#the terror x reader

[auroracalisto]

every now and then someone likes one of my terror x reader fics or my golden kamuy x reader fics and i am always thrilled (especially bc of how few ppl actually read them bc of how niche it is). ily obscure x reader fic lovers. ♡

[yns-world]

How They Are During Sex/Favorite Positions

Pairings: Francis Crozier x Reader, John Franklin x Reader, James Fitzjames x Reader, Henry Goodsir x Reader

Warnings: nsft, silly stuff, mentions of k*nks

a/n: gender neutral reader!!!

clearly i’m the only person carrying the terror (both the show and the ship) from death. no one writes fanfics for the REAL hoes (us, the readers). but dw. god put me on the terror so the true, grimy mfs can finally be unleashed and be free 🗣️‼️send in any requests you have for the terror while they're still in my grasp 😼 i love gnawing on these men like my own personal chew toys GRRRR BARK BARK 🐕

Francis Crozier: 

Cowgirl. 

Old man doesn’t have much energy in him, we know this.

At first he’ll have his hands on your hips as you ride him, but within a few minutes his head is thrown back, eyes shut as he lets out strings of curses.

If Francis is drunk and had a particularly hard day, he would be inebriated and inclined enough to use you as a urinal--whether that’s in your mouth or on your body, is up to you. He’s probably too drunk to notice, but he’s aware enough to get hard and want to stick it in you. 

Might dabble in the whole Daddy kink, but you’ll be the one bringing it up to him--or rather, it might’ve slipped out when you were drunk on him one night. It invigorates him, makes him feel like he’s finally in charge of something. He won’t pound into you, but his grip on your skin would be tighter, he would probably grunt in your ear and praise you like an actual father would. sobs

Old man knocks out after he comes. After care is him lying heavy on your body as he’s fast asleep. When he wakes up--possibly in horror and excitement--he’ll rush to clean up and prepare a sweet breakfast filled with bashful apologies for his behavior the night before behavior that will repeat.

John Franklin:

Religious man. But what a fucking freak.

I don’t need to tell you that he’s into that Daddy shit. Ofc he is.

Really into roleplay too. Some nights, you’ll pretend to be the demon that corrupts the Virtuous Saint™ that he is, other nights he’ll be your priest “cleansing” you of your sins.

Depending on the roleplay, you might end up on top of him, beneath him, or on your knees.

John usually ends the night in missionary, he wants to watch your eyes overcome with your own lust, how your face screws as you come around his own cock, the way your chest exhales its last breath as you fall completely still. 

A sweet kiss on your forehead--”You’re so good to me.”

James Fitzjames:

A Fucking Freak™.

He’s in his physical prime, of course he’s getting freaky with you.

Angry sex, yearning sex, passionate sex, quickies; whatever he can have he’ll take, and then he’ll beg for some more. 

His best ideas actually come from his time shared with you--unfortunately for you, as his mind snaps from passion and comes to the fruition of something that would save the crew, but you can’t be mad at him for too long.

Every position is his favorite position. In the beginning, he won’t care for the sentimentality of it since you both were chasing after a release, but as the relationship progresses and the meetings become frequent, he might opt for a sweet night instead of the usual 5-minute quickie. 

He likes you, like, like like, but he bites his tongue and bates his breath waiting for the moment to let you know when you both finally make it to the other side of this thing. He doesn’t want to confess and leave you haunted with the love of a dead man. He doesn’t know that you’d rather wrap yourself in the warmth of a past confession than agonize over what could’ve been.

Henry Goodsir:

Sex to him is a very sacred and intimate act--more emotional to him than anyone else. His heart is a melting pot, everything you do makes his head spin. It would be a while before the two of you ever see each other naked. But when you finally reach that point…oh brother, get ready for those love letters 🙄 /lh

You probably are his first. Most likely his last. I don’t think he’ll ever get over you, especially not if you reciprocated the intensity and fullness of his love. He is permanently marked by you, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

I don’t think any man could ever love you the way Henry loves you. No one will ever love you the way he does--both a comfort, and a tragedy. 

Missionary. Always. He just wants to look in your eyes--both as a reassurance that you want this, but also as a confirmation that you do actually love him, that your connection is real and not some made-up fantasy in his mind used to cope.

You will forever be a work of art to him. He handles you with such care and warmth--he won’t treat you like a fragile piece of glass, but rather an oil painting as he grazes his fingers across your skin, picking up on the traces of paint left on the tips of his fingers.

Flesh pressed against flesh, he wants nothing more than to entangle himself with you-- to merge his body into yours, to be a piece of you forever, but doesn’t want to seem as “too much”, so he keeps these thoughts to himself and in his journal.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging since it helps my account! :)

DON'T BE A GHOST READER!!!! i would love to hear your thoughts and opinions, and comments are what keep writers going <3

[caffinated-and-sleepy]

Alright so I can’t leave @yns-world to keep carrying the terror x readers so here I am! While I write this I would also like to mention that it’s important to separate the real people from the characters in the show. When I write I am writing for the show not the real people. Without a further ado-

How the Terror characters would show their affection

Francis Crozier, James Fitzjames, Harry Goodsir, Thomas Blanky, Thomas Jopson

Francis Crozier

- Francis has been rejected and hurt so many times, sometimes he wonders if you are a figment of his imagination.

- But when he feels your hand grasping his when parties get to be too much or your head resting on his shoulder on the carriage ride home he remembers you did choose him.

- Francis in turn showers you with affectionate words and shows you his love through acts of service.

