#of course hes still crozier so hes doing all these things for jopson

[favouritefi]

What about Crozier adopting (?) Jopson as his first cat boy? You mentioned he thought it was weird to have a human-adjacent sleep on the floor, so he's not used to cat/dogboys?

crozier is irish and ireland doesnt have the same system of institutionalized cat/dogboy adoption that england does. honestly very few parts of the world do and the places that do have it were likely influenced by british imperialism. crozier didnt grow up with cat/dogboy companions and he didnt get invited to parties where officers brought their cat/dogboy companions along until well into adulthood. crozier's worked with cat/dogboys because he's been in the navy for most of his life, but being on watch with one is very different from living with one for the rest of your (now shared) lives. the intimate domesticity between a human officer and his cat/dogboy was not something he was prepared for. ive joked before that crozier missed the "mandatory catboy naval training session" but even if that was a thing he wouldve skipped it. he never bothered to learn the proper customs and behaviours between a human officer and his catboy because he never wanted a catboy and a part of him hoped he could somehow convince the admiralty to grant him an exception, but then jopson shows up and hes lovely and perfect and greatly improves croziers life by simply being in it. jopson is the reason why crozier stopped drinking in his 30s and why he retired from the navy after returning to england and why he wanted to live - to survive the arctic and return home with jopson. their relationship in this au is literally this meme:

[dravenscroft]

So my wife and I are working on a long fic that's a Terror modern AU set in a secondary school. My wife is a teacher and has experienced The Horrors of crappy schools being taken over by academy trusts and becoming weirdly corporate firsthand. We're like 50k into it and it'll probably be like 60k? I think? Anyway we're uploading it on my Ao3 soon but here's a brief rundown of some of the highlights:

Crozier is the new joint head of school, he's been moved there against his will to work alongside Fitzjames, the 'Head of Data', which Crozier thinks isn't a real job.

Franklin is the Executive Head but he's NEVER at the school, he's always busy at head office and has no idea what chaos goes down.

Fitzjames used to be a drama teacher until he got promoted up. He hasn't taught in years and so Crozier has zero respect for him...at first.

Little is the exhausted head of English and he is regularly being verbally abused by the children. He is having a Bad Time.

Hodgson is the music teacher. Irving is the art teacher.

Collins is the maths teacher...he has had a sniffle since the start of the year...he is maybe over medicating with Lemsip and cough medicine in an effort to keep coming to work.

Goodsir is the bright-eyed NQT biology teacher. He is still full of wonder and hope. Oh, to see the UK education system 'with eyes as an NQT...'

Stanley is the head of science. He is not full of wonder and hope. Obviously.

Blanky is the geography teacher who has been there since forever and doesn't take any shit. He's beloved by the kids but they also rightly fear him because he will tell them what for if they misbehave. He also has NO concept of professional corporate speak in emails. He will tell it like it is.

...Oh yeah, there's emails in there too. It's partly epistolary.

Jopson is the highly competent office worker for the school reception. He WILL find a way to schedule the unscheduleable, he WILL handle any difficult parent that comes his way, and he WILL answer every email in a timely fashion.

He works alongside Billy of course, who doesn't want to be there, except maybe for the gossip.

Bridgens takes on the work of several as is normal in a terrible school...he's librarian, and the first-aider, and a TA, along with his husband Peglar who is also a TA.

Tozer is the disillusioned P.E teacher who USED to enjoy his job until Heather left and took another job on the other side of the country and the Academy (Admiralty Trust) took over...now he hates his job and is totally checked out.

And then of course there's Hickey...a problematic parent who has made bringing down Crozier and the school his primary goal. It was very hard to imagine Hickey with a kid but we came to the decision that his daughter was born when he and the girl's mother were like 15, a one-time fling before he figured out his sexuality, and he has Regretted It Ever Since because good GOD this man doesn't want to be a father. He only has her on weekends and isn't in contact with her mother at all. He WANTED to run off to Hawaii like in canon but then his kid's mother said she'd chase him to the ends of the earth for child maintenance if he did. He is NOT a good father, this troubled, angry teenage girl lives off takeaway and pot noodles and they mostly just try to avoid each other when she's at his scummy little flat. HOWEVER, because Hickey is all about his ego, when there are Issues with his daughter at school Hickey takes it as a slight against HIM, and makes revenge his goal.

His daughter also features, she's a 'managed move' student who was nearly expelled from her last school for bringing in a knife. She's very troubled and terrorises the teachers (she's referred to as 'a little terror' in one of the emails...) but she also ends up bonding a little with Crozier, who tries his hardest to turn things around for her. It's just too bad her father wants to cause Problems rather than do anything to ACTUALLY help her.

Anyway yeah. It's mostly comedic but with a few serious issues tackled (like the obvious neglect this girl experiences, for one) - it's mostly been a way for my teacher wife to rant about Academy schools and just the general failings of the UK school system lmao. There is Social Commentary involved.

Anyway it's Coming Soon.

[cashmere-caveman]

read a post about there being next to no record abt the historic edward little again (we dont even know what he looked like!!!) and now im thinking a lot about how he died in uniform again.

hes far from the only character to die in uniform (the marines die in uniform! franklin dies in uniform!) and he isn't even the only lieutenant to do so (gore, under his slops, was in uniform; fairholme, too presumably; irving famously wore his coat that hickey steals later; george wore something that used to be his uniform when he got eaten but imo atp he did not wear it as A Uniform anymore that were just the clothes that he had on if that makes sense) but at the end, he is the only one where i still felt that it was an active choice to wear it.

almost everyone else sheds their layers along the way or turns into something else, but ned starts in uniform and he stays in uniform and that's it.

fitzjames famously sheds his vanity and dies in his shirtsleeves, without any of the pomp and pizzazz of his uniform.

jopson, another character who is to me really connected with a certain mindset of holding up appearances, dies in his shirtsleeves, believing himself abandoned by the very person that was his reason to even wear a uniform at all.

goodsir as a doctor/assistant surgeon doesn't really have a uniform in quite the same sense as many others but when he dresses himself before his suicide it is not as an affirmation of his role, or at least not a positive one. he has sworn to do no harm, but he was forced to do it anyway and now he will add a final evil to his toll of sins in the hopes to balance the scales at least somewhat and for that to work, he must wear his outfit as always. he ends up with all pretenses stripped bare anyway.

tozer, a man so proud of his uniform in the beginning, again, dies in his shirtsleeves, no rank left, betrayed by someone who had convinced him to give up everything and yet! reduced to nothing but an ordinary man, he tries again where before he had given up. he cooperates, he coordinates, he even calls crozier captain again, he tries very hard to do the right thing in what looks like a no win scenario from the get go!! and he fails, of course, but he tried.

almost everyone else also ends up either dressed down (bridgens, armitage, dundy, des voeux etc) or somehow transformed (blanky, to some extend silna with her patched and bloody furs) or in hickeys case, both (iconic underwear & greatcoat combo). little never changes. he sometimes has a little scarf, theres the bandage for his headwound for a bit, he sometimes wears the full parade uniform with epaulettes and sometimes just the regular one, there are at least two different uniform hats and ofc you can tell that he loses weight by the way his shape chages under all that wool but he is always. in. uniform.

and maybe this is just my mind making up dots to connect but i think he might even be the last character that crozier ever gives an order to in his official function as a captain (in the tuunbaq seduction/boss fight scene he has been stripped of his rank, at least according to e.c.).

before his final scene, all we get is little arguing over the orders they are given, and how to interpret them. and he is still wearing his uniform!!! wait hold on im not gonna check but maybe he might only wear a jumper in the tent where dundy lauches his soft mutiny actually, so maybe this whole post is crumbling like a domino line but!!! ignoring this. moving on. (even if it is a jumper i remember him wearing sth dark blue aka Uniform Colour so im claiming it doesnt even matter bc spiritually that hypothetical jumper still is a uniform. im not going to let anything like "accuracy" and "real details" fuck up my post smh 🙄. im joking. however! Moving On as i said) (edit: i rewatched the scene and it IS his uniform actually, just v rumpled. going insane btw)

he doesnt even dress up for carnivale! the only other characters that are not in costume are jopson and crozier and they were literally too busy keeping crozier from dying to even begin thinking about joining the communal arts and crafts session! little is atp the acting no2 of the expedition so u might say he was busy but fitzjames has the overall command and still finds time to have a little gender moment in private and the imperialism-approved version of it for the Big Crowd!! (u could ofc argue that fitzy Always has time for a gender moment and who would i be to argue but my point is: i have no doubt that man was fucking busy preparing carnivale & beginning to prepare the walkout and there still was time to Express Some Character!! so how come ned didn't do anything?)

the one other scene we get where we can catch a small glimpse of characters out of their element before it all unravels (pre tuunbaq attack on the camp) is the scene at night when morfin gets shot. it shows lots of characters in various states of undress (silna big blanket burrito i love you) that allows us to see them differently, like their costumes at carnivale did, but in an entirely opposite direction. while carnivale was about putting on masks, this scene is about taking them off. and it drives me insane because i know that little must be there. he is somewhere in the crowd when morfin gets shot but so far i havent been able to make him out and i need to know what he is wearing so bad. it is actually for science (my own curiosity) ! i really need to know. and i cant help but feel that maybe it is intentional that he is just ~somewhere~ instead of In Front of the Fucking Camera because, well. that would be just ned little, wouldnt it? and we dont even know who that is.

