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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: 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)