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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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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
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Fill: The Last Hour, Hickey/Tozer, E, cw dubcon
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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)