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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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2/3?
(Anonymous) 2023-07-27 02:27 am (UTC)(link)“You’ll be well-paid for the trouble,” Irving said carefully, shortly, a ripple of irritation skimming along the surface of his otherwise restrained demeanor. “A fine compensation indeed, I should think.”
“I just assumed room and board would be included,” said Cornelius plainly, with no small hint of impertinence. “Seeing as I’ve traveled so far to accommodate you already.”
“Then I oblige you to remind me from where, exactly?” Irving exhaled slowly through his teeth, dabbing at his sweat-beaded forehead with a handkerchief. They’ve discussed this already, he felt sure of it, yet why couldn’t he remember now?
“Well,” Cornelius sighed, looking at Irving with concern, or even pity. “We’ve already discussed that plenty, now haven’t we? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”
“No, no--” Irving blinked, feeling suddenly beset with doubt. “Never mind, I-I… suppose that it would do little harm to arrange for you to be lodged here, given the circumstances. Only for as long as the painting itself will last, of course.”
“Of course,” Cornelius agreed pleasantly. “Is that really all I’m to be doing for you, Mr. Irving? Sitting for your paintings?”
“What else would a painter’s model be needed for?” Irving snapped impatiently, distracted now by thoughts of where in his home he was meant to house E.C for the weeks, if not months, it took for him to complete his Hellscapes. Confirmed bachelor though he was, Irving’s small, single-person flat perfectly reflected a life comfortably lived in solitude, and he could scarcely imagine harboring another person below the same roof and within the same walls for such a duration of time.
“To help to inspire greatness, surely,” came the reply, so much closer to Irving now that he was startled, quite unbidden, at the sudden touch of Cornelius’s hand upon his shoulder.
“The muse is only but a vessel through which a far greater inspiration may flow, Cornelius.” Irving’s gaze simmered, somehow, with both heat and cold simultaneously, his hand swatting Cornelius’s off him the way one might slap a fly. “You help inspire only the completed work as it can later, at last, be visualized in full resplendence, but it’s not you, Cornelius, who will have moved me thus, in hand, heart, and soul, to have even first conceived of such a seminal piece to my career -- to my whole lifetime’s work -- to begin with. One which I should only hope to be so privileged that I may one day deliver and share it with the world. For that, as always, I have only God to thank.”
“Oh, there’s not a doubt in my mind that you are indeed a true paragon of righteousness, Mr. Irving.” Hickey sat down criss-cross on a stool and lit himself a roll-up, the smoke casting something ominous across his face, like he were only moments away from disappearing into the fog. “A strong and stalwart God-fearing man, you are. Fear not that I would ever seek to deny you of such great privilege to go on birthing your blessed vision upon the world, like the Holy Mother herself gave to us our Lord.”
“Do not dare speak such sacrilege to me again,” Irving hissed, with such vehemence it nearly came out as a whisper. “Or you shall not be welcome in my home, now or ever.”
“Forgive me,” Cornelius said with a gentle, supplicating tone, drawing slowly off his cigarette. “There I go, don’t I. Forgetting myself like some common reprobate. It’ll not happen again, you have my word on that, sir.”
The man’s agreeable, if not nigh-deferential, demeanor seemed to constantly be at odds with itself, at one moment ringing genuine, snide and sarcastic the very next. Irving couldn’t read him from one minute to the next, and this burned up his mind with fever and brewing turmoil, sizzling hot like oil in a pan as he pondered the wisdom in going forward with Cornelius as his model at all. It wasn’t yet too late to release him back out into the anonymously vast London streets, where a man of both his stature (diminutive) and nature (cunning) was sure to disappear within only mere moments, until when next he wished again to be noticed.
