coldboys | The Terror - Prompt Post 1

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.

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2. This meme is CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) but warnings are highly encouraged.

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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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In the grips of his detox-related illness, Crozier pisses the bed and Jopson cleans him up...very thoroughly. Emphasis on Crozier's humiliation and Jopson getting off on touching/cleaning his soft cock.

Hi OP this prompt possessed me. Will be crossposted to ao3 as well. Hope you like it :)

It is towards the end of the first week and in the cold light of the morning that Jopson enters the captain's berth and finds it reeking of piss.
When he arrives with warm water, the sound of him setting down the basin pulls the captain from his restless delirium enough to notice him and make a pathetic attempt at clutching at his blankets as if it was any way to preserve his dignity, and not just additional inconvenience to his care.
"Let me, captain." Jopson says. He tugs the blankets aside and takes a look. With how little liquid the captain can keep down, it is a wonder he managed to lose that much. The front of his shirt is stained. The sheets underneath are darkened by a large, wet stain, and the acrid stench is stale and potent. Incapacitated as he is, the man did not even manage to roll aside and away from the soiled spot.
He is so completely and utterly helpless, and Jopson chooses not to acknowledge the warmth that pools in his groin at the thought.
Instead, he rolls up his sleeves. Between the throwing up and sweating, he had somewhat expected this, and with some luck, the sheets he piled atop the mattress for protection should have soaked up the worst of it. He untucks them and bunches them against the captain's flank, folded over to cover the wetness with fabric steeped only in stale sweat.
"We'll roll you over, sir.", he announces, since Crozier looks in no shape to be sat on a chair and trusted to remain in it for even a moment. He does not wait for the captain to stammer out his reply from between cracked lips, but swiftly grips him by the hip where he is pressed against the wall as if trying to creep backwards through it, to plummet towards the ice and be swallowed by it, a sentiment Crozier has expressed to him often in fewer and less coherent words over the last week.
"Give a push, sir."
The captain barely manages more than a limp wriggle that encumbers the action more than it helps, but at Jopson's calculated tug, he flops over with a pained groan like a sack of green potatoes. His nightshirt has slipped up, and Jopson suppresses the urge to smack his pale buttocks like a boy's: for not ringing the bell during the night, because now the skin is clearly irritated by the urine, and he will have to lather it with soap to prevent infected sores, and bear the complaints about the sting.
He manages to pull the doubled sheets out under the captain and chucks the bundle into the corner to launder later. A small damp patch remains on the mattress. He will have to flip it, but he needs McDonald around to do so, because the captain cannot stand or sit. He shall have to tuck one of the towels he brought underneath him for now.
The captain creaks and groans under his swift hands much like his ship does under the pressure of the ice, but Jopson manages to situate him, and roll up his shirt to fully reveal his behind. He covers his feet with the fresh blankets he brought to keep the toes warm, and sets about his task.
Jopson tips some of the steaming water into a smaller basin, drops in soap and washcloths, and ignores the protesting murmur coming from where Crozier's face is pressed into the pillow.
No, he thinks, he will not leave him to lay in it, no matter if he deserved it or not.
He will, he resolves, refuse to think about how familiar the motions are to him.
He starts with Crozier's thick thighs, rubs the damp cloth over them with efficiency. Crozier, shivering in the chill, moans at the warmth in a manner that ought to evoke pity, but instead it makes Jopson's prick fill out. He could wonder whether this is his own kind of sickness, but he does not stop to do so. Runs the cloth all the way to the hollow back of the captain's knees, and up again, firmly and properly because that is how it is done. Next, the same with the towelette that is dunked just in clear hot water. Then back to the suds.
Crozier groans in surprise when he unflinchingly attends his buttocks with his soapy cloth, then drags it, firmly, between them. The captain hasn't shat himself, so there's that - all he needs to do is lather his crack and his stones where he can reach them between his heavy thighs, and make sure to wipe properly, so the bite of his concentrated piss can not eat at him. There is feeble resistance when he uses his free hand to spread the captain's arse to see better, but he simply must be diligent about this. The captain's arsehole is dusky and surrounded by soft, fleshy folds and an unkempt thicket of hair drenched with sour sweat. He cleans thoroughly even as the man twitches under his touch and murmurs something incomprehensible into the fist that covers his mouth.
Last, a dry towel to dab him.