[leadandblood]

RE drunkJop: this also gives Crozier's own drinking issues such an intriguing flavour because ofc the captain cannot be flogged so. Jop having to deal with that, maybe with resentment. Who knows maybe he himself had gotten drunk because he was done with Crozier's bullshit. Or meaning to do away with the recent bottle. (dont mind me I am just rattling the bars of your braincells' cage so that they may run free)

*the cage breaks open and my braincells scatter in every direction like this:*

IT'S EVEN SUPPORTED BY THE SHOW IN A WAY. At least in my humble reading of it.

We all know Nedward is mad when Crozier drinks but (although subtly) Jopson hates it just as much. You can see it if you pay attention to him enough. He's not exactly angry, but he HATES it when Crozier is drunk. I've made a post about it before i think *furious searching* found this one at short notice but i've definitely made more. He absolutely HATES it.

When Francis punches Fitzjames, Tom just leans against a cabinet and stays there, breathing like he's trying to calm down.

The little pause and a big eyed look before he says "two bottles, sir" has been haunting me since i thought abt it too hard one day.

A good reason for this attitude towards Crozier when he's drunk would be the "i got lashed for less and here he is still in command of a ship" attitude, or maybe, from another angle, it may be "oh my god Captin what the FUCK are you doing" thoughts.

Since he would have been just 23 (which is Insane to me HE WAS SO YOUNG WJAT THE FUWK) and the drunkenness was on duty AND severe enough for 36 lashes (jesus...) it must have been REALLY BAD i reckon.

Of course if we take the show canon, then he may be drinking because of his mother. He left her there, hand maimed, with his brother... Must have felt terrible the poor lad. Even though she wanted him to go, he might have had second thoughts. Maybe felt like like he shouldn't have left.

I think that's a really good reason.

But. If we diverge fron that a bit and step aside for a moment... Take a breather...

I think Crozier's (very bad) love language is giving people way too many/hard tasks. I SWEAR i just saw a post about it recently but i cannot for the life of me find it. How Crozier puts Little under so much preassure Because he loves and trusts him. Maybe he was doing that and more to Jopson during the Antarctic expedition. Maybe Jopson just couldn't handle the work/stress/preassure/whatever Crozier was putting him through at 23. But he was too proud to admit it/didn't want to disappoint him, so he turned to drinking. Maybe he thought nobody would notice? But then it got out of hand.

Two ways this could've gone after the lashing.

The way he's quick to fulfil commands in the show could be "you can't break me again, not like back then" kind of quiet, invisible defiance. He might think it wasn't deserved or at least not to such an extent and hold some resentment toward Crozier for it.

On the other hand he could be trying to prove to him that he's Better now and he's Stronger now and More Capable, Look, Daddy, Look At Me Aren't I So Much Better Now. Could be trying to undo all the shame from disappointing him back then with being the perfect steward now, going above and beyond although he doesn't need to.

Really an interesting thing to think about, to me. Which way did he swing? I need to think more abt this. Anyway.

It would also explain why he doesn't drink in the show! Since drinking on the job was the source of his previous punishment he'd be more likely to decline that shot from Blanky.

Then! Crozier goes dry and Teeheehee Just Like Meeee 🥰🥰 Ofc I'll Help You Get There Captiiin 🥰 And he might get a sick little kick out of it at first, because it finally feels like justice.

But then it goes on for one day too many and it's painful to watch and he starts feeling really bad for Francis. Like it's his fault Crozier's suffering so badly and he stays beside his bed for so many hours of the day and guards him so fiercly because he feels like he somehow caused it. And he doesn't want people to see the captain that way. He wants everyone to respect him and maybe to Jopson this would be the worst thing to come out of it. People not respecting Crozier.

Because nobody could understand his suffering like Jopson does of course! Nobody at all! And least of all Edward who's never had such problems but Tommy and Francis ooh they have so much in common now! He'd be insufferable about it.

(I've played with the thought of drunk Jopson in the fic, but not that much and i would love to expand on it... The Antarctic expedition in '39 would be the best way to do that it seems *sinister laughter*)

Moving on though. Timeskip!

When scurvy takes over him and his lash wounds open again he's really brave (stupid) about it and doesn't tell anyone. But it Hurts so fucking bad. So then he tells Bridgens, whom he trusts not to tell anyone and also to help him. Bridgens dresses his wounds and tells him to "Rest for god's sake". But we know Jopson ://

He doesn't rest and it gets worse and worse and he gets weak really fast until he falls while hauling one day and doesn't get up.

Crozier feels like Shit because well He Supervised that lashing. He's the Cause of this. He could've probably Stopped it, but he Didn't. He may have even ordered that lashing to be done. Oooh he'd feel so fucking miserable.

This is giving "300k fic" vibes and i don't know if im ready for that but GOD i so want to write it now. Thank you for stirring these thoughts, Anon 💖💖🙇

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Two short chapters combined for you today, each more gut-wrenching than the last!

Chapter Fifty-Five: Goodsir

Goodsir's first few days in the Mutineer Camp have not been pleasant, needless to say. He begins describing Hickey as The Devil and the other men as an "Infernal Legion" celebrating with a "Feast of Human Flesh" after the confrontation with Crozier.

There are a few familiar and unexpected faces within that 'infernal legion' including Billy Orren, John Morfin, and Billy Gibson, all very much still living so far. Interestingly, several of the Mutineers are still actively resisting the descent into cannibalism - Morfin and Hodgson most notably - but Goodsir suspects they won't be able to hold out much longer - "the smell of Roasting Human Flesh is Horribly Enticing".

Just like the main party, the Mutineers also appear to have found leads in the ice. 17 men pile into a boat only meant for 8 and begin to paddle northward but it's clear quickly that they cannot continue to do so for long, and it's not because of the leads themselves: "I Heard Hickey and Aylmore whispering after we landed to pitch Tents this Evening - they made Little Effort to lower their Voices. Someone will have to go. ...now that they do not need Man-haulers, which Men will be Sacrificed to the Food stores so that the boat can be Lightened for tomorrow's Sailing?"

-

Chapter Fifty-Six: Jopson

Oh gang... I'm afraid this is it...!

Jopson doesn't understand. He doesn't fully understand what's happening to his body anymore - why his teeth and hair are falling out and he's bleeding from every orifice. And he doesn't understand why he's being left behind on this, his literal birthday: "...but he was not an old man. He was thirty-one years old today and they were leaving him behind to die on his birthday." :(((

He has just enough wherewithal to smell the roasting of the seal meat Des Voeux's men brought back to camp, and to note the stream of men visiting his tent, unwilling to show their faces but leaving behind a pile of mouldy ships biscuits for him "like so many white rocks in preparation for his burial."

Jopson can only really protest in his own head - against the men and their actions and, interestingly, against Crozier... "Hadn't he stayed by Captain Crozier's side a hundred times during the captain's illnesses and moody low points and outright bouts of drunkenness? Hadn't he quietly, uncomplainingly, like the good steward he was, hauled pails of vomit from the captain's cabin in the middle of the night and wiped the Irish drunkard's arse when he shat himself in his fever delirium? Perhaps that's why the bastard is leaving me to die." Good Christ if that thought doesn't actually fucking destroy me! It's not even the idea of doing all that for someone and it somehow not being good enough, it's almost as if it was too good instead. Like something about reaching that level of intimacy being too unbearable in some way and somehow being the thing that dooms him? Ooh lordy I'm unwell... :(((

Soon enough, Jopson's birthday becomes more surreal and yet more literal as his crawling from the tent is described almost like labour, like an actual birth - "He had grown used to the canvas-filtered dim light and stuffy air of his tent-womb that this openness and glare made his lungs labour and filled his squinted-shut eyes with tears."

