#Goodsir; I don't drink

[do-not-lick-the-walls]

a devil put aside | chapter six - communion

masterlist | read on ao3

(gif via @goodsirs)

beelzebub x fallen angel!reader

summary: you have a drink with the council.

(she/her pronouns are used for reader, no use of y/n)

warnings: religious themes & trauma, strong language, drinking/drunkenness, some sexual undertones, peer pressure(?)

ineffable taglist: @sarcastic-sourwolf , @angelofthenight <3

a/n: sorry the end of this is kinda rushed, as I unfortunately have responsibilities other than this fic (boooooooo) which currently includes a lot of college auditions. Alas, in order to become the funny little gay on TV, I must sacrifice some of the fic about the funny little gay on TV. So it goes. Pretend it was all on purpose because she's drunk djdjdndjdjxjd

---

You're bad at a lot of things, but round two is looking like it's about to involve some of your worst.

Skidding through your first Council meeting has injected you with a nervous high, an unblinking energy that makes your teeth hurt and your fingers bleed while half-carved anxieties play catch with your pulse. You can't make it slow (will you ever tame the horrible throbbing of this heart?) the tha-thump is going too strong for that (will you ever get used to it?) so you're resigned to live out your agitation on this couch, picking at your nails until you're thrown back in the ring.

This backroom is surprisingly cozy, making it all the more unfamiliar. The light is warm here, rather than green, cast from several vintage lamps and the fireplace. Little statues, trinkets, and other curiosities decorate the mantle with a slice of the room's casual grandeur. There's a settled-in feeling to the place, telling you both that you're welcome and that you don't belong.

While Hastur and Ligur hang their coats by the door, Beelzebub sprawls out at the other end of your couch like a very relaxed corpse. They let out a sigh reminiscent of a balloon slowly deflating.

"Welcome to our little hideaway. Make yourself comfy," Ligur invites. With an effort, you cross your legs and lean back some. He does a much better job of it, flopping down on the sofa across from you, soon joined by an uneasy Hastur. Dagon perches on the arm of an old recliner.

"Eric, bring us a couple bottles!" Beelzebub shouts. (You flinch.) They're seemingly confident that whoever Eric is can hear them despite the closed door and whatever distance there may be. You don't question it. The past thirty hours have carried weirder stuff, and you're more concerned about what Eric's bringing.

At least you knew the rules of a meeting. Granted, it was the oddest meeting you've ever been in, but still, you had a basic understanding of the game. You've been in tons of meetings. It's a meeting. It's fine. You have no idea what the rules of "having a drink in the back" are, except that you're pretty sure drinking is one of them.

To calm yourself, you let your eyes wander the room some more. The dark, swirling brocade of the wallpaper is almost soothing to your nerves, as is the half-felt drag of your shoe's heel across the rug when you pull your foot back and forth. Oil paintings of evil's greatest triumphs hang proudly, and you wonder if they were just miracled into existence, or if somebody spent hours and hours on them. You wouldn't be surprised if someone had; subject matter aside, they're beautiful.

After the paintings, your eyes fall on a boxy contraption in the corner. It's placed atop a cabinet, lid propped open to reveal silver bits of machinery on the inside. Unsure if it's within the rules to ask aloud, you nudge Beelzebub, glance at the box, and raise your eyebrows.

They laugh. "That's a record player, doll."

"Oh." You pause. "I don't know what that means."

"Here," Ligur gets up and pulls an envelope from the cabinet, then a black disc from the envelope. He places the disc in the machine and fiddles around a bit with the silver pieces. Then, something clicks into place, and the box begins to make an unfamiliar kind of sound.

You scrunch your eyebrows together, frowning. "I don't..."

"It's music," Dagon explains. "It's playing a record."

"Oh." The tension in your forehead slowly drops away as you listen. It doesn't sound anything at all like the angel choirs you sing in. There's a heartbeat at the base of it. Not an unpleasant, flighty one, though, a steady bounce that's felt more than it's heard, like the constant pace of a perpetual motion machine. And over top of those beats, a funky, squiggly sound chases itself back and forth with abandon. It strikes an urge to do something in time with the whole affair. "I like it."

Just as you're starting to tap your finger a little, the door slams open, tearing a very un-demonlike yelp from you and sending your pulse into double-time.

"Alright, alright, alright! Got a nice selection for you tonight, Lords, all reds as always, got some lovely flavors here," says the intruder, a tall, skinny demon with his arms full of clinking bottles and glasses, and who is presumably Eric. You take a few breaths, hand to your chest, while he sets the collection on the coffee table.

Centuries of politeness-instinct makes you open your mouth to thank him, even though you don't mean it, but Beelzebub gives you a subtle kick, and you clumsily glare instead. Eric responds with an encouraging smile and a thumbs up.

"Very nice, very nice! You must be the Seraph, then! Nice t'meet you, I'm Eric. I'm kind of the everyman around here, you can find me pretty easy, so just call if you need anything, yeah?" He bombards, "How's hell for you?"

You open your mouth again, only to be cut off with variations of "Fuck off, Eric!" From four different directions. Eric doesn't seem to mind in the slightest, and gives you a cheery wave before he leaves.

"You'll get used to him," Dagon says, while you avoid watching Ligur pour the wine. "He's annoying, but he's useful."

A concerningly pleasant aroma floats through the air as the demons pass around their glasses. There's no cheat for this, no trick, and there's no calling for backup when your backup's handing you the cup. This trial is four against one. This is a hurdle you have to jump yourself.