“Shall we arrange your bedding,” Irving replied in a sharp, curt mutter, ignoring for now Cornelius’s behest of forgiveness, which seemed shockingly impudent given the depths of his rudeness only moments before. He considered his workspace with a quick sweep of his gaze, but then immediately rejected the notion out of hand; however uncomfortable Irving felt about inviting E.C. inside of the sacred bounds of sanctuary held within his small flat, leaving any stranger -- let alone E.C. -- alone with his paintings seemed an almost violently intolerable alternative. They may not have been much, but they were all he had of any real value, whether monetary or sentimental.
“Shall I not be sharing yours?” Cornelius inquired innocently, almost sweetly. Irving’s head spun around so fast that it gave him a sensation of whiplash, the aftershocks of vertigo spinning the room around him like a pinwheel. “If you’ll please forgive me my boldness, Mr. Irving, sir, it’s been my understanding that most artist’s models are called upon to warm their benefactor’s bedside.”
To think this was what E.C. had surely been building up to all along, striking Irving sharply across his increasingly reddened face with implication.
“Still that serpent’s tongue of yours,” Irving snapped, his own pale blue-green eyes flashing with outrage, and with something else he could not name. Something he had no interest in putting name to now, or ever. “I’ll not stand to hear you continuing to make a mockery of both myself or the Lord.”
Cornelius raised his eyebrows, looking convincingly confused, looking for all the world this was the most honest mistake a man could have ever made.
“How you mistake me, sir,” he said, in a wounded tone. “But indeed, let us put paid to such unpleasantness and retire for now … that is, if we are to begin our work bright and early on the ‘morrow.”
How easily and effortlessly he seemed to find recovering the upper hand in conversation, no matter how certain Irving ever felt in his own convictions. He was, himself, much more artful with words in their written form, rather than spoken; articulating what he meant through speech was not a skill well-suited to an anchorite like him, and moreover, not one he oft cared to develop with the consistency of exercise, because Irving was too easily flustered, too easily overcome with his own anxiety and various inner turmoils to appreciate the witty banter or lively discourse, so sensitive of temperament and conflict-adverse that he was.
Well, let Cornelius rest pretty upon those laurels of ill-gotten triumph. Irving may not be as deft in hand as he at wielding his sharp tongue as a weapon, but it was not (as he suspected the ginger-haired man must believe) merely a matter of cleverness, but only one form of it out of a great many, many others. A difficult man to read, yes, but not too difficult that Irving couldn’t see him clearly for what sort of man he really was.
And he now longed, badly, to paint him that way.
Despite their differences, despite the rocky, inauspicious first impressions, it was perhaps then, understandably, all the more a surprise to both men that their painting sessions began reasonably as scheduled, and without any significant incident to speak of.
Irving was an early riser, but Cornelius, down on the floor tangled within the heap of linens and quilt Irving had loaned him for sleeping by a small wood stove, had already begun to grouse no sooner than he was wrenched from slumber by the sound of Irving’s clattering kettle. It had not been altogether a terrible night, all told, but upon waking he certainly felt that much more determined to talk his way into Irving’s bed, as soon as it could possibly be managed.
A delicious thought, truly, but for the moment it had to wait. Not for too much longer, surely, but it would still have to keep a bit.
Downstairs below the flat, the studio bravely opposed early winter’s frosty bite by being blessedly warm, the chair against which E.C. was to be posed situated strategically near a lit, blazing hearth.
“Cozy,” E.C. commented with approval, beginning to strip himself and proceed to strike a succession of poses in front of the drapery that served as his backdrop. “So. How would you like me, then?”
Rather than simply point out the burgundy drape of fabric hanging from the chair from across the room, Irving instead rushed to retrieve it, shoving the garment roughly upon Cornelius at waist level.
“You’re to wear this,” he said sternly, with just a bit too much briskness within his tone to sound natural. “Preserve your modesty, I’ve not asked for you to be posing nude.”