Crawling over food - "brought to him as if he were some damned pagan idol or sacrificial offering to the gods" - Jopson exits the tent which all too quickly fades into the fog behind him so he can't go back, and tries to shout after the departing men.

He's so weak but so utterly utterly desperate that he even tries to use his fucking chin to drag himself along the ground when his arms fail him. But of course it's not enough. Just like that, the departing men are gone. "It was as if they had never existed."

[daincrediblegg]

Do itttttttt

Give us the gory details baby

All right nonnie, if you say so, here you go...

John Franklin had been dead for days. When the Marshalls found him, the flies had been so dense that he’d looked nothing more than a shadow of a man standing over the creek near duskfall. Had there been a man to accompany him, perhaps Deputy Jopson wouldn’t have noticed him at all, save for the way the thing moved and jittered like lakewater, and the man stank of all manner of filth- whether human or non-human, remained to be seen. 

Deputy Little had his theories, and certainly spared none of them to the open air as they rode to where the man had been found. Hodgeson, the Marshall’s man, of course, did nothing to assuage them. The man seemed to be full of apocryphal tales of natives (he’d never specified which, of course), missing children, women with their necks cleaved open by tomahawks, all manner of brutality that might befall a man should he face the indian hordes outside the safeties of their little town. Sheriff Crozier, of course, gave credence to none of them. He was never a speculating man, save for the occasional game of cards he played with Thomas at the Blue Belle, but he’d not put a penny on anything until he had a chance to see for himself exactly the manner of carnage that befell their man. If his years with his badge had taught him anything, fear never led to the truth, and speculation was always the birthmother of that poor mistress. But, he supposed, these greenhorns fresh from those pretty cities back east had nothing but those tales to go on. Not a lick of sense but for that of the men by whom they were raised to go on, none of which would serve them in the open country as they were now. None of it would prepare them for what they would find when they arrived. None of it would have prepared their poor stomachs fresh from breakfast for what Deputy Jopson had to show them.

George was the first to go, and from the smell alone, as they had not even cleared the treeline before he’d emptied his stomach upon the grass. Ned was not too far behind him, judging by the thick swallow that Crozier heard beside him as he scaled down the ridge to where the Marshall and his men waited for them. He at least had had the good sense to cover his face with his neckerchief before approaching further, as Crozier had. Still, all men present couldn’t help but wince under their masks.

Even Crozier himself felt queasy as he came face to face with their inquest. His belly had been empty for hours now, save for the shot of whiskey he spared himself when Jopson came storming into the office in a frenzy he’d never much seen in his young protege. He understood a bit better now to look at what he had seen.

The whole thing looked as though it might up and move by itself at any given moment, were it not for the construction of branch and twig and twine that held the poor man upright. The flies began to shift and scatter in places as he approached to inspect a little better the patches left untouched underneath the swarm. He could hear a man begin to wretch a little behind him, to see the pallid gray palor the man now posessed- Little, most likely, since Hodgeson could dare not venture further and opted to watch the tree-line, and wait for his own betters to arrive back from town with a cart to transport the man- or better he would say, what was left.

Crozier waved his hand then, to clear the flies and better look at what lay beneath the carrion that had gathered, and was met immediately with a scene that made the younger men behind him gasp.

The eyes were pale, but strung open wide, and the mouth affixed- agape, skin pulling back at the lips- rigor having long settled in. The horrified expression, combined with the odd shaping of the man’s pose, provided no clarity. There were wounds around his belly, but little blood soaked into the clothes to indicate their incision. But more ghastly of all was the gaping flesh at the top of the man’s hip where his leg should be, but where currently there was none, and where the flies continued their work at the rotting flesh there, blood and meat congealing against raw bone. 

“Have you found the leg?” Crozier finally asked, his tone even to himself unexpectedly low.

“No, Sir,” Jopson replied in a whisper, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “I had Deputy Irving sweep the shoreline before riding out to alert Fitzjames’ party. Haven’t seen any sign of it.”

Crozier grunted as he stood again, not so much at the ache in his bones but more for the mention of one Mr. Fitzjames. A foolish man who seemed to be under the impression that his appearance, subdued though he tried to keep it, as it was, might disguise better in this place the truth of his employment, but Crozier knew a Pinkerton man when he saw one. The man couldn’t hide that no matter how many fine waistcoats he owned and wore. Not to mention his distaste for the local culture. He expected the man would show himself any minute now, with those city airs of his, and no doubt, some theory to who might have done this that might satisfy the speculations of the Deputies. 

It would not, however, satisfy Crozier.

[gaunt-and-hungry]

Snippet From: Cold Berth Word Count: 465 Words Currently This is a cut from the Thomas x Crozier section that will be coming along here. Warnings: None

Captain Francis Crozier was still vertical, pouring over maps as if they would change where they were lodged in the frozen sea. He did not immediately look up as Jopson entered, though he bore a pleasant and foreign tone to his voice as he spoke. “Thomas…”

“Sir.” He replied candidly, his body moving autonomously. The Captain must have had a guest previously, for there was tea that had been drunk and a whiskey glass that was still half full. Thomas took it, careful and mindful so Francis would not notice. He poured the contents back to the decanter where it belonged and locked everything up.

“Thomas…” Francis Crozier spoke again, looking up fully this time.

“Sir?” He could only answer back, questioning the Captain and his intent. It was late. Perhaps he had been intent for sleep. “It is late.” It was a gentle suggestion, one he hoped the Captain would accept. 

There was something changed about Crozier ever since the previous night. Jopson had left Francis, Thomas Blanky and the younger Captain to drink and be merry with some cards. Goodness knows that those three men needed an evening of respite. He had been dismissed early and did not shy on the opportunity to take care of some stitching for Leftenant Little and the Captains. Wilbur’s clothes, after all, had been in need of mending, his coat especially. He could not leave the man with holes in his linens and woollens. Such things would need tending to. But after that night, the Captain looked upon him, a steward, with a strange curiosity to his eye. He lingered, watching him. This was, of course, most inconvenient for rather personal reasons for Thomas Jopson.

He quite liked being able to linger, watch and pleasantly spy upon his Captain. He spent much of his time appreciating the broadness and berth of Captain Crozier’s shoulders, the thickness of his back and the waxing of his hairline. No such admiration was allowed the morning following their night of cards. It was as if the Captain was made acutely aware of Jopson’s criminal eyes and shame ran the course of his cheeks every time that the Captain caught him staring. He could only look away so fast so many times before he realised that his usual spotting was not going to slide over so smoothly. He worried that he had noticed and might have some stern words for him. But instead he licked his lips and watched as his Captain stretched languidly, a slow and almost animal-like unlocking of his limbs. “Perhaps that ought do me well, aye?” 

Agreement flowed out of Thomas Jopson’s lungs as he exhaled in relief. He had half of a worried mind that his Captain was beginning to know better than what he let on.

[meduseld]

And then I ended up with headcanons for other crew daemons so if you just care about that here goes as it's also v long:

As above, Billy Orren has a Northern Bat bc they look sweet but it also marks him as a bit of an outsider bc in my head he's Hickey but not evil more or less. Henry Collins has a St. Bernard, another lovable lug who is under a lot of strain to Keep Everyone Safe.

James Fitzjames has a Serval because fancy African cat, but also the vibe that some people keep them as pets while denying what they really are and need underneath. Very Jaems Fitzjimbles. She might even secretly be a he......

Francis Crozier has a Sea Otter because they seem cute and harmless but they are Way Bigger IRL than people think (they can be 5 feet long. That's a person. A Small One but still) and they are vicious af predators in their element. Plus aquatic and furred and suited to Frankie's life. She looks like a lil teddy bear but she will eat your face off okay?

Sir John is mixed for me bc I want an animal that says pride and arrogance which generally means peacock but the females don't look like that and I don't want him to have a bird bc you know he looks down on the many seabird daemons on board. So gauche to have a bird don't you know? I also don't want to give him something with too much bite, like a dog or cat. He's not. A fighter. So idk.

STEPHEN STANLEY HAS A SALAMANDER. My God I was so happy to hit on this. Associated to both medicine and fire! Not a cuddly fuzzy one. Small enough to always be under his clothes and like. Moving. So people are like uh dude wtf do you have but Stanley doesn't like people looking at her even. The daughter pic scene would be replaced by someone seeing his daemon scene. Just. Stanley with slimy healing firey creature stereotyped as gross and difficult to love but they are One Soul. She also helps out in surgery with her ability to get into crannies and hands (as a parallel to Collins' and his daemon's function) but people are icked out by her while people Love Brigid. (Macca thinks she's LOVELY and wishes to hold her, obvs).