When he makes to roll the captain over again, Crozier makes himself heavy as an anchor.
"Sir, you will feel much refreshed," Jopson promises, but the captain squeezes his eyes shut and pretends not to hear.
"I'm afraid I must insist," Jopson tells him.
There is not much space left in the small bunk, but without any kind of support, it is easier to pull Crozier towards him than to help him return against the wall, and so he uses his leg for leverage. The captain makes an unwilling noise deep in his throat at being moved, one hand clenching furtively at the pillow. But once he sags onto his back and the edge of the bunk discomforts him as it digs into his back, he squirms himself back inside and comes to rest quite conveniently arranged.
"Now there we go, sir," Jopson hums, and pulls up his shirt.

At once, Crozier ceases the displeased snuffling, and lays very still.
Bared for Jopson, he is so very much simply a man - perhaps less, in the current state, and he seems to be feeling it keenly. He absolutely reeks of piss and sweat, his belly-fat has sagged gently sideways elongating his navel, his prick lays limp and mundane. Goosebumps rise on his thighs as the cold air in the cabin sucks the animal heat out of his clammy skin. His face flushes up scarlet, and Jopson reaches for his washcloth. "Still now, sir," he orders, and again, he starts with the thighs.
No, this is different than what he knew, though the motions are familiar. This is his captain, and his helpless, private body beneath him, aching and stinking and in need of care and attention. Jopson simply must provide: would do so especially for the chubby, lopsided sausage of a prick that flops demurely aside when he nudges it away to wipe at Crozier's paunch, imagining that he feels the anxious gurgle of his gut underneath his fingertips.
When he next wrings out the sudsy cloth, Crozier breathes out a shaky syllable.
"Pardon me, sir?"