You accept the full glass from Beelzebub with both hands, letting it nest in your palms. It's heavier than expected. You feel like a child, awkwardly holding something a little too big for her, and afraid of being punished should she drop it. Wine, blood, what's the difference when it's spilled on the floor? The cup you're cradling doesn't look too different from the pinpricks of red on the fingers that hold it.

Four sets of evil eyes are trained onto you. Curiosity, suspicion, apprehension, faith. The tempting, fruity aroma of sin kisses your nose like it did Eve, exciting your heart again before it even got the chance to fully calm down.

A smile ticks at the corner of Beelzebub's mouth. They hold out their glass. "Cheers. To you."

The glasses ring when they knock together.

The wine is sour on your tongue, then sweet after you push it down your neck, and it tastes like red. It tastes very much like you're not supposed to have it. Somewhere in your throat it catches, and you choke, then force it to stay down. You make a face.

Beelzebub laughs. "It's an aquired taste, love. Keep drinking, you'll come to like it."

You grimace, but take another sip. It's not as bad the second time, and you do better with the whole swallowing thing. Still not good, but not as bad. Maybe it can be appreciated, if you get used to it. You swirl around the glass, watching the red whirlpool form, then dissipate.

Hastur lights a cigarette by engulfing his entire hand in flame. "So, how are you liking hell?" He asks, tentative, as if poking a lion with a very long stick. You shift around.

What you want to say is, "It's hell, what do you think?"

You don't say that.

Instead, after an awkward pause and a mental dig, you blurt out, "I like the clothes."

Well, you landed somewhere honest. You do like the clothes. There's variety down here, styles, colors and shapes you didn't realize were options, all far more interesting to look at than heaven's raiment.

"I can see why," Ligur chuckles. "Beez dressed you nice. You look right well in them."

Beez???

"Wait, wait, hold on a second, is that---" Dagon sets her glass down, leans in, then falls back with a bark of laughter. "She's got their pin on!"

The room erupts into snickers, lighting sparks on your face. You look to Beelzebub for help, find them emptying their glass, and decide to follow suit. You can't pound it like they do, but your hands and the cup give you somewhere to hide.

"I knew you liked your new pet, Beez, but I didn't know you were already so attached!"

Wine sloshes out of your glass as you shoot to your feet, sputtering. "I am not a pet!"

"Ooh, bit fiesty, are we?" Ligur teases, then grunts as Hastur throws an elbow in his side.

"Shut it, all of you!" Beelzebub shouts. They pour themself another, buzzing, and tug you back down. "Don't mind, love. They're just teasing. If anything, means they like you."

Your face is still burning, but you calm a little as you sink back into the leather. This is not heaven. This is a different game, with different rules, you remind yourself, and finish whatever wine you didn't spill. Play the game.

Fiddling with the pin, you take a breath. You're bad at a lot of things, and choosing the right words might just be the worst of them.

You try anyway.

"It's okay that you're jealous, Ligur. I would be too," you joke, then immediately slap your hand over your stupid mouth. Beelzebub chokes on their wine.

But there must've been a miracle left in you, because he whistles high, and breaks into a grin. Relief untenses your shoulders. "I was right, you are fiesty," he laughs, "Beez, I take it back, I'm glad we didn't feed her to the hellhounds. She's fun."

You laugh along nervously, also glad they didn't feed you to the hellhounds, but keenly aware that it's not off the table yet. Still, you snag the golden piece of approval, and you let the want for more of it refill your glass.

"I told you all, she's got it," Beelzebub smiles, then turns to you, "Oh, careful there, love. It's your first time, and you're on an empty stomach."

Waving them off, you sit back and take a sip. It's starting to taste good, and the amused look you pull from them tastes even sweeter. Their arm rests along the top of the sofa, as if tempting you to come curl into their side. You drink.

Little shocks flutter in your fingertips as a pleasant haze rolls in over the next few minutes, and then much longer after that. For the first time in many days, you feel unheavy. Floating instead of falling, instead of sinking. You kick off your shoes and pull your feet onto the couch, pulse matching time with the music, to which you've started tapping your fingers along with. You're contented just to listen for a while. To the record player, and to the idle, demonic chit-chat.

Maybe you have another glass, or maybe you just make this one last a while, you're not really sure. Which is quite funny, now that you think about it. You should know that, but you don't, but that's okay, because it's fine. You laugh at yourself, and then again at the sound you make. When's the last time you laughed? It feels good, you should really do it more. No wonder you're sad all the time.

With that problem solved, you turn to Beez---the name makes you giggle again---to ask for another drink.

Oh.

Fuck.

You already knew they're gorgeous. This shouldn't be a surprise. But holy shit, are they beautiful, looking so at ease, so in control, sprawled out like they own the place. Which they do.

You want to touch their face. You want them to touch you. You want them to burn sunsets into you with their hands, kiss your neck like they didn't before. You just want them.

Their side is still open, inviting, and you give in this time. After all, why shouldn't you? They make an 'oomph' noise as you fall into them, then a squeak, then a "shut the fuck up," in response to a chorus of snickers. They're warm, they're beautifully warm, and they're safe. You're safe. You could bury yourself here.

"Alright, you're officially drunk, then," they laugh, "Should've known, you've got no tolerance for it."

"Mmmmmnnhhhnn," you respond.

"What's that?"

You sigh, wrapping your arms around them, and press in closer. If this is being drunk, you don't see what makes it such a sin. You're at peace, in safe hands, and free to stop thinking. It's an altar you'd worship at any day.

A hand runs down your back, and you remember what it is you wanted to say.