Goodsir has, and this is another one I'm proud of, a Grasshopper mouse. She looks all teeny and soft and sweet and vulnerable. She's also North American which draws on his connection to this new land. But uh, Grasshopper Mice? Their nickname is Werewolf Mice. They howl, they are vicious and successful hunters of highly venomous arthropods which means they have crazy high pain and toxin tolerances. Ain't no kill like overkill from a fuzzy cutie, as we know from them both.

John Irving has a Dall sheep! Which is also way deeper than it looks. It's a wild cold weather North American breed, as in the region they're in, and Jirv was historically a shepherd, and the whole lamb of God, sheep in the Bible etc etc thing but crucially? Female Dall sheep have horns. Most sheep species, only the male has horns. Which is an externalization of John's entire tortured sexuality thing and also she can show that mean streak sometimes (Blanky would keep his leg bc John's girl would below at them all to move and ram it open). But John def feels they can see he's Not A Real Man when they see her as it's like an exteriorization of the shame he feels over his homosexuality and desire. Guess how many times Hickey obliquely comments on her. Guess.

Hickey's is a rat man c'mon you know this it's so perfect. He wishes he could get her in that sheep wool but.

Jopson has a lovely sweet fancy little cat because he is Daddy's Number One Boy but also God's Perfect Killing Machine. They have the same eyes, too <3

And finally, bc I don't have the others clear sorry to say, of course Saddest Man Alive Edward Little has a donkey. Because Eeyore. But also the biblical bit, but also because they are very hard working animals, often not given their credit, and gdi Little was Acting Captain for a good bit and treated real bad and he did his work. A sad, but quite strong, yet more easily led than leading animal is perfect for him. Also John is Delighted at the biblical aspect and the sad donkey gets lots of warm laying together cuddles from the sheep so there's that.

[I'm sure that in no small part contributes to Hogdson feeling left out from the Terror in group and his falling to the Hickey darkside and all.... I said Billy would live longer I didn't say the show would stop being a tragedy.]

I've been toying with a daemon AU for The Terror (more like sobbing bc writing has been like pulling teeth lately but) it occurs to me that in a world with daemons the Tuunbaq is uh. Way more fucking terrifying?

Because in Pullman's canon, you cannot, like literally are unable to, mistake a daemon for a regular animal. It's not. It's a soul. It can be hidden in a flying flock of birds and you can instantly spot the daemon for what it is. Now imagine the Tuunbaq, the thing made of muscles and spells. It's not​ an animal... but it's not​ a daemon* either. You can see it and know it's something else, entirely. Not a soul, not an animal, but something alive and alert and actively against you.

How fucking terrifying would that be. How could Goodsir and the others even communicate that? And now the denial and the inability to properly express what the Tuunbaq fucking is makes so much more, and deeply awful, sense. Their doom is incomprehensible and undeniable.

*There is a version of this where the shamans, besides giving up their tongues, give up their daemon to the Tuunbaq as well and are soul bound to it instead explaining why both parties need to be physically near each other. Which again would add to the cosmic horror of it all, this thing that is not man or daemon but you can sense it eats souls and those traces of daemons are upon it. And this old man that they shot... where is his daemon?

Is it a case of "he's already dead dude, attempting medical care would be torture and irresponsible" which would change Stanley's reaction as a veteran war doctor who has seen these cases considerably​ or does it just fuel the racism horror in them being like wtf he has no daemon, is he even human?!  

[majorxmaggiexboy]

&& like the orphans we are || some Terror Tomfoolery (1/?)

centric character: Frauncis Crozier relationships: Crozier & Jopson vibe: crack, essentially content warnings: handwaved magic, de-aged characters, panicked captains bringing their habits (of addressing people by surname) to involuntary parenthood, enthusiastic child labor, complete lack of actual effort or plot, summary less indicative of content than the so-called warning section, no regard for canon timeline, God Damn It as a substitute for the profanity Crozier would actually be using, Weird Victorian Child, Blatant Hodgeson erasure  Summary: In which Captain Crozier would give anything, anything to be going through withdrawals right now.

~*~

On top of every damn thing else, naturally, the sky explodes. 

It’s such a violent outburst of colors, accompanied by a sound like the earth itself bursting apart, it sends as many men scurrying for cover as it holds wide-eyed and transfixed upon the deck.

The display is over in a matter of minutes. The crew is split for a few hours between skittish and sheepish, but in the end it’s just one more strange occurrence among many, and as no one was killed, it’s quickly forgotten.

~*~

Francis wakes to find Jopson struggling with the curtains, yanking on the poor drapes as though his life depends on it. 

The captain’s first thought is that, thank God, the year is only 1839 and he has just woken from the longest, coldest, bloodiest dream of his life. His second thought is that he could have sworn his steward, who is now standing stock-still and staring at him in a way eerily reminiscent of a cat with lamp light caught in its eyes, was considerably taller last he was aware.

Jopson goes back to fighting with the curtains. The way the panel is drawn rapidly back and forth, the weak beam of sun falls along Crozier’s bed and disappears, falls and vanishes, falls and vanishes. Until with a furtive glance in his direction Jopson gives up trying to slide the curtains open properly and instead tucks the offending panel behind the table to hold it open. 

It is when Jopson reconsiders and climbs onto the table to reach the curtain rod that Francis begins to suspect both that the year is not 1839 and that he is about to be very much alarmed.

~*~

Francis is very much alarmed, and cannot for the life of him understand why Jopson does not seem to be.

His shining moment of hope that he’s actually still in the midst of withdrawals and this is the latest torment his mind has concocted for him gets dimmer and dimmer with every passing moment, and Jopson looks moderately concerned at most.

Crozier sighs. Where the hell to begin.

He starts with the obvious. 

“Jopson- - -”

His....inexplicably tiny and unruffled steward brightens.

“Captain!”

Oh god.  

It occurs to him that perhaps Jopson is his normal height, and has his normal voice, and that he, Crozier, has simply gone mad at last. Wouldn’t that just match the rest of his life record. Still, Jopson is staring again, and he ought to be sure.

“Jopson,” he says again, carefully, “Are you...well?”

Jopson blinks. Tilts his head like a goddamn sparrow, stray hair flopping over his eyes. The fact that, by all appearances, he is currently stood on a chair awkwardly attempting to help Francis with his coat is not doing wonders for Crozier’s investigation into his own sanity. 

He decides to elaborate. “You’re not feeling...ill, then? Not feeling-” about a meter high or so “- - - Different, today?”

Jopson hesitates.

God. Damn it.

~*~

“Is there a reason,” Francis finally settles on asking, “Any reason at all, that upon finding yourself in this....condition....you decided the most appropriate course of action would be to resume your duties as normal instead of...?”

Instead of a rational response, such as running to Dr. McDonald, screaming, crying, alerting someone. 

To his credit, Jopson seems to genuinely consider for a moment, staring intently at a spot just past Crozier’s right shoulder. Then he’s staring into the tumultuous depths of his soul again with the faintest hint of a shrug.

“Nothing for it,” the boy (god, once again, damn it) replies. He then grins like the devil in a way Crozier has only ever seen once or twice before (like when he was so triumphantly confessing to his part in that ridiculous scheme he and the Lieutenants had cooked up for Edward’s birthday last month) “It’s not as if I can go home, sir.”

~*~

“Doctor Mcdonald!” Crozier shouts before he even reaches the door. Even with the current state of emergency, he gives it three courteous knocks and a quick glance shows him the still only slightly nonplussed miniature steward tucked under his other arm attempting to do the same.

The door opens, but only enough for the uncharacteristically flustered Doctor McDonald to peer out.

Crozier briefly considers dropping Jopson and walking back the way he came. 

The defeated look on McDonald’s face as he glances between the two of them persuades him otherwise. 

The poor bastard regards Jopson warmly, if tiredly, and manages a wobbly smile for Francis. 

“Captain,” he says by way of greeting, and then lies through his teeth, “I was just about to send for you.” 

He steps back, allowing the door to open and gesturing for Crozier- and Jopson, no longer being held like a bony little sack of flour but instead trotting along at the captain’s side and holding Francis’ coat sleeve like a prized possession -to follow.

And damn it all to hell if two distinctly too-small but unmistakable lieutenants and a capuchin don’t turn to stare.