He glances up at the captain's reddened face while he slips his hand between barrel thighs to wipe at his sac.
"Jopson," Crozier croaks, almost inaudibly, and Jopson's prick twitches with it, at the unspoken plea in his name, no matter its meaning.
"It's alright, captain," he tells him, softly, much like he imagines he would if Crozier had asked for what's next: that is, him gently encircling his shaft to be able to wipe around it, lather the nest of reddish hair it grows from, smoothe his washcloth along the crease of Crozier's thigh.
The sigh that comes from the captain sounds close to tears, and Jopson pauses to reach for and squeeze his hand on a whim, and finds it clammy and urine-wet also, likely from discovering the malheur, or from failing to prevent it. He pulls it close, balances the basin on his knees, and dips the captain's cold hand into the cleansing warmth.
The captain moans with relief - and pisses himself again. His limp penis, which Jopson happens to glance at, just starts going, and Crozier seems unaware of the stream that runs down his thigh until Jopson puts a towel to the tip to prevent the mess, and even then, though the captain gives a delayed, choked gasp of horror, the yellowish stain does not stop growing: Jopson can feel the warmth of it against his palm, and the washbasin against his own throbbing yard.
Beside him, Crozier's body jerks through a soundless sob.
"That is alright, sir," murmurs Jopson, "it is alright."
The liquid heat does not let up until the towel is almost soaked.
"All done, sir?" he asks gently, and the captain manages a nod that he directs at the ceiling rather than at him. If he could, Jopson thinks, he might guide the freshly saturated towel to his nose, get a whiff of the captain's filtered essence just on its own, just on a whim, to know him better, carve away yet another unique morsel of the man that only he is familiar with, no matter how unpleasant.
Instead, he puts the bundle aside, and dries the captain's hand which lays motionless in his own as he does, and that does not move from where he tucks it under the blanket on the man's chest. He takes up the other hand, too, but it seems it is not tainted. He runs the clean wet towelette along the fingers anyway, and in between, and beds them back next to Crozier's head on the pillow.
"Jopson-" Crozier attempts again when he returns to attending his prick.
"That is alright, sir," he says.
And it is.
The captain's shaft is soft and cold. Jopson decides he will not use thumb and index and hold it like some kind of specimen, but simply take it properly in hand, shield it from the chill of the room that has already made the poor thing draw in on itself and hide beneath the foreskin. He makes sure to take the washcloth quickly from water to skin, so it is still warm when it reaches, and attentively smoothes it along the curve of the pliable member without pressing it too hard. He wonders whether, if he could, Crozier would rise under his ministrations. Surely, any man would from being handled, rubbed and wiped at like this: all the more does it excite Jopson's own stiff prick, hidden beneath the basin, how the captain's tool stays pliant and impotent in his grasp.
When Jopson carefully circles his tip, Crozier sniffs once, an unpleasant sound. Tension ripples through his thighs, but he says and does nothing, perhaps back in his delirious daze even as Jopson carefully eases back his foreskin and uses a moistened corner of the towelette to wipe underneath, around the pink glans. He retrieves a little bit of lint, and the captain's discomforted intake of breath as he dislodges it tells him he ought to wash him here more carefully, more often. He would not mind. It is such a sweet, stout tool, politely soft in his hands while Jopson's own is vying for attention with heated vigor. He will ignore it in favour of his captain's own.
With the captain's handsome prick-head cleaned, Jopson wraps the warm wet cloth around his shaft and wipes him from root to tip, almost like pulling him off. To dry him, he dabs with the towel, and then he arranges him gently back to where he deems it comfortable.
"There we go, captain," he soothes when he notices that, for the first time in minutes, the captain's bleary eyes are gazing at him with fever-dim attention, "just a fresh nightshirt, now."
The wash basin has to be put aside, but if the captain can make out the state of Jopson through the veil of the tears in his eyes, he does not show it. Jopson has to roll him over a little again to get the stained nightshirt over his head, has to get his arms out one by one. This time, the captain tries to help, but by the end of it he is huffing and puffing and groaning under his breath as he sinks heavily into the pillows, naked as Adam. Jopson fancies him just as erroneously beautiful, cast out from paradise as he is.
"I will fetch a fresh shirt, sir." he tells his captain, and folds the clean blankets up and over him so he can take the soiled ones for laundering.
As he gathers them up and elbows open the door, he thinks he might have heard the beginning of a mutter, a sigh. And as he reaches the laundry and briefly presses his nose into the cold damp of the fabric, Jopson contemplates how his captain lies naked beneath the covers, in need and in wait for him.

not op but amazing !!! creepy jopson is best jopson and the clinical descriptions of crozier's body, with jopson being aroused by crozier's helplessness were absolutely fire.

NA

Oh nooo on one hand I feel so bad for the captain, but otoh... yes, Jopson, you should definitely start washing the captain's cock more thoroughly. And watch as he's helplessly pissing himself. Sorry not sorry.

Thank you so much for this delicious food ;____;

Oh my god this was even better than I imagined when I wrote the prompt. EXTREMELY hot and grimy in the best possible way!!

I loved Crozier's helplessness and Jopson using his professional veneer to manipulate the situation. And Crozier's visceral humiliation when he starts pissing the bed right in front of Jop, just...yes good 🥵🥵

oh my goddddddddddd! crozier completely helplessly pissing himself again ... this is so grimy and good. thank u

Hot diggity damn author, I’m in piss kink heaven! This absolutely splendid and got my morning off to exactly the right start! THANK YOU!!!

So good, anon. Loved every attention to the smallest detail in it and Jopson's twisted little mind.

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The Terror - Prompt Post 1

Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

Re: FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

Re: FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

Re: FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

Re: FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

Re: FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

Re: FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching

Re: FILL: Crozier/Jopson, dubcon inappropriate touching