“Indeed not. Only nearly,” E.C. observed dryly, although he didn’t argue, simply tied the red sarong of fabric around his waist to obscure his prick and arse from view, though the strangeness of the arrangement wasn’t lost on him. The sketches and underpaintings Irving had showed him were not so detailed as to depict the figure’s bits, or anything (and frankly, even if they were, it would not have surprised him a whit if Irving had still hastily scribbled fig leafs over even the most detailed of anatomical renderings), but nor had they appeared swathed in heaps of obscuring drapery, either; rather besides the point, he thought it was, when so much of the composition’s differentiation between man and devil seemed to lie within the uncanny contrast in how their bodies were to be rendered.
If Irving himself had noticed this apparent contradiction, as well, he did well to hide it upon his face, settling behind a large, square canvas over which he regarded E.C. with his intense, assessing gaze.
“Be still.”
Demanded once, twice, and then a third time as well, while Irving struggled to sketch with grease pencil E.C.’s small but substantial physique as the man in question seemed less to refuse, but genuinely endeavored without success, to do as he was told and just be still.
“And again, Cornelius, I pray, be still,” Irving hissed impatiently through clenched teeth, every word punctuated as practically its own standalone sentence. “If you wish to collect a fair, full day’s wages from my coffers, come eventide, then I’m afraid I truly must insist upon it.”
“It’s this damnable fabric, Mr. Irving,” Cornelius grunted in frustration, and Irving could once again not tell how seriously he meant it. “Why, I’m of half a mind to think that it could even be given to inciting the most foul of rashes all along my lap and privates if I leave it, and then what good will I be to you then, sir, all poxxed up and infirm like that?”
Heaven help me. Irving did not normally consider himself much of an impatient man, per se, but was Cornelius ever a trial of will sent, perhaps, from the Lord God Himself to test Irving in his virtues ... or, there was another explanation, which was that Cornelius was as innately demonic as the figures in Irving’s paintings he was modeling for, sent to Irving not as a test, but as a deviously seductive tool of corruption.
(Mercifully the far more unlikely option of the two, for a man who did not consider himself especially prone to religious fanaticism and delusion.)
lol nope, 3/4!
(Anonymous) 2023-07-27 02:29 am (UTC)(link)Such hope had felt so precious for as long as it was allowed to last, but last it most assuredly did not.
“E.C., what in Heaven’s name are you … Cornelius!” Irving scolded with a gasp from behind his canvas, all but sputtering his words in alarm. “For God’s sake, would you kindly please unhand yourself at once, I’ll not be asking you again!”
Even knowing that his outrage was more sport to Cornelius than anything else more serious or ill-tended, Irving was helpless not to still take the baited hook within his jaws each and every single time, a purely chemical reflex that would always, without fail, light his face incandescently bright with scandalized heat.
Cornelius’s eyes met his own from across the room, glittering not in the manner of jewels today, but instead rather with a lurking menace akin to fine, powdered glass. Irving frowned at his model, then frowned at his canvas, his head aching at each temple with the telltale warning pulse that reliably foretold migraines. Nothing else had previously ever brought them on with such a damnable quickness before now, before the mortifying ordeal in having ever met Cornelius at all.
“Goodness Gracious, Mr. Irving, I wasn’t hardly pleasuring myself none,” said E.C. casually, sitting upon his stool with one leg crossed over the other, as if in sheer defiance of the very notion of posing at all. It was of no consequence though, anyway, since Irving did not much think he could continue to paint any longer with his head throbbing like a beaten drum, rumbling with static and thunder. “But surely even a man so unimpeachably chaste and pure as you, sir, could still forgive a man simply adjusting his poor unmentionables every now and again, seeing as how I’m stuck there atop that wretched stool all day.”
“Please,” Irving snapped impatiently, with a groan. “I have no desire to argue with you now, Cornelius.” He sat back from his canvas and wiped both his hands clean of paint with a rag, wanting desperately to rub his fingers over his eyes, but instead simply keeping his gaze precariously averted from Cornelius. He could see the man’s blurry form at the edges of his vision, rising from his stool to cross the room towards Irving and his canvas with the watchful, curious gait of a hungry jackal, walking but not daring yet to run towards what it suspects might be injured prey.
