#i’m thinking fitzier but it could be so many

[ghostshipglamour]

Is there a “but i’m a cheerleader!” Au out there ?? Is there ?? Is there a god. Any god. If so they should send the fic or the divine inspiration to write it

[widevibratobitch]

Ok. Any "Terror" fic recommendations?

good lord YES countless really. idk what you're looking for specifically though.

i myself am a fitzier girlie first and foremost with some occasional fitzconte thrown in. i'll best direct you to my ao3 bookmarks, specifically to the tag i keep for my personal favourites, the crème de la crème of fics I've read and liked.

some examples under the cut.

i am a connoisseur of ✨fitzier hatesex✨ and there's surprisingly not that many of those compared to fics where they're all lovey-dovey with each other (which. dont get me wrong. i also enjoy from time to time). so i'll give you some that have truly stuck with me. it's mostly pwp sorry not sorry.

Some lovely perilous thing by cosmogram

“Oh,” James gasps, and really, it’s almost too easy. James ought to have some modicum of shame, ought to be able to master himself better than this—better than turning to a doe-eyed dissolute the second a man so much as breathes near his eager young cock. “Not here, Francis,” James pants out, voice already hitching high. “The great cabin, at the very least.”

“Here, I think,” Francis returns crisply. “On your knees.”

it's just so fucking good. very hot. i honestly don't know what else i could say about this, it's one of my personal favourites amongst personal favourites (along with the one i link next, from the same author).

Devotion by cosmogram

Francis does not seek him anymore, but neither—still worse—does Francis bother to dismiss him when James arrives of his own volition, each time with all the hope of the most wretched fool. “Oh, get to it, then,” Francis muttered with sublime disinterest that very day when James appeared in his cabin’s doorway. James had, in fact, come to talk—but he had not hesitated when Francis gestured dispassionately to the front of his trousers. He had dropped, wordlessly, to his knees to obey.

everyone give it up for erectile dysfunction! hip-hip hurray! the author sums it up well with the James Fitzjames’s Tragically Unmet Praise Kink tag. this one is a little more on the sad side, Francis is being a goddamn gremlin and James is at his most needy and pathetic. nothing hotter to me personally than sucking someone's limp dick and crying about it. i find myself thinking about this fic an ungodly amount. i love it so much. again, best of the best of the best.

nice dream by icicaille

Francis swirled the last dregs in his glass and peered into its depths. Some kind of grim satisfaction had come over him. “I’ll tell you what you want to hear,” he said. “For a certain price.” It was foolhardy beyond measure. Damning, even.

basically, Fitzjames gives Crozier a blowjob in exchange for Francis telling him some nice reassuring things he needs to hear so badly it makes him look stupid - malicious compliance from Francis of course with some nice internalised homophobia. James is, again, pathetic as all shit with a little twist at the end. no one is having a good time except for me of course.

hunger's vocabulary by icicaille

“Ah, Sir John.” Francis cleared his throat once the wardroom was near to empty. “May I borrow James? Regarding the Lloyd’s balance. We took readings that require further inspection. I’ll send him back in a gig—tonight if the weather holds, in the morning otherwise.”

chef's kiss. just two cunty cunts going at it (the dialogues are so good...) with a sprimkle of some angsty self-loathing Francis. what more could you ask for.

you are coming down with me by dazydaisy

Chapter one: “If I loved you I could perhaps fuck you as if I hated you, in order to please you, but, as you are surely aware by now Fitzjames, you and love are oil and water to me.”

Chapter two: ‘Maybe,’ James had begun to unlace the front of his trousers with a carelessness he had (shamefully) practiced, ‘if you loved yourself even a little you would be able to stop yourself from doing as I command. But, as I’m sure you know by now Francis, you and love are like oil and water. The two simply do not meet.’

*

Mum and dad are fighting again

pretty much what it says on the tin. just two heartbroken bitches fucking and being cruel to each other and im eating that shit up thanks

A Willing Foe and Sea-Room by ClutchHedonist

“Nnh.” Fitzjames whines around his thumb.

“None of that. Clearly, you can’t shut your own bloody mouth to save your life.” Francis huffs, “So I’ll shut it for you.”

pre-canon. Fitzjames - still as a baby lieutenant - and Crozier have a brief but very hot encounter during some Admiralty Party.

Caïssa by cosmogram

“You said you had a question,” Francis snapped, irritable already.

“Yes,” James said, flushed and resplendent still from the company next door—undaunted and loose-limbed in just the way that plucked cloying ire from a raw place in Francis. “How’s your chess game?”

A seduction.

a little bonus to the list, because i love this fic and it recently updated after a very long hiatus (it's still a wip tho but i hope the author manages to finish it, they're one of my favourite writers in this fandom). no hatesex here, it's more of a slow-burn with past Crozier/Ross and really great dialogues, as always. Neptune also makes an appearance.

Bespoke by ktula

James is trying to escape his grief after Sir John's death. Francis, in his own way, is trying to do the same. OR: The one where James Fitzjames has a bit of the genders, and his captain is surprisingly accommodating of that.

ending this rec list on a kinder and softer note, as a treat. this was one of the first fics ive read in this fandom and still one of my favourites. not really hate sex though they're still rather uncertain and wary about the other. very good, very sensual, gender-heavy. beautiful fic really.

BONUS have some excellent fitzjames/le vesconte and fitzjames/franklin - as a treat.

you don't have friends (you have admirers) by JamesFitzjames

James Fitzjames is a man who does not seek help.

each chapter deals with something different, so while the fic is unfinished it's not really some painful cliffhanger (tho i would love to see it completed one day). second chapter is some excellent, excellent Fitzconte. last chapter also has, why, of course, some really delightful ✨fitzier hatesex✨.

Hoo-ray and up she rises by TheGreenMeridian

They’re rip-roaringly drunk and laughing loud enough at each other to wake half the neighbourhood as they stumble into their lodgings.

i only like Fitzconte if it's done in a very specific way and this fic fits my needs just perfectly. just two besties being sillayyyy. what, like you never gave your bro a handjob just for shits and giggles?

Whatever morning brings by isamariposa

Brutus spends his life torn between disquiet, distaste and desperate pining for Caesar, leading to his infamous betrayal. In his own final moments, he raises a plea: “Jupiter Maximus, take pity on me. If by Your grace there is a way to atone for what I did to him, I beg You: let me do so in the afterlife.”

His wish is granted.

yes, yes, this is technically an HBO Rome fic but each chapter deals with a different time period - the third is dedicated to The Terror and can totally be read on its own. it's some truly excellent Sir John/Fitzjames with a sprimkle of some delightful Fitzconte tomfoolery. It's really, really good.

okay one last BONUS

devourer of debts by allmyloyaldead(van1lla_v1lla1n)

Cornelius Hickey receives, and devours, and adapts.

What Hickey receives from the universe and what he takes for himself, the pieces with which he sews himself together into a man, or something like one.

some incredible Hickey insanity. truly brilliant. the gifts Hickey receives from Billy, Irving and Fitzjames, short and sweet (by sweet i obviously mean gruesome and fucked up <3)

[jkrockin]

ao3 wrapped ALL BITCH

oh my friend, you are a reliable source of "wanting to know shit", as always.

How many words have you written this year?

I have put 48,376 words on AO3! How many have I written? Trickier to calculate, but there’s about 50k in my mountain of drafts, approximately 30k of which I wrote this year but haven’t finished.

How many works did you publish this year?

Nine!

What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

Fairly recent, but I’m really happy with the strangerthings werewolf thing I turned out for a Halloween exchange.

What work of yours has the most hits?

From 2022, it’s the Steve/Eddie thing where they go to a Judas Priest show.

What work of yours got more feedback than you expected?

I’m always a little surprised when stuff gets feedback at all, since I loathe doing promo and that’s basically how you get words in front of eyeballs, but I was delighted with how my Fitzjames/Goodsir fic about jerking off was received.

Favorite title you used

“heart into a glacier”. What better choice is there for a double drabble about a hairy old man confronting the inevitability of death in the ice than Kim Petras lyrics?

If you use song lyrics, which artist’s songs did you pull from the most?

I exclusively use song lyrics (or poetry), and the only artist I used twice was Paul Kelly (on my werewolf fics), so I guess him!

Pairing you wrote the most for this year?

It’s Steve/Eddie strangerthings, at a current total of 4 fics!

Favorite pairing you wrote for this year?

Shocked and appalled to report that I only wrote ONE Crozier/Fitzjames fic this year, but I think it’s still them.

What work was the quickest to write?

Also “heart into a glacier”, which I knocked out in about three hours (that’s how long it usually takes me to write 200 words tbh)

What work took you the longest to write?

This year's Dear God, Jenn, Speed Up award goes to “a sense cannot be described” (the Fitzjames/Goodsir jerkoff fic), which according to my tracking spreadsheet I started writing in December 2020 and finished in February 2022.

How many WIP’s do you have in your docs for next year?

Let’s consult the tracking spreadsheet again! In the in-progress tabs, there are 24 WIPs, though one of those is for an exchange due later this month.

What’s your longest work of the year?

Judas Priest thing ("you gotta get a reaction") again!

What’s your shortest work of the year?

“heart into a glacier” again!

What WIP are you taking into next year with you?

This is the same question as question 12.

What’s your most common “Additional Tags” tag?

“Anal Sex”! 🎉

Your favorite character to write this year?

It’s my BOYYYYYYY Eddie Munson, blorbo of my heart (or at least of my year, since, like, April)

The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

Annoyingly I do struggle a bit with my other boyyyyy Steve Harrington’s voice. This is annoying because I keep having ideas where he’s the best POV character, and a witch cursed me to only write in close third-person single POV.

What’s one pairing you want to explore next year?

*glances at my 12 Steve/Eddie WIPs* uh.

Which work of yours have you reread the most?

I actually don’t re-read my own work much, though I have no issue with those who do. Probably “you gotta get a reaction” again, since I broke my own rules and started posting before I was done writing, and I had to re-read the first chapter to get back into the flow.

How many kudos in total did you get this year?

2,329.

Which work has the most comments?

Also “you gotta get a reaction”.

Did you do any collaborative works this year?

Nope! I still have yet to actually collaborate on something and end up finishing it.

Did you write any gifts this year?

I only did two exchanges this year— the Fruity Four Cocktail Hour discord’s Halloween mixer (the werewolf thing) and Fall Fitzier exchange (this coworkers-who-hate-each-other on a blind date thing https://archiveofourown.org/works/43300659 ), and I guess you could count heart into a glacier again as a gift for TUUNBAQ WITH A GUN.

Did you receive any gifts this year?

Yes! I thoroughly enjoyed my monster-hunter gift from Halloween, and the incomparable Kit wrote me this excellent Arctic no-nut November fic for Fitziermas!

What’s your most common category?

M/M. Writing women without getting in my fat dyke feelings is hard.

What do you listen to while writing?

I listen to a lot of synthwave and study beats when I’m trying to concentrate. Timecop1983, Mort Garson, Extrawelt, Kavinsky, Louie Zong, Dance With the Dead, kind of thing.

Favorite work you wrote this year?

Uhhhhhhh this is always a toughie, I like everything I wrote! I wouldn’t have shown them to anyone else if I didn’t! I’m going to give it to my Fall Fitzier Exchange work, “pass a lucky penny by” (link at no. 24) which I struggled with but ended up happy with.

Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

I said a whole wanky thing about taking stuff out of context earlier but I quite liked this opening paragraph, from the Little/Crozier dream sex thing from Rarepair Week:

Most of Edward’s dreams, when he remembers them, are hazy, more sound and colour than anything else. Sometimes he has place-dreams of his parent’s house, searching cellar to attic for the sounds of his mother or his sisters’ voices, always a room away; sometimes, he dreams of being back aboard ships he had served on, adrift on a featureless imaginary sea. 

Biggest surprise while writing this year?

How fast I can get blorbo brainworms, I think? I’d started writing Eddie stuff like halfway through watching s4 and had a pile of concepts together by the time part 2 dropped, and my Spotify is just RUINED with 80’s metal.

[slow-burn-sally]

The following is based solely on my own opinions and HCs

I can’t say that I ship Fitzier, and I can’t say that I don’t ship Fitzier either. They don’t consume my soul like Cropson does, and they don’t make me go all heart eyes like Bridglar, but at the same time, I acknowledge that they are an excellent ship. 

