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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.
If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!
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Just to reiterate from the Mod Post, here are the RULES:
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
4. Fills should use this format in the subject line: FILL: [TITLE], [PAIRING], [RATING], [ANY WARNINGS]
e.g.
Fill: The Last Hour, Hickey/Tozer, E, cw dubcon
5. One prompt per comment please.
6. Multiple fills for each prompt are welcome!
7. You don't have to be anon for your prompts or your fills but we do encourage it because of the vibe. You're also welcome to deanon your stuff by posting on AO3/Tumblr as you please!
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Fill: Pull In Leviathan, Irving(/Little/Hodge technically), M, feat. Jirv's Giant Shame Cock
(Anonymous) 2023-07-18 07:37 pm (UTC)(link)John knows they’re just playing a game.
They’ve hardly shipped from port, England barely out of sight, and yet the boredom is already beginning to set in.
It’s the easy leg of the journey of course; the real problem will come after Disko Bay and in the Arctic Labyrinth. They’re exotic, appealing names, to John anyway.
But he’s also the youngest of them, the lowest ranking, the least experienced. The one to end up on the biting end of it.
It’s just a game, he tries to remember, a way to welcome him in and give them all something to laugh about. John has brothers, after all, he knows how these things go. He’ll grin and bear it.
He still yelps, in mortified delight over any real surprise, when they pounce on him.
He’d had the sense it was coming, from the conspiratorial air between Little and Hodgson, the long dead stretches of time they’ve had, and their being ignored in favor of Crozier’s intent to pour over ledgers until supper time.
There’s no one watching, and no one needs them, even Jopson’s sharp eyes turned right from their mischief onto their Captain’s grumbling at the size of their lettering. John used to think his numbers were elegant, not damnably thin.
They’re smiling, of course, teeth shining and lips broad when they come at him, in one practiced swoop, dropping their cups onto the table to grab him.
Little holds his shoulders back, hands firm and almost touching down to John’s chest. He struggles, though not too much.
They’re not really fighting, and it’s not in them to be really cruel.
Hodgson’s too quick anyway, for to have been much use to struggle, looping a quick length of rope around him and securing it behind John’s back, tying him down as securely as cargo. John might as well be a box of Goldner’s tins.
Except that those don’t arch against their bonds when Hodgson teases those fine, strong fingers over the back of their neck where it tickles. John might have lost the metaphor.
He doesn’t miss the joke though.
John doesn’t know half the sailor’s knots, can’t string up a bowline, and certainly wouldn’t be able to do it half fog blind and clinging to a ratline.
Neither can Little or Hodgson, but it falls onto John’s lot to be the one bound up in rope, just enough to get the chair to thump but not tip over, and beg ineffectually for mercy.
From their wide smiles, sparkling eyes, it’ll be a while before they give it.
A hot flush of pleasure blooms over John at it, that he’s making them so happy, that he’s being good.
The coils wrapped around his body are taught but not too tight, holding him snugly. Almost like he’s locked in someone’s arms. Someone strong.
Hodgson tickles at his neck again, making John shake and bite his lip to stifle the giggles. He pleads, his heart not in it, for him to stop, feeling his own mouth grin.
It’s strangely satisfying to be the focus of their attention, to be able to sit and watch them stand over him, looking at nothing but him.
Edward’s eyes are dark but satisfied somehow, like he’s forgotten all about his burdens and responsibilities and only cares to have John under his thumb to do whatever he likes.
Something in that long, considering gaze makes John try to sit up straighter, to… he’s not sure but he wants to give Edward something, wants to be worth it. This. Whatever it is.
John usually avoids men’s looks, and leers, and his own temptation to do the same.
But he holds his breath for this, following his stare like a flower follows the sun. He does admire Edward so, his strength, his experience, his rank.
His kindness, that John isn’t sure he deserves. His hands, his dark hair, his freckled face.
“Let’s step out for a moment, George,” he says, after a moment, his eyes never leaving John’s face.
It cuts off George midstream, babbling something about ropes being used to crack men’s skulls open when combined with salt water, not that either of them was really listening. Edward was straining his ears for the little gasp that escapes John, mouth hanging open and lip sticking out in a thoughtless pout.
John realizes it suddenly, with a strange shiver up his spine, from the way Edward closes his eyes to savor it.
Please he wants to say, and he doesn’t know what for. If he’s asking Edward to stop… or for something else entirely.
Nothing he can name, but it is that knowledge, dark and slippery as it is, makes his skin prickle all over in a way that the binding hadn’t managed.
“Whatever for?” George sputters, mystified, and then looks down at John like he’d completely forgotten what they’d just done and what state they’d left him in.
His eyes go from curious to concerned, caring: “are you sure—” and then Lieutenant Little is marching him out of the Great Room and closing the door behind them.
John’s skin doesn’t prickle at the sound of the latch. It burns.
They can’t see him, and the way he starts to strain, without thinking. Mindless. Like an animal.
He doesn’t understand. Not himself, and not what’s happening.
His pulse quickens, but what he feels isn’t fear. Not even close. He feels held.
