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.

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!

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Some era after canon (can be modern day, can be any time in between), reincarnated cold boys hook up. They have no idea of their past lives until they fuck.

Particularly into idea of a still kinda rat bastard-y (or at minimum, annoying) but significantly less dangerous reincarnated!Hickey… getting possessed by mad bad dangerous to know canon!Hickey during sex. Is it frightening? Is it hot? Does the ghostly past Hickey sneakily attempt to take over full time? How does the past and present resolve? (If you even want to bother with plot stuff - a single PWP scene is fine by me!)

But it could be the reverse! Reincarnated!Hickey surprised by reincarnated!Tozer getting possessed and suddenly being both angry at him and much sadder and needier for him than their contemporary relationship warrants? Or surprised by reincarnated!Irving getting possessed and suddenly being both freaked out by the sex that is after all the only reason they’re meeting, and sure that Hickey’s killed him?

Gonna give this a go …! But already it’s starting to run away from me lololol. Stay tuned

Ooh, I look forward to it nonny! :D

Dear OP how do you feel about a little side of Hickey / crozier … just a tidbit? For plot purposes?

Oh, feel free to! I'm very much a multi-shipper, and besides I am especially fond of Hickey/Crozier too :D

incredible thank you.... see fill below!!

This shit kept fucking happening. First there was that guy John, whose great ass and sensitive facial hair had conned Hickey into unwisely agreeing to go slow. John said he had recently escaped a cult or something. He had shown up at the Cannula in a flannel shirt buttoned all the way up, sipping a beer. A beer, of all things. Something about the innocence was endearing to a person like Hickey for whom almost everything, especially the worst, had gotten to feel very boring by the time one was in one’s late twenties. Not to mention the fact that there was never anybody new in town and by extension never anybody new at the Cannula, though John said actually he had been here forever, he had been born on the kitchen table in a flophouse on Allen Street. That was on the ill fated second date after which Hickey had dared to hope he might be getting laid. They were walking home together and the night was cold. John’s nose was pink. He was incredibly cute, Hickey thought dangerously. They kissed on the threshold of John’s dingy SRO and it was a dizzying, drowning kiss. Moths buzzed the porchlight in psychedelic ecstasy. Hickey attempted his best trick, which was a fluttersome hand at his partner’s waist, as though he were overcome. They parted gasping. John’s eyes had grown several sizes. He said “Good night,” and slammed the door.

Hickey did not consider himself a particularly evil person, having done most of the bad things he’d ever done in his life — lying, cheating, stealing, manslaughtering — out of desperation as a teenage runaway hopping freight trains, hitchhiking on dusty thruways, and subsequently moonlighting through just about every unsavory subculture conceivable. But clearly something funny must have happened in a past life and now he was belatedly getting his karmic retribution.

Anyway, that wasn’t the worst of it. The next day he went around John’s place with a bottle of something the girl at the liquor store had said was a decent budget choice for smoothing things over. Out front of the SRO he licked his fingers and tamed his hair and rung the doorbell. Then rung it again, and again. He knew John must have been home because somebody was blasting The National from an upstairs window, so he rang the doorbell again. And then luckily stepped aside just in time for a beshattering of cheap Target dinnerware upon the worn slate flagstones.

“What the fuck!”

John was leaning out of a window on the third floor. Even from this far away his unsleptness was apparent: rumpled hair, dark circles about the eye. From behind him on the turntable, carried on the cold spring breeze: “we get mistaken for strangers by our own friends…”

“You duplicitous,” John yelled, “murdering,” throwing another plate which shattered in the gutter, “devious… seducer!”

“What!”

“I’m a god fearing man, Cornelius!”

“You’re the one who showed up at the Cannula on otter night!” Hickey yelled nervously. Despite its auspicious location in the absolute boonies, this was a fairly liberal town, but sometimes people in big pickups with confederate flags on them drove through on the way to the Walmart across the river. “I don’t know what you want people to assume, John!”

He was mildly uneasy that John had somehow figured out the bits about duplicity and murderousness. But he hadn’t been the latter for many years, and it had been justified then, and as for the former, it was always disturbing when people picked up on that, but they always did when you spent a lot of time somewhere. People tended to be smarter than someone like Hickey really wanted to think about very hard. Maybe that meant it was time to leave this place, but for some reason this time he found he didn’t want to.

“The Lord is my shepherd,” John hollered from the upstairs window, chucking a mug toward the street. “I shall not want…”

Hickey recognized the signs now. It was really quite sad when you thought about it.