I think maybe my ambivalence has something to do with the fact that I usually ship a grumpy mess with a soft cinnamon roll. And while Crozier is undeniably a grumpy mess, Fitzjames isn’t really a cinnamon roll to me. He’s like a big, glossy, sexy, fashionable horse. Vain and hard headed and self centered. He’ll yell at his men in order to keep their morale up. He’ll gossip about Francis behind his back to Sir John. He’s not necessarily a sweetheart. Which is fine. I like that about him a lot. That he’s not overly soft. But I just feel like Francis’ cragginess sort of butts up against James’ hard glossiness and just kind of... bounces off? 

Then on the other hand, I absolutely ship them. How could you not? They’re a fantastic ship. Possibly one of the best I’ve ever come across in fandom. They have an amazing enemies to lovers/rivals to friends dynamic. They start out basically hating each other and end up all soft and tender with Francis gently stroking James’ face on his deathbed. They share incredible adversity and pain and their relationship slowly warms from rivals to grudging co-captains, to weeping and gazing at each other in the lamplight like Romeo and fucking Juliet. In canon. I mean COME ON. It doesn’t get much better than that.

I’ve watched fan vids over and over. I love the gif sets, the memes, the fanart (OH MY GOD THE FANART IS BEAUTIFUL). I’ve read one very good fic (but haven’t looked for more, because I’m pulled in too many other directions by ships that do consume my soul). So I absolutely see why anyone would ship them and ship them hard.

Maybe one day I’ll feel that way about them too. I find them interesting in that I don’t usually end up in this half-way place with ships. Especially ones this obviously good. I’ve never liked two characters so much who were so well matched, without going totally feral over them before, and that’s something I felt compelled to write about. 

Thank you for listening to my rant. If anyone has any Fitzier fic recs, please send them my way! Maybe they’ll knock me into fully shipping them. 

[pianodoesterror]

2020 Fanfic in Review

tagged by the realest, @veganthranduil - thaaank you.

I reversed the question order a bit because, like veganthranduil, my list of fics written this year is... extensive. And that’s also how they did it so.

Takeaways from reflecting on your kick-ass writing, or kick-ass lack of writing, during a year more focused on survival than perhaps any other:

I wrote a lot. So much. I went from 59 fics to 100 and that’s just... show’s how boring my year was. There is a lot of familiar themes and vibes in my fics that I am highly aware of; I think they are as much for comfort as they are for ease tbh. Who doesn’t love people in room’s expression emotions. I also wrote some short fics - which aren’t even that short - but that felt good and it forced me to be more economical as I usually am.

Also, this year I learned the difference between ‘sitting’ and ‘sat’ and ‘stood’ and ‘standing’, although there is not guarantee on whether I use them correctly on the first attempt.

I really enjoyed the two women’s POV I got to do (incidentally, for both of the exchanges I signed up to this year), especially Ann Ross’. 

Most surprising fic you wrote this year:

Uuuh, a threesome involving Sophia for the fitzier fic exchange. I never really considered doing an actual threesome despite thoughts because Who would be in it? Also so many limbs. And I had considered a Sophia pov, but not for this, and certainly not modern. But despite false starts, and periods of abject dejection, I got it done and I’m kinda proud of it.  

How you grew as a writer this year:

I think my voices became clearer, my descriptions took on a snappiness. I took style risks and I think they mostly paid off. Also, first time I’ve taken ‘research’ trips for fics, but how can I noooot ships are so cool and so is Greenwich (who’s high-street has the best ice cream shop btw)

What’s coming in 2021:

WELL. There is only one WIP in my google doc’s rn. And it’s a present for my friend lobsterbang who threw the idea at me on a calculated whim and I grabbed it and overthought it, because then I could actually use my degree and the stuff I specialise in at work this year 😭. -  Tozer/FJ, Romans.

  What is planned from my bingo card;

Three scenes that might be in the Let the River Rush In universe.

Capetown, Dundy/FJ

Rossier, which could be one thing or another, I haven’t made up my mind yet.

Fics written this year:

There’s so many i’m so sorry

Fitzier;

you found me beautiful once (G) - a spooky drabble to go with art by @matt-j-freeman 

sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me (M)( hinted Fitzier and past Rossier, and Gibson/Hickey). First chpt posted about this time last year, but was finished in February 2020, a colab with @lobsterbang about how we thought they would get home within the context and intentions of the show. Also Hickey is suuuper creepy and FJ gets to shoot rockets.

the snow grows from the ground up (M) - 5+1, FJ is jealous of Crozier until he isn’t. 

and all I've done for want of wit (T) - James dies, and wanders through everyone else’s afterlife, waiting for his own to arrive. 

the world will always smell of salt  (M) - where, much like the real expedition, they are forced into cannibalism to survive (rated M cause it’s not graphic cannibalism but a dude still gets ate)

Oh, why would you weep, my friends, for me? (T) - the greatest tragedy of Francis’ life, coming to see him through the last day of his life. (wrote this in 24hrs and I am very proud of it)

gathering primroses series (M) - Trans Francis, FJ and Francis being comfortable with one another. The OG fic might be the best thing I wrote this year. 

all the boards did shrink series (E) - pwp, FJ own’s a dildo, that’s all you need to know. 

let the river rush in (E-T) get’s it’s own little bit. The last 8 (eight!) fic’s of the series were written this year. My baby. My cosy universe of Francis and James working out how to be the men who survived all that happened, all while navigating sexuality and gender and their own selves. 

Fic’s go from; whatever stirs this mortal frame (E) - where James is in his corset and split seam knickers being fussy and bossy. TO it hangs like flax upon a distaff (M) - Crimean war erectile dysfunction (not a sentence I thought i’d ever type). And from��lately i've been fine, floating away (E) in which Francis bottoms for the first time, TO the bit of me still at sea (M) - where James is posted to the Med fleet and Francis potters about without him, both unhappy to be parted but used to a sailors life. And a honourable mention to by the time you are Real (G) where FJ is highly relatable and finally starts processing 10 years after the Expedition. 

For Fitzconte;

Way haul away... ,(M) series. in which Dundy belongs to a story that is very different from the one happening about him. 

Clio Goes West (M)series, in which - they go swiming in Yemen, eat dates, and get one another off. The Basra Marshes are very beautiful and sticky, and so are they. And - Nebet attacks.

It isn’t much fun for one, but two (G)- the Dundy and Jas orign story.

For Rossier;

Oh, a nice watch below wouldn’t do us any arm.(M) - HMS Fury days, larking in the gunroom.

positive values of inclination (M) -handsomest man in the royal navy sucks dick to unwind and manages to be a nerd about it

For Fitzjames/Tozer (lobsterbang);

magnitude and definite direction (M) - James is a nerd and they misuse a jollyboat.

marriage, in the maltese style (M) - FJ is off home and is gonna have to behave himself. so says goodbye to Malta in the company of a obliging marine. 

how prettily he foots it with his hands (M) - Mr Fitzjames stars as Queen Fadladinia, and gets quite a memorable standing ovation

Misc; 

we've got one thing in common, its this tongue of yours (E) - Fitzier exchange, modern AU threesome with requested pegging.

and of their shadows deep (G) - Rossier exchange. Ann Ross pov (which I LOVED doing), her reaction to Francis’ disappearance, and reflection on her friendship with him.

I tag @norvegiae @laissezferre @junomarlowe @lobsterbang @clockheartedcrocodile if they would like to do it

[katherine1753]

Fic Tag Game

I was tagged by @spacewitchqueen thank you! :D

Name(s): Katherine (katherine1753 on here/Ao3/twitter)

Fandom(s): Currently Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, The Untamed, Good Omens, and The Terror. I’ve written for Star Wars, Harry Potter, Twilight, Hetalia, and the MCU as well (going wayyyyy back on ff.net for some of those lol) and I have other fandoms but I haven’t written for them (yet?) (like I read BBC Sherlock and various other things)

Where you post: Ao3 for fics! (and I link them here too)

Most Popular One Shot (by kudos) this year: Fall and Rise Again (Good Omens - Ineffable Husbands)

Most Popular One Shot (by kudos) Overall: Starting From The Top (Star Wars - Kylux)

Most Popular Multi-Chapter (by kudos) this year: Letters and Love Stories (Good Omens - Ineffable Husbands)

Most Popular Multi-Chapter (by kudos) Overall: Matches and Flames (Star Wars - Kylux)

Favorite story you’ve written so far: Tied To You (JSAMN - Johnsquared)

Fic you were nervous to post: The Greatest Of These Is Love (The Terror - Bridglar)

How do you choose your titles?: Some of them I think of right away, and some of them I’m struggling to find the moment I’m posting. 

Do you outline?: Roughly, just to keep my thoughts in order

Complete: 29 (+5 art compilations)

In-Progress: 4 on Ao3 (SW: abandoned sorry, Terror: hiatus, Good Omens: to be updated soon, and JSAMN: very soon), too many to count in my docs/notes/scraps of paper

Coming soon/not yet started: Good Omens OTP Prompts Event, Good Omens Mystery AU Event, Snape Big Bang, JSAMN Secret Santa, secret Untamed fic(s), scrub-him-in-a-tub johnsquared fic, very complicated childercelles fic, epistolary fitzier fic, extremely smutty johnsquared fic, bridglar week fics, terror bingo fics, plus like a bunch of other ideas, I have too many ideas, help

Prompts?: yeah sure!! No guarantees I’ll get around to it quickly though

Upcoming work you’re most excited about: I can’t just pick one ummmm the continuation of I Would Love You If I Could (JSAMN - Johnsquared), my Untamed debut fic, the scrub-him-in-a-tub fic, and the complicated childercelles fic

Tagging (only if you want to!): @slow-burn-sally @fol-de-lol @starknjarvis27 

[tomjopson]

I'm LOVING all your kisses prompt fills! If you're still writing them, could I request: raking a hand through the hair and getting a good handful to pull the other person closer (before or during the kiss) for fitzier? Thank you!!

Post Canon, a reunion at an Admiralty reception

The dinner, hosted by the Admiralty in honor of the brave and tragic survivors of the expedition, is the last place on Earth that Francis would like to be. In fact, he thinks to himself, a tightly rehearsed smile on his lips as he nods at whatever brainless drivel the younger Barrow is spouting, he would give anything to be on a ship again surrounded by ice sheets and frigid water than to suffer through the social obligations that has followed his return to England.

He stares morosely at the water in his hand, pondering for an unfair moment, whether he should take up drinking again. His next best option would be to walk across the room, shove his face into the punch bowl, and, if not drown himself, at least enjoy a few second’s peace.

The morbid dwellings in his mind are forgotten momentarily when a man both familiar and foreign to him appears across the room.

Commander Fitzjames, resplendent and regal in his dress uniform, enters the arched doorway beside Lieutenant Le Vesconte. Francis’s eyes meet his across the way, and his heart stutters in his chest. It has been a devastatingly long time since they have seen one another, and all of Francis’s letters, short as they may be, have gone unanswered.

He brusquely interrupts Barrow. “Pardon me, sir. I’m needed elsewhere.”

He does not wait for Barrow to answer as he deposits his untouched glass on the table and quickly makes his way across the room. Fitzjames sees him coming, and there is a brief expression of panic as his eyes widen and he begins to take a half-step back.

Francis is too impatient to care that he is elbowing his way to Fitzjames’s side, and he pointedly ignores the gasp of the woman who gets shouldered out of his path.

“Commander Fitzjames, a pleasure,” he says, placing his hand lightly at Fitzjames’s elbow. “Might I have a word in private? It’s urgent.”

Fitzjames, despite the easy smile on his face, glances frantically at Le Vesconte who looks ready to step in on a moment’s notice.

Francis drops his voice. “Please, James.”

A tremor travels down Fitzjames’s arm where Francis is holding it, but his voice is even when he excuses himself. “I’ll find you later, Dundy, madam.”

The two of them exit the room the same way Fitzjames entered, and Francis leads him into a deserted hallway where the two of them will not be overheard. When he turns, Fitzjames’s shoulders have drooped. He looks like a child about to be scolded.

“How have you been, James?” Francis asks, taking a chance at reaching for his hand this time, rather than his elbow. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

Fitzjames gives a noncommittal shake of his head. “I was doing you a favor, Francis. After the court martial, I assumed that I was the last person you would want to see.”

Francis gapes at him. “Why would you think that?”

Unless, he realizes with thunderous dread, Fitzjames would rather not have his career sullied by the disgraced Captain Crozier.