"You're so nice."

[susiehunsecker-remade]

im new to the terror so forgive me for this v broad question but ... what are The Ships here ... i know fitzier is big but what else is ... jopzier? is that what they're called? i wanna b in the kno so bad lol also feel free to use this space to talk about dynamics (romantic or otherwise) that ur rly interested in ^_^

AGH OKAY.. trying to wrackmmy brain into remembering all the relevant pairings . it's 4am forgive me if i forget.

fitzier - self explanatory, fitzjames and crozier. somehow speedrun being worstie coworkers to being in a 10 year long tender marriage over the course of a two/three year long expedition. my favorite to read fics for / talk about. they look like this to me 🦭🦙

joplittle - jopson and little. i will be real i don't care for them as much just because i care too much about jopson and crozier but i do get it. what if we were both busting our ass for a guy and only one of us got the praise from him for it ❤️ what if we we became responsible for an entire ship's worth of men on a doomed arctic expedition becahse our captain was too sick to think...together ❤️

bridglar - bridgens and peglar. one of the two canonical couples on the crew. very in love very married i'm not big on them but i understand why. they'll only resort to cannibalism if it means they'll both survive they fit together perfectly and when they die they'll wake up in the afterlife with the other in their arms. what's there not to love!

jopzier - jopson and crozier! dutiful steward and the captain he's dedicated himself to out of sheer love and respect And also because he sees him as a mother figure but i won't get into that. okay this one's my actual favourite i can't even pretend i'm not batshit about them. crozier does not deserve that man but it's okay whatever makes jopson happy ❤️ also when i mean jopson sees him as a mother figure the Him in question is himself. i don't believe in that He Wants Crozier To Mommy Dom Him line of thinking. anyways. what was this thread about. oh yeah pairings.

goodsilna - goodsir and lady silence/silna. i wish i could talk about these two more but i'm not articulate enough to convey what i think about them. they're traumabonded siblings they're the only ones who truly see the other for who they are they're completely incompatible they're all the other has they couldn't have possibly loved the other but they did. i need to rewatch the show just to solidify my feelings on them more but god they're one of the best dynamics the show has

hickeygibson - gibson and hickey! RAT MARRIAGE and the cause of most of my mental anguish ❤️ my two beautiful wives who love each other fiercely until the need to survive tears them apart what's not to love

hickeytozer - tozer and hickey. cop boyfriend with the mr beast haircut and his frequently unemployed gay boyfriend that puts his cigarettes out on tozer's arm. they're great i love hickey and his stupid dog he feeds chocolate to for fun

hickeycrozier - hickey and crozier. um. well. what if your captain loved your men more than god loved them but just fucking hated you in particular and used you as a scapegoat for all his frustrations and failings as a captain leading you to become the gay racist joker of the seven seas. and also what if you said a slur you couldn't reclaim in front of him and like 2 years ago he gave you a drink all flirty. well this all happened to my friend cornelius so you can imagine how he feels about that.

fitzfranklin - sir john + fitzjames. This is a sneak they're not at all popular but I have to shove them in somehow. You know how jfj is constantly trying to get older men to praise him like. Haha best walker in the service i told sir barrow that without blushing ❤️ Hey francis can I talk to you about how my dad didn't care about me and also how we're like brothers ❤️. This is the natural culmination of that to me especially considering how hard she dickrides for franklin in the beginning. Please consider them even though they barely exist. For me.

[calamitys-child]

Reading the terror, review so far is largely that it is BEWILDERINGLY misogynistic and racist in a way the show isn't to the point that French people, Irish people, and Scottish people you don't like very much all don't count as white apparently, but I'm very delighted by the way goodsir capitalises Important Words. Maybe it's the tumblr accent but reading stuff like "our safety in the tent was Greatly Diminished upon the arrival of an Enormous Fucking Bear" is so funny to me. Also I think the TV adaptation should've let crozier swear like that more. He's cutting about like "You fucking shit for wits piss drinking rat fuck cunt" and I love it.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Chapter Twenty-Five: Crozier

This is it, lads - Carnivale! D: And boy is there a lot to dig into!

Crozier and Fitzjames retire to Erebus for much of the evening - neither of them want much part in the festivities so they sit drinking whisky in silence. Cannae blame them really.

There's a delightful mention of Mr Murray, the sailmaker - he's described as being old with a wizened visage, and is dressed up like a mortician. I had a half-remembered hunch about him so looked it up to check - homeboy was 43 years old in real life! Harsh, Simmons, very harsh!

When it's time for the feast - consisting of the polar bear Fairholme shot - it's Jopson and Hoar, Little and Le Vesconte that come to fetch the Captains. There's something quite sweet about that that I can't quite put my finger on - very formal somehow.

Once they're back out on the ice, there's good news and bad news. Bad news is that the men have clearly figured out how to brew some bootleg booze and are all absolutely plastered. The good news - as far as I'm concerned - is that it's Le Vesconte along with the other officers and stewards - who are dishing out food to the men. It's just a lovely little role reversal that makes me smile.

Also interesting is the frequent mention of Le Vesconte's gold tooth. I imagine it's a reference to the remains that were found that were thought for years to be his but were later identified as Goodsir's by the presence of a specific metallic dental filling?

Once they're all digging in to the food, it's quite an eerie free-for-all: "It was as if more than a hundred predators were revelling in their kill."

Then, it's time for a song and a show! The song is 'Rule Britannia' and the show involves Hickey on Manson's shoulders, both of them trussed up in a costume made from the hides of the slaughtered polar bears. With them is a man dressed up ghoulishly as a decapitated Sir John which I really shouldn't find as funny as I do. I've written "Objectively hilarious" next to this passage.

