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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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Irving - touch starved and oversensitive
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 07:04 pm (UTC)(link)Fill: frosty wind made moan, M, Irving/various
(Anonymous) 2023-01-08 06:09 pm (UTC)(link)"Oh, hullo John!"
John jumps. So absorbed is he in his task he must not have heard the door go. It is a mercy his brush was nowhere near the page.
"Good evening, George," he replies. He is careful to sound friendly rather than annoyed - he has been enjoying some time in solitude and so does not pause in his work, but Lieutenant Hodgson is his friend and ought to be greeted as such.
"How goes the daubing?" George asks him. He leans on the back of John's chair, the wood creaking as it bears his weight. "Oh, you have captured her very well!"
John has been painting a view of Erebus as seen from Terror, the stern of the other ship forcing her way through the pack.
"I have not got the ice right," he tells him, "there are so many colours in it and yet it is white. I must sacrifice the variety or risk making a muddle."
George shuffles his legs backwards and leans down, his head just behind John's so he might admire the work from his level.
They are so close. George makes a humming sound in the back of his throat and John feels his breath on the back of his neck. It has been so long since anyone touched him; it might as well be a caress.
George looks at the picture for what feels like an age. John does not dare try and continue his work while he is being watched, for he is sure to make some novice mistake. He cannot apply himself, not while he can still feel every soft exhale of the other lieutenant on his neck, on the lobe of his ear. If he turned his face he could feel it on his lips.
"Well I think you have done splendidly," says George at last, "I would never have even known what elements of the scene I should attempt to get right!"
John holds himself very still until George has backed away.
"My problem is the opposite," he tells him, "I know very well what I should like to get down only to fumble it in the execution."
*
Working in silence, Mr Gibson deftly unbuttons John's waistcoat. He is very quiet about his work, never one for keeping a conversation going beyond politeness' sake. He does not compare in that way to Mr Jopson, the Captain's steward, who is ever on hand for a cheerful dialogue with his charge, a pleasant and easy conversation.
Still, John does not wish to encourage conversation for its own sake. He has little skill in that direction himself. One must always be thinking of new questions and remarks and eventually one runs out. Better to never start the thing in the first place.
It is difficult to know where to look when dealing with Mr Gibson. They are of a height, or thereabouts, and it is hard to avoid looking at his face. John looks down instead, watching the steward's fingers on the golden buttons. They are long and thin, rather like the man himself, but red and rough at the knuckles. The redness spreads down in the delicate webs in between them.
"Your hands, Mr Gibson," says John, as the steward helps him out of his waistcoat.
Gibson sets the garment down, turns his hands slowly this way and that in front of him.
"Sir?"
Evidently uncomprehending he returns to his duties, going to untie John's cravat. John tenses at the proximity. He much prefers the nights he does not wear his dress uniform, the nights where he has the time and the privacy to undress himself before Gibson works his way down to his cabin. It is no disrespect to the man's work - although - perhaps, perhaps he wishes Gibson were a little more grateful for John's efforts to lighten his load - it is the closeness, the way he sweats and palpitates in anticipation of being touched.
"My hands, sir?" Gibson is tugs at the cravat but it is unusually unyielding. Perhaps John tugged on it nervously at the dinner table.
"Yes, Mr Gibson your hands are red-raw."
Gibson pulls away, his hands disappearing to his sides where they clench into fists.
"I'm sorry about it, sir. I use a salve Mr Jopson swears by but it's the cold, I think. It is not my carelessness that leaves them so unsightly."
"Oh, no," says John, feeling a little frantic, "it was not for appearances, I meant only… they look sore."
Gibson's shoulders relax, and he returns to the knotted cravat.
"I'm grateful for your concern, sir," he says. John ought to take his thanks as given, but a resentful imp on his shoulder is aggrieved that Gibson doesn't sound all that grateful.
Gibson steadies one hand at John's neck while the other unpicks the knot. His fingers overlap skin and collar, his thumb is almost in the hollow of his throat.
In a sharp motion Gibson tugs one length of fabric free. John swallows. His Adam's apple presses into Gibson's thumb.
He is having trouble with the knot still. John closes his eyes. What if Mr Gibson were to press deeper with those roughened hands of his? Those hands as slender as a musician's yet hardened by toil. He has John at his mercy. He could tug hard and tight on the ends of the cravat and throttle him. They are the hands of a scoundrel. He could close those long fingers fully around John's neck and squeeze-
"There!" Mr Gibson pulls the length of fabric away, a look of triumph on his face. It is the most joy John has observed in him at close quarters and it is strange to see on the steward's pale, ascetic face. It is as if a painting of Christ crucified had suddenly winked at him.