When Fitzjames does not answer otherwise, Francis releases his hand. “Well. If you would rather I leave you be, I can. I’m no stranger to being rebuffed—”

“No!” Fitzjames interjects. “That is not what I want. I thought you didn’t want to see me as a reminder of everything…”

“Did anything in my letters give you that impression?”

Francis steps close to him, setting one hand at Fitzjames waist, the other carefully touching his cheek.

“James, I am old enough that I live with many regrets.” He slides his hand farther, his palm cupping Fitzjames’s jaw and his fingers brushing against the loose strands of hair by his ear. A thrill goes through his heart when James leans into the contact. “I do not want that for us.”

He kisses Fitzjames, half-expecting the man to pull away, but the ice melts in a great torrent. He kisses back forcefully, his arms circling around Francis’s shoulders. Francis digs his hand deeper into his hair, pulling him down close, and angling the kiss so he may better taste him.

Both of them are breathing hard when the kiss finally breaks.

Fitzjames closes his eyes, setting his forehead against Francis’s.

“I was frightened that you would hate me, after everything,” he admits, his voice tiny.

Francis chuckles, the sound equally sad and fond. “You could have simply written me back, you silly man.”

[helenarasmussen87]

Writing Asks

This the post where I know no one is going to ask me anyway.

1. Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.

Something that is like a “Oh hey, what happens if we do THIS!” and go from there. Usually ends up having loads of emotions, comfort, angst, introspection, loads of kitchen sink dialogues, not too much action. Families, happy endings.

2. Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?

Fluffy stuff and humourous stuff. I am a little too serious for either one and my humour is drier than the desert and very odd. So no.

3. Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?

Teacher and Student relationships. Necrophilia, abuse of all sorts, underage. Just not my thing. I’ve gotten unable to stomach a lot of grimdark and super dark stuff as I get older so I won’t write it. But go ahead if that’s your thing.

4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

Two, since I can’t have more than two on the burner. Learned THAT early on and they’re Terror AU’s One is a fixit, but with health complications and angst. The other is a Modern Day AU which has two professors falling in love after one gets injured and the other worked as an EMT and helps to take care of him and they fall in love.

5. Share one of your strengths.

I can offer insights on what flows and what doesn’t. I can also happily shred my own drafts if they don’t work. 

6. Share one of your weaknesses.

Action. I work at it, but it’s not my favourite. Or war writing. 

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“Danny had to turn his head away to hide his smile, because he knew that it was a legitimate concern for Jose. Most of the time, he had jumped into bed with his partners first and then did the mating dance. 

Although extremely smart in other aspects, dating and social interactions were always a bit skewed, because he was always second-guessing himself and nervous as hell.

“That’s actually how things work out in these situations. At least it did for me and my ex and for me and Claude.” Danny explained calmly, making Jose nod and take another pull of his slurpee.

“So what do I do? Like is there a time when I bring up the possibility of us sleeping together?” Jose asked, the words slightly mumbled as he chewed on the straw.

“You don’t bring it up. You’ll just know when the time is right for it to happen. Sex isn’t what a relationship should be built on. Yes, it’s nice and it’s part of it, but it’s not the end all to be all. Trust me on this. It will happen if it’s meant to happen.” Danny explained, hoping that he had put it all in the plainest and simplest terms he could for his friend.

I am proud of this because it was majorly borrowing from life and I can see the difference from earlier writing. 

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

“Sergio laughed shortly. “I’ve already done enough of that, and look at where it’s gotten you. Yeah, legally I hold claim over you. I could make the club buy out your contract and sit at home all day, having litter after litter.”

Iker’s blood froze at that and he turned to look at Sergio to see if he really meant it, but Sergio’s face gave nothing away.

“Or I could sign your rights to the club and let them sell you wherever or to whomever. Take you out of Spain, or sell you to Getafe or Malaga. All of these things I could do. The club actually did bring it up at that meeting you didn’t show up for.”

Iker blinked, his hands going numb as Sergio’s wickedly honed words hit home.

“I’m not telling you this to hurt you. Or make you feel indebted. I’m telling this to you because you’re this close to losing your spot and that’s the last thing I want for you. But there’s only so much I can do for you.”

He sighed and looked at Iker dead in the eyes.

“I miss him too, Iker. I miss Antonio every fucking day. And I miss you.”

Iker swallowed hard as Sergio abruptly turned and left, slamming the front door and freeing him from the command so suddenly that Iker fell onto the couch and curled up in it.

He had no energy to do anything else. Not when he was all too aware he’d fucked up and fucked up big and needed to fix it.

Borrowed from life again and it was more of a dialogue that needed to be had when you finally realize how much you fucked up and how much you need to stop coasting and make it right. 

9. Which fic has been the hardest to write?

ALL OF THEM! Kidding. I want to say the one I’m working on right now. I was lucky enough I got a ton of help fleshing it out. I can see the end of the 1st chapter and I am having a hell of a time writing Goodsir’s chunk. He’s turned out more emo and romantic than I was expecting. 

10. Which fic has been the easiest to write?

The QuiObi prompts for the prompt week. Took me like two hours to knock them off and post. 

11. Is writing your passion or just a fun hobby?

Its a passion and a hobby. It helped me through a lot of rough patches and keeps me sane. 

12. Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more?

Mostly music or a change in life. I tend to write when everything is in flux with me.

13. What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?

Just write. Worry about editing later. Once you have something on the paper, fixing it up becomes easier. 

14. What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever come across?

Edit as you write. You don’t get anything done.

15. If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

Oooh. I think it’s a toss up between my Qui-Gon/Jango fic in a pastoral setting where they have put their pasts behind and are farmers on Concord Dawn. Or the Werewolf fic I wrote during my RPF phase.

16. If you only could write one pairing for the rest of your life, which pairing would it be?

Bloody hard. I would have to say Fitzier (Commander Fitzjames/Captain Crozier)

17. Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

Depends. Sometimes I go straight from beginning to end and sometimes I end up writing the middle and not figuring it out until later.

18. Do you use any tools, like worksheets or outlines?

Outlines. I have notebooks I jot down point form notes about the characters and the plot.

18. Stephen King once said that his muse is a man who lives in the basement. Do you have a muse?

Mine is a librarian or an alchemist trying to figure out answers and how things fit in.

19. Describe your perfect writing conditions.

A good playlist. Alone, in my room.

20. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

I revise it along the way when I sit down to write. Then before I post, I give it a once over to make sure it flows and makes sense. 

21. Choose a passage from one of your earlier fics and edit it into your current writing style. (Person sending the ask is free to make suggestions).

All my old fics are honestly gone so I’m skipping this one. 

22. If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

Honestly? The Duo and Heero one I wrote about them being in an abusive relationship where they split up, then got back together again. I was again writing from life, and I have seen couples who did overcome it, but looking back, I think I should have written it that they separated and went their own ways. 

Keep in mind I was very young when I wrote this, and I was in an abusive relationship myself and didn’t realise it at the time. He hit me once, apologised and never did it again. But he did end up manipulating me, gaslighting me, and emotionally abusing me until I finally had enough and left. 

23. Have you ever deleted one of your published fics?

Yes. Loads of them due to me not wanting to finish them. Or the hosting sites going under. 

24. What do you look for in a beta?

Someone who is honest, someone who knows the way I write, and has suggestions to fix those said things. But someone who is themselves is the best. Because they know what they want. Same here. 

25. Do you beta yourself? If so, what kind of beta are you?

I do, simply due to lack of steady betas. Flow and story telling, but I also look for syntax and formatting as well as grammar. I will miss typos, so I run spell-check too. I mostly use a mental rubric. Teacher training.

26. How do you feel about collaborations?

I haven’t had a successful one due to the second person always deciding that they can’t follow through or up and disappearing. So I don’t do them.

27. Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

Oh my God! I read so much and so many different people that I can’t pinpoint three. I usually end up reading a fic or two, so I can’t say why I read the author.

28. If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?

I haven’t done that. I do admit to having inspired by fics. I wouldn’t ever presume to do that. It just feels like a snub.

29. Do you accept prompts?

Not really. I can’t tailor write stuff consistently. 

30. Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

Oh always! I end up liking the characters that somehow never make it until the end. And in the Terror, unless you want to write angst all the time, you HAVE to ignore canon. And I mean BOTH the book and the show, since the book is nasty. The show is amazing, but oh my god is it depressing.

31. How do you feel about smut?

Yes damned please!

32. How do you feel about crack?

Depends on how well it’s done. Sometimes it is needed. Sometimes it’s like “Why?”

33. What are your thoughts on non-con and dub-con?

A bit tricky. I don’t mind non-con, but it has to be handled well. Dub-con, especially in A/B/O happens within context and it is usually dealt with. So I can tolerate that more than the first. Outright abuse, no.

34. Would you ever kill off a canon character?

Yes. Not often thought. But yes. I usually try and keep as many alive as I can though.

35. Which is your favorite site to post fic?

AO3, its a wild place and I love it for that reason.

36. Talk about your current wips.

It’s an AU where two professors that live in the same building and work in different faculties get thrown together and start to get to know each other. Due to circumstance, one gets injured and the other kind of volunteers to help take care of him, where they fall in love. The others in the vicinity do also. There’s Canadian shenanigans and baking. 

37. Talk about a review that made your day.

That they really liked how I wrote Frank Randall and would like to see more with his son, an OC I created for the story.

38. Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

I either delete, or give a generic reply and leave it. I’ve got stuff to do.

40. Write an alternative ending to [insert fic title] (or just the summary of one).

Nope. It just doesn’t work for me.

*somewhere I fucked up on the number but here you are*

Whoever wants to do this.

[shark-from-the-park]

FIC: The Fitzier of It, Episode Two

A Fitzier The Thick of It AU in several parts.  You can find Episode One here .

In this installment, spin doctor James continues to try to get noticed hired by Minister Francis and those around him offer helpful advice…

Warnings for very bad language throughout, NSFW discussions, endlessly snacking LeVesconte and John Franklin.

@casperthefriendlylittlefan @litttlesilkworm @boisinberryjamarama @thegreenmeridian  @coffeesugarcream @cinemaocd @the-jewish-marxist @hereliesnils @nashilena @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom @idlesuperstar @what-a-terrorific-mess @pipuhattar @kahootqueen69 @jaredharrisankles @shit-in-silk-stocking @bobbole @twerkinshield @fellowshipofthegay @aconfusedwriter @uncannybrightside

Episode 2

“Alas, I find myself out of touch, gentlemen.”  Sir John Franklin was saying over steepled hands.  “The electorate wants something new.  Someone younger and more dynamic.  Even… someone more radical, perhaps.  I am no longer the man for the hour.”

This little speech would have had more impact had not James and Dundy been hearing various iterations of it for the past few weeks.  

“James, I want you to go to Francis.”

“Sir John, I’ve tried!  I went over there last week, Sir…”

“Now, James.  I know that you and Francis haven’t always seen eye to eye.  In fact, you two have been butting heads for as long as I can remember…”

“Sir John, I did try…”

“Now James!  The political landscape is changing.  This enmity between the two of you has gone on for long enough.  It’s high time that you and Francis, well… kissed and made up, so to speak.”

Dundy snorted violently and James shot him a death glare, even as he was horrified to feel himself blushing.  

Undeterred, Sir John spoke on.  “Now I know that Francis is a difficult, combative sort of man, James, but no doubt his heart is in the right place.  If you’ll only give him a chance.  You’ll need each other, when the news of my retirement is made public.  No doubt he will want to rule over you with a firm hand, James.  And we all of us know that you’re not used to that.  But you’ll just have to swallow down your pride and submit to him -”  Dundy appeared to be choking.  James hoped he’d be quick about it.  “- You’re both good sorts.  He’ll learn to see your worth in time.”

James had not gotten this far in life without learning to accept defeat, especially when defeat entailed Sir John stopping talking.  

He cleared his throat and studiously ignored Dundy’s shaking shoulders.  

“You’re right, of course, Sir John.  I’ll go and see Francis again.  I’ll see if I can get him on his own and make amends.”

Sir John smiled magnanimously.  “There now.  I knew you’d see sense.  Frankly, I’ll be glad when you and Francis can finally put your quarrels to bed.”

*****

Lurking in elevators was not James’ favourite part of the job, but being the head of communications for her majesty’s opposition had taught him the value in it.  

And he was very, very good at it.  

There was many a junior minister who would automatically piss their pants at James’ looming, immaculately tailored visage ambushing them from the lift’s blind spot.  

This was all to the good – James’ bread and butter.  