—

Sol thought all this was the funniest thing ever. He was tending bar down at Rosie’s, the dive bar by the river in which the recent wave of hipsters mingled uncertainly with the older wave of aging hippie artists and the pre-gentrification crowd of gnarled old union guys, layoffs from the asphalt factory, and acid casualties living in shacks in the flats. Sol was a hipster and also an artist but had grown up in the mountains to the west and was thus afforded the dubious privilege of straddling these several worlds. Because it was a Tuesday, there was hardly anyone the bar — just the regulars huddled in the corner by the jukebox, queuing up depressing country music.

“What did he call you?”

“A devious seducer.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know. I haven’t gotten that one since Catholic school.”

Sol was ostensibly straight but sometimes did these little things, like dry beer glasses with immense care, which set one’s mind spinning. Similarly, he was also ostensibly Hickey’s friend, which did not preclude the occasional graphic fantasy about being fucked in the pouring rain between the dumpsters out back.

“What are you gonna do now?”

“I don’t know. Never set foot on that block again, I guess.”

“He’ll probably high tail it back to whatever cult he was in.”

Hickey shrugged, draining the dregs of his double G&T.

“Another?”

“Why not.” Hickey had recently picked up a job breaking down a carnival on the edge of town and had some cash on hand for once. “And a round for you.”

—

Actually once upon a time he had not drunk at all. There had been some drugs he’d liked and would take if the supply was good, depending on who was around. When you were alone and could trust no one you learned to be pretty careful about self-incapacitation and where it could land you, which was nowhere good. It wasn’t so much that he’d gotten softer as he’d gotten older as that he’d gotten shrewder and less afraid. If everything bad in the world had happened to you at some point you learned eventually that fear was a chemical trick the human mind played on the human body. To override it was kind of a directive for the adventurous. You couldn’t very well do much of anything in this life if you didn’t learn to override the fear. Like thin, sheer ice. Once you got through it there was this cold shock. Then the clarity.

—

He was nearly sober. (The trick was to alternate with water.) Sol was not. They were staggering up Allen Street together laughing. Hickey regretted that he knew what was going to happen. Sometimes it was better to keep the sexy uncertainty going for as long as possible, just for the delicious anticipation of it all. He’d learned a long time ago that more often than not getting what you wanted was a grave disappointment. But he was also a man and as red blooded as any other.

Sol lived above the old theater on the main drag which housed a local theater company in name only. They kissed in the alley and wrestled each other up the slippery wrought iron staircase to the very Phantom of the Opera-esque garret of which Sol seemed equal parts embarrassed and proud. His artwork, mostly weird assemblage sculptures, covered nearly every surface and for the most part wasn’t that bad. To wit, “These are cool,” Hickey said, something he had never lied about.

Sol was blushing. “Want a beer?”

“Are you chickening out?”

Sol blushed even harder. “No.”

“Okay. Good. No, I don’t want a beer. I want to see your dick.”

They went in the bedroom. Semi-broken stained glass window patched with caulk, refracting moonlit tones on the unmade bed. Hiking guides, record sleeves, flannels strewn about. Hickey had never really known what to do with this type of man. The bicurious, insecure hipster artist type was so far removed from his own experience as to approach a different species.

Sol, as should perhaps have been obvious, had a big dick that seemed to embarrass him. The word “chthonic” had been messily stick and poked above the ridge of his pubic hair maybe ten years ago and he seemed embarrassed about that too. Hickey wondered if he was like this with women. Doubted it, somehow. Tried to rouse a sense of power from Sol’s shyness, from the idea that something about himself had somehow reduced this boisterous beer league hockey dude to a shivering, submissive naïf. Failed at that, mostly.

Sex was weird if you had done it for a living once. It was hard not to let your brain go into the pattern of things and start accidentally playing the character of the jaded slut for whom this fuck of all fucks was different. It was headed that way, unfortunately, at first. He was just going to ride Sol, knowing that that was a situation that he could control, but Sol said, “Wait.” And heaven help him, he waited.

“What is it?”

“I wanna - get on your knees.”

He froze. There was that little frisson of something wrong, of fear.

“Sorry,” said Sol. His eyes in the darkness seemed pure black. “If you want to. If that’s okay. Could you —“

When you broke through the thin ice there was the cold shock and then the clarity. He didn’t say anything, but he did. He was telling himself he had done it just because it was surprising. Sol touched his flank. He said “Your skin.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know.”

He felt like laughing or perhaps crying. He didn’t bottom very often these days and so recalled quite belatedly that there was always a moment of something like the clarity of terror when you didn’t know if your body could. But it could, so it did. And after that it was easier, if not always good. It was easy to be used. Like this, he had long ago figured, they were using your body, yes, but you were using their mind. You let them believe for a moment that they had more power in this world than they ever actually would. They didn’t — couldn’t, wouldn’t — understand that it was only your power over them that had ever let them believe that.

