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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!
If you have questions or comments please contact us in the comments of the Mod Post.
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 Jopson/Little, hypnosis (possibly turned seduction...)
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 10:57 pm (UTC)(link)Doe (Jopson/Little, hypnosis, rated M)
"Good evening, sir."
Lieutenant Little waves the honorific away with a little gesture. He is sat, slumped and forlorn, at his small desk, his coat still heavy upon his shoulders. Thomas slides the door shut behind him and lingers in the small space until a timid sideways glance wordlessly invites his approach, invites him to help the man shrug out of his heavy woolen armour and put it up on its hanger for the day.
Once he has done so, he turns back to Little, whose eyes dart away from him like startled fawns caught admiring the luscious grass in a clearing from the very edge of the protective forest.
"Sir, if you would like me to help, then you shall have to look at me," Thomas tries, softly, and smiles when the reprise of formal address does return the man's eyes to him, if only to signal the dismissal of rank.
"Just like that," he praises, and understanding dawns on Little and the very tips of his ears, half-hidden in tousled strands, turn a lovely, healthy colour.
"If you'd recline on your berth?"
"Oh," Little nods, mutters 'yes, yes', and does just that. He moves, Thomas finds, a little bit like a marionette: a little too wooden, a little too hectic, a little uncoordinated, as if his joints are hinged in ways he does not fully understand. It is what a long day does to Edward Little, now in the ice at the very latest. He arranges himself like a little paper doll, leans himself against the wood and anxiously clasps his hands, tries to stuff them into his vest, finally tucks them under his thighs, sits on them, so they cannot flutter all over the place.
Thomas draws up the chair for himself. "You needn't do this, you know," Little mutters, like he does every time.
"I know," says Thomas, like he does every time. "Give me your foot?"
As he starts working off the lieutenant's left boot, he can feel where the worn-in leather has taken on the warmth of the body beneath. He grips it firmly above the heel and pulls, and says: "Pull out," and Little does, easily with his aid. Thomas sets his foot down and asks for the other, which Little gives without thought. The boots set aside, one socked foot remains in Thomas' lap for him to rub the ankle. A few days prior, Little had said it troubled him towards the end of the day, so now Thomas presses his fingertips against the wool, traces the bone and sinew with massaging strokes. "That feel alright?" he asks, and Little hums.
Yes, Thomas is theoretically not responsible for helping lieutenant Little dress down for the night. But it happened once by chance, and now it is a routine. Because when Thomas eventually says: "Look at me?"
Little does.
His eyes appear almost black in the dim of the cabin, but Thomas thinks he knows them to be brown. They are skittish, still, and blink often, the handsome lashes a fluttering curtain in the breeze of too many thoughts. Doe eyes. Thomas rests his hand on Little's shin and gazes back at him.
"You've had a long, long day," he says, softly, and Little's eyes seem to blacken with feeling. The man's lips half heartedly start forming a syllable, his head inclines toward a nod, but neither motion is finished because Thomas says: "I know," and squeezes his leg, and leans forward a little. "But now it is night," he narrates, "and it is time to slow down."
This time, only the nod even begins: Little's lips remain parted but do not attempt words.
"Look at me," Thomas reminds him, softly.
"Now it is night," he repeats, "and your body is heavy from all the work you did."
The blinking is slowing down.
Thomas wets his lips.
"Your legs, they are heavy," he says, stroking along the one that rests in his lap, and feels how it seems to grow heavy indeed. "And your arms, oh they are heavy… they have done so much today."
Little's shoulders sag with the weight, a different slump. Softer. His eyes, too, appear all the softer in the quiet dim.
Thomas leans a little further forward, and Little does not shy away.
"Your mind is heavy, too, is it not? You do not need to answer. I know your head is heavy, I know."
And it tilts, slightly, as he says it: follows gravity as if him speaking the words was what made it real. He tilts his own as well, to keep level with doe eyes that are now blinking slowly, naturally rather than consciously.
"Look at me," he murmurs, gently.