But Francis Crozier, of course, was a different matter entirely.  If he had ever in all his years been cowed by an enforcer or a party whip, James had never heard tell of it.  

All the same, when the man himself finally came striding down the corridor towards him, all rumpled grey suit, no tie, and comfortably-soled Clarks boots favoured by scruffy dads the world over, James immediately wanted to slap him.  

The Irishman’s eye-roll upon spotting James was impeccable – honed over years of practice to ooze just the right amount of world-weary disdain.  

“Well done, James. You appear to have gotten the drop on me.”  He drawled, one thick finger stabbing at the button for the ground floor.  

“Well, I wanted to have a word without your hirsute bodyguards present.”  James could actually feel his mouth pulling into the prim little grimace he reserved for their altercations.  “Francis, have you considered what you’re doing?  You are squandering your shot at the top job by refusing the assistance of the one man who can actually help to get you there.”

“You know James, I’ve often wondered how the corridors of power functioned at all before you were born.  Enlighten me on that, why don’t you?”

“For God’s sake, Francis. If you could just stop putting all of your energy into being offended all the time, we might actually be able to have a productive conversation, for once.”  James hadn’t meant that to come out sounding quite as petulant as it had.  

Francis turned the full force of his curled lip and razor sharp eyes onto him.  

James involuntarily took a deep, preparatory breath.

“I know what you want, James Fitzjames.  Your sugar daddy is finally giving up the goat.  You’ve racked the entirety of your public school brains, casting about for the next sucker you can sink your hooks into.  All so you can cling onto your power and influence like a limpet and remain a self-important, uppity, egotistical prick a little longer. Finding, due to the deplorable state of political discourse in this country, that the only candidate with any grass-roots support is this backwards Irish turd, you’ve decided to polish me up.  Is that the long and the short of it?  Well, this turd doesn’t want to be polished.”

The lift doors dinged open on the ground floor even as James’ mouth hung open.  

“I never…”  He spluttered (and he never, ever spluttered). “Francis…  I don’t…”

“Good conversation James, we should do this more often.”  Francis sardonically straightened his jacket lapels before striding from the lift.  

James watched him go, blinking as the lift doors began to shut again.  

*****

“I’ve never called him a turd.”  James muttered over a late lunch.  

“I can believe that.  You’d never say anything that vulgar.”  Agreed Dundy, shovelling forkfuls of lasagne into his mouth.  

“I might have… I mean, I did…  call him ‘backwards’ a few times, I suppose.  I mean, no more than, probably, seven or eight times.  I used to throw around that word a lot, back in the early days with Sir John.  I was a different man back then.”

Dundy nodded in agreement.  “You were an insufferable prick back then.  You were young, though.  Now you’re an older, more sufferable sort of prick.”

“Oh fuck off Dundy.  Don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this.”

“Because you can’t bear solitary introspection?”

“I mean, who else is he going to get to spin for him?  Hickey?  Francis wouldn’t touch that immoral piece of shit with a barge pole.  I’m the best, most senior, most experienced communications officer this party has. Why wouldn’t he want to work with me?  I’m a safe pair of hands! Is he really going to cast me off just because of a few offhand jokes I may have made years ago?”

Dundy chewed thoughtfully while he let James finish.  “You do realise, I suppose, that the reason this is all so personal for you…” He paused to take a few gulps from his bottle of Peroni. “Is because you’re obsessed with him?”

James couldn’t quite make his normally agile mouth form words.  

“I used to find it pretty funny that you didn’t clock it…” Dundy continued. “…but it’s starting to wear a bit thin now.  Do you know, years ago, when we first started working with Sir John, you used to literally go out of your way to interact with Francis.  And then when it became obvious that he didn’t think very much of you, you got even worse.  Taunting him down corridors just so he’d take a verbal swipe at you and you could tell me all about it at lunch the next day.  What he said to you, what you said back, what exact colour his face turned…  You’d get so excited talking about how awful and uncouth and boring he was.  Do you know, Francis Crozier must legitimately be your favourite topic of conversation.  Usually insulting him, I grant you, or laughing about how much you’ve riled him up.  It’s getting a bit embarrassing at this point, Fitz.  So here I am, doing my friendly duty, for once.  Maybe next time you approach Francis about his leadership bid, you should just drop to your knees and suck him off.  Or maybe you could offer yourself to him arse first.  Break the ice and get it out of your system.  Two birds, one stone, that sort of thing.”

James’ fork had clattered onto his plate at some point. He couldn’t seem to order his thoughts.  

“Dundy… you are… you’re… miles off with this whole thing, you know… Ha. Francis?  Ha.  It’s utterly ridiculous.  I mean… You’re completely missing the point.  He’s not even – I mean… He’s… Francis.  He’s…  This is about the good of the party.  And about my career.  And about your career.  And OK, it’s about his career too.  And about the good of the party.  For fucks sake…”

Dundy rolled his eyes and gave James a look which he must have perfected on his twin toddlers.  

“Hey Fitz, remember when you told me about your gap year and how you fucked that weird guy in the toilets at Heathrow?  And then mid flight you realised you still had the condom stuck up your arse and you had to spend twenty minutes in the plane loo trying to fish it out, all while a stewardess was knocking on the door asking if you were alright?  All so they wouldn’t think you were smuggling drugs when you got to Bangkok?”

James blinked at the hard turn in conversation, but just about managed to nod.

“Do you remember when I told you the one about how I accidentally came all over Jane Garibaldi’s face that time and got her right in the eye and she made me take her to the walk-in centre and tell the nurse what had happened?”

James nodded dumbly.

“You laughed your head off through both those tales, Fitz.  And a hundred other embarrassing stories.  You’ve got no shame.  Never saw you blush once.  But you’re blushing now, alright.”

James spluttered. “That’s because you’re talking about Francis Crozier!”

“Exactly.” Concluded Dundy sagely, swigging down the rest of his beer.  

*****

“D’you reckon it’s time we brought Fitzjames on board yet?”  Enquired Ed Little, seemingly out of the blue.  

“Nah.” Francis answered at once.  “He pissed me off the other day in the lift. Entitled public school wanker.  Let him stew a while longer.”

Blanky looked even more thoughtful than usual.  “Let the lad come down another peg or five, maybe learn a bit of humility.  Then and only then, Edward, will we bring him to our loving bosoms and let him sup the milk of socialism.”

Francis grunted in amused agreement.

“You know,” Mused Ed after a moment, with a muted little smile.  “I reckon that maybe there’s only one of us whose loving bosom Fitzjames is interested in…”

Francis snorted in derision and rolled his eyes.

Blanky howled.

*****

Episode Three here...

[heyktula]

Fic Breakdown for Closer, Chapter One (aka, the DVD Extras)

So, chapter one of Closer, the first installment in Somewhere in Canada (the Terror kink AU)... went up today! And let me tell you what, I am hype because this is my very first longfic in the Terror fandom, and it's centered around a subject very near and dear to my heart—BDSM. It's a love letter to power exchange, the sheer joy of kink, conventions, and sex education.

Like other fic breakdowns I've done, this'll be in three parts—technical notes (like POV and stylistic choices), story notes (like characterization and kink info), and then, instead of the editing section I usually include, I'm going to talk about specific lines at the end.

I blame Edward for the line notes, tbh. I love him, but he's a himbo, and many things went unobserved in the course of this story.

(Okay, fine, it's not entirely his fault. Some of it is that he's just so steeped in kink that he doesn't think twice about a bunch of the stuff going on.)

Technical Considerations

Inspiration: So this fic is a love letter to kink, and kink education, and conventions, which in my experience can be life-changing opportunities to meet people with similar interests, and also to be able to do some exploration of your own and figure out what makes you tick. I'm pretty sure there's an AU version of me that makes their living off kink education and the convention circuit, but (un)fortunately, in this particular universe, I am a fic writer (and, occasionally, a paid one as well).

Closer is also a love letter to rough physical play. I remember sitting in my very first workshop on the topic, and just being wide-eyed that a) this is a thing, b) it looks fun. (It is, actually, fun.) There's a ton of reasons I love it—and hopefully, after Closer concludes, you'll be able to see some of the reasons why—but I also love that physical play doesn't have any financial barriers to entry. (The irony of Edward "rich boy" Little being heavily into it has not escaped me.)

Timeline:  Hilariously, I actually started this verse for a Fitzier fic—it takes place six months from Closer, at the winter version of the conference—but while I was working my way through the Fitzier setup, I was like 'fuck it, I should write a quick one-off joplittle to establish the verse', and lo and behold, my "quick one-off" turned out to be sixty k, and it runs parallel to a Tozer/Irving that I  have yet to write, but which is visible in Closer if you squint. So, uh, oops.

So this story fits into a very specific space in the timeline—that is, it's prior to Fitzjames and Crozier having met, but it's after the (second) Cracroft/Crozier breakup. (If you were wondering if that's why Francis isn't running his own damn booth, yes, that's why. He's very likely depression drinking in London at this very moment.)

Setting: I wanted to stay true to the spirit of the whole, you know, boatload of white men going to Canada and being confused, but I wanted them to go for better reasons. It's so rare that we get shows set in Canada, you know? And I feel very passionately about our winters here, in that I complain about them while they're happening, but I do also kind of enjoy the challenge, in a really fucked-up sort of a way. So I set the fic in Canada too, and then, because I was explicitly setting it here, I also got to lean into a bunch of Canadian stereotypes (like Goodsir living his best life in plaid and denim and the inevitable Tim Horton's jokes) and I actually had a lot of fun doing it, so I guess that was something I learned about myself.

Story Considerations:

Primary Kinks: So most people involved in BDSM have a "thing"—you know, the thing that they care about more than they care about any other things. And one of the most fun things for me about creating an AU like this is going through the characters and figuring out what everybody's niche is. Like, it makes sense to me that Hickey would be that edgeplay asshole that's in the kink scene specifically so he can fuck with people. Tozer having a military fetish (and also being a bit of a kink snob) totally fits with his whole "now what the bloody hell do people think that means?" speech.

If you've ever been to a fetish convention, you've seen guys like Blanky, who have been in the scene forever, and made their name handcrafting BDSM gear. They're easy to talk to, and will totally tell you about that time they ran an entire scene using only items found in their kitchen. You've seen women like Sophia Cracroft, who have a cluster of people surrounding her at all times, and who is never short of someone who will bring her tea if it looks like she's thirsty. And you've also seen guys like Ross, who are reasonably famous in their areas of expertise—the kind of guy that you see across the hall, and you're like "shit, is that James Clark Ross?" (And it is! Holy shit!)

Canadian Kink: So! I live in the prairies, and it's as conservative as hell out here. That means there's some specifics to kink culture that I'm not sure translate to other parts of Canada—and they definitely don't translate back to England. For example, every public event I've ever been to (by which I mean every event that wasn't being held in someone's house) has mandated that penetration cannot occur during the event. No toys in orifices, no bits in other bits, no mucous membranes touching, no oral, no fingering, no handjobs, no intercourse, all that kind of stuff. I'm not convinced that you couldn't have sex in a dungeon in, say, Vancouver, or Toronto, or any of the other bigger centers—but that hasn't been my experience in the prairies, and I kept those restrictions for plot purposes in Closer. (Sorry, Jopson. I promise I still love you.)

Canadian weapons laws being what they are also means that some of the gear that's totally okay in other places (like butterfly knives) is totally illegal in Canada (sorry, Tozer. No apologies for you, Hickey.). The sap gloves that Edward is mourning are, unfortunately, one of the items that get lost in the shuffle. Sap gloves are pretty neat—they're leather gloves which are weighted with lead on the knuckles/backs of the hands. They make your punches harder, but they also protect your hands—and, for somebody like Edward, who does a lot of punching when he plays, that protection is definitely beneficial. Plus, they're a bit of a signalling thing—having a set of sap gloves hanging off your belt makes it very clear what kind of things you're into, and I think Edward is a bit bereft not having that this weekend, because he's not used to having to make those introductions cold.

Edgeplay: There's sort of a, er. Spectrum of what is and isn't considered to be "acceptable" kink, even within the kink community. Some kinds of kink are seen as more publicly acceptable, and some kinds are relegated back to the fringes and the dark corners. In the context of Closer, that means Tozer, Hickey, and Little are our resident edgeplayers. This isn't a judgement on the type of play they do (well, it is a judgement on Hickey, but we don't have time to go into *gestures* all that), but it is a statement about the way that type of play is perceived. Sophia Cracroft can, with very little finessing, put photographs of her in rope suspension onto her various social media accounts, and as long as she's clothed, it's perfectly acceptable content to just have out there, and people are going to call it artistic and Instagram-worthy. Tozer, on the other hand, ain't getting any recordings of interrogation scenes he's run posted anywhere except to Pornhub.  (The less we say about Hickey's knife-play, the better.)