“If it’s migraines, Mr. Irving, then I reckon I can help with that,” E.C. offered, his tone pleasant and supplicating once more. Irving trusted him even less whenever his demeanor took a turn towards compliance, yet something still continued to pique his curiosity even so-- something within the man’s seemingly more innately conniving nature that compelled him to keep acting, towards a man of faith like Irving, in this insincere, pandering manner.
But was it truly an innate behavior, or did E.C. behave this way specifically for Irving’s benefit alone, to draw his attention and bewitch him with what would seem, in fact, to be an active, living example of the same thesis Irving has been so fervently painting with him all along, playing out before his eyes with the very model hired to help him recreate this narrative tableau in iconography: the insidious influence of the demonic preying upon mankind’s most faithful.
It sounded, quite frankly, like the very definition of absurd whenever he thought it out all logically. Reasonably. His mind swam, growing unnatural with all manner of thoughts and distrustful notions.
“I don’t know that it’s… migraines, exactly,” Irving hedged, realizing he had perhaps been silent for just a beat too long to seem natural. If Cornelius was perturbed, he as always did not let it show upon his face, but one way or the other, it remained the same distasteful diagnosis for any man to be accused of. “But if you’ll go across the road to procure me laudanum, I shall be glad to release you early today with full wages.”
But to his surprise, rather than reach for the few pence Irving held out for him, trembling almost imperceptibly against the soft belly of his outstretched, shaking palm, Cornelius instead moved himself even closer, circling the easel so that Irving was confronted suddenly with the rigid exclamation point of his rigid cockstand. So startled was he that for as long as an entire minute, or perhaps even two, he could do nothing but simply stare and gawp speechlessly, his already feverishly florid face appearing now almost comically close to producing steam from his ears. This was clearly no product of a ‘simple adjustment,’ Cornelius could have only been pawing at himself right then and there to have produced such a … reaction from the blood swollen gland, which was itself flushed rosy pink with vigor, the circumcised head of it appearing almost, indeed, as a plump little rosebud to Irving’s increasingly pain-scrambled mind.
Irving finally brought his wide, sea-green eyes up to meet Cornelius’s bright baby blue ones, searching the smaller man -- however much their equilibrium will have momentarily shifted as they currently are, E.C. standing and Irving still seated -- for answers, for some hint of meaning, of intention. Asking him silently, shamefully, for guidance, or else anything at all he might know better how to react to.
“W-what--”
With a smirk, as if he’d deliberately lingered there with every intention of giving Irving a proper eyeful, E.C. then dropped down to his knees almost immediately as soon as Irving had spoken, slender fingers gingerly reaching for Irving’s high-waisted trousers buttons.
“You must know what they always say about migraines, Mr. Irving,” E.C. mulled almost thoughtfully, his long, slender prick bobbing enthusiastically between his knees. Now his eyes shone knowingly upon meeting Irving’s again, perhaps with compassion or with mischief, but Irving was not so well-equipped to know the difference.
“What do they say?” He asked on cue, knowing well it was a trap yet still wandering straight into it, with all the effortless grace of one who has just fallen down a stairwell, and hit every step on their way to the bottom.
“For one thing, tight trousers such as these--” They were not in the least bit tight by any reasonable fashion standards, but Cornelius had his own point to make whilst Irving still remained dazed and blurry within the charcoal smear of his mind’s migrainous stasis, hanging upon Cornelius’s every word for some semblance of comfort and order, if perhaps not necessarily entirely familiar. “Why, there’s the lion’s share of your problem right there. Not to worry, though, John. I’ve got you well in hand.”
