboard ships. It was his broad shoulders, in fact, that first caught Henry’s attention all those years ago aboard the Beagle, even before he’d realized he’d have to tilt his head up to look at John properly. But now, curled in his arms like this, John feels small. Fragile. Henry presses a kiss to his forehead then another to the crown of his head, filled by a fierce, terrifying need to protect the man in his arms. He thinks he recognizes the feeling from John’s expression, those handful of times he’s caught him watching while he thought Henry asleep. A feeling of love so all-encompassing you can’t help but fear for that person. For what would happen to yourself in their absence.
“Henry…” The impatience in John’s tone snaps Henry out of his contemplation and reminds him there is something much more pressing now: what John needs from him. There will be time later to ruminate on his melancholies.
“Yes John, I’m here,” He soothes, rocking his hips up so that he can meet John’s movements, earning a particularly delicious whine for his troubles. “What do you need?”
“To feel you, please, my Henry-” John may be feverish and slightly delirious, but that’s not enough to override years as a steward. He stops moving his hips to reach up, working at Henry’s shirt buttons with unusually slow fingers. He manages to undo two of them before Henry bats his hands away with a soft laugh, leaning down to capture John’s mouth in another kiss. He takes his time licking into John, delighting in the wet heat of him, greedy to swallow each sweet sound as it spills from John’s lips.
Henry makes quick, practiced work of his remaining shirt buttons. Unable to bring himself to disentangle their limbs enough to pull his shirt off fully, he settles for tugging at the material until he’s pushed the thing open and over his shoulders. John is a soft and pliant thing in his arms; it’s easy as anything for Henry to shift him just enough to tug John’s nightshirt up and over his chest, revealing the dark lines of a swallow tattoo above his heart. Henry likes to stare at it when John sleeps, gauges the rise and fall of his breaths by the flutter in the bird’s wings. He can draw it from memory now, has done so a few times in his journals.
John’s huff of complaint as Henry ends their kiss morphs into a whine as he takes one of John’s nipples into his mouth, the one just below the swallow. Henry alternates firm swipes of his tongue with brief, delicate sucks that make John try and rut into him again, the head of his cock leaving a wet trail against the dusting of hair on Henry’s belly. John’s fingers bury themselves in Henry’s hair, petting and tugging at the strands like he can’t decide whether to hold Henry’s mouth to him or push away. Henry pinches John’s other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently, heat pooling deeper in his belly at John’s answering whimper. When he pulls off John’s chest a moment later, it’s only so that he can alternate his ministrations. He keeps going like this, working each nipple with his lips and fingers until the skin is puffy and tender, hot even when compared to John’s current flush. When he eventually pulls back John is left panting wetly beneath him, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes and cock resting heavy against his belly.
Henry is overcome, suddenly, by the beauty of the sight and his love for this man and a dozen other emotions too vast to put words to. So, he does as John always has and reaches for the words of others when his own feel inadequate. “When a beautiful soul harmonizes with a beautiful form, and the two are cast in one mold, that will be the fairest of sights to him who has the eye to contemplate the vision.”
John, normally self-conscious of Henry’s praise even in moments of intimacy, gives him a pleased grin as he spreads his legs wider, basking in Henry’s words like a cat in a sunbeam. Henry sits back on his heels to take in the full picture of him: the furl of dark hair along his stomach and thighs; the swell of his belly over a solid, broad frame; the pair of heavy stones and a thick cock. The head has already begun to leak, matting some of the hair on John’s belly in what Henry hopes to be the beginning of a beautiful mess.
Undoing his trousers, he frees his own hardness and sighs as he wraps a hand loosely around himself. Henry’s other hand curls over John’s ankle, thumb rubbing at the small bone there, spreading his own legs wider until his knee presses into the side of John’s calf. He strokes himself in light, unhurried motions, eyes raking over John, committing the sight of him to memory.
“I’m a lucky man, to have such a handsome creature in my bed. To wake with you in my arms, and feel the weight of you pressing me into the mattress-“ He tightens his grip on the downstroke, just below the head, and the pleasure of it is enough to lodge the remaining words in his throat.
Taking a slow breath, he catches John’s gaze and smiles brightly, warmth spreading through him when John mirrors his expression. But when John moves to take himself in hand Henry’s quick to stop him, lacing their fingers together and muffling his laughter into the back of John’s palm. John makes the most pitiful whine in response; it goes straight to Henry’s prick. He could probably finish just like this, half-dressed and frigging himself as he watches John squirm and beg.