Similarly, because the rough physical play that Edward does looks fairly intense from the outside (and is pretty intense from the inside), he gets to live in the not-that-publicly-acceptable area of kink. The area of kink where they usually put the crash mats at the far end of the dungeon, because that way, if you don't want to watch two people whaling on each other with their fists, you don't need to see it. This "stigma" is important in Edward's conception of himself, because on one hand, we see in his conversation with Goodsir that Edward absolutely knows his shit and, hero-worship of Crozier aside, has the knowledge base to be a fantastic educator in his own right—but we also see the subtle kinkshaming coming from both Hickey and Tozer about where Edward's place is in all this. That is to say—Edward's place is with them, in the dark shadowy spots, and not in the "socially acceptable" circles that Crozier's circle of people (Jopson included) are perceived to be running in. (There's a sense, coming from Tozer, that there's no point in Edward pursuing getting onto the org committee for the conference itself, because they won't want someone like Edward there—but, again, that's some pretty insidious kinkshaming coming from Tozer, and we could all just let that go and be better for it. Goodsir clearly doesn't feel like Edward's presence would be a detriment.)

So, yeah. I'll excuse Tozer's kinkshaming bullshit temporarily, as he needs to sort himself out. I don't think he's trying to drag Edward down so much as he just thinks Edward's being a bit delusional, and wants to save him the disappointment when Jopson invariably rejects him for being way too kinky and intense. (If Edward is moping around all weekend, he'll be in the hotel room, and how's Tozer supposed to get his dick sucked by random hookups then? "Yeah, come on back to mine, don't mind my roommate, he's a moody bastard and won't participate even if we ask." Not winning any prizes there, lads.)

I won't excuse Hickey's kinkshaming; he's definitely trying to make Edward feel like shit on purpose. I could speculate as to the reasons, but they're probably gross. (I mean, I know the reasons. Hickey's gonna Hickey.)

(There's a whole entire essay I could write about incorrect assumptions that literally everyone is making about the type of play Thomas Jopson must be into, based on his nice hair and nice eyes and nice smile, but I'll just let Jopson handle those corrections on his own, as he's very capable of doing so.)

Concerning the Chapter Title: If you were gonna take a risk, Neddo, the social was the time to do it—and you done fucked that up, sweetheart.

Tomorrow is another day. Give it another shot then, yeah?

Line Notes:

Edward looks across the hall again, cringes. “No, fuck, that’s—no, I think that’s Sophia Cracroft, Sol, I’m not—Christ. Sophia Cracroft, Jesus.”

I will never not find this introduction to Edward Little fucking hilarious, because he comes off as so competent from Jopson's POV when he's arguing with Hickey in the parking lot, and yet the moment we see Edward in his own POV, he's just a mess. I love him very much, but he's a mess. This was one of the deciding factors in the dual POV as well—I knew going in that the brunt of the story was going to be from Edward's POV, but weaving in those occasional Jopson bits lets us see how Edward looks from the other side.

(Also, Tozer three hundred percent knows exactly who Sophia Cracroft is, because he demonstrates that, like, two sentences later, meaning that he’s literally just winding Edward up here, and it goes right over Edward’s head. God.)

It’s the older guy across the hall that’s laughing his ass off, but the cutie is standing right next to him, looking down at his phone, his ears charmingly pink. 

As a reminder, Edward is wearing a white tank, and just stretched his arms out behind his back. The nipple piercings are very obvious, Jopson was three hundred percent staring, and Blanky definitely caught him and is laughing his ass off about it.

“…I know what this is about,” Tozer says, tying an orange bandana around his left bicep.

The orange bandana is a hanky code thing—which, yes, it's dated, and it's not really in use anymore, but Tozer seems like the kind of guy that would tattoo his kinks on his forehead just so everybody could see them if they would all fit. Failing to find any way to gracefully do that, we instead have the orange hanky ("anything goes") on the left arm ("top").

(Older guy, thankfully, is wearing a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. Cutie isn’t. So there’s no obvious problems there.)

Jopson not wearing a ring indicates literally nothing about whether or not he's available, but I guess whatever makes Edward feel better about himself is fine. He's right with his assumption about Jopson, in this case, but it's literally nothing more than a wild guess, and the mental hoops he's jumping through only exist to make him feel better about himself.

(Esther usually attends these events with Blanky—but somebody needed to hold down the fort in London this time, and so she's in London at present. It's for the best, she can check on Francis every so often.)

[Hickey] sticks his hand in the pocket of his latex cargo shorts...

I won't take criticism on this fashion statement, constructive or otherwise.



So, that's it for this week! Chapter two, Aware, goes up next Friday! See you then! And if you have questions or anything in the meantime, you can always drop me an ask on tumblr or Curious Cat!

[wildcard47]

green pastures (pg); fitzier

prompt: James proposes to Francis; Francis misunderstands and thinks he’s being officially asked to marry James to someone else a la that scene in The Vicar of Dibley.

I promised @full-of-terrors this adorable little prompt fill ages ago and finally get to post it! Hope you enjoy!

When the knock sounded at his front door just after three bells, Francis could find no reason to avoid answering it, even if he had meant to go to bed within the next few minutes.

He’d been so damn dispirited since James’s stupid bloody boyfriend came into town. Not that he would have admitted this to another soul.

Not as if Le Vesconte was actually James’s boyfriend, either. By all accounts they were only mates; Henry never seemed like the type to go bi all of the sudden, given how much harping on he’d done about his on-again, off-again girlfriend.

But James did keep mentioning all these hot bumbly dates he’d had while he was down in London – whatever that meant – and since Francis did not drink anymore, the only way anyone could find out he was depressed about this turn in events was if they came to his living room and stopped him eating bagfuls of crisps while watching a bunch of old Frasier episodes.

What did it matter if his ex-boyfriend was going on other dates? They’d only gone out six and a half times, more than three years ago. And now he’d moved back to town all of the sudden. The man was free to go anywhere he liked.

Expecting it was Jane Franklin come to complain about Neptune, Francis was startled to see James standing there when he opened the door.

“Hi.”

James smiled at him; it looked strained and unnatural. “Hello.”

“So, er.” Francis’s mind was full of questions it was probably rude to voice, especially to someone you’d been avoiding for nearly a week. “How – how are things?”

“Actually,” James did not even hang up his coat, just turned by the rack, one hand now tracing over the spine of a closed umbrella. “Can I – I’ve something important to ask you, if you don’t mind. Well. Obviously I can ask you questions without you minding them, only this pertains to the type of question rather than the principle of the thing.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Not here to give a lecture on forms of the interrogative.”

“Er. Yeah, obviously. You can talk to me about whatever you like.” Francis narrowed his eyes. “Are you all right?”

You seem…. anxious, he wanted to point out.

“Me? Fine. A bit jumpy, you know, but had a lot of caffeine today, so that’s understandable. Four flat whites. Can you believe – sorry. I’m rambling now. Suppose I may as well ask this right out. Francis, have you ever thought about, er, marrying anyone?”

“Oh.” Francis could not have said why this question left him so disappointed. He didn’t think topics as boring as Naval protocol would bring James to his front door at eleven thirty at night. “Well, yeah. I mean, strictly hypothetical, mind. Not had reason to yet.”

Most of the people he’d served with so far were already married or far too young to try. And barring that, none of them had wanted to be married on the ship. Or by Francis.

“Yes. Not as if you’re imagining it daily. You’ve always been a practical sort. Aren’t given to flights of fancy.”

“No,” agreed Francis.

“No.” James swallowed hard, bit his lip. “Anyway, you’ll remember from – I mean, the conversations we had – that I have always admired marriage. As an institution. Even before I actually aspired to be part of it. You know? It’s a, ah, very good thing to my mind. Or it should be, given the many benefits.”

“Time can change even the most stubborn man, I suppose.” Francis tried to smile. “So, you’re, ah, ready to take the plunge at last, hm?”

“Yeah. Yes.” James seemed to steel himself. “I mean. Not just for the sake of it. I want to. Have wanted to, really. For a long time.”

“Makes sense,” said Francis, in an attempt at being neutral.

“Does to me, as well.” That brief, strained smile was back.

“Well, that’s – great news.”

He had not decided what the rest of his sentence would be, but it apparently didn’t matter, because James blurted out something very loudly.

“Francis, would you – do me the honor of marrying me?”

Francis’s heart sped up, and his stomach twisted with distress, but he tried not to showcase any of these feelings to James. Can’t hurt him.

“You… want me to marry you?”

Christ, he could picture it now: James blindingly handsome in his dress blues, in the local church or outside in the park or even aboard Battalion, standing hand-in-hand on the quarterdeck with some stupid blonde blockhead while Francis stood between them, a borrowed, well-worn Bible in his hands, thumbing through the chaplain’s notes on love and honour and duty and wanting to pitch himself off the crow’s nest instead.

“Can’t imagine asking anyone else,” said James, voice hitching slightly.

Oh. Damn it.

“Well, ah – I don’t mean to make you wait for an answer, obviously, it’s just – I’m a bit – surprised, is all. No one’s ever – asked me before.”

“Really?”

Why was James looking at him like that, as if he were afraid taking his eyes off of Francis for even a second meant he might disappear? The man seemed to be one sentence away from a total nervous breakdown.

“And it’s been a long time since we’ve. Er. I mean, of course it would be – wonderful – ”

“Yeah.”

“Let me just have a look at my diary,” Francis said, by way of stalling, hoping against hope that James had his heart set on a specific date and time and that he was going to be out of the country on that blessed morning. Or perhaps dead. Dying would get you out of marrying your ex-boyfriend to his new boyfriend, wouldn’t it? “Knowing you, you’ve already got your heart set on a specific month.”

“God, no,” answered James in a rush. “Honestly, Francis, if it helps, you can pick any day of the year you damn well please.”

“Right.” Francis turned another page, then another, with no clue as to what he was bloody reading. “Well. Er. That’s….a lot to choose from. Plenty of options.”

He meant to say something about how most people liked summer weddings, or that all the good reception places would be booked years in advance so James shouldn’t get his heart set on having it done anytime soon – the sort of vapid, oddly-prophetic comments Sophia used to say to him all the time when she was turning him down. Course, Francis was actually asking her to be his wife, then, so it was different.

When James spoke again, after a long, agonizing silence, it was in the quietest voice Francis had ever heard. As if he might weep.

“You don’t want to do it, do you?”

“What?” At James’s raised eyebrow, Francis deflated. “James, it isn’t – obviously, I don’t want to rush into an answer if it’s the wrong one. You – well, you’re important to me.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m really touched that you’d ask me after all this time. Truly I am. But I – should probably think about it, before I answer one way or the other.”

James’s expression slammed closed, then, almost as suddenly as it used to whenever Admiral Franklin walked aboard.

“Don’t tiptoe around it. Not with me.” He cleared his throat, gave Francis a jerky nod. “It – if that’s what you feel, then your answer’s already no. Which is all right. Erm. Silly of me to have thought…”

It was as if Francis were reliving the day they broke up, three years before; he could not understand why saying I’ll think about it would provoke such a fierce reaction.

“I should go,” murmured James.

Oh, god, why was he going so soon? Was he angry? James couldn’t be angry when the words he was saying were so kind and understanding.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do. I really do.”

They had reached the door; James opened it, clearly ready to step out without another word. He’d leave forever and it would be all Francis’s fault. Fucking hell, why could he not agree to put his own bloody pride aside when it came right down to it?

“Stop – bloody walking, damn it!” Francis squeezed his eyes closed, summoned every last ounce of strength. “I’ll do it, all right? James, I’ll – if you want me to perform a ceremony, I can do. For you. I – owe you that much. I want you to have that.”

A terrible silence settled over the room as James turned away from the open door.

“Perform the ceremony?”

“Yeah.” Francis opened his eyes, tried to tamp down the avalanche of curse words that were building in the back of his mind. He would not stutter. He would not weep. “Ship’s captain, powers that be, whatever. I’ll do it, you’ll be married, and then you’ll – well. Be happy.”

Without me.