John feels ashamed of having imagined malign intent on Gibson's part. It must be the consequence of having another man so close - he must guard against these instances of undressing ever more vigilantly.
*
"With respect, Captain, while the men might notice an increase in the rum ration more, we will surely all be stronger and better fit to sail out in spring if we were to increase their food."
John pauses for breath after making his speech. There is a moment of silence at the wardroom table.
"Here, Francis, Lieutenant Irving may be right," says Mr Blanky, turning to the Captain, "increase the grog, they'll be hell to pay if we have to cut back in the new year. Increase the food… well, we’ll to take to hunting soon enough, might as well be fit and healthy for it."
Another tense silence. The Captain nods his assent. The meeting continues.
John looks up at Mr Blanky thankfully and the Ice Master winks at him. John blinks stupidly, and Blanky seems to suppress a chuckle before turning to the continuing discussion of stocks and practicalities.
He feels his face grow hot.
When the meeting concludes he is slow to react, still sorting his logbooks when he finds he and Mr Blanky are the only men left in the room. John is quite distracted in comparison to his earlier brilliance. Blanky approaches him.
"Francis can be a stubborn old bugger at the best of times, Lieutenant, but you did a grand job there of standing up to him. Good lad." Mr Blnanky pats John's shoulder approvingly, keeping his hand there to five him a little squeeze.
"Hah!" John makes an involuntary sound of surprise at the confident touch.
"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Asks Blanky in concerned tones. He rubs his thumb in a soothing motions, grazing the bare skin where John's collar meets his neck. He makes another noise, yet more mortifying than the first.
"Hnngh…"
John almost relaxes into the touch, then remembers himself, tugging abruptly away.
"Yes, Mr Blanky, I am quite well," he announces, before continuing in more gracious tones. "Thank you. For your concern."
Blanky withdraws his hands, hold them out in front of him, gesturing having meant no harm. John feels the absence of the weight of the older man's hand, of his rough thumb on the delicate flesh of John's neck. He ought to have leant into it. He oughtn’t to have to enjoyed it so much.
He feels awful, worse than awful, for having reacted so oddly to such an innocent gesture. He thinks to apologise to him, but when he turns to do so Blanky has already left the room.
*
John is struggling with his gloves. They were knitted for him by Kate and are very handsomely done, but he has discovered since they reached the Arctic that they are not the most practical for the weather. In the warmth of the lower deck he wants to be free of them, but his hands are clumsy from the cold air.
"Let me help, sir."
John glances up to see the smiling face of Sergeant Tozer. The Marine Sergeant's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. His whole face crinkles, as if it were made of mirth.
The Sergeant takes John's wrist in one hand, and neatly slides two fingers of the other inside his glove.
John makes a choked little sound. For that tiniest fraction of time he feels the rough, big fingers of the Sergeant resting in the sensitive trough of his palm, cradled between the pad of flesh at the base of his thumb and the rising mound that runs down from his littlest finger. The touch is light, surprisingly so for one as strong as the Sergeant. When was John last touched so delicately?
The moment passes as the Sergeant presses his fingers into John's palm and tilts his wrist away from John’s hand, levering the glove off. Their hands slide out from under it together.
"Thank you," says John, shakily, taking the glove in his wobbling hand.
"A pleasure, sir," grins Tozer. John scrutinises his beaming expression. He feels as if he is the subject of some queer joke but cannot rebuke the man without seeming ridiculous. He nods, biting his lip in confusion.
The Sergeant's smile broadens.
*
“Do you know,” says Dr Macdonald as John tugs his shirt over his head, “It is a rare thing for me to have to chase down a lieutenant and not a ship’s boy for a physical.”
John perches on the edge of the examination table, shoulders hunching in embarrassment.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I have been very busy.”
Dr Macdonald smiles as he sorts through the instruments of his trade.
“Oh, certainly. But you’re here now, eh?”
He moves closer, until he is standing very close indeed, his chest almost pressing against John’s arm. He has in his hand his little listening trumpet, the instrument John has seen him use to listen for a heartbeat.
“Have you been feeling well, Lieutenant? You had Mr Blanky worrying about you the other day.”
“Yes - yes, I - oh!” John makes a noise of surprise as the chill end of the instrument touches his chest. “I have. Quite well, thank you.”
“My apologies,” says the doctor, “for the shock.”
He withdraws the instrument and sighs deeply onto the end of it, warming it with his breath. He presses it back to John’s chest. Now it is pleasantly warm, a warmth that has come from the doctor’s mouth onto John’s naked body, as surely as if he had pressed it there directly.