He likes that it doesn’t matter that he arches, the rope remains unmovable. Well, not entirely, it rubs against his chest in a way that thrills and horrifies him. Not in itself but in the way it shoots through his whole body.
He can’t move, he can’t leave. They’ve tied him here and they can do whatever they want with him.
It wouldn’t matter that John won’t, John can’t—
Stop, he tells himself, they’re his friends, his fellows, his superior officers and if Edward had followed the tracks of that gasp back to the source with his calloused fingers into John’s mouth and onto his tongue he would have sucked them, lathed them and Oh God what is wrong with him?
This is a joke, a friendly overture, it’s just what men do.
What real men do amongst themselves, the ones that are not weak, sinful, like John.
He has prayed, night after night, to be rid of his weakness, of his susceptibility, of his inverted desires. And finally, he has been given a trial to pass, a challenge by his superior officers, these far more experienced sailors, who are trying to teach him something.
John cannot pervert that.
He focuses on how he can hear them easily; George isn’t hushed at the best of times, much less now that John’s senses seem sharpened in the extreme.
He’s chattering again, right behind the doorway, Edward’s lower voice an infrequent counter tone.
They haven’t left. They wouldn’t really leave, wouldn’t leave John here vulnerable to anybody who might come in. Who might chide him for it. Who might take advantage.
He shakes his head hard to clear it, tries to think rationally.
If anybody would come it’d be Jopson, with his perfect hair and skin and wave’s crest colored eyes, gentling John who’s done this to you sir, it’s all right now I’ll take care of you. He has such fine, clever hands…
Not like Sergeant Tozer, who won’t come in here, he can’t, it’s officers’ country, he can’t put those large rough paws of his on John, can’t breathe that accent into his ear well what have we here? that beard tickling his skin.
John bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. trying to get himself in order. His thoughts are unmannered, unprincipled, ungodly.
But it doesn’t help.
He’s thickened in his pants, the base of his, his —the word is so vulgar but what other is there?— cockstand pressing hard against the lowest coil of the rope, where it has slipped down lower than his hips with his writhing.
He should be grateful, should think of it as pain and punitive, a small mercy that hides his… excitation.
But it feels firm instead.
Like the flat of man’s hand, of George’s who did the tying or of Edward’s who held John down.
The great ugly beast between his legs pulses at that, straining harder against the braided cord. It is so ungainly, so brutal. For once, its repellent size is a godsend.
He has to tuck it into the leg of his pants, favoring the left, because it won’t fit otherwise. He knows that’s not true for others, that John is unnatural in many ways.
But it can’t tent the fabric the way it might otherwise, just rest too-hot on his thigh. He truly hates it sometimes, can’t picture using it even in the godliest of ways, with a good woman in the marriage bed. He feels like a monster at the idea of looming over someone innocent to force that thing inside. It must hurt.
And not the squirming, insidious kind of hurt that feels strangely good like the one John feels now.
He tries to get his breathing under control, to not dwell on the fact that even so, when they return they might… they might still see it. The evidence of how wrongly made John is.
They might mock John, jeer at him. Pull it out from under the rope and expose it. They might— John arches not to please himself this time, base and vulgar, but to cut himself off.
It hurts, truly now, and the chair makes a sound.
George’s voice rises a little, and Edward’s cuts in, so close on the other side of the wood. He’s made them worried.
He doesn't want to, he wants so very badly to be good, to be pure and clean, to be told he did well and passed his trial. Wants his ugly, dirty thoughts to go away, to leave him alone and not wake him in the middle of the night with how lonely he feels, how untouched.
But if they come in right now, they’ll see he isn’t worthy, not of his uniform or their friendship or of being a man at all. They could do… anything they saw fit to someone so debased. Anything at all.
John’s helpless, totally at their mercy. They could take and take, and John could do nothing but give it. If they did… it wouldn’t be his fault. Not really.
He hadn’t asked and he couldn’t stop them and if your hand or something else was forced it wouldn’t be something he did. He’d be innocent, wouldn’t he?
His cockstand throbs and he tosses his head and just waits for something to happen. For deliverance.
The door opens so quietly he almost misses it.
And then a heavy, manly hand wraps around the back of his neck and he shoots up. As much as he can, tied down as he is.
“It’s just us, old boy,” George says, his dear voice near and warm, with a note of reproach that John knows isn’t aimed at him.
His trousers grow damp, but not wet, and he is glad, once more, that the fabric is so dark. So heavy.
He sends up fervent prayers that he might finally pass this test, that he might be purified.
He can feel George working at the knots, the loosening of the rope, the ease of his breathing and the blood rushing back through his arms. It’s. He could cry from it, the relief. He’s well, he’s free, he did not embarrass himself.
“Thank you, both of you, for, for. It was, thank you, I—” John babbles, trying to stand even though his muscles feel like they’re made of the same water their ship is cutting through.
“Yes, of course. You were very good,” Edward says, low and close, with a final squeeze to his neck and John spends, helpless, inside his smallclothes.
Re: Fill: Pull In Leviathan, Irving(/Little/Hodge technically), M, feat. Jirv's Giant Shame Cock
(Anonymous) 2023-07-18 08:15 pm (UTC)(link)