[boilyerheid]

WIP Weds: Terror but make it advertising AU

You should go talk, Silna signs emphatically, pointing after Jopson and giving Francis the sort of look that would make a lesser man quake when he doesn't immediately follow her directions. Francis might quake a little bit anyway, but nobody needs to know that as he makes a beeline after his fleeing assistant. 

Tommi is throwing up next to the smoking area, when he manages to find where she's run off to. She's a sorry sight with one hand braced on the distressed brick wall of the bar, and Francis dithers for a moment on propriety before gently pressing a hand to her upper back - he knows more than enough about the drunken spins, and hopes offering a modicum of stability will help.

"Sorry, sir," she only notices Crozier when she's done, immediately trying to straighten up and scrub a hand over her mouth and nearly toppling over in the process. Francis carefully takes her arm and guides her to one of the nearby picnic benches, forehead creased with concern. "Something I can do for you?"

"For Christ's sake no, Jopson. Just stay here while I get you some water," she shakes her head and grabs his sleeve when he goes to leave, and looks so stricken that Francis softens his voice. "I'm not angry with you, you just need to drink some water. You'll feel better."

"No, I- I need to talk to you, Mr Crozier. I meant to, I did, I need to, just…" she trails off from the nonsense jumble of a sentence, voice cracking. Francis looks her over with a mixture of concern and confusion bubbling in his chest and sinks down to sit beside her, choosing not to mention that she's still got a hold of his sleeve like a lost child. "I haven't been… I haven't been fully honest with you, sir. An-and it's only because I respect your opinion and I couldn't- I don't know what I'd do if you lost respect for me." 

"Why the hell would I ever lose respect for you?" Francis is seriously worried now, if he wasn't already, and touches Jopson's elbow to bring her focus back, still her slight drunken weaving even while sitting down. God, he knows a thing or two about having to get smashed to say what you mean, to force words past your throat that would otherwise have festered and died in your gut like an ulcer. "Are you in some kind of trouble? D'you need help?"

"N-No. I… I don't want you to hate me, sir," her voice cracks again and Francis thinks she's tearing up, oh lord. He doesn't know what to do with crying twenty-somethings, especially not one who follows him like a duckling. "I couldn't stand it if you hated me."

"Jopson, look at me. I'm not going to hate you," he enunciates clearly, trying to make sure he gets through the haze of booze he’s horribly familiar with, and yes, those are definitely tears in her eyes. Shit, she's breaking his heart. He's never wanted kids but Jopson apparently activates all the paternal instincts he never knew he had. "Now tell me what's wrong, and we'll look at it together. It's going to be okay. You're a smart girl, we'll figure it out, whatever it is." 

"I'm not, sir."

"Of course you are! You're one of the smartest-"

"No, I'm- I'm not a girl."

[restmyheadatnightcontent]

so I watched the terror and fell in love with all these stupid cold boys so I went and read all the fics I could and I fell in love with thse two. my brain wouldnt shut up until I wrote this so here we go. it was meant to be a short little but but ended up as almost 2k of domestic joplittle fluff

_

Edward sighs as he wakes again to find the space beside him empty. He wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t the fifth time this week that it has happened. He sighs and pulls the jumper that has taken permanent residence on the floor next to the bed. He isn’t sure if it is his, or Thomas’, but right now he is too tired to care.

When Tom first moved in, their clothes were organised and separate from each other, but now, like every other aspect of their lives, they are mixed and tangled in together. There have been many days where he has rushed to work and grabbed a shirt blindly from the wardrobe only to reach the office and find that it isn’t his, or they will go out to the pub and Tom will be wearing the shirt that Ed remembers wearing two weeks before. As time goes on, the lines where separating him and Tom begin to blur more and more. 

And honestly, Edward doesn’t mind at all.

However, there is one thing that they do differ on, and that is their attitude for work.

That isn’t to say that Edward doesn’t enjoy his work, and that he doesn’t put any effort in because he does. But he is also loves the moment when he can turn off his computer, leave the office and not have to think about the seemingly never-ending stream of emails that plague him.

Whereas Edward is certain that, if given the choice, Tom would do nothing but work. It is something that has been ingrained into him since childhood, Edward suspects. He had grown up in the countryside, his struggles being distant yet disapproving parents who would ship him off to boarding school so as to not have to deal with him for half the year;  the expectation to never let anything show, even on the days where he wanted to do nothing but cry; and the loneliness that ate away at him, despite being almost always surrounded by people. But no matter how cold his family would get, they would always provide for him. He never had to worry about food, or shelter, or money.

Thomas hadn’t been quite so lucky.

It had taken him a while to tell Edward about his childhood, having buried every trace of it deep down out of fear that anyone would find out and think less of him for it.

Not that sane person who had ever met the man would ever think badly of Thomas Jopson. He was hard-working, punctual, incredibly well organised but also friendly, funny, and kind. He remembered everyone’s name in the office, and would always make time to stop and chat. He seemed to have this magical ability to see everyone, and make you feel seen in return, which had terrified Edward at first. He wasn’t used to attention, used to people only talking to him when they needed something from him and for not a second more. So it had been a shock one day to find a cup of tea set down on his desk and looked up to find Francis Crozier’s assistant in front of him with a beaming smile, asking how his day is going. It was a strange feeling being noticed, and realising that Jopson must have noticed him enough attention to make his tea order perfectly. After that, Tom’s visits to his desk had become more frequent, and he would visit Tom at his own whenever the man had a spare minute. And desk visits had become a few pints in the pub after work, and pub trips became dinner, and then he one day he found himself sat across from Tom in the park on his old picnic blanket when the other man had leaned across and kissed him.  

After that, Edward started to see more and more of the real Thomas Jopson, as the other man slowly peeled away his hardened layers, letting Edward see what lay beneath. His eyes crinkled when he really smiled, and he snorted when he laughed, and his accent would slip if he was ever really excited about something. He let Tom see the true him in return, and he knows they both found it hard to let someone in after so long, but god was it worth it.

One night, as they were laying in bed, just between awake and sleep when Tom began to talk. He told Edward all about his childhood; about his mum, the young boy who was forced to become a parent to his younger brother, how he had started working so young just so there could be food on the table, about the fear that hangs over him and that he will wake up one day to find he is still that little scared boy, fighting to survive.

His voice hadn’t wavered as he talked, and Edward marvelled at his bravery; to flay himself open, pull down every wall he had built up and let everything else fall away until there was just him. He didn’t say it, but Edward could hear him all the same, saying here I am, this is it, do you still love me? And Edward had thought yes, I love you now more than ever and just pulled Tom in close, held him tight against his chest and promised him that he would never be alone again.

The memories were dredged up again once Crozier made the decision to stop drinking, encouraged by Tom, and Edward could do little besides watching the man he loved run himself into the ground, helping James care for Francis whilst trying to keep the office running smoothly and look after himself. Ed could help with last part at least, and so he made food and made sure that Tom actually ate it, kept the flat tidy because the last thing Tom needed was to come home and have to clean, and when Tom came home late at night exhausted, shaking and overwhelmed by the memories, Edward would hold him, let him cry into his shoulder until he was asleep.

It wasn’t long after that, once Crozier had returned to the office healthier and happier than he’d been in a long time, that Tom had quietly mentioned that he was thinking of a career change. He had always helped people, had always liked helping people and he wanted to do it for other people, to choose to help them and help other people the way he wished someone would have helped him as a child. So the next few weeks were spent meticulously researching different courses and placements and funding and eventually Tom had decided.

He was going to become a nurse.

Ed had been wholly supportive, of course, and his heart swelled with pride as Tom had told him, knowing he would do whatever he could to help the man he loved achieve his dreams. He kept it quiet at the office until Tom had figured out a way to tell Crozier his plans, but he couldn’t help but beam whenever he caught Tom’s eye.

(Once he found out, Crozier was overjoyed but also a little heartbroken to be losing his trusted assistant.)

But he wouldn’t be losing him for a while, as it was going to be a long process. Because he had to care for his mum and brother, Tom had had to drop out of school the minute he could which meant that he didn’t have much in the way of qualifications. So he was put on a foundation course so that he could catch up before starting the proper training, which sadly he hadn’t been able to get funding for. Both Edward and Francis (and almost everyone they knew) had offered to help him, so that he would have time to study, but Tom being Tom would not and could not accept it. This was his decision and he wanted to do it by himself.   So he was still working full time at the office, whilst coming home in the evenings to study.  Which would have been fine if Tom wasn’t such a perfectionist, and work himself late into the night as he is doing once again tonight.