As the singing swells to a climax and Sir John's grandfather clock strikes midnight, shit then hits the fan with Tuunbaq's eerie arrival: "Crozier saw that there was a second large white shape in the room. It stood on its hind legs. It was farther back in the darkness than Manson and Hickey's bear-hide-white glow. And it was much larger. And taller." "There came a second roar...The sound ground so low into the bass regions, grew so reverberating, and emerged so ferocious that it made the captain of HMS Terror want to piss his pants right there in front of his men."

From then on, all is chaos. We have a description of a man in a harlequin costume (one of the doctors as, just like in the show, they're all in matching clown/harlequin costumes) running past Crozier in flames. We all get Fitzjames described as "...the only figure not costumed and not running" which jumped out at me for some reason.

Crozier and Fitzjames make it out of the now-burning Carnivale tent - Crozier with an unconscious George Chambers on his shoulder - only to find the Marines firing indiscriminately into the fleeing crowds, trying to take down Tuunbaq. "CEASE FIRE! GODDAMN YOUR EYES, SERGEANT TOZER I'LL BREAK YOU TO A PRIVATE FOR THIS AND HAVE YOU HANGED IF YOU DON'T CEASE THAT FUCKING FIRE IMMEDIATELY!"

Eventually, the other officers start rallying round and you know I'm looking out for my special boy when that happens: "Lieutenant Little came up through the smoke and steam...saluted clumsily, his right arm was burned, and reported for duty. With Little at his side, Crozier found it easier to gain control of the men..."

So there we are, all that's left is to tally up the awful toll in the morning...

[darkfire359]

Thoughts on e5 of The Terror

Continuing my watch saga, some thoughts:

The tough guy who does the most arguably badass thing in the series has the name "Mr. Blanky". This is hilarious to me.

It's sweet that Crozier gave Mr. Blanky whisky (his favorite) for the amputation.

The show has been using a lot of "nothing is scarier" for the Tunbaaq so far but TBH it is also quite scary to finally see it.

I'm a bit confused about Lady Silence's speech, but my read is that Crozier was so suicidally depressed that even she noticed it? No wonder he quit drinking, that would be a slap in the face. But I don't understand how she figured out that Crozier wanted to die.

I'm surprised by how nice Hickey is? Irving was being a dick to the guy who was scared of the dead bodies, and Hickey tried to help him. He (kind of romantically) gives Gibson a ring, despite the fact that Gibson threw him under the bus and continues to act like an asshole. He compliments Goodsir, who immediately shoots him down. IDK, maybe he's trying to be manipulative or something, but he seems to be bad enough at it that I mostly just feel bad for him for now.

Relatedly, I commented that I'm looking forward to seeing Hickey murder some people, and my friend was like, "Hey, spoilers!" I pointed out that some of the first Terror-related content that both of us saw was pop song AMVs of Hickey stabbing people and she said that missed that part of the videos. >_< I explained that Hickey was going to be the main villain and she said, "I don't believe it!"

TBH I also wouldn't believe it right now if I hadn't been tumblr spoiled and/or been reading a bunch of Hickey/Irving fanfiction. I've learned some other incidental things from said fanfiction, like that Crozier/Fitzjames is a ship and Goodsir/Lady Silence is a ship. The latter seems like it might become canon given some characters' comments. Not really seeing the former yet, but there's plenty of time.

[titleleaf]

Could I get your commentary for resignation and cheerfulness?

I love your writing!!

Thank you so much! I am really enjoying the chance to revisit stuff via these ask, it's seriously brightening my week.

"resignation and cheerfulness" @ AO3 (The Terror AMC, Hickey/Goodsir mutiny camp noncon)

Mutiny camp Hickey is a real nasty one -- on the one hand here he's working through the death of Gibson but he's also acting out in an outsized, ghastly way the offense he feels at Goodsir's snobbery and perceived condescension. (Goodsir does have a capacity for class snobbishness and his comments regarding Hickey's imaginary mam show it even as he's acting out his own very warranted moral disgust at Hickey's crimes.)

Rereading multiple Hickey noncon fics (albeit with him in different roles) I've written in rapid succession I'm realizing I write Hickey with almost a fixation on dissolving the distinction between himself and others that might be made on the basis of sexuality -- it's especially nasty here when it's part of a whole complex of victim-blaming, coerced begging, and scurrilous gossip (news of the Marines includes news of the Marines' homophobic fan theories about science making you gay, I guess) but it's equal parts his own real anger at hypocrisy and stigma, and just being a nasty little bastard. "You hate me and think you're better than me, but you're the same as I am, all of you."

There's also a weird commonality of Hickey wiping stuff on people, I guess??? Dude has a prim little tidiness about him despite being a bed-shitting, brain-fingering little guy and I guess I love the derision of it, wiping jizz on people to mark them and sully them. Hickey does a lot of marking in this fic as a way of asserting dominance over Goodsir and asserting his control after Goodsir's perceived challenge to his authority, though weirdly I don't think it succeeds in reaching Harry on that level, Harry's just like "wtf, why is he biting me, I have scurvy too bad for this shit".