“Francis, no.” James opened and closed his mouth, threaded the distance between them before taking Francis’s hand in both of his. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant at all. I – good god, man. Who the bloody hell else am I in love with? I’m saying I want to marry you. I’m asking for your hand, Francis.”

“Mine,” was all Francis whispered.

James peered closely at his baffled expression. “I – you know how I feel about you. Don’t you?”

Francis was now so shocked he couldn’t speak.

“Why d’you think I’d come here in the middle of the night and ramble on about marriage if I didn’t want to propose? For Christ’s sake, I’ve not stopped thinking about us for three years. Every day I wanted to call you. Write to you. Just – see you getting coffee on the way to work. And then we end up living in the same town again, going to all the same events, and it – I mean, you’ve no idea how terrified I was, to think you’d moved on with your life. And now….Francis, I honestly can’t imagine being anywhere without you at my side. I want to marry you. I want us to get – old and fat and weird together. Think we’d be rather good at that last bit, actually.”

“So you,” Francis could hardly draw air into his lungs. “You mean you’re – ”

“Marry me, Francis.” James squeezed his fingers, encouraging. “Please.”

Unable to say anything else, Francis sat right down on the carpet, because his knees would no longer hold him up, and covered his mouth with a shaking hand to suppress the high-pitched squeak trying to claw its way from his throat.

“I’m all right,” he kept whispering, although he was not: he was swiping big fat tears from his face with the back of one hand, and James was hovering at his side, still babbling away although Francis couldn’t hear any of the words; meanwhile, Neptune was barking like a bloody demon dog, rushing in and out of the open door in obvious confusion, wagging his tail and licking Francis’s salt-damp fingers every so often, and Jesus bloody Christ.

James wanted to marry him.

“Francis.”

Glancing up with a very unromantic snort, trying to swallow the knot of tears in his throat, Francis met James’s concerned gaze and finally – finally – managed to say something.

“Okay.”

James’s face brightened. His grip on Francis’s shoulders tightened. “Oh my god. Really?”

“Yeah.” Francis was grinning now. “I’ll marry you, James.”

Squealing in delight, now peppering Francis’s face with kisses and hugging him tightly, James eventually pulled away and let out a victorious howl of a cheer. Hearing this, Neptune decided to join in, baying joyously at the open front door before trotting forward to see what was going on on the front stoop.

James had already jumped to his feet to join him, calling out to the entire neighborhood with his hands cupped around his mouth. “Francis is gonna marry me!”

“Jesus Christ. I have neighbors!”

“Francis is gonna marry m – oh, Neptune, no!” A black blur darted out of the doorway, running pell mell toward the street. Cursing, James took off after him, now sounding much less cheerful. “Come back here this instant – no! Right – now!”

Judging by how fast James was now sprinting down the driveway and toward the curb, as well as the yowling, Neptune was probably after Mrs. Franklin’s tomcat again.

Laughing hysterically as James tried and failed to capture a boisterous Newfie with nothing more than his bare hands, Francis watched with faint pride as his fiancé – a romantic, dashing hero of a man – stumbled and fell into the side of next door’s recycling bin, knocking it backwards onto the lawn. A delighted Neptune stopped his mischief to come back and run circles around James and all the now-visible rubbish, occasionally stopping to look back at Francis and bark loudly.

“Well, he’s killed me,” James called theatrically from his prone position, as a very happy dog decided the best thing to do was sit in James’s lap. With a huff, Neptune sat down, then flopped sideways, draping his chest directly over James’s ribs. Four enormous paws splayed out around James’s middle. James groaned and winced as he absorbed the full weight of this gift. “I might die before we get to celebrate.”

“Yeah, you’re stuck now,” offered Francis as he walked closer. On an impulse, he tossed the jacket in his hand onto the damp ground and lay down next to them.

“Nnngh,” whined James, but he was grinning.

Francis leaned over, pressed a kiss to James’ forehead. “See? Completely stuck.”

[caravaggiosbrushes]

"what would people say if they knew you were such a slut for me?" + Fitzier (this prompt screamed to me about them, especially considering your earlier hate sex/dub-con fics😏)

Thank you for the prompt!! Fitzier with a final twist... ;)

James is pinned to the wall by Francis’ fingers, buried into him.

He’s having trouble keeping quiet, but he doesn’t want to give Francis the satisfaction of seeing him even more helpless than this. He’s trying his best to look unmoved by Francis’ assault, but it’s quite hard to maintain a straight face when the Captain keeps curling his fingers in such a perfect way, rubbing at that spot inside of him, making him see stars behind his eyelids.

He bites down on his bottom lip to keep the moans in his throat.

"Francis–"

"Don't call me Francis," he growls, "You'll call me what I'm due, especially when I'm having you."

James presses his forehead against the wall, hoping the pain will bring some of the pleasure away so he will be able to think again, but Francis licks a strip of skin behind his ear and he almost sobs out loud.

"What would people say if they knew you were such a slut for me?" Francis whispers in his ear.

James trembles at the word, but forces himself to tsks. "No one would believe you."

"And yet here you are." Francis remarks, "Dripping on my fingers like a dirty little girl."

He’s not dripping– it's the oil Francis used to ease the way. It’s not him. He wishes it were him, but that’s impossible, he knows it all too well. Still, being so drenched makes the illusion easy to believe, because he knows he’d be more than wet for Francis right now, if he’d have the anatomy of a lady.

"You're so bloody tight," Francis grunts, his lips against the side of his face, "One could almost think you're a virgin."

James bites at his own hand, to shut himself or choke.

"But you're far from being a virgin, that's for sure," Francis goes on, viciously working him open, "With all the pricks you've taken to climb your way up here."

James can force himself to accept many things: Francis making fun of him in front of Sir John and their officers, Francis being drunk beyond measure every single time they meet, and he can stay silent when Francis glares at him from across the table, silently telling him he doesn’t belong here; but he won’t stay quiet when Francis talks like this about his career, because Francis doesn’t know.

"Do you want to know how many men I’ve had before you?" James asks back, feeling his vision turn red with rage, "so many. I couldn't recall the number if I'd try.” He turns his face toward Francis as best he can, to catch his eyes, “I let all of them fuck me sensless, and they were so good, all of them, giving it to me exactly like I wanted it–"

"Stop it."

"–giving it to me like you never can, since you can barely get it up–"

"Shut up." Francis snarls, pressing him against the wall, "Don't you have an ounce of shame?"

"No,” James grins, feeling out of his own mind. "They've fucked it all out of me."

He hits Francis in the ribs with his elbow, which has him take his fingers out of him too harshly, but it doesn’t matter, he can endure this pain too, because the angry euphoria of seeing Francis bent in half at his feet is enough.

James pushes his hair away from his face, towering over him.

"You're only jealous you weren’t the one having me first."

“How dare you,” Francis has a hand pressed to his side and glares at him with burning fury in his eyes. The hard line in his uniform pants makes him look even more dangerous, his prick like something made to split and tear apart.

He tries to get back to his feet, but James stops him with a hand on his chin, grabbing it harshly. Francis’ eyes widen in surprise.

“You insolent kid.” He says.

“Your age doesn’t make me a kid.” James feels aflame with power. Is this what Francis feels, every time? He almost excuses the way he treats him. Almost.

His pants are half pushed down, but still hiding his aching prick: he palms himself generously through them, noticing how Francis can’t seem to stop looking at him. He lets go of a heavy breath that ends in a moan, filling the room. Francis’ lips part on their own.

James pushes his thumb against them.

“Open up.”

Francis looks shocked for a moment, then outraged, as if he’s about to get to his feet and punch him, just like that. Then, he lets James push his finger into his mouth.

“Isn’t this better?” He asks, “A little bit of quiet.”

He presses down on Francis’ tongue and brings his free hand in his pants, wrapping it around his cock.

Francis bites lightly at his thumb and sucks hard at it, eyes huge, trained to the shape of James’ hand moving underneath the fabric.

“Like this,” James says, “Suck me off.”

Francis grasps at the fabric of James’ pants, a look of confusion, fury and lust in his eyes. He lifts his gaze on James and all but spits his finger out of his mouth, “Then bloody let me.”

“Hush.” James silences him with his thumb again, “You always make it look like a terrible hardship when you do it– if you do it at all–ah,” he makes sure to moan loudly, “so I’m sparing you the torment. You should thank me.”

Francis looks utterly betrayed. He moves away from James’ hand, “Fucking Hell, just let me–”

“No.”

He’s proud of how hard and steady his voice comes out, as if seeing Francis like this, on his knees, desperate to have him, is nothing.

James pushes his index and middle fingers into his mouth this time, making sure to spread saliva on his chin with his thumb.

Francis grasps at his pants and sucks at his fingers, breathing loudly through his nose. He almost whines when James start fucking his own fist, his hips so close to Francis’ face.

“Don’t touch yourself,” James orders, when he notices one of Franics’ hands going to his groin, “You never let me touch myself when I do this.”

Francis squeezes his eyes shut and gives him a murderous look when he opens them again. But he does as told.

James makes sure to move his fingers in his mouth in time with his hips and it’s not long before Francis helplessly grasps at his wrists, moaning something around his mouthful.

“You have something to say?” James asks, trying to hide how breathless he is.

Francis nods urgently.

James slips his fingers free. “Speak up.”

“At least,” Francis’ voice is hoarse, “Finish on my face.”

James slams his fist against the wall. “Christ, Francis–”

“Please.” Francis says, breaking character, “Give it to me, James.”

Hearing and seeing Francis like this makes him lose his words, so James just pushes his pants and boxer down, the cold air of the room a shock on his burning skin.

“Christ, yes.” Francis pants, reverently, staring at his straining erection, “like that, love, let me see you when you come.”

He picks up the pace of his movements. “Francis–”

“Finish on your Captain’s face.”

There’s no way James can keep his eyes open through his orgasm, not with how good this feels, but he makes sure to open them as soon as the first wave of pleasure is dissipating.

He made a mess of Franics’ face: there are ropes of white all over, most of it ended up on his right cheek, but there’s a bit of it in the streak of hair that has fallen on his forehead too. He’s panting and cleaning himself with his hand, licking it clean like a cat would do.

James still has no words, so he all but drops to his knees and kisses him hard, swallowing Francis’ moan and his own come down.

“You’re so hot like this,” James pants on his mouth, feeling both ready to pass out and do it all over again, “I’m gonna suck you off.”

“James,” Francis groans on his lips and lays down, bringing James with him. “I’ll not last– watching you is always too much.”

James sucks at his tongue wishing he could kiss and touch him everywhere at the same time.

He hastily moves down, opens his pants, doesn’t even waste time by undressing him, just takes him out and God yes, yes, the way Francis tastes, the way he pulses into his mouth when he’s so close, it’s everything. James forces his throat to accept him and hungrily swallows around him.

“James– Oh–”

He doesn’t stop sucking at him even once he’s finished, keeps lapping at his gorgeous cock until Francis makes a noise in the back of his throat and tries to push him away.

“Told you you would have looked so good in my Captain’s uniform.” James smiles on his lips, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “God, you’re so hot when you play angry.”

Francis pushes his nose against his, with his eyes closed, still blissed out by his orgasm.

"How the hell did you make them hate each other in the beginning?” He asks, breathless, "if this is when they couldn’t stand each other I can't imagine what the rest of your book is like."

“You know,” James moves a hand around, "Victorians."

He stretches back to get the Captain’s hat from where it has fallen while they were pushing and pulling at each other, and puts it on himself, smiling dazedly.

“How do I look?”

“I’m the Captain, don’t forget it.” Francis steals it from him with a smile. “Don’t be insubordinate now, or I’ll have to punish you.”

James pushes his face in Francis’ hair, breathing heavily. “God, please.”

“James, my back is already killing me–”

“Will you spank me? Will you put me over your knees, in your lap?”

“I’m not sure that was the way–”

“I can wear that white skirt you like so much–”

Francis pushes himself up to stand in the blink of an eye.

“Bedroom, let’s go.”

James bursts out laughing, his heart full with everything he feels for Francis.

.

.

...it’s set in my tinder AU!!! look at these two roleplaying!! DORKS!!!!

( send me a prompt and I’ll write you a short fic! )

[doctors-star]

21 & 25 crozier/Fitz James and 10 for which ever pairing you want 💛

excellent excellent i have been reading erebus by dear mr palin of late so the vibe may be somewhat “i love francis crozier and i’m bursting to tell people about it”

ask me questions

21. who is more likely to start dancing with the other?

okay hot lukewarm take for the terror fandom but i love the idea of both francis and james being reasonably good dancers, and not just james. i think francis is more likely to be shy about it, though, so james is the one pulling him into the middle of their sitting room and demanding to be swept off his feet. they both semi-secretly love it, pretending all the while to be indulging the other.