Edward catches a glimpse of the clock as he makes his way out of the bedroom towards the living room and he sees that it reads 3:34 and sighs. This is the latest that Tom has been up this week and Ed knows that if he carries on like this, he will burn himself out.

Tom is sat on the sofa, laptop balanced on his lap with textbooks open all around  him, and even from here Edward can see the exhausted set to his shoulders. At least this time he has made it to the sofa, some nights Edward has found him slumped over the table, shoulders drawn up tight and back tense, and Ed had to sit and watch him wince every time he turned too quickly, the next day when he thought no-one could see.

He shuffles over to the sofa, and Tom doesn’t notice him until he comes to sit beside him. From here Ed can see the deep bags beneath his boyfriends eyes, the paleness of his face and the tiredness that seems to be pouring off of him and he curses himself for not waking earlier and pulling Tom into bed with him, back from the edge of exhaustion before he can do any real harm to himself.

“Shit, did I wake you?” Tom asks, voice quiet but rough with tiredness and eyes slowly blinking at Ed.

“No, just woke up,” he replies. “Missed you.”

“Sorry, darling. I just need to finish this and then I’ll come in,” Tom says, turning back to his typing.

Edward knows better than to start arguing with him, Tom can be incredibly stubborn, and even more so if he thinks he is being coddled. So, he has learnt to resort to slightly more underhanded tactics. He manoeuvres himself up so that he can wrap his arm around Toms waist and let his head fall on his shoulder.

“Ned—” Tom protests, but Ed just hums and squeezes his middle, sneaking his hand underneath Tom’s shirt and runs his fingers along the skin just above his waistband. He pushes his face into Tom’s neck, nose nuzzling at the spot just below his ear that he knows makes Tom weak.

Tom huffs and carries on typing, but Ed can already feel the tension draining from him, and he smiles. Tom is one of the strongest people Edward knows, he carries so much weight on his slim shoulders, but most of the time he carries it effortlessly and Ed is in awe of him.

But there are times when it all becomes a little bit too much and Edward is there to help him carry the load.

He knows Tom has a path in his head, carefully treading the line between the past and the present, taking him where he knows he needs to go. But sometimes he stumbles, pushes himself a little too hard, is a little too harsh on himself, but it doesn’t matter because Ed is there walking every step behind him.

And he will always be there to lead him home.

[gaylord-fagaton]

How to Not Make Friends: A Guide by One George Henry Hodgson

Or alternatively titled: How George Hodgson’s Character Arc is Actually a Story about Trying to Fit in, and then Failing Miserably

Today I’ll be bringing you more Hodgson thoughts, specifically on the question of his place within the group, or rather his lack of place within the group. He exists at the fringes of the Terror’s command team, he’s a part of it of course that’s his job, but he really isn’t part of the group not like Little, nor Crozier, or finally Irving. This is what made him such a good target for Hickey, who is probably observant enough to notice this, his feelings of rejection coupled with the fact that apparently nobody ever taught him about stranger danger had him following Hickey into the tent.

The way Hodgson behaves is the primary reason for him being ostracized from the rest of the terror officers I believe. If you hadn’t noticed, Little is basically depression personified, Irving is well….the way he is, and their captain is an alcoholic angry at the entire world. There is no room for the happy go lucky Hodgson, who is just here to have a good time, not a long time. (Side Note: This doesn’t have much relevance when it comes to the terror as a show, but Hodgson was hand picked by Fitzjames. Can you imagine having your friend asking you to come work with them, only to find out you aren’t actually working with them at all, and are in fact working in one of the most stressful environments imaginable.) It also does not help that a great deal of Hodgson’s attempts of relating to others or bringing levity to situations are generally not particularly relevant or are downright inappropriate at times. I always go back to the “hear, hear” bit when Irving is listing their dwindling food supplies, because it’s one of the best examples, you’re going to starve to death Hodgson what is wrong with you? (Not to insert head cannons into my meta but, George Hodgson autistic). The sheer level of annoyance on the faces of his companions when he does his bullshit, is almost funny. In the aforementioned scene Irving looks about ready to kill him, so does Armitage when he goes on about the origin of the word diet in a later scene.

Not only does the way everybody behaves around Hodgson tell us about the way he is viewed, but so does everybody’s reactions, or rather lack thereof.  Nobody ever responds to him verbally at least; this is except for one notable exception in Hickey. I think this was perhaps a ploy on Hickey’s part at least at first, later it became mocking, he had no intention to really allow Hodgson into his group (more on this later).

I hadn’t really noticed this before, until @gildatheplant​ mentioned it on my newest gif-set, but we really don’t have any shots of the Lieutenants together. This to me, is seemingly done to create a further sense of separation between Hodgson and his fellow command members.

Here the camera pans away from Hodgson leaving only Little, Irving, Crozier, and Jopson in the shot. He was left out, even though he is standing right next to Little at the time.

In this scene, Little and Irving are standing right next to each other, but Hodgson is standing across the room by himself.

I don’t know how much those kinds of scenes really mean in the long run, I just think it’s really interesting to look at. Even without them, Hodgson is painted as quite the outcast from the rest of the terror command. There but not really There.

Here we come to his murder of the Netsilik family, now this is primarily motivated by racist fear. His go too wouldn’t have been fucking murder if he wasn’t a shithead racist, and as I’ve mentioned before his story to Little later when he realizes he might have fucked up on goes on to further illustrate how he feels about the Netsilik people. Beyond the racist fear fueled by a story that sounds like a chain email or a shitty Facebook post, another motivator for his haste in acting, I think is probably a want for some form of acceptance into the group. At this point he’d just been informed of the fact that a command meeting had occurred, and he wasn’t invited, instead he was sent out on the rather unlikable task of burying Morfin. They are sharing important information and promoting new officers, and they hadn’t thought about including him. If he didn’t feel like an outcast beforehand, he must certainly feel that way now, especially as hickey is shoving his rat like fingers into the hole in his heart where friends would go if he had any. So he acts, because if he does the right thing, perhaps this will be enough for him to get the recognition that he wants and craves, and he’ll maybe be a part of the group finally. It turns out, however, that he was wrong, really fucking wrong, and then everything proceeds to go to shit.

When it comes to his placement within the mutineer group, I wouldn’t call him a mutineer but he is also definitely not a hostage like Goodsir. He had a choice something which Goodsir who was forced at gun point to come with Hickey and co. did not, a shitty choice, but a choice none the less. (Side note: beyond referring to the fact that he is to much of a coward to do anything about hickey, I think his “I’m hungry and want to live” line could also describe the circumstances in which he joined up with Hickey. If he hadn’t joined he’d have certainly starved to death.) He is still on the fringes even here, treated like a spectacle, a joke, and has his live threatened by Hickey multiple times. He is neither a mutineer or a hostage, but kind of both at the same time. Hickey was a collector of those who he knew didn’t fit in, and that fits Hodgson.

Onwards to his monologue to Goodsir in the tent, who also doesn’t respond to him rip. In part beyond it being about a strange religious experience, which oof dude you were like 8, I think it is also a tale about fitting in. In church setting like that everybody is doing the same thing, you are a part of a collective in front of god. Which is why tiny Hodgson was so moved to participate because it finally meant he was a part of something. He labels it a “perfect moment in his imperfect life” because it’s what he always wanted, to fit in. Interestingly enough, (Thanks to @gobnaits​ for pointing this out) communion means “sharing in common” and is a sacrament of initiation. (Catholic facts that make you hmmm) He ultimately rejects this because he was taught this kind of community is wrong but also because, I believe that he thought he’d eventually be unable to function within this group. (*Cough* George Hodgson Autistic *Cough*) Ultimately I think George Hodgson’s story arch is about being an outcast and a want for acceptance, which along with his own ignorance is the reason for his downfall.

TL;DR: Hodgson is outcast and it makes me sad. Also I love him.

[bro-stoevsky]

For the list of prompts - Fitzier and Aid from unexpected quarters ??

Unexpected indeed!

Spectacular, spectacular

Pairing: Crozier/FitzjamesRating: M

Wherein everyone is fine and they are heading home on Terror and Sir John’s credulous simplicity is practiced upon. 

It was no easy thing to obtain commerce in such a crowded ship as Terror was now, steaming home with two crews packed in tightly. But Crozier was already sharing his quarters with Fitzjames, which eliminated a number of the traditional logistical problems. As long as they kept quiet and kept track of their limbs, they did well enough indeed.

On one such occasion they were down to their shirts, Fitzjames occupying most of the bed and reaching invitingly toward Crozier, when they heard an unmistakable bluff voice call out just beyond the door:

“Francis? James? I need you.”