Or at least that was what he was telling himself with those filaments of his brain that were still online. Strewn out akimbo in the rough cotton sheets in the supple, breathing darkness, Sol’s hands clutching his hips, thumbs spreading him. Sol was talking a lot, like an idiot, mostly just saying “Oh my god.” It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. Sometimes it felt so good to let go he wondered why he ever hung on.

—

He had a strange dream. The tent was cold. And the meat was thin. And the days were long. And in the back of his mind there was a song, which was not necessarily of himself. It was coming from someplace outside that could not be named. And would not be denied.

—

Morning. Milky blue light through the broken glass. So still and silent Hickey could tell without looking it was one of those mornings they were completely socked in fog. Like a ship upon the river ever drifting through tendrils of rising smoke toward the distant white eye of the sun.

He cracked one eye. On the other side of the bed Sol was stirring, shifting blankets, yawning. He should have gotten up and tried to leave and indeed he almost did but there was something… some weak little light. He was getting old, he figured. Getting soft. So he let Sol reach across the bed and find him, which turned out to open up a whole new can of worms. The light eyes flew open, fixed him. In their depths a manic, possessed glimmer. There was a heated silence in which neither of them breathed. Then: “Cornelius,” Sol yelled in a vivid whisper.

“What?”

His face was being kissed all over suddenly. Sol’s morning breath smelled like rotten beer. The hand which gently wrapped his wrist felt not so much possessive as wishful. As though he were asking permission and expecting to be denied.

“Oh, thank god,” Sol was saying, holding his face in callused palms. “I thought. Well, if you didn’t want to see me anymore I was going to… I don’t know what. Not much to — not much to do, is there?”

The strong and lanky body was buckled by a sob. Hickey tried to seize the opportunity to back away but instead found himself rapidly ensnared in desperate arms.

“I don’t know how,” Sol was saying into his hair. “How can you keep your wits about you? Dear god. A bit more goes away every day, doesn’t it? A bit more of everything. But not from you. How?”

He managed to extricate himself around noon after Sol cried himself to sleep.

/OP who replied below before even seeing ahhhhh thank youuu I am going to read this now!! :D

/OP

“You’re the one who showed up at the Cannula on otter night!”
Lmao oh dear, acts of hubris John's poor dishes were not to survive... u_u

lying, cheating, stealing, manslaughtering
:D Even given that one of these things is not like the others, this is still an impressively shorter list of infractions that 19th century Hickey so, ok, progress?

I would go to Tozer's bar! Art, depressing country music, and potential for haunting by long-dead polar explorers - now there's a vibe.

If everything bad in the world had happened to you at some point you learned eventually that fear was a chemical trick the human mind played on the human body.

Aw... I love how Hickey doesn't let himself feel sorry for himself and turns everything into a sort of hard as nails self-help pep talk from hell. And his hangups about power and vulnerability and trying to get around it by leaning into different hangups about power and vulnerability...

It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. Sometimes it felt so good to let go he wondered why he ever hung on.
;_;

The hand which gently wrapped his wrist felt not so much possessive as wishful. As though he were asking permission and expecting to be denied.
And Sol with his blush and big dick and art and embarrassing tattoo... and oh no Sol, awww ;_;

Rosie’s was out of the question, so Hickey walked all the way across town to the only other bar on this side of the river where a gin and tonic could still be gotten for under ten bucks, the Anchor. He didn’t normally go to the Anchor because it was primarily populated by weirdos living off the grid in the flats, who sometimes brought back bad memories of life on the road after one too many whiskeys, and because the bartender was an insufferable curmudgeon and, perhaps relatedly, excruciatingly desirable to those with unrepentant daddy issues, of which of course Hickey was one. He was called Francis. He was alone in the place and it was too brightly lit, it after all being only three in the afternoon.

“Don’t you have a job,” Francis said when Hickey sat down.

“No.”

“How do you make money?”

Hickey cocked an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Francis looked toward the portrait of St. Patrick above the door, as though for strength. “What’ll it be,” he said.

“Gin and tonic.”

“Alright.”

Hickey watched the old barman’s arms as he scooped ice, poured gin, allotted tonic from the soda gun. Veins, freckles, smudgy old tattoos. Somebody had said he had once been a tugboat captain on the river, like in the Galaxie 500 song.

“What brings you here, son,” said Francis, sliding the drink across the bar.

“Recent events,” Hickey shrugged. “I’m not exactly welcome any longer at any other bar in town.”

“Is that your own fault?”

“Maybe. Why do you wanna know?”

“To see if I should kick you out preemptively.”

“Let me finish this first,” Hickey said. “It’s been a long couple days.”

“Has it?” asked Francis aloofly, as though he already knew the answer. He was drying beer glasses with a great deal less care than Sol did.

“You’re being awfully nice.”

“When am I ever anything other than nice.”