I wanted to do something with all the deeply humiliating and sexual mutilations that Goodsir endures in the novel -- RIP Goodsir's testicles -- and his and Hickey's parallel roles as knife-wielding dissectors, RIP Irving's dick and balls. I also lean really hard on the physical debility of scurvy in this fic, which in hindsight is really impressively nasty -- I can't remember where I read about the possibly-spurious notion that scurvy's effects on the senses render its sufferers more vulnerable to aesthetic shocks, it might have been in Caleb Crain's work, but I really laid into the absolute grimy nastiness of the body in this fic. Lots of penetrability and wounding, lots of unexpected fragility. Goodsir being especially aware, in a horrifying way, of what's happening to his body is also a fun part of using him as a POV character for physical horror. He's still a man of science to his core and he's inquiring and intellectually curious even when it hurts him.

At the same time Goodsir being both so physically and psychologically numbed that what's being done to him feels strangely distant... he is TRULY going through it.

Unintentional Christ imagery in Harry being given vinegar to drink; the use of vinegar as a would-be scurvy cure seems to be a common recurring theme in the 18th and early 19th century and it's interesting to me that it displaces the power of lemon or lime juice to combat scurvy onto their sourness and acidity, and tries to make do on that front. Fanwanking how Hickey looks so relatively hale and hearty even to the very end is one of my great joys in life.

I cannot remember for the life of me where the title of this fic comes from, which is a pain in the ass -- "resignation and cheerfulness" is a recurring sort of stock phrase for Christian endurance and it occurs in many texts, including Bligh's Narrative of the Mutiny on the Bounty. (I hc Hickey as a bit of a Bounty mutiny stan. Major first-date red flag.) I also don't think that I super get across in my Terror fic the kind of climate conditions they're all dealing with -- locating a scene in a specific physical place is a challenge for me, in general.

[saintheartwing]

So, Watching "The Terror" Show. Have Some Thoughts.

The first thing is that it's very clearly trying to show the serious issues with Great Britain's attitudes in the 1800's. Still a big empire, pretending it's so posh and upright and above the lesser indulgences. "We're not like THOSE people, those natives who are violent and evil! PSHAW". The racism is clear. The "sitting on your ass not doing anything until it's too late" attitude is clear. They have almost no real appreciation for the new lands they're going to, and despite insisting they're prepared, they're not, because they don't really respect and understand or even PROPERLY FEAR the land they're going to. ONLY folks like Crozier, the captain, do.

But at the same time let's NO pretend the Inuit people don't have huge damn problem that I think keep being ignored by folks. They've been letting the tuunbaq do anything it wants. See, the Tuunbaq spent years and YEARS devouring and hunting the Inuit, including their SOULS...and the only way to deal with it they came up with was forcibly creating a new race of their people who could basically bring this disgusting thing food in exchange for leaving it alone, and keeping off its turf. And they MAKE this special group of shamans...by taking the tongues off of the would-be shamans when they're KIDS.

So these people have been torturing and mutilating kids and turning them into appears to a human-sacrifice-wanting MONSTER instead of trying to kill it. And it's not like it can't be killed. The series SHOWS it can be very badly hurt and killed, it just takes lots of physical damage, and/or a body or soul poisoned by either evil...or LEAD.

The Inuit COULD have killed it had they just, say, offered an Inuit or two that was so heavily poisoned the big fat bear woulda dropped dead in ten minutes. Or they could have tried to gang up on it to kill it. But it seems like they DIDN'T, mostly because hey, it's a creation of the Gods, we can't do anything about that. The British Empire is rotten indeed, but the Inuit culture was bad too if it allowed THIS sort of thing to keep happening. It's permitting atrocities in the name of prosperity the same thing their people hate about the English. The difference is the Christian God doesn't have a gigantic psychotic man-eating monster walking around, ready to eat your soul if it feels hungry. The most typically unpleasant thing an Englishman has to put up with in relation to God is just a boring church service. For the inuit it's "oh hey, it ate our neighbors again" or "Hey, sorry, we gotta cut your tongue out cuz you'll have to be our new shaman".

Just keep this in mind, folks. Also, it's not a coincidence that the seeming Irish stereotype of Cozier who's "middle born" and who literally has a drinking problem ends up being the one who best connects to Silna and the Inuit. His people were also seen by the English as wild and inferior. Both of them could never be "true" Englishmen. There's clear parallels.

And it's also a true shame poor Goodsir endures what he does, he's the most noble, kindhearted and decent man in the whole ship, and he deserved infinitely better than what he got. He represents the English spirit and the spirit of maritime/army loyalty and chivalry at it's best, the spirit of "the White man" in a sense, at it's best, and it's heartbreaking what happens to him.

[charlesdesvoeux]

terror rewatch time!!! i'll be using this post to comment on ep. 10 "we are gone" block the tag terrorwatch2 if you'd like :-)

"you and I once shared a drink, on a wednesday" goddddd. you are so obsessed.

crozier was thrust into leadership at what was at the time their absolute lowest moment and little eventually was also thrust into leadership at what was at the time their absolute lowest moment.

and like. what little says makes absolute sense. none of them have ever been in the arctic and none of them speak netsilik. crozier is indeed their best chance. also the breakdown of all hierarchy!!! "there has been a vote, edward". that's so cool. i mean honestly they were fucked either way. i don't think retrieving crozier at that point would have changed their fate. and I suppose on some level they knew it too. so why bother coming into conflict with hickey's camp?

le vesconte still tries to keep a semblance of rank by saying "no, I mean, you're totally in command of this camp- buuuut" when that is absolutely not true. the fact that it is a fellow lieutenant who makes this empty nod towards hierarchy is telling.

and crozier then saying "I know lieutenant little's nature, he'll be here with a dozen armed men"....... and like that is true. by his nature he would but. you know. outvoted!!!!! and to be clear I absolutely don't blame the guys who staged the coup against him. obviously leaving the ill behind is a shitty thing but I understand it; "well these guys are practically dead but we- WE still have a chance to live" except of course they don't. and then one day one of those guys who voted to leave will become one of the sick and then HE will be the one left behind until there's a lone man fruitlessly marching south and then. there will be none.

it's been so long. there have been so many deaths. goodsir can't even remember david young's name.

jopson's death scene :-((((

hickey actually has a pretty good read on crozier TO SOME EXTENT however he is just. soooo blinded by his own narcissism it becomes his undoing. "then why have me brought here at all?" because of his obsessive need to be seen!!!!