But that’s a game for another day. It’s John’s pleasure he’s meant to be seeing to now, and Henry has neglected his duty enough as-is. He releases himself with one final stroke and kisses the back of John’s palm again, giving him a meaningful look over their entwined fingers. “If I let go, will you be good and keep your hands on the bed?” Henry tries for a stern tone and fails miserably, helpless to keep from pressing his lips reverently to John’s knuckles, just above where a wedding band would sit.
Even fever-addled as John is, Henry is lucky he misses the maudlin gesture. John’s known him too long to not see right through it. But John doesn’t chide him for his sentimentality, just nods and settles his hands flat against the mattress. Henry rewards him with a kiss to his knee and stands, making quick work of stripping himself bare.
Stretched out and only half undressed, rucked-up nightshirt framing his chest, the flush of his skin and kiss-bitten lips a stark contrast to the white fabric, John is the very picture of debauchery. Henry tells him so as he crawls back between John’s legs, peppering kisses up his calf and along the side of his knee. “Even a saint would be tempted by the sight of you, John Bridgens,” He slows as he reaches John’s thigh, lingering with each kiss and nuzzling affectionately at the soft skin there. “When I’m helping Mr. Stanton put in new fencing for cattle, or down at the market shopping for supper, I often think of how I’d prefer to be right here instead, with your prick in my mouth or your fingers in my arse. You have such wonderfully long and deft fingers, John, it’s hard not to think on them sometimes.”
“You make the most beautiful noises with something inside you, love.” John agrees easily. It’s a testament to his devotion that his hands remain flat on the bed, though one of them lies suspiciously closer to his side than Henry remembers last seeing it.
“Not something, you,” Henry punctuates the words with a bite to the crease of John’s hip, follows it with a placating kiss. “You’re the only one, John. No one else will do.” To Henry’s eternal delight John’s response is an agreeable hum, stretching out his leg opposite Henry so he can hook a foot over the back of Henry’s knee. The simple intimacy of the gesture is intoxicating—Henry feels the weight of John’s heel on him like a brand.
Re: FILL: you cooled my mind that burned with longing, Bridgens/Peglar, E, no warnings (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-07 11:37 pm (UTC)(link)With one last kiss to John’s flank Henry sits up, draping an arm over John’s waist as his other hand wraps around the base of John’s prick, bringing it to his lips. He swipes his tongue along the shaft but doesn’t tug back the foreskin yet, dipping his tongue inside to give small kitten licks along the rim of the crown. After a while of this he sits up to lap at the tip in broad, leisurely strokes, like a bit of melted sugar he’s looking forward to savoring. John moans brokenly and tries to buck his hips, but his fever makes it a simple thing for Henry to hold him down against the mattress. It also seems to have burned away some of his usual reservations; when Henry finally wraps his mouth around the head, John makes a noise so wanton Henry’s own cheeks burn scarlet, even as his cock strains where it’s trapped between his stomach and the sheets.
With his own threadbare patience quickly dissipating, Henry ducks down, taking John into his mouth properly. He works John’s prick at a steady rhythm, lips pulled tight as he takes incrementally more of him with each bob of his head. He reaches for John’s hand and places it in his hair, humming contently when John’s fingers curl just enough to tug at the strands.
“You’re like something out of a sailor’s filthy dream,” John’s voice rumbles above him, breathless and unfocused in between moans. “A strong jaw and lips so pretty they belong on a lass. The sweet way you sigh when I first press into you, like it’s all you’ve needed. And you take me so beautifully,” He brushes back strands of Henry’s sweat-slicked hair, tone full of adoration. “Even the first time we laid together you took me with such ease, like you were made to be stuffed…”
This time it’s Henry who whines plaintively at John, the hand draped over John’s waist pawing uselessly at his hip. He's desperate to feel more of John, to be so full with the taste and weight of him that every other thought is trampled out.
Of course, John understands. His brilliant, blessed John, who doesn’t need words to know what Henry needs from him. The fingers in Henry’s hair tighten, gripping more firmly as John’s other hand comes up to hold Henry’s head, cheek cradled in his palm. John holds him in place but doesn’t push in, the head of his prick not quite brushing against the back of Henry’s throat. He rubs his thumb along the line of Henry’s jaw gently, back and forth, back and forth, until the muscles go lax.