“did not your doctor prescribe more exercise for you, sir?” james teases, drawing francis from his seat with less difficulty than he pretends.

francis rolls his eyes, winding james tight into his hold. his heartbeat thuds out solidly next to james’ own, healthy and sound, and james’ hand settles lightly at the nape of his neck. “a good excuse, james,” he allows with warmth settling in his chest. “that should last you many years yet.”

25. who needs more assurance?

oh boy. these boys both need assurance all the time. in terms of standing in the world, james: he worries endlessly that he isn’t worthy of his titles and commissions and the praise that tends to exceed francis’, whereas francis is quite happily aware that he is exactly as competent as everyone knows he is, and that james is entirely deserving of that which he has. in terms of their relationship, probably francis: in his eyes, james is the most handsome and incredible man in the world, who could have every woman in london at his feet to provide homes and children and half a hundred other things, if only he’d express an interest. to james, francis is handsome/incredible/etc, and could have anyone if only they understood what they were missing out on.

10. who remembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant?

let’s crack on with fitzier because why not. james is one of those people who always spends hours poring over the menu and then fifty per cent of the time picks the same thing he always has. this is a source of great exhaustion to francis, who inevitably has to sit there going no, james, i don’t know whether you’d rather have the cod or the beef. yes, you did have the beef last time. no, you didn’t like their sushi. oh for god’s sake he’ll have the beef and he’ll like it he always does. james is usually too busy making shocked and offended noises about this to notice what francis has ordered until later, whereupon he begins his mission to steal francis’ chips slowly and steadily over the course of the meal.

francis will tell you that he finds this far more irritating than entertaining or strangely heartwarming. all that time picking and he didn’t even the order the chips he clearly wants? infuriating.

he is lying.

[caravaggiosbrushes]

For the fic prompts, "quick, kiss me!" or "you weren't supposed to hear that!" for fitzier? I couldn't decide which to pick so I'm leaving that up to you 💜

I chose “Quick, kiss me!” ;-) Modern AU fitzier (my jam!!)

The end of the semester party is one of the celebrations Francis never looks forward to. He loves his job and likes most of his colleagues, but he already sees them every single day of the year, is it really necessary to be together even on one of their free nights? His idea of a great night is not exactly watching Little and Jopson courting each other with increasingly colourful drinks, like two animals of the gayest species, or Harry Peglar and John Bridgens being sickeningly perfect together, and it's most definitely not being forced to stay in the same room as Fitzjames for such a long period of time without interruption.

That's the worst part of this: for some reason, at every one of these bloody parties, Fitzjames looks his best. He always looks good and he bloody knows it, and Francis knows he knows it, which makes his blood boil with envy for both him and the people who have him.

This year is no exception. Fitzjames showed up wearing a long black coat, embroidered in golden thread, its cut sharp and elegant. Francis can tell it's high fashion just from the way the fabric melts on him and highlights his strong figure at the same time, as if it was designed exclusively for his body. And his pants— don’t even get him started on the pants. He's trying not to look in that direction.

It’s going to be a long night.

What is even worse, and absolutely incomprehensible to Francis, is that, for some reason, he and Fitzjames are now in decent terms. They’re not friends, not exactly, but if their colleagues would leave them alone in a room together, they wouldn't find them yelling at each other anymore, as it was until Francis finally got into rehab.

Now, the problem would be reversed: if he would be left alone in a room with Fitzjames, they would probably end up yelling at each other again, but because Francis would do something very stupid, like kiss him, or stay out loud how much he likes talking to Fitzjames every morning when he gets to his favourite Cafè right next to campus, and he knows Fitzjames will be there too, as if waiting for him.

So being in a dimme-light room with alcohol all around and a shining Fitzjames next to him is torture, but such a sweet one, especially since Fitzjames apparently decides he’s going to spend his entire night right here, talking to Francis and sipping his sugar free Coke, because “you don’t drink, I don’t drink. Don't worry Francis.”

Francis is trying to maintain his train of thoughts away from how beautiful Fitzjames looks with his hair tied up in a artfully messy bun, two locks of it cascading at the sides of his face, by teasing him about his outfit (“You look straight out one of those high fashion weird-looking runaways, where models have 3D copies of their heads as an accessory”, “Did you just say I could be a high fashion model? Oh my, I wonder what else you’ll say by the end of the night”) when suddenly, Fitzjames stops talking mid-sentence to stare in horror at something behind Francis.

“Fuck.” He says, with emphasis, “No, don't turn around!”

“What is it?” Francis asks, worried about the sudden change of mood. Fitzjames' brows are pinched, his mouth tight in a disappointed line with its corners turned downwards.

“Just keep talking to me," he says, urgently, still looking behind Francis, "say something funny."

“I can’t do it on command, I'm not a dog.”

Fitzjames snorts a laugh, "Dogs tell jokes on command?" Then he quickly shifts to the right, actually trying to hide behind Francis.

Him. One meter and God only knows how many centimeters of a man, with heeled boots and everything. Behind Francis.

"This is not working," Francis says, "What's going on? Are you losing another bet?"

(Fitzjames and Le Vesconte from the Media and Cinema department are always betting on this or that. Always.)

“Not a bet,” Fitzjames says, then smiles so tensely it's painful to watch. “It’s Graham.”

Oh, Graham. Right. The handsome, cool looking, professional baseball player, Graham Gore: Fitzjames’ most recent ex.

Francis hates being in the middle -quite literally as it is right now,- of other people’s business and he would normally run away from a situation like this, but Fitzjames looks deeply uncomfortable, all his usual nonchalance gone, so he can’t just leave him to himself like this.

“What can I do?” Francis asks.

“Keep talking with me, don’t turn around. If he sees me with someone else he won’t come here,” he doesn't sound so sure, “hopefully .”

“Things ended up badly between the two of you?”

“It wasn’t nice,” Fitzjames says, lowering his gaze, clearly embarrassed, “He cheated.”

“What?” How can someone in their right mind cheat on James Fitzjames? “That sucks. I’m sorry, James.”

“Yeah.” He weakly agrees, “whatever. I don’t want him to see me and think I’m still thinking about him. Because I’m not.”

“Right.” It feels a bit weird to be here talking about Fitzjames' ex boyfriend who cheated on him, with the man himself, but he's not going to abandon him if he needs help. “Talk to me and keep smiling like you always do, you know how to do that well.”

James gives him a somewhat hurted glance, “Right, you think I can do that exclusively.”

Oh no, not back at their usual bickering, please, not when Francis was actually trying to pay him a compliment.

“I meant that you're always nice and smile to everyone," he forces his voice to remain steady, "even to people who are not very nice to you."

Fitzjames actually stops obsessing over what's happening behind Francis and brings his attention back on him. They both know what Francis is referring to.

He shrugs easily, "It's not like I'm always right, either. Plus, smiling helps easing the tension for me as well."

He opens his mouth to offer a comment to that, like a normal person who knows how to interact with his hopeless crush would do, but his mind goes on its own.

"You look good when you smile.”

James fixes his eyes on him, looking equally shocked and delighted. His cheeks may actually have turned a bit red, but perhaps it's just the semi darkness of the bar.

“Thank you, Francis.”

“You know that, it's not like—”

“Oh fuck, he’s coming this way,” James interrupts him, eyes back over Francis' right shoulder, “Fuck, fuck, I don't want to see him, I'm not prepared.”

“Calm down, we can—”

“Oh shit,” Fitzjames hisses, and with one last, desperate glance behind Francis he whispers, “Quick, kiss me.”

“Wh—”

Something absolutely out of this world happens: Fitzjames’ mouth is on Francis’.

It feels like it goes on for an hour, Francis feels everything: Fitzjames’ perfume, James’ lips -soft, made to be kissed,- Fitzjames’ big hands gently framing his face, not forcing him into the kiss, just caressing him; he can feel Fitzjames’ breathing against his upper lip and nose, the way his lips part slowly and how he waits for Francis to make the next move, leaving him a choice, which is to gently push his tongue on Fitzjames’ lips and feel him take a heavy breath in return. Fuck, he tastes so sweet, like Coke and himself, it's like drinking his scent.

Francis didn’t even notice he put both hands on Fitzjames’ hips, bringing him closer.

“Sorry.” Fitzjames whispers on his lips, once they part (barely). "I panicked."

“Would you like to panic some more?” Francis says, brushing his lips against his with every word, “At my place?”

Fitzjames does a little high pitched laugh, pure adrenaline and charm, and whispers, “Please.”

.

.

-james’ outfit

( send me a prompt and I’ll write you a short fic! )

[caravaggiosbrushes]

From the fic prompt list: fitzier in either 35 or 46, I'm up for some good comfort piece 🖤

Hello bby, I finally finished it! Thank you for the request and I hope you’ll like it :*

35: "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

46: "Please don't say that about yourself. Please don't believe that. You're so much more than that. You're so…"

The party has long become a blur of too warm lights, too bright colored skirts and crinolines, and too many amber drinks in glimmering crystal glasses, by now.

It's not the first party or public gathering they attend since coming back, but James is still disoriented by the fact that this is people's daily life. That this was his daily life too, until a few years ago. A lifetime ago.

Most of all, he is shocked by the loudness of it all: the combination of alcohol and constant chattering and clinck-clinck of crystals and fine china plates and the scraping of chairs on wooden floor and the talking, the talking, the talking. Everyone seems to have every kind of things of greatest importance to discuss with him and Francis and James can't blame them -he knows they are quite the curiosity of the entire city, possibly the entire Country, right now,- but nevertheless he still finds himself wishing he and Francis could leave, unnoticed, and just go home. God, he is dreaming of the silence of their home right now: its quietness, its soft lights, their two bedrooms that most nights are simply their bedroom and the room that holds James' clothes and belongings. He dreams of that, right now, of being held by a pair of strong arms in the comfort of their bed which was Francis' bed and still is, for their housemaid, but for the remaining of the time is their bed and that simple thought brings so much blinding joy in James' chest.

Thinking about this, he realizes that Francis has left his side for quite a while now. He has left some time ago, politely making his excuses and smiling at everyone in their little circle, but wasn't explicit about why he wanted to step away or where he was heading to. James hasn't followed him, nor asked anything, even if the moment Francis has stepped out of his line of vision James felt unbalanced, as if someone has cut off one of his limbs.

Now, a quick look around the room is unsuccessful, Francis is nowhere to be seen, so James takes advantage of that and uses it as an excuse to go looking for him and stepping away from all the chattering and talking, at least for a little while. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I think I'll go searching for something as dangerous as the Passage itself." All eyes are on him in an instant and James offers them his most convincing smile, "That would be Sir Francis, of course."

Everyone laughs, delighted at his joke and assures him that is alright and please come back with him soon, we would absolutely love to hear more of your stories!

With a final smile, James is finally free to leave and wander around for a while.

It's only after a couple of strolls around the room, completely unfruitful, that he starts feeling a bit anxious and then, of course, ridiculous because of that. They're not- there anymore. There are no dangers here. Francis is alright. He is alright.

Still, James feels the collar of his uniform cutting at his throat like a rope, feeling hard to get his breathing under control. It’s only when he steps out of the salon, in search of a bit of fresher air that will hopefully have a calming effect, that he notices him.

Francis is standing with his back to him, apparently staring at one of the larger paintings hanging in the hallway. The relief upon seeing him again is more powerful than anything else and James couldn’t, for the life of him, tell what the subject of that painting is. Everything is blurred, except for Francis.

He closes the distance between them with much too controlled steps (he would run to him like an insubordinate child, if only this were a dream).

"Captain Crozier," He calls for him, voice almost reverberating in the empty hallway, "Here you are, man. I thought you had fled the scene already." without me, is what he can't add.

As soon as James gets a look at his face, however, he realizes it was the wrong thing to say. Francis doesn't mirrors his -calculated, but still- easy tone of voice, quite the contrary: an expression of deep concern and stress is painted on his face, deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth. James would like to smooth them all away with light touches and even lighter kisses.

He can’t do that. He doesn't move.

Francis finally meets his gaze and visibly steels himself, taking a breath, avoiding his eyes once again.

"I'm sorry, James. It wasn't my intention to leave like that." He rubs at the spot in between his eyebrows with a nervous touch, "But I couldn't take it any longer."