"i didn't have anywhere near an equal in this expedition except for you" babygirl there is something soooo wrong with you

"you must be a surpassingly lonely man, Mr. Hickey" even after everything. after all he's done. crozier still manages to muster some compassion for the man who ruined him.

"private armitage"

if he couldn't- and under the normal naval hierarchy he indeed could never- rise up to crozier's level, then he would bring him down to his

hickey just. knocking out tozer in cold blood. tommy reaching towards him.

oh my goddddd the jcr + barrow jr scene..... "then you're sure to find it" the way this immediately rings an alarm in jcr's head. horror dawning on his face as he realizes barrow jr. is NOT referring to the men he's referring to the passage.

HODGE JUST BUSTING OUT THE FRENCH OH I LOVE THIS MAN.

"you think you're going back?" GODDDDD

"you could've just joined up" ICONIIIIIIC

the way some of the men ACTUALLY JOIN HIM IN SINGING WHAT.

robert golding desperately crying out "captain!". hickey's look of disbelief and betrayal as tuunbaq rejects his offering.

GET FUCKED DES VOEUX AHSHSJSHSHS

the look on silna's face as she sees goodsir's body.

the scene where he's just reciting the names of the crew.....

"close". but it was nothing. it was worse than nothing.

just. francis. his best friend right there, he hears his voice- but his back is turned. as another person has said here- eurydice refusing to be saved.

he was right in a way- aglooka may live, but francis crozier is dead. dead and gone.

oooooh I hadn't realized before that the song in the end credits is a distorted version of the silver swan. that's a nice touch.

[cordeliaflyte]

Imagine, if you will, that you are one of the below-decks sailors on the fictionalised versions of HMS Terror or Erebus. Your name is, for argument's sake, James. You've been in the navy for a while now. You probably haven't been Arctic exploring before, and you're unlikely to rise to a higher rank due to your humble origins, but you're a quick learner, decently charismatic, and have no skeletons of the "I'm faking being Irish" or "I was thrice rejected by my beloved like Jesus was by Peter and I'm ACTUALLY Irish" or "I have a teenage daughter, so I went insane and started pursuing a career in arson" variety in your closet.

What looked at first like an opportunity to earn money, make friends, and experience the adventure of a lifetime turns out to be a disaster. Your captain's hubris will doom you all, your provisions are poisonous and running short, you're being pursued by an evil bear, the cold gnaws at your bones, one of the other captains invites you for a drink which seems suspicious, and another is ready to assign you to some unpleasant duty if you don't manage to keep your nails pristine using only lead infused water.

But all these tribulations combined cannot surpass the true existential horror of The Terror. You are, at all times, surrounded by men - men whom you have never met before, but with whom you are expected to spend the next two years. At first, it doesn't matter that you mess their names up, they think it's funny. But as days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, you come to the shocking realization that the only men whose names you know are the captains, who you, a low ranking sailor, rarely speak with; Goodsir, the nice surgeon who treats the cuts you get while trying to open these godforsaken cans; and the caulker's mate who's always skulking around looking menacing and like... caulking I guess? and you've hardly spoken to him, but you remember his name because "Cornelius Hickey" is a hilarious moniker.

After a year or so, morale is low. You do your duties well. You've made a few friends, and engage in pleasant small talk with just about everyone. But the problem is that all these men look the same. 30% of them are named John, so the odds that you won't call them by someone else's name are quite high, but still - not exactly in your favour. You try to steer conversations in such a way that you don't have to refer to any man by his name. You dread nothing more than orders like "find Mr X and Mr Y". When that happens, you just shout their names as loud as possible and hope that the men in question are not standing next to you, since that would prove embarrassing.

Slowly, you become more advanced in your tactics. you befriend two men who we'll call Johnson and Smith. They are both good friends and wonderful sailors, but there is one problem. You do not know which one is Johnson and which one is Smith. Statistically, you also know that they're not the only ones with these surnames on the ship. On a small piece of scrap paper, you frantically brush up on your mathematics, calculating what the odds are of any given man you talk to being named Edward. Surely we must have many Edwards?

As the body count rises, so does the tension. Perhaps it is the cold, perhaps it is the lead poisoning, perhaps you simply miss home, but your mind seems to be playing tricks on you. This goes beyond the minor quotidian frustrations of finally learning a man's name only for him to be ripped to shreds by a bear that night. One evening, when you're in the common area performing a wholesome activity befitting a member of the English navy like... whittling? you notice a man reading a book. You swear you have never seen him before. And yet he can't have appeared out of thin air, you've been here for over a year. He strikes up a conversation with you. Calculating the odds in your head, you call him John. This time, you were right. But how many times can you stumble trying to decide whether to call a man Charles or Thomas before things start to look suspicious? Do the sailors whom you have never seen before and with whom you are now assigned to repair pipes mock you silently? Do they know?