“You’ve never once been nice to me before,” Hickey said. “Last time I was here you kicked me out for putting AC/DC on the jukebox.”

“That was wholly justified.”

“Well, what do you want to listen to?”

Francis glared. “Something good.”

“No pressure or anything…”

There was only a quarter left in Hickey’s pocket from the wad of cash the evening previous. Had he really spent it all already? Maybe he’d left some of it at Sol’s? He slipped the quarter into the jukebox and picked the first song he found that he figured no sane human being could object to, “Space Oddity” by David Bowie.

“Aha,” said Francis, hearing the opening chords. “You don’t already know, do you? But something in you knows.”

Hickey sat back down at the end of the bar. “What do you mean?”

“I guess you don’t, then.”

“Francis, it seems like working in this place has finally pickled your brain.”

The barman snorted. “Francis.”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Not to you.”

It was Hickey’s turn to scoff. “You don’t know me.”

“I know your kind,” Francis said, “and I know you. I’ve always known you. And I see you now.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

The old barkeep moved more quickly than Hickey had known he could. A rough hand grasped the scruff of his neck, like a lioness with cubs. Something seared in Hickey’s temple, like the start of an ocular migraine.

“I know you,” Crozier said again. “How old were you when you pushed that man in front of that train? Thirteen?”

“I don’t know what you’re —“

What happened then? It was not exactly a kiss. It was a headbutting of the lips. Inside the brief and bloody contact time and embodiment unfolded like an old map. They staggered away from each other toward opposite ends of the too-bright bar.

“Took you long enough,” said Crozier.

Hickey pressed his tongue to the tender place inside his lip and tasted salt. His ears were ringing. The spark and flare that he had taken for a migraine aura was opening like an accordion. Light, color. Snowblindness. Blood, bodies, flames. A cold knife, a broken ship, a flogger, hardtack, lemon juice. That great white beast with its human face. “Very funny.”

“You’d be a fool to try to outsmart me again.”

“You didn’t have to kiss me to tell me that. I would have figured it out on my own eventually.”

The captain picked up another beer glass from behind the bar and set about drying it as though nothing had happened.

“I always thought you might be too honorable, Captain Crozier.”

“Maybe so.” Something cold stirred around the old man’s lips. “Now go on. Get.”

Hickey didn’t need telling twice. It was the beginning of a new age, and the world was very old. There was magic in it somewhere, if not here. He knew that now and would not waste it this time. He went stumbling out the door, tasting his bloody lip, into the full flower of life again, again, again —

--

i hope this is to your liking OP! it well and truly got tf away from me...

the bartender was an insufferable curmudgeon and, perhaps relatedly, excruciatingly desirable to those with unrepentant daddy issues, of which of course Hickey was one
At minimum half of Terror fandom feels the same :D

Lol, perhaps Crozier knows it's time to take drastic measures before Hickey moves to his bar for good

Inside the brief and bloody contact time and embodiment unfolded like an old map.
Ooh, I love this... as with the recurring motif of the ice imagery!

There was magic in it somewhere, if not here. He knew that now and would not waste it this time.
OH DEAR I'm not so sure this is great news for the world! Could we at least cap it at manslaughter this time Mr. Hickey!!

I love this, author-anon - funny and sexy, dark and compelling, what a ride! I'm not sure if this is the end, in which case ooh I love the ominous (or, perhaps, optimistic?) momentum of that determined re-entrance into the world, or if you intend to continue in which case I will certainly be eager to read! Either way thank you SO much for writing this, totally made my day! :D

I absolutely love this. The inexplicability of what Hickey is experiencing combined with these little flashes of ice and snow and danger... And I love that this begins with Irving, moves to Tozer, and ends with Crozier, something about that feels Right.

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The Terror - Prompt Post 1

Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

Re: Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

Re: Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

Re: Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

Re: Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

Re: Hickey/Tozer or Hickey/Irving, reincarnation + possession sex

FILL: Ground Control, Hickey/Irving, Hickey/Tozer, light Hickey/Crozier, M, reincarnation [pt 1]

Re: FILL: Ground Control, Hickey/Irving, Hickey/Tozer, light Hickey/Crozier, M, reincarnation [pt 1]

Re: FILL: Ground Control, Hickey/Irving, Hickey/Tozer, light Hickey/Crozier, M, reincarnation [pt 1]

FILL: Ground Control, Hickey/Irving, Hickey/Tozer, light Hickey/Crozier, M, reincarnation [pt 2]

Re: FILL: Ground Control, Hickey/Irving, Hickey/Tozer, light Hickey/Crozier, M, reincarnation [pt 2]

Re: FILL: Ground Control, Hickey/Irving, Hickey/Tozer, light Hickey/Crozier, M, reincarnation [pt 2]