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#the terror

Okay I’m gonna make a post I hope everyone’s ready because. I know that we all know and love the impeccable flawless cabin terror au aka Terrebus Airlines. But also. Hey, Chief. I Might Be Wrong, But I Think We Might Be Sailing Into The Pack Ice. This Makes Me Feel Scared Of Everyone Dying Of Scurvy And Lead Poisoning. One Thing We Could Do Is Turn Around And Overwinter In Baffin Bay. How Does That Sound To Y- *gruesome Tuunbaq noises*

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Reigen’s motivation for saving the world from a terrorist organisation (his insurance company refuses to cover the damages to his burned-down office) 🤝 Hickey’s motivation for becoming a cannibalistic super villain (he just wants to go on a hawaiian vacation but this goddamn job is taking way longer than what he signed up for)

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Not to go on about my own impeccable music taste and playlist construction but the reason that Slow Show - The National is such a good Fitzier song is not only because it’s a song from the perspective of a guy who’s drunk, hates himself for being drunk, wants to leave the party, is in love with a person at the party, and wishes they were both not at a party in hopes he might be able to show his affections but is terrified of doing exactly that, BUT ALSO the outro of “I dreamed about you for 29 years before I saw you, I missed you for 29 years” correlates directly to the fact Crozier was 29 when Fitzjames first enlisted in the navy

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God anon, don’t we all? Have a selection of 5 sentence snippets I’m tender. Also tipsy and out of fic writing practice so I hope some of these are good!


Silna’s lips part in silent surprise at the brush of his kiss against her palm, cushioned in the brush of curls encroaching ever further about his mouth. It’s a gentle thing; so gentle she feels the smile, a shy and delicate curve of his lips, the laughter in his exhale. Circles frame his eyes, golden wire-frames and dark blue shadows, like lamplight against the sky. His tears are the best proof of life she has felt since finding these men; dead men, in dead ships. He presses his cheek closer to her palm, and she hopes he feels her heart.

Fitzjames/Crozier, genderqueer Fitzjames with he/him pronouns but feminine forms of address:

“Mrs Crozier,” says Francis, and oh! what a sweet taste it is, honey to his tongue, a shape he never thought his mouth would form. A shape he never thought his face might, his whole body; the entirety of him, soft and barrel-stout, molds to the perfect silhouette of his bride. “Mrs Crozier, may I have you for a dance?”

There’s a stray spot of darkness in the rouge upon his cheek, sees Francis, and he means only to brush it aside, to make sure that all the world sees his wife to be as beautiful as he is to Francis; but James captures his hand at once, smiling softly, and marking Francis’s palm with the greasepaint of his lips.

“You may,” he says low and deep with intent, eyes shining, “Francis, you may.”


It’s Ross who rescues him - how could it ever be anyone else? Ross, who has been with him through all but one of a lifetime’s hardships; who sailed him to all the ends of the earth, and hauled him home from every one. Who laughed at him the day that blasted penguin went for his jewels, and kissed the afflicted area soundly whole once more that following night. Ross, now, who holds his lined and weathered face like it was something precious, thumbing blood and dirt aside and murmuring half remembered prayers. Francis lets himself fall forward into the embrace, and kisses every word he cannot say into the calloused skin of his friend’s palm.


He thought, when leaving London for the first time, that his back would never adjust to shipboard berths. Since then his back has been torn raw by the leather strips hauling all their scant possessions, and slept every night upon rocks without a mattress. Still, John is not used to this, a gently swaying berth with Harry, pink-cheeked but healing, curled against his side.

“You think too loud,” murmurs Harry, smiling as his lips brush off John’s hand, halting his movements as he combs through Harry’s hair. “Tell me a story, John.”

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Fanfic: Unfinished Business (G, 1k words)


Death affords Billy Gibson time to think on himself and his life, and still Cornelius Hickey finds a way to wedge his way into it all. Except this time Billy has the upper hand and Hickey is sorely out of his depth.

purgatory, character study, relationship discussions, (sort of b/c are Billy and Cornelius ever going to properly talk about their feelings? no), insight into Billy Gibson’s life philosophy, Billy thinks it’s pretty good being dead and Cornelius is not so sure, One Shot, No Plot/Plotless, Gibson POV


Written for my @theterrorbingo card, prompt ‘William Gibson

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