And then the real existential horror - existential Terror, if you will - sets in. You have not seen Captain Crozier for a fortnight. You hear he is sick. You are devastated, because you cannot afford to lose one of the few men whose name you know. You feel slightly better when you see him at the carnival, and you enjoy yourself for the first time in months. Most men wear masks, which lifts their inhibitions. You joke in ways you wouldn't usually dare to and flirt a little, content in the knowledge that you have an excuse for not using anyone's name. And then a man sets himself on fire. And while everyone is panicking and the heat is unbearable and the men all think this is how they're going to die die, the only thing you're concerned with is trying to figure out the man's identity. You later learn that he is Dr Stanley, but looking at his face, moments before it was engulfed in flames, you could have sworn you saw the features of Magnus... someone.

The most arduous months, when you set out to walk, are honestly ridiculous. You feel like you're a character in some comedy of manners, which is funny to the audience, but certainly not to you. The days go by quickly. It seems dreadful to say, but focusing on survival in an environment so foreign to you while being surrounded by crazed men is... refreshing. You dedicate all your energy to walking, chewing, or thinking about chewing. And in the hour of your death, which comes quicker than you would have thought - a small mercy - your skin peeling off, your gums bloody, your leg injured, knowing that you'll likely serve as a last meal for your comrades, the sense of terror returns in an insidious, unexpected way.

Your death is cinematic. a friend - Johnson or Smith - is holding you, gently stroking your hair and giving an Emmy-worthy speech about the power of friendship and poetry and love and stories. You know you're going to die in your best friend's arms so with your last bit of strength you bring your hand to his shoulder, or perhaps, since you have nothing left to lose, to his cheek. With tears in his eyes, he says "James...", his voice and his heart breaking, and you know you're in a story, you know this is art even if there is no audience, save the ice going on for miles and miles and miles and God certainly isn't watching but you must still perform, so you take a gambit, and with equal emotion and pain you say "William..."

But you are wrong. His name is not, in fact, William. And he is so fucking furious with you that he bashes your head in with a rock. The End

[oughtnots]

i am truly begging for more info on terror/ghost quartet 👀👀

ah thank you for asking!! i'm still piecing it together a bit since there aren't necessarily direct counterparts but some thoughts:

ghost quartet is about cycles of violence. since the pushing of pearl (onto the train tracks. into the river to drown) is so important, i was immediately put in mind of franklin being pushed down the ice hole. but for that we need a rose red equivalent and a thematic motivation. i know it's not sisterhood/brotherhood, but the two captains of the expedition, at odds...?

basically in this au crozier (a crozier in a worse mental state/at the end of his rope) takes the place of rose red and snaps when franklin refuses to send out the rescue expedition. he goes to tuunbaq (who is a more known entity, with silna as its shaman) to ask it to kill franklin, thus starting the "one pot of honey / one piece of stardust / one secret baptism / and a photo of a ghost" circular narrative/quest. but as you know, in the end the bear does not uphold its end of the bargain, and crozier has to take matters into his own hands...

i'm not adhering strictly to all of the cycles of rose being crozier because it doesn't really fit with the terror perfectly and also i want to get more than four characters in here haha. but that's my central idea for now

other miscellaneous thoughts:

- collins as starchild. secret baptism / never have a holy land. struggling to transcend a place of displacement and fear. definitely have some art planned about this.

- goodsir as photographer. there when franklin is pushed. photos of a ghost repeating--daguerreotypes of the murdered. "the photographer has a drink", goodsir drinking the poison.

- fitzjames as astronomer. crozier wants fitzjames's approval/camaraderie but fitzjames sides with franklin to look down on him instead (and yes i could pepper some fitzier in here if i so desired). also the astronomer's song is all about wanting to be a thing of beauty, wanting to do something great and incredible, but "i don't have the time/i don't practice enough" and that insecurity reads very fitzjames to me.

- i really really want to explore silna as tuunbaq's shaman (this is not so much a ghost quartet specific thing but relates to her role here). thinking of how in the book tuunbaq basically breathes through her/uses her as an instrument (yeah i know that scene is actually gross but i'm cutting out all that d*n s*mmons stuff). silna who has cut her tongue out to take her father's place but when tuunbaq wishes to speak through her, it still can. silna/tuunbaq both taking the place of "the bear", together.

- potentially separating the character of the pusher from the man on the platform. plotwise i've set crozier up to be the pusher but "screaming about the apocalypse/screaming that the day of revelation is at hand/reveal it to me right now!" feels like hickey to me. (then again, crozier IS the one ringing alarm bells about the expedition, which is a bit like screaming about the apocalypse.)

- i want to do something with the dead room / house of usher / "we are living in the tomb"

anyway this is all vague and not particularly coherent as of now but i have a lot of thoughts and i'm very excited to do more art about it! i already have some stuff that i haven't posted yet hee hee

[brassandblue]

🗣👋 for Nelson & Jack? Or really any of mine with yours XD fire away

Cara don't tell me to fire away, you know what happens!!!!!

-

Arthur & Bertie-

Kingston tour!!! Shenanigans! Boys having fun!!!!

Little!Bertie and Arthur, finished with whatever serious things they were supposed to be doing, and SOMEONE (Arthur) wants to show the young King all the best secret passageways in the palace! (Not sure which palace, you pick!)