Have you? Irving remained firmly unconvinced, yet something stopped him cold regardless from voicing any such half-hearted protests. He was not fool enough to fall for this gentle, benevolent charade, not when he himself had been the one to tell E.C. all about how demons will gleefully wield every guise of all their former, once cherubic innocence, for no other reason than to torment, to corrupt, to tempt.
And Cornelius was only but a man, besides; he may himself delight in playing at infernal deliveries, but he had no power to tempt Irving beyond just what he could rouse with all his various crude and unseemly flirtations; he wielded only depravity, and offered naught but desire and temptations of the flesh.
Do not begin to rely upon ‘only,’ he scolded himself distantly, a voice that Irving heard as if through a dream rather than his own, waking mind. There were never things like ’just’ or ’only’ when it came to sin, and to begin thinking otherwise was nothing less than the devil’s unseen handiwork spreading its poison ever further.
“Your humours, naturally,” said E.C., expression and tone both taking on a gravely serious aspect upon delivering his prognosis. Irving looked down, noticing his buttons undone, his smallclothes visible and shamefully swollen outward in suggestion of his own turgid member, a somewhat visibly thicker, more ungainly beast compared to E.C.’s own … or perhaps it only appeared that way so soon after first seeing them both exposed like this, almost side-by-side.
“My humours,” Irving repeated, as if in a daze. He felt very nearly transfixed by the man currently squatting in between his parted legs, sharp-eyed and undoubtedly even more so sharply-tongued to match, and thought again that perhaps this man really was more than what he seemed, perhaps in fact he was no man at all, and then the thought simply trailed off into nothing else of any import at all. “And shall you now proceed with elaborating upon your theory, or will you only leave me to guess at how your every inner machination seems to be so finely in-tune with mine?”
Oh, his blasted head. His blasted heart. Blasted tongue.
“Indeed it must be as you say,” he continued, words slurring mildly. “I am sick in the head, with migraine … and so I cannot rightfully restrain myself fully from this delirious compulsion to babble on senselessly.”
“Allow me, then, to play nursemaid to what ails you,” teased Cornelius gently, whatever true intentions might lie below that buoyant tone of his once again entirely inscrutable to Irving’s ears. Or could it really be so, that he meant every word? No, surely not. But Irving did nothing more but sit and observe, a test of his own to see what manner of blessing or curse Cornelius chose to bestow upon him.
“Better already, isn’t that?”
Irving shut his eyes tight against what was next to come, blinded himself to the unfolding sin before him, even as he passively still allowed Cornelius to maneuver his body. The thick heft of his prick was pulled free of his smallclothes, engorged already into erection, even before Cornelius’s slim fingers began to stroke him slowly along the length of the shaft, pinching him at the base, pinching his scrotum, but as harmless as a puppy might playfully nip at another.
“I asked you a question, John.”
“Y-yes,” Irving gasped, his voice breaking with weakness. “Much better, yes … my God, Cornelius, what have you done to me?”
“Well, I’ve done next to nothing yet,” said E.C., as if Irving had meant only now, only this, when it had really been so plainly rhetorical it was more desperate prayer than truly a question. “Merely relieved some of this pressure off you, first off ... but all we men’s humours do eventually need release, John. Even yours.”
Devil. Blessed Devil...
“Go on, then,” Irving urged in just above a whisper, both fearing the worst, and perhaps also hoping for it. “I permit you.”
“Open your eyes first, John.”
And Irving did.
Cornelius smiled up at him, a dark and wicked thing which he must have been saving especially for when Irving would inevitably, once again, have to look upon his beguiling countenance. His mouth opened like a snake unhinging its jaws to eat, but then Irving could think of nothing else but the wet warmth and suction that had entirely enveloped his cockstand down to the base, Cornelius going at his task with what felt like almost bruising force until Irving cried out for him in desperate, wailing howls, fingers dug within the thin, coppery strands of hair atop E.C’s head.