"Can you feel where your breath is?"
Little's eyes narrow the tiniest bit as he queries his body, and Thomas watches with interest for the spark of recognition that will tell him: "Is it in your chest?"
Little breathes in deeply, and Thomas narrates: "going in…. going out?"
It is a long, soothing breath.
"Or is it in your belly?"
Promptly, Little sucks his next breath deeper, and Thomas paces: "going in... going out?"
With every exhale, Little grows… pliant. Softer around the edges. Thomas mirrors the droop of his head to keep him with him.
"And does it go in through the nose? Going in… and flow out between your lips, and carry all heavy thoughts away… going out…"
Little follows the rhythm. His arms have gone slack: his hands, previously consciously restrained, now truly lay forgotten where he put them. His pupils are wide and dark and soft. Thomas need not tell them to look at him.
"All those heavy thoughts… wadded up like wet paper… breathe in… and let them come out… and out… breathe out…"
Little does. He breathes in sweetly, deeply, and exhales debris until his eyes slowly glaze over. His lids droop gently, his lashes drape placidly. His lips are parted still, his jaw slack.
Thomas rubs his thumb back and forth, back and forth where his hand rests on Little's shin.
"...theeere we go," he murmurs, now both to Little and himself. "Let them come out on their own. Breathe in… let them out…"
This is the point at which he slowly, slowly starts moving. He inches closer, still, sitting at the edge of the chair, because eventually, Little slowly slumps forward, and Thomas will not let him fall. Instead, he carefully, progressively rearranges him into place, until he is sat on the bed himself, with Little halfway in his lap, drowsy and pliant and sweet.
"So quiet now," he tells him, lowering his voice to just above a whisper, a soothing murmur to keep Little tethered to him as he starts undoing the buttons of his vest. "So quiet and still… two more buttons…"
When he suggests, "take it off, hm?" Little moves sluggishly, but easily: slowly takes off his vest as if he were sleepwalking, and just lets it fall where it is, does not look for a place to put it but simply goes boneless against him again, endearingly passive. "Good," Thomas praises, "just like that…"
He likes to touch Little, when he is like this. He did not give in to the urge the first time it happened: forced himself to wait, and ask about it before he next guided him to this place where Little so readily, so willingly follows if Thomas only bids him to, ever so gently. All the more fulfilling, then, to soothe his fingers down the man's back, down his chest. Brush his knuckles over his cheek, down over the shirt where they come across the soft bud of a nipple beneath. Ask, "where is your breath?", lay his palm on his sternum and say "...there you are," when it gives way or greets his touch with the flow of it.
Little is tranquil now, sedate. His head lolls against Thomas' shoulder. He reacts to nothing and everything alike: does not tense in anticipation or guilt when Thomas slips his fingers underneath his shirt, but breaks out in goosebumps all the same. Does not press closer or reach out to him, but grows silently, unquestioningly hard in his smalls.
"Look at me," Thomas tells him, and holds his head cradled in his arm while Little gazes up at him with his handsome empty doe eyes. He pets along the rigid yard where it strains against the fabric, rubs the hidden softness of Little's belly, nudges his hand between two heavy, heavy legs to cradle heavy stones.
"Where is your breath?", he asks, and Little draws it all the way down there in one slow, steady motion, eyes vacant in the dim. For a moment, Thomas says nothing. Gently rolls his bollocks, and Little holds that breath until Thomas slides his hand up and away and hums: "...and out", as it smoothes up and over the clothed prick. The breath flows out, a sigh, and in a while, Edward Little will spill with the release of a breath and the gentling of Thomas' hand, and his handsome doe eyes will be gazing up at him all the while, quiet and sweet and so perfectly dumb.
Re: FILL Jopson/Little, hypnosis (possibly turned seduction...)
(Anonymous) 2022-10-07 03:09 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL Jopson/Little, hypnosis (possibly turned seduction...)
(Anonymous) 2022-10-07 10:50 pm (UTC)(link)