A bittersweet but ultimately happy reunion with Bertie and Arthur in Marianne's cellar--with Albert having been afraid Arthur was lost, and Arthur having been afraid Albert was captured or dead. The boys deserve good moments to help them get through that awful AU. <3

Goodsir & Bertie-

SmolKing!Bertie & Goodsir as a royal physician! Firmly when Bertie is little because it would be super adorable, and,

Perhaps a thread when they're older and Harry and Albert have become lifelong friends? <3 Like sure Harry is 25 years older(ish) but I think it would be sweet!

Immortal!Goodsir and any Albert of your choosing!!!

Blanky & Francis-

Immortal lads! Reuniting! In any era, but I do love the thought of Thomas nearly punching Francis (and opting to go for a hug instead) but honestly whatever suits your fancy!!

The boys in their younger, wilder days!

Thomas getting a visit from Francis while he's recovering from the amputation, like, presumably right before he has the meeting where he announces he's going to quit drinking. Or around that time. (Spoiler alert: He's already forgiven you, brother. <3 )

Arthur & Francis-

Nation!Arthur coming clean to Francis about his identity. He's not just a lieutenant who seems close to Sir John (like Lt. Gore) and he's definitely not Sir John's son!! He's also not Admiral Kirkland's relative but, is actually just that guy. (Also he can confirm, Tuunbaq is bad, bad news, no there's nothing they can do, if Lady Silence can't help them, they're f u c k e d.)

Nation!Arthur also interacting with Francis earlier on! Arthur is a massive engineering nerd, please tell him about magnets.

(He will also try to advise Sir John to let go of animosity outside the expedition and reconcile with Crozier, and will end up in conflict with John himself. "When did your vanity become of greater importance than taking every precaution for the lives of your men?! Is this even about Crozier at all?" God can you imagine??? But obviously in private and between decades-long friends.)

Human!Arthur interacting with Francis and later, the transfer to Terror & coming clean to Francis about....................being Sir John's son, whoops. Sad Irish Dad, meet Gloomy English Son.

MISC:

Nation!Arthur, having gone on the expedition, many many years later helping to reunite Crozier with the other immortal Cold Boys. <3

Goodsir + ANY one of your boys- Bodysnatching and/or murder! A variation of this might very well start with Hickey's mysterious death following Irving's murder. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Weird how that happened.

Nelson and Jack! Jack keeping Nelson entertained while Arthur is engaged in a meeting at his estate he can't easily get away from.

Jack and Moriarty, Jack and Moriarty, Jack and Moriarty, Jack and Moria--

-

There are more but I will spare you from another volley. > > For now.

[galadhir]

Warning everyone that there's a whole load of The Terror posting coming up. I'm attempting to remember to tag it so blacklist the tag if you don't want to see it.

Currently on my first rewatch while I'm also reading the book. It's nice to be back in a vaguely Age of Sail fandom again, even if it is those blasted Victorians.

Also very reassured that there are lots of people who hate Hickey and love Goodsir as much as me, (I don't think I've ever hated a character more than Hickey.) Though I may be the biggest Crozier stan yet :)

You know me with brusque, off-putting officers whom everyone distrusts because of their bad social skills and drinking problem, who love their people much more than the people themselves realize. He's a Colonel Young type, and that's a type I have a soft spot for.

[calamitys-child]

Fuck it. Terror characters ranked by who I'd most like to visit a museum with.

10. Franklin. Genuinely in favour of colonialism and loudly proclaims his delight that none of this stolen property has been or ever will be returned to the cultures we stole it from -100/10 if I saw this man in a museum I would fight him

9. Irving. Too uptight he'd cry over mediocre watercolours and refuse to let me have fun in the history of film Marlene Dietrich exhibit. I have been to museums with people like Irving and it's not fun however at least I'm in the museum 1/10

8. Hodgson. I could definitely get him to pay for entry to the special exhibits then lose him among the display cases, 2/10

7. Hickey. Hear me out on this, this dude would not give even one single shit about the art or the history or the exhibits but he would be playing a constant game of fuck/marry/kill with everything from statues to shards of glass and I think we'd have a laugh, 5/10

6. Crozier. Not super into the museum Experience but would be happy enough to go so long as we ended at the café, where he could unleash a thorough bitching upon the museum for the prices of their coffee. Also would curse out the English and the empire a healthy amount which is cheering, 6/10

5. Jopson. He'd be like cheerfully accompanying me through the museum but I don't know if he'd engage much and this experience is for sharing. For handsomeness and hand holding, 7/10

4. Fitzjames. Duly fascinated by everything but definitely would lecture a little and pepper in too many personal anecdotes. I think we'd have a good time nonetheless especially in the fashion through the past few hundred years bit, 8/10

3. Peglar and Bridgens (they come as a pair). Guaranteed poetry recitations and truly fascinating information absorbed from years of documentaries and encyclopaedias at every exhibit. Unfortunately without walking in a circle I would be unable to hold hands with both of them and that's a key part of the museum date experience, 9/10

2. Silna. Perfect companion to stare at shards of ancient pottery and contemplate the nature of humanity with. Also she would be absolutely down to plan heists with. Extremely fun museum date, 10/10

1. Goodsir. Would understand the importance of looking at everything that catches your attention and would absolutely indulge in me crying as I got to touch the space rocks they have on display. Would probably also cry at the space rocks. Absolutely buys himself cute pins in the gift shop and pays extra for the bonus exhibits. He'd also definitely pack a flask of coffee for me to drink. 12/10 my ideal museum date Harry Goodsir if you're out there are you free on Thursday when I'm free when we can go to the museum

[brassandblue]

“I asked God, and he said ‘don’t’.” @ the goodest sir

"In what manner did He tell you that?”

A pause.

“Are you going to listen?”