They both froze. Fitzjames whispered a horrible oath very quietly. Francis felt the stiffness go out of his cock so thoroughly that he wondered if it would be limp for the rest of his life.

He stared at Fitzjames in horror.

Fitzjames stared back, his eyes wide and wild.

There was a knock, then the voice again: “Francis? Are you decent? And where is James?”

“Say something,” Fitzjames hissed urgently.

“Like what?” Crozier whispered back, throwing his entire face and body into pantomiming the hysteria he felt.

“Anything!” Fitzjames replied, and when Crozier was still silent he threw a hand over his eyes and started swearing again at a whisper.

Crozier finally got up his courage and replied in a strangled whisper: “One moment, Sir John.”

“Very well,” Sir John replied.

Crozier struggled into his trousers, only to make the unhappy discovery that they were not his. He persisted, got into his boots, and made to open the door when he heard approaching footsteps and a far more welcome voice:

“Good evening, sir,” said Blanky. Crozier froze. Fitzjames lifted his hand off his eyes and looked hopefully at the door.

“Mr. Blanky,” said Sir John benignly.

“Are you looking for Captain Crozier? I’m afraid you might have caught him at a bad moment. You see, he might not like to tell you, sir, but he’s right in the middle of an awful—” Blanky paused. He had never been a terribly creative liar when he was put on the spot.

Crozier saw the hope go out of Fitzjames’s face. But then they heard another, lighter step come up at a run, and Jopson’s breathless voice cried out: “Laundry incident!”

“Laundry incident,” Blanky agreed. “An awful laundry incident, it upsets me to say.”

“A laundry incident?” said Sir John.

“Begging your pardon, sirs, it is all my fault,” Jopson went on. “Oh, it is as awful a laundry incident as even I have seen. Why sir, I like not to allude to the captain’s trousers—”

Here Crozier heard Blanky laugh and turn it badly into a cough. On the bed, Fitzjames put his hand over his mouth and started shaking.

“Are you well, Mr. Blanky?” asked Sir John.

“I am quite well,” Blanky replied. “You are kind to ask, sir. It’s only that I don’t like hearing the captain’s trousers alluded to. It offends my understanding of propriety, so it does.”

“Very well,” said Sir John with approval. “I understand that the situation bears on his trousers and shall say no more. But gentlemen, what is the matter? Surely it is within my power to help in what way I can. Perhaps I could lend him a pair of my own trousers, for the time being.”

“Sir!” said Jopson. There were more footsteps approaching as he spoke: “You are the soul of kindness, sir. Why I did not—good evening, Lieutenant Little.”

“I got here directly,” said Little. He was breathing hard. “I was told to tell Sir John that—”

“—Pray do not trouble yourself about it,” said Jopson smoothly. “I have just told Sir John, though I don’t like to, about Captain Crozier’s awful laundry incident and particularly the involvement of his trousers, which I am sure prevents him from making a more civil reception for Sir John.”

“Oh yes,” said Little. “Well. That’s all I wanted to say, the things about the—what you said, and trousers.”

Blanky coughed again. Fitzjames was shaking with laughter enough that his elbow hit the frame of the bed. Crozier made a frantic silencing gesture at him.

“You are very proper, Mr. Blanky, it gladdens my heart to see it,” said Sir John. He then raised his voice to carry through the door: “Be easy, Francis, I have been informed about your trousers. I will have a pair of mine sent to you directly. But tell me, where is James?”

Fitzjames himself stopped laughing. 

Crozier could almost picture Jopson, Little, and Blanky sharing a panicked glance.

“Well,” said Blanky. “He’s…” he trailed off.

“Yes of course,” said Jopson.

Little tried third: “He’s—”

“Awfully sorry!” came the voice of Lieutenant Le Vesconte. “Hello there, Sir John. Gentlemen.”

“James is awfully sorry?” said Sir John. “About what, I pray?”

“Unfortunately, he’s an idiot,” Fitzjames whispered to Crozier.

“What?” said Le Vesconte. “I beg your pardon, Sir John, I haven’t the foggiest what’s going on. I meant to say I am terribly sorry, but I am here to inform Sir John that his monkey’s got loose and I am come to believe sir, that she will heed your voice alone. Dr. Goodsir and a couple of the stewards are chasing her around but she won’t listen to them. She bit poor Mr. Bridgens on the finger, sir.”

“Jacko!” said Sir John. “Mr. Jopson, please see to it that the trousers are arranged. I must fly—oh, Jacko! I pray she has not got into the brandy again.”

Sir John thundered off, and when his footsteps had faded, Le Vesconte said very smugly: “Gentlemen, it is a frail distraction to make up stories about laundry when there is a monkey that may be let loose. May this incident be instructional to you.”

Fearing how such a precedent could escalate, and in consideration of the monkey’s health, Crozier and Fitzjames agreed that they would not sleep the same watch again aboard Terror. 

[gigi-sinclair]

A Birthday Gift!!

For the always wonderful, young and talented @draculas-gay-daughter, who is celebrating today!

An homage to your amazing fic In His Shape How Lovely. And I hope you have a great birthday, even if things are a bit weird right now. 

“Someone Else’s Story”, rated M

Edward Little's family is ashamed of him.

They never miss an opportunity to tell him so. Edward, however, has never been ashamed of himself. He is a man who has always loved order, and loved caring for others. Even as a boy, he preferred “women's tasks” to those his father and brothers tried to foist upon him. Preferred to sit quietly. To read, to paint. Even to help Mrs. Wilcox with the mending, when he could get away with it.

“There is something wrong with him,” was the general consensus. Perhaps it is correct. Edward has never felt wrong, though, except when he was forced to live another man's life, compelled to do things for which he has no skill or interest.

His father, a Navy man, put Edward to work as a ship's boy as soon as he was old enough. The path laid out for him was clear. He would become an officer, everybody thought. He was of the breeding and the background for it, but Edward possessed no desire—and, it was soon apparent, no aptitude—to lead men. No desire to labour with the tars, either, although he did find he very much enjoyed being at sea. A steward's position might be far beneath what was expected of him, but it is exactly what Edward has always wanted. He's never been happier than he is here, serving Captain Fitzjames and the worthy officers of Terror on their expedition to find the Northwest Passage.

Edward tries to respect all the officers equally, but one in particular stands out in his mind. Lieutenant Jopson is at once similar to Edward, and his complete opposite. Jopson rose from the London gutter, everybody knows. He was once a steward himself, aboard Terror no less. A battlefield promotion in the Antarctic, vigorously defended by the now-retired Captain Crozier upon their return, put him where he is today. An unorthodox path, maybe, but Edward cannot imagine a man more suited to his role. Jopson is gentle, on the whole, but firm when he needs to be. Due to his origins, the men accept Jopson as one of their own in a way they do no other officer, but when necessary, he makes his superiority of position known. He is intelligent and capable, an invaluable asset to their crew. Captain Fitzjames' trusted second. And, Edward thinks privately, Jopson also happens to be possessed of a rare beauty he finds moving in the extreme.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Little.” Jopson comes into the wardroom with a smile on his face. Edward has rarely seen him without one. “Although you would scarcely think it, given we are steeped in the pitch darkness of midnight.”

Edward doesn't speak much. It's not that he dislikes talking. He can just never seem to land on the right words to say. Silence is a desirable trait in a steward, although some officers have teased him for it. Jopson never teases. He simply fills the quiet with words of his own, without comment or complaint, and somehow without ever resorting to idle prattle.

“Captain is out, sir,” Edward says. “Gone to Erebus to meet with Sir John.”

“Ah, yes. He did tell me so.” Jopson's smile doesn't waver. Nor, Edward notices, does he turn around to leave. “How are the preparations for Christmas? If I understand correctly, we are to host the Erebite officers on the day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that is going well?”

“Yes, sir.” Edward doesn't know what else he can say about it. He feels himself flushing as he casts about in the recesses of his mind for something, anything. It doesn't help that Jopson is looking upon him with his most kind, patient expression, the one that makes him even more alluring than usual. Edward doesn't look at him. “Mr. Diggle is doing up as much of a feast as he can manage.” Given that they've just passed their second anniversary in the ice, that's not much.  

“Ah, yes. Christmas dinner courtesy of Mr. Goldner.” Jopson laughs. “I don't mind. I must say, I'm not particular about my food.”

“No, sir.” Edward has noticed. Jopson cleans his plate at every meal, without exception. A man who grew up with hunger, Edward thinks. While he has no experience of it himself, he is sympathetic. On the rare occasions there are leftovers, he always offers them to Lieutenant Jopson before anyone, even the captain. It is not protocol, but nothing has yet been said.  