James feels puzzled and his face must show it. "Take what?"

Francis meets his gaze and looks so, so tired, so much that James wishes he could hide him somewhere under his coat and says his goodbyes and just leave, finally leave and take him home.

He can’t do that. He doesn't move.

"Well," his posture is perfect, but the tiredness weights visibly upon his shoulders. He looks presentable, yes, but he doesn't look the best version of Francis Crozier that James is so well acquainted to. "Being asked questions they don't really want an answer to." Francis keeps his voice low, barely audible, "Listening to all those empty chatters- I couldn't bear it before, but at least back then I had alcohol to distract myself. Now I'm defenceless against these-" He shakes his head and shuts his mouth. "My apologies. Pay no mind to this, is just me doing what I do best: brooding and being of no entertainment."

His weak attempt at relieving the tension fools neither of them.

James wishes he could take a step towards him, place his hands on Francis' shoulders, take his face in his hands and say exactly what he wants to say.

He can’t do that. He doesn’t move.

"Francis, you have nothing to be sorry for."

"Oh, I'd say I do, James." He gives a short laugh, all bitterness, "Quite a handful of things, actually. I can even tell you the exact number of things I am sorry about, if you want-"

"Don't do this." He stops him, before he can lose himself in those thoughts.

"I try not to, you know that." Francis nods, "but," what follows is almost spit out, Francis’ face morphing into an expression of anger, disbelief and deep, profound sorrow: "Everyone keeps- complimenting me, James."

James nods and then nods again, because he knows. He knows what Francis means: it's exactly why he doesn't like social gatherings anymore, it's the reason why they both avoid them now, as often as it is socially acceptable. It’s why sometimes James still wakes up at night covered in cold sweat, his mind replaying in an endless loop his every mistake, forcing him to live it again and again.

"Pay them no mind. It's painful, I know it is." He tries his hardest to put everything he really means in these words, "They don't mean bad, they simply have no idea of what you've faced."

Francis holds is gaze and ah, if only James could step closer and place a kiss, just one single kiss would be enough, on his furrowed brow, that would be enough. It would smoother the tension that holds Francis' face and body as taut as a violin's string. Jamous would whisper sweet nothings directly on his skin and kiss him and simply keep him close, waiting patiently for those thoughts and memories to leave him.

But everything James can do here is taking one step towards him, and look at him, pouring every thought and gentle touch in his gaze, hoping Francis would be able to translate them and understand them.

Maybe he does, because his eyes widen just a fraction, in disbelief (that's so very Francis).

"And you, too." He says, "You lived what I lived and you can still do- this," he gestures at the open door of the salon, far away on the other end of the hallway, "But I can't, because of course I can't. I'm broken, I can't even go to fucking parties." He shakes his head quickly, out of pure nervousness, arms straight at his sides. James' hand burns with the need to touch him.

"Captain Crozier," He says, as firmly as he can, and keeps talking only when Francis is looking at him, focused, "You know how much I respect you," how much I hold you close to my heart, how deeply I feel towards you, how much light your eyes bring into my days, "But sometimes you're the most infuriating of men."

Francis stands there, stock still, expression just a little bit confused and it would be almost comical if it weren’t this important of a matter.

"Do you know why I stepped out of that room?" James doesn't leave him time to answer: "Because I was suffocating. Because I couldn't hear my own thoughts anymore with all that talking and those noises and because my mind kept wandering" towards you, my personal North Star, "Do not think that you're the only one who finds this hard. I know you do and that's understandable," James takes another step closer, decency be damned: he has to make him understand, "And I wish you wouldn't have to feel this way, because it pains me immensely to see you troubled. And I know I can do very little about it-"

"False." This time it's Francis the one who interrupts. He hasn't taken a step back. He's holding James’ gaze, his eyes almost flaming when he goes on: "False. You can do so much- James, you're the only thing that makes it bearable-" the sound of footsteps stops him and they both take a step back, quietly. They know how to do it.

A couple who James cannot bring himself to be interest in, walks by and they exchange a polite greeting. He hopes they won't take notice of his too rapid breathing.

Francis clears his voice and James busies himself by finishing his whiskey, slowlier than what he would normally do.

They step closer to each other once again at the same time, as soon as that couple is out of sight. Francis places a hand on his free one and holds it gently, but surely, "You're the only thing, James."

He almost doesn't let him finish before saying: "And you, as well, to me." Turning his hand just so in Francis’, to brush his thumb on the side of his palm, "You know that. I just… I wish you could see yourself as I do."

His gaze becomes softer at that. "I'm just a mess of a man-"

"Francis." James almost snaps, "Do you know how long I've been-" enamoured. obsessed. in love. "Admiring you?"

He frowns, probably surprised by the question. "I... couldn't say."

James makes sure to look straight in his eyes, "Since I read about yours and Ross' expedition." He delights in Francis confused, even more surprised and a little bit shocked expression, "That's right. Even before we were formally introduced." Francis looks like he wants to say something, but James has a point to prove and doesn’t stop, "I read about the two of you doing incredible things and you especially- you embodied everything I dreamed to be. Still do. A great man, brave and adventurous, a responsible captain who takes all the best decisions and God, I was so envious of you." He laughs shortly, thinking about his younger self.

Francis looks genuinely affected by his confession and his voice is almost a whisper, "You never told me this."

"I never told anyone." He shrugs, holding his gaze, "What I'm saying is that what happened doesn't make you a bad Captain. And God, it doesn't make you a bad man, Francis. Quite the contrary, in fact."

Francis looks speechless, lips slightly parted, blue eyes shimmering.

"I," His voice shakes a little. He takes a breath and smiles with such fondness that James’ heart swells underneath it. "I think it's time for us to go home."

He wouldn’t ask for anything else.

"Let's go home."

(send me a prompt from this list!)

[wildcard47]

Please do either 33 or 35 for fitzier

33. Unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

Although it had been two weeks since John Irving, walking alone near the east ridge, had sighted a group of Netsilik and convinced them – somehow, God only knew how – to return with him to Terror Camp, many of the sickest men were still abed. 

It was understandable, really. The men needed more than small amounts of fresh meat. They needed rest. Time to grieve the brothers they’d lost. And time to gather their strength for the days ahead.

Sitting in the joint captains’ tent next to a sleeping James’s bedside, Francis knew, although he had not yet voiced it to another soul, that they would also need to walk again before the summer was out.

And it was while he was ruminating over this prospect that a small bit of biscuit suddenly hit him in the temple.

“What the – ”

Turning, he caught James’s eye. James, who was very clearly awake, and who had assumed a very innocent face. 

Even lying on a cot in his weakened condition – eyes bloodshot, still flushed with fever, and unable to walk for more than a few minutes at a time – the man still managed to smirk at him as he met Francis’s puzzled gaze.

“Don’t brood,” he rasped.

Francis felt one corner of his mouth twitch up. “What?”

James shook his head slightly, but he was still smiling, even as Francis saw the exhale that indicated this was slightly painful. “You’ll get lines in your face.” 

He gestured to his jaw with a flick of his fingers, barely lifting them from the blankets. 

Upon putting the joke together, Francis let out a cackle that shocked him in its intensity. “Bollocks. You got those from grinning at all your ridiculous stories.”

“Well.” James smiled again, wider this time. “’Twas worthwhile, then.”

Laughing even harder, ducking his head, Francis felt the relief of their present situation wash over him all at once. A sudden surge of gratitude pulsed through his chest at the idea that James was still here, and still smiling, and could in fact tell his stories for many days more. 

Or even throw weevil-filled biscuits at his face.

“Francis?”

Glancing up, Francis met James’s inquisitive gaze – recalling how warm and sharp and fragile the man’s broad shoulders had felt under his gloved palms at Victory Point, how intensely they’d stared at each other, how he wanted James to look at him that way every minute – and suddenly he was leaning forward, heedless as a besotted schoolboy, cupping James’s face in two hands and kissing him as soundly as he could.

It was only when James made a soft protesting noise against his mouth that he pulled back.

Panting, stunned, Francis had no idea what to say next, but surely James had one last bon mot saved for such a strange occasion. He would make some sort of gently amusing comment, they might very possibly laugh at such foolishness together, and that would be the end of it.

James only stared. And stared. And stared. Mouth slightly open, eyes wide with shock. He stared at Francis until the lingering silence between them became unbearable, and Francis finally had to avert his eyes, and scratched awkwardly at one side of his beard.

“Erm. If you – James, I – I’ll not presume to – ”

He was prepared to make his excuses and retreat with as much of his shattered dignity as was humanly possible when something much more solid than a piece of biscuit boffed him in the forehead.

It was James’s glove.

“What the hell was that for?” Francis demanded as he batted it away, head snapping up to scowl at his Second.

“You’re brooding again,” said James very evenly. A flush of colour had risen in his cheeks. “Don’t.”

“Oh,” murmured Francis in a whisper.

And then James slipped his bare hand into Francis’s – squeezed his fingers tightly – and the penny dropped.

“Oh.”

“Stay a few minutes, Francis,” said James, and squeezed Francis’s fingers again, even as he shut his eyes. “I daresay I’ll not mind your giving me additional crow’s feet, if it means you’ll try that again in the morning.”

“You’re an idiot,” growled Francis after a small pause, but he was also blushing, and he stayed anyway.

35. An awkward kiss given after a first date.

James had been surprised when Francis had accepted his dinner invitation without reservations, and had been even more surprised when the evening had gone off without a hitch. There’d been no tossed-off insults – not genuine ones, anyway – nor bouts of sulking, nor anything resembling the clear annoyance Francis had once shown at sharing his company, in the early days.

It was so new, this strange and tentative flirtation now blossoming between them, even after more than a year of actual friendship. If you’d asked James two years ago whether he’d be sharing a heaping bowl of pasta and a serving of tiramisu with his most frustrating colleague in the department – and deliriously enjoying Francis’s company to boot – he might have assumed you were trying to trick him.

By the time they had left the restaurant, and were walking back toward the nearest metro stop, the pleasure buzzing in James’s chest had reached previously-unfathomable levels. 

He stopped at the gate of a particularly beautiful apartment garden without saying a word – so quickly, in fact, that it left Francis a step ahead on the pavement, still snorting over the misspelled street sign from two blocks earlier.

“Oh, have you seen another? Is it worse than pubic facilities?”

Francis’s blue eyes gleamed beautifully under the soft streetlight, and his crooked smile showed off the gap in his teeth, and when this enticing picture was paired with the gentle tap of his hand against James’s elbow as he walked up to join him by the gate, James found he could not resist leaning in and capturing Francis’s mouth in a heated, rather long kiss.

Although Francis leaned into the kiss for several seconds, he also pulled back rather suddenly, staring at James as if he’d just spouted off a round of Portuguese curses.

“What – what was that for?”

“I don’t know,” said James after a small pause, and released Francis’s arm. “Just, ah, wanted to. End of a good date.”

Francis shifted on his feet, narrowed his eyes. “Date.”

“Yeah,” said James, with dawning horror. “You – you did know that’s why I asked you to dinner. On a Saturday night. And paid for both of us. That’s – did you really not think we were on – I mean, that it was one?”

From the way Francis blanched, and his mouth suddenly dropped open, he did not.

“Shit.” James was momentarily lost for words. His heart had dropped somewhere into his intestines. “Well. That explains the surprise.” He jammed his hands into his jacket pockets. His knees were shaking. “Sorry. You just – looked sexy, and I thought the evening was going well, so I wanted to – ”

“Sexy?” Francis whispered.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll just – see you Monday, or whatever. I’ll go now.”

“James.”

Sighing, James looked up. He still had not moved one whit.

“I am surprised,” said Francis in a rush, still barely meeting James’s eyes, “but that doesn’t – I mean – you can do. Again.”

“What?”

“If you wanted to – whatever – then you – you can do.”

James actually laughed, stung by such reticence. “Christ, Francis, stop being so bloody opaque! You didn’t even know we were on a date five minutes ago. And now you’re gawping at me as if I’ve lost my mind entirely! For god’s sake, man, if you honestly want me to stay, or to kiss you, or do anything else other than go home and drown myself in the bath out of sheer hideousness, then you’ll have to say something a bit more articulate than whatever, else I’ll toss you into this chap’s garden and slap the living daylights out of – ”

Judging by the speed in which Francis grabbed James’s lapels and yanked him forward into a heated, almost embarrassingly-passionate embrace, the answer to whether he wanted a second kiss was very clearly yes.