Macdonald leans down to press his ear against the listening end of the instrument. His head is just below John’s chin. His shirtsleeve brushes John’s belly. He can feel the doctor’s breath on his arm, turning it to goose-pimples. He can smell him - the sweet mustiness of unwashed hair under oil, the deeper, sharper smell of his sweat, his body under his clothes.
“Your heartbeat is a little quick,” observes Macdonald, “But as long as it isn’t always thus you're well within a healthy range. Not nervous, are you, Lieutenant?”
John feels his face heating. He shakes his head perhaps a little too emphatically. The doctor straightens up, removes the instrument from his skin. It makes a small, slightly tacky sound as it is pulled away. With the doctor looming over him and his own legs dangling awkwardly from the examination table he feels like a truculent schoolboy.
The doctor moves round to his back, placing the listening instrument on him once again. John can feel the pressure of the doctor’s arm on his back, he can feel the warmth of the doctor’s flesh pressing against it through the thin fabric of his shirt. The doctor can’t see his reactions now - John might - he might enjoy it -
No, he mustn’t. And yet he can feel the horrid beast between his legs rearing its head, just as it has done for many such innocent touches from his comrades. John wriggles in his seat, trying to find a posture that might adequately disguise his mortifying predicament.
“Breathe in.”
John does so. If he can conclude the examination quickly then there will be no further shameful displays. He breathes in as deeply as possible, determined to demonstrate his health and vitality, determined to -
“That’s excellent, Lieutenant. Now out again.”
It is satisfying, to follow simple instructions well. It fills John with a precious warmth to be spoken to so, to be handled like a doll as the doctor continues his work, raising arms, tilting his head this way and that.
It helps, of course, that the doctor’s pleasant Scotch accent recalls those of the servants who raised him, the succession of bony nursemaids who pinched him when he was naughty and told him "good boy" when he pleased them. It is pleasant to be touched, so pleasant a haze that John loses sight for a moment of where he is, lost in the caring ministrations of Doctor Macdonald.
“Lieutenant?”
John jumps, brought back from his reverie. The doctor seems to have finished his examination but still stands very close, looking down on him with a gentleness of expression.
“Yes?”
“I cannot find anything physically wrong with you,” Macdonald looks down at John’s lap and he realises to his horror that his rearrangement of limbs and fabric has done nothing to disguise the unseemly interest his piece has taken in the doctor’s careful work. “However, I must now make an enquiry of a rather delicate nature, if you’ll forgive me, Lieutenant.”
“I cannot help it,” John blurts out, folding in on himself. “Is it,” he continues, more cautiously, “a disease?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“As I said, you are physically well. When you find yourself in this state have you been… taking care of matters yourself?”
John looks at him in frank shock.
“No, of course not!”
“Or, have you perhaps asked a mate to help you to, ah, alleviate the pressure?”
John shakes his head vehemently.
“No, that would be - that is a sin - surely you cannot - “
The doctor pats his knee, surely only aiming to reassure him.
“That’s all right, Lieutenant. I understand your wariness of these matters. But it does not do a man good to keep these matters all pent up inside him I can assure you. And, given our situation… well, I am sure God would understand if certain measures were taken, eh?”
John shakes his head. He feels even hotter than before. His head is spinning and still his middle part will not abate.
“I cannot do it to myself, that would be wrong,” he insists, feeling like a silly child faced with the doctor’s temperate manner, “And if I asked… surely they would have the wrong idea. Or… it would… that would be bad.”
His shame and embarrassment is turning to sorrow, but he cannot blubber in front of Dr Macdonald like a ship's boy.
“Well, Lieutenant,” smiles Macdonald, “I am always here to help if there is nowhere else to turn.”
He places a hand on John’s shoulder. His naked hand on John’s naked body. John writhes in place once again, as if struggling to be free from the little grasp. Dr Macdonald is handsome and kind, he has the pleasant Scots tones that John was schooled out of, he is surely only meaning to advise as a father and yet his horrible body. He ought to be pinned here like a fly, good only for scientific study of sin.
John swallows. He can feel a sob rising in his throat, ready to burst out in an unseemly squawk.
“Thank you, doctor,” he says, “but I am sure this will not happen again.”
Re: Fill: frosty wind made moan, M, Irving/various
(Anonymous) 2023-01-11 05:06 am (UTC)(link)Make that Irving suffer! Or rather, no one else even has to, he makes himself suffer so well :D
Re: Fill: frosty wind made moan, M, Irving/various
(Anonymous) 2023-04-13 06:47 pm (UTC)(link)