“What about you?”

“Sir?” Edward's flush is darkening, he's sure. He can feel it heating his face.

“What did young Edward Little desire more than anything for his Christmas meal?”

Edward licks his lips, his eyes on the lamp in the corner. He couldn't look at the lieutenant if his life depended on it. “Ah, goose, sir. It was normally goose.” It feels wrong to expound upon the memory, given what he knows about Jopson's past. But Jopson, kind as always, says, “Go on, please,” and Edward adds, “With Yorkshire pudding and mince pies.” And a good deal more than that, but there is no need to belabour the point.

“It sounds heavenly. Thank you for sharing that with me. Now I shall have something to imagine as I pick the lead out of my own Christmas dinner.”

Edward expects the lieutenant to leave. Hopes he will leave, really, although there is a part of him that wants nothing more than for him to stay.

“Mr. Little.” Edward looks up. The lieutenant is gazing back at him, his beautiful eyes wide and shining.

Edward has never admired an officer, not in that way. Not in the dangerous way, the way that makes his stomach churn and his mouth grow dry. The way that haunts him when he's alone in his berth, that gives him illicit fantasies that segue into filthy dreams. 

He's never wanted to undress an officer slowly, unprofessionally, his eyes devouring every inch of skin as it comes into view, his fingers stroking through the hair that darkens the man's chest. He's never wanted to go to his knees as he pulls down an officer's trousers, never wanted to mouth an officer's stiffening yard through his small clothes. Never wanted to hear an officer gasp above him, feel him thread his hands in Edward's hair, murmuring words of appreciation and encouragement as Edward removes the last barrier between them and presses his tongue to a hard pink cock. Never wanted to look up coquettishly through his lashes, his dark eyes meeting astonished blue ones. Never wanted to taste an officer, never wanted to kiss and lick and suckle him, root to tip, until he spends, flooding Edward's mouth with wave upon wave of his salty essence.

Lieutenant Jopson is unique in all sorts of ways.

“You are an excellent steward.” Jopson speaks with conviction. He wouldn't say it if he knew the vile contents of Edward's mind.

Edward stands still as Jopson raises a hand. Automatically, Edward's body braces for a blow, although Jopson is most certainly not that type of man, and has never struck anybody to Edward's knowledge. He doesn't do so now, of course. Instead, his hand lands, gentle and light, on Edward's shoulder. “I don't know what we should do without you,” he says, and squeezes. The sensation sends a warm wave the length of Edward's arm.

Lieutenant Jopson winks, the expression so fleeting Edward almost doubts if he saw it at all. Then, he leaves, his footsteps echoing down the passageway. Edward feels suddenly cold, despite his layers of clothing.

Edward has never been ashamed of his occupation, never been ashamed of who he is. He is ashamed of his consuming, humiliating lust for Lieutenant Jopson. But maybe, he thinks, recalling the wink, and the soft touch, the kind words the lieutenant always has for him and the sea-blue eyes that sometimes—often—meet his over the dinner table or as they press past one another in the passageway, if I'm lucky enough, there may be no cause for shame there, either.  

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Chapter Thirty-Six: Crozier

A true exercise in misery this chapter, but I'm tempted to continue on towards The Event asap and rip the band-aid of it off, so to speak.

The sledge party is on the last leg now and Crozier can feel himself flagging. Even though he's escaped the clutches of alcohol, he's become even more of an insomniac than usual instead and is profoundly exhausted: "His mind was sodden much of the time. He was a smart man whose mind was stupid with the chemical by-products of constant fatigue."

Another thing that hasn't helped is sleeping alone. Jopson thought it improper that the Captain should share a sleeping bag with other men so saw to it that Crozier had one of his very own tailored. The problem being that the body-heat of other men is just about the only thing that keeps a sleeping bag warm in those conditions and on his own, Crozier is freezing. Given Irving's yearning for solitude in the previous chapter, this is a very definite declaration that alone isn't always best - a reiteration of the simple fact that they need each other if they've any hope of survival.

And of course, Crozier is far from the only one suffering. They've barely enough fuel to even thaw the content of the cans, let alone cook it, so they're still shovelling it Jopson-style, straight from the tins, still half-frozen. Three men collapse in their harnesses on the second day of hauling, one puking blood on the ice. Crozier doesn't want to reduce the number of men watching for Tuunbaq so he and Little step in to haul for the rest of the day. Not that it makes much difference, the men keeping watch can barely even leave the side of the sledge party for fear of being lost in the blizzard.

And again, Tuunbaq is very much behind them. They can see it out on the ice "...moving much faster than they could haul. Or run, should it come to that." "It knows we've abandoned the ships..." Crozier thinks. "It knows where we're going. It's planning to get there first."

Things continue to deteriorate the closer they come to Terror Camp. The temperature hits -82 degrees. Crozier, in a moment of distraction, tears off the skin from his palm on the cold metal of his telescope. Vomiting from the sheer pain of it, muscles bleeding internally from hauling, he considers abandoning the sledges temporarily and doing the last mile to Terror Camp unburdened, just so they can get there at all, but decides he'd lose all authority if he did so.

Eventually, they make it. Relieved and heartened to see a crowd of officers awaiting them, Crozier considers making a feeble joke, but is stopped when he realises something terrible has happened and they're not all there to greet him out of the goodness of their hearts: "...he knew that something had happened and that nothing would now be as he had planned or hoped and might never be again."

[daincrediblegg]

for the three-sentence fic: how about Francis Crozier + Lady Terror and any au setting you choose 😊

hmmm... western au stuff it is 🥰

It was nearly noon when Francis emerged from the Sheriff's Station that day. The Main Avenue was all abustle, as he'd expcted, from the sound of the hammers near the railway station still being constructed on the far end of the street- the same that echoed the pounding in his head like the rhythm of an ancient and terrible drum that threatened to make his head explode.

And it was this same reason that brought him to the street in the first place. Down to the Saloon to find the hair of the dog that bit him, since he had none left himself, and by Deputy Jopson's account, they were not likely due for a new shipment of this particular supply for a few more days yet. He would, of course, prefer to keep his vices away from such a public house, but if it meant making his head ache a little less, and a little fire in his belly so he might attend to that so-called Mr. Hickey currently locked in their cells, it would do for him to shame this walk.

As he shuffled along, and kicked up dust from the poor makeshift road ahead of him, he chanced a glance towards the general store, only to find a woman just stepping out, and making way towards her horse.

He'd hoped this wouldn't happen. He'd hoped that perhaps he would miss her entirely. Of all these witnesses to his shame, he'd least wanted Miss Sinclair to bear it , but perhaps, for the sake of deepening that same shame, he deserved it, to be seen in such a state by the little entrepreneur.

She wore a periwinkle dress that day- the kind that reminded him of pretty little wild flowers in springtime. He should like to walk in the garden of her, if only he were brave enough to tread there without fear of crushing them under his horrible heels.

The clank of something falling to the ground pulled him from his grim reverie, and the knock of something gentle against the toe of his boot.

An errant can, it seemed, had decided to escape its owner. Though it pained his head to bend down, he plucked it from the ground, and turned it over in his hand. Peaches, the label read. Since when did they carry peaches?

When his gaze rose over the brim of his hat again, to find the owner of this errant can, he found Sinclair's dark eyes directly on his, and it made his stomach jump. It was one thing to observe the woman at a distance, and another entirely to be seen by the darkness that made him feel naked from within with their warmth.

He approached slowly as he might a spooked mare, his step more gentle now. Sinclair's eyes never left him, it seems, as he stood before her, and handed the errant thing to her. She smiled.

"Thank you, Sheriff."

And that sound in her voice. As sweet as those peaches, and twinged just the same with concern, for him no doubt, for he was sure it was a sorry state that he was in.

"Miss Sinclair..." he uttered, on the cusp of whispering more. And how he wanted more. How his eyes sparkled down at her for wanting more. To skip the saloon entirely. To accompany her back to her house just outside town. To talk. To dine, perhaps, even to...

These thoughts he swallowed, exercising the muscle for its ventures in the not too distant future. Swallowed them to make room for what he needed. "Good day to you," he said as he twitched the corners of his mouth into the best smile he could manage (which was not much of one at all), and tipped his hat before passing her by. He could feel her eyes still as he paced faster towards the saloon, and his heart ached for it. But this was not the day for it, and it was better to spare her from him anyhow.

THREE SENTENCE FIC ASKS