“Oh-- oh!” Irving couldn’t help how his fingers pulled, how his hips could only buck upwards, seeking more, and more, and more. His face stung with salt from both his sweat and his tears, his eager pleasure making itself known paradoxically through gasping breaths and sobs, through cries and desperate, frantic prayers. “Oh, Lord-- Lord, w-will you-- please, forgive me--”
But there was no Lord with them in the here and now, though, only the sharp, acrid scents of sweat and musk permeating the air around them, lingering just below the heady smell of paint and oil the way smells of dirt and rot from a grave will linger beneath all the rest-- an intoxicatingly sweet, yet also sour, damnedable smell, but Irving might have already expected as much, given the profane nature of this communion.
4/4 FIN
(Anonymous) 2023-07-27 02:30 am (UTC)(link)Rather than protest this indignity, Irving simply gasped, blinked, struggled to catch his breath, collapsing back weightlessly in his chair in what could only be called a swoon.
“M-my God…” he stammered, through a face still flushed as bright and rosy red as fever, an involuntary trembling passing over briefly throughout his body as if he truly had just taken ill, although both men knew better than that. He could sense Cornelius’s gaze having rested upon him once more like the soft, nigh-imperceptible legs of a landing mosquito, the air seeming to hum even still with a low, predatory hunger. “What have you done to me?”
He asked it again, if not to Cornelius, than to God Himself this time.
“I think you mean … what I’m doing to you, John, now don’t you. Not done. No, we’re still quite a ways off from done, I’d say…”
“Tell me,” Irving hissed, his glassy, pale eyes bulging wildly as his hands shot forward, grabbing Cornelius roughly by both wrists. “What have you done, Cornelius? And…”
He hesitated, then, the words swimming through his mind beyond thought and beyond reason, blurring his own intent and meaning to even himself.
“What is it that you want from me?” Voice insistent, although he’d lowered it, as if in reverence or in fear.
“Now, John … must I, really, have want for anything from you?” Cornelius shook his head, expression once again taking on that ragged cast somewhere in-between concern, compassion, and pity. “You’re lucky that I’m not so easily offended by such ingratitude that you’re showin’ me-- not that I’ve come to expect any better from the likes of all you Christian martyr sorts.”
Once more bringing himself back up to standing, Cornelius’s eyes regarded Irving with a flinty, assessing sweep from head to toe, before strolling leisurely across the room again to fish out a roll-up from somewhere within the unseen depths of his many coat pockets.
“Or is that yet another sacrilege, in your eyes?”
Irving said nothing in response, this time, his breath coming now in slow, measured breaths as he chewed upon his lower lip in growing consternation. It was neither fear nor horror that held him back, however, but the increasingly persistent awareness that he had not, in fact, been preyed upon, but had instead knowingly invited this man into his life, his work, his home. Indeed, he may not have even offered Cornelius the job at all, if not for that deep void of inflamed living darkness Irving had imagined he could already see pulsing within E.C. like a second heartbeat, living, thriving, expanding its way outward.
“You really mustn’t fear me, John,” Cornelius added softly, as the minutes continued to tick by in steady, prolonged silence. “Only reason I’m even here at all is to help you, isn’t that right? And believe me, John, I plan on it.”
More silence hung heavy between them, before it was snapped like a twig by the sound of E.C.’s striking match. Irving tilted his head in that direction, having come to appreciate the smoked, earthy scent of the other man’s cigarettes.
“You just sit tight now, John. while I go on and fetch you that laudanum.” His voice was underscored by the rustling sound of fabric, one that Irving felt no need to clap eyes to, knowing it was only the sound of Cornelius getting dressed. “And upon my return, I should very much enjoy getting to discuss with you at much further length, this demonic thesis of yours.”
“Oh yes,” Irving finally replied, his voice breathy, yet triumphant, something like satisfaction sharpening along the otherwise soft, harmless edges to his words. “I was beginning to think you’d never ask me about the paintings, Cornelius.”