Henry’s hand, wrapped around the base of John’s cock, is coated in spit. He lets go to wrap it around his own prick, and the wet heat of it is such a relief from the dry friction of the sheets that he nearly sobs. He shifts to support most of his weight on the mattress and plasters his flank to John’s thigh, blinking up at him imploringly, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Marvelous. Such a pretty little thing, so good at swallowing my cock,” John’s thrusts are gentle at first, a barely there rocking of his hips that re-accustoms Henry to the friction of John’s cock rubbing over his tongue, the tip just brushing the ridge at the back of Henry’s palate. He doesn’t move Henry’s head, keeping him in place as his thrusts steadily become longer. “So perfect, m-my Henry. The ancients would’ve surely…worshipped you as Eros…”
Henry’s eyes fall closed as he strokes himself in time with John’s movements, rubbing his thumb against the slit each time John’s cock rubs against the back of his throat. Finally, after what feels to Henry simultaneously like an eternity and a second, John brings Henry’s head down and thrusts his hips up, breaching Henry’s throat. Henry moans and his whole body shudders with it, tears spilling hot down his cheeks, John repeating his name like a prayer as he fucks into him. Henry’s mind goes perfectly blank—he can only draw ragged breaths and take what John gives him. At this point he’s not so much stroking himself as rutting into his spit-covered hand, unable to focus on anything but the drag of John’s cock against his tongue and the ache in his jaw as he struggles to accommodate all of him.
Eventually John’s litany is reduced to staggered moans, and as his movements lose some of their rhythm Henry distantly thinks of what a shameless sight he must make—the drool running down the corners of his mouth, pooling and mixing with snot on his beard; cheeks splotched red and tear-streaked; hips grinding gracelessly into the mattress like an animal in heat. It’s almost humiliating enough to pull him out of the moment. But when he manages a look at John, he finds nothing but veneration and pure affection in his eyes. The blistering humiliation transforms into a warm comfort, flows down Henry’s body and right to the point where John’s ankle is still pressed to the back of his knee.
Henry comes so hard his whole body trembles with it, throat tightening instinctively around John’s prick even as he struggles to gather air into his lungs. John manages one last, broken sob of Henry’s name and comes down his throat, thighs clamping around Henry's sides as if to hold him in place.
As if this isn’t exactly where Henry dreams of being.
John shakes through the last waves of his orgasm and Henry does his best to swallow it all, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on John’s thigh as he pulls air through his nose, lips still wrapped around John’s softening prick. He sucks and mouths at the sensitive flesh until a not-so-gentle tug of his hair forces him off. Henry whines but goes where he’s pulled, wobbling on his hands and knees just long enough to collapse at the head of the bed besides John.
Almost immediately John’s hands are on his face again, John’s lips kissing the corners of his eyes as he brushes the hair back from his forehead. Then John is lapping at the mess on his face, and it’s sweet but also a bit like being greeted by a giant dog, and now it’s Henry’s turn to shove him away. John laughs at him; the sound is warm and lovely and Henry wants to bottle it, store it in a pendant beside his heart so he’ll never feel without love again. Instead, he grabs the hem of John’s nightshirt, the fabric still bunched over his chest, and finally pulls it off completely. He does his best to wipe them both down before tossing it on the ground besides his own discarded clothing, settling back to pull the blanket over them both.
They lie on their sides, John’s head tucked under his chin, legs tangled together. He buries one hand in the mess of John’s hair, rubbing soothing circles into his scalp as Henry’s other hand curls protectively over John’s hip. John still feels flush to the touch, but there’s a certain bonelessness to his limbs as he lies in Henry’s arms that wasn’t there before.
“You make the worst patient, sweetheart. When it’s my turn to be ill next, I don’t want to hear a single word about being difficult.”
Re: FILL: you cooled my mind that burned with longing, Bridgens/Peglar, E, no warnings (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 01:49 am (UTC)(link)(also you write them so well?? like, everything from their dynamics, the dialogue, the easy domesticity, the literary references?? it all felt so very authentic to them, and worked so well for the premise, and just — 10/10 bridglar, amazing work!)
Re: FILL: you cooled my mind that burned with longing, Bridgens/Peglar, E, no warnings (2/2)
(Anonymous) 2023-01-11 07:50 am (UTC)(link)I'm so happy to enjoyed it 💖 thank you again for such a lovely comment, and of course the wonderful prompt