- When alone he serenades you with Irish poetry and showers you with compliments

- You could be doing something as simple as reading in front of the fireplace and his voice will break the quiet with something like “Sometimes I wonder if you are a siren of the land, calling me back to home when I need it most.”

- To him you are his home, in fact you have become his everything, he makes sure you know this by writing letters as frequently as possible when out sailing.

- He says how he misses your reassuring smile and the long nights you both had simply conversing on new topics while basking in the light of the fireplace.

- Now when this captain is home he practically brushes away the title completely. He is your husband at home nothing more.

- So there are times you come home from long ‘polite’ tea parties that were ‘mandatory’ to attend. Finally you can drop the facade and simply relax, except you have to make dinner and do the dishes-

- But as you walk into the kitchen Francis can be seen chopping onions in a few-sizes-too-small apron.

- The sight was enough to make you burst into tears, although you heavily appreciated it nonetheless.

- Knowing this Francis simply smiles, one of those smiles where you can see all his teeth and says “I was hopin’ to have it done before you got home.”

- As his words settle over you, you smile and offer to help.

- He shoos you away and says if you truly wanted to help you would pull up a chair and give him something to listen to (by this he means your voice)

- These events happen interchangeably with Francis sometimes coming home from another meeting where he was scorned and laughed at.

- Yet when he comes home there you are a clean house and cooking dinner.

- The Irishman couldn’t be any happier nor would he want anything else in life, title and legacy be damned.

James Fitzjames

- James Fitzjames is a man imprisoned by every word that falls from his mouth and every move he makes.

- His words have always just been a way to appeal to his superiors and to craft a mask to hide his heritage.

- When you came along and that mask finally slipped you became his lifeline and pillar.

- Words never meant much to him, they were cheap and unreliable.

- So he shows his love through physical affection and gifts.

- James likes physical affection because unlike words it solidifies that you are there and do care.

- While he has to reserve more intimate touching at home because of what is seen as ‘proper’ for high society he doesn’t mind it too much.

- At parties or generally in public James brushes against you as much as possible. Sometimes even keeping his hand barely touching the small of your back. Because good lord the scandal he would cause if he held your hand the whole night.

- As soon as the two of you are alone (such as the carriage ride home) his fingers are entwined with yours and he is pressed up against you.

- Please rest your head against his shoulder that man would physically melt.

- When you two have free time at home he will lounge against you and surprise you with kisses at random.

- After a long day he just wants you to hold him, hold your hand to his cheek and rest your forehead against his. All day he heard about new taxing expeditions and about how great it must be to be in his position. However he’s equally as willing to just hold you instead, huddled into a too-small couch.

- You are his peace of mind and his anchor just be there, that is all he needs.

- Speaking of expeditions, when this man is away from you he becomes lost.

- He’ll write to you when he can, and I know I said words aren’t his go to when it comes to you, but what choice does he have while at sea?

- You get letters from James in which he laments about the “absence of your warmth hardens his heart”.

- Other examples include him writing “my title is the albatross around my neck for my only title should be as your husband.”

- When he does get back from sea expect him to be really clingy. Like “oh you’re going to the markets? I’ll escort you there.” Or even just being more affectionate in public, which gets both of you some side eyes and disturbed looks. Despite the two of you simply just leaning into each other.

- He is also big on gifts, anything that he can afford that you so much as look at longer than normal he will get for you.

- ”Love close your eyes” and when you do you feel something cold but soft around your neck. When you open your eyes pearls lay against your chest. The very same pearls you were eyeing last weekend.

- His smile when you gasp and say something along the lines of “James you shouldn’t have!” Is unmatched. He definitely puffs out his chest in pride for being able to get you something so nice.

- To be honest the biggest reason he spoils you with gifts is so that you have something of him when he is away on expeditions.

- Which he also loves to bring you back things from different trips.

- When he stationed at tropical islands he brought back a few shells he thought were pretty

- Those shells are displayed on your dresser, a reminder that no matter how far he goes he still thinks of you.

Harry Goodsir

- The good ‘doctor’ Goodsir is always worried about doing too much or seeming too clingy, but he also wants you to know he does care. He just doesn’t wanna be too much.

- Because of this he shows his affection through Quality time and Acts of Service.

- Don’t get me wrong, he still gives you gifts here and there not to mention being outwardly affectionate, but it’s few and far between.

- Lots of times quality time consists of reading a book together or even just going in depth about both of your days.

- The later option often turns into Harry going off on a tangent about his recent studies with a wide smile and a gleam in his eye.

- Until over half an hour in he realizes how long he’s been talking so he becomes bashful, repeatedly stuttering and apologizing that he didn’t mean to make the conversation all about him.

- Watch him turn vermillion when you tell him he looks cute when he rambles.

- He does love listening to you talk and infodump as well. Especially if it’s an interest you both have in common.

- While you do talk he looks at you as if you are the only thing that exists, and in those intimate moments you are. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than with you.

- When it falls to acts of service he is king and strangely always knows when you need it most?

- You could be coming home from work with an aching back dreading doing anything else, but like magic Harry already got all the food for dinner, cleaned most of the house and finished organizing the kitchen.

- Those days he appears as an angel and you can’t help but hug the man and rest your head against his chest. While he may be surprised at first he slowly melts into the hug. Yeah this is nice, he doesn’t mind it.

- Both of you see the other as some sort of saint and while it might not be the ‘normal’ way of showing affection it works quite well for both of you.

Thomas Blanky

- This man is a wildcard, he enjoys showering you with whatever affection he can give in the moment. However, his favorites are quality time and verbal affection.

- Yeah he could buy you gifts and be at the pub all the time or he could spend his evenings will you playing chess in the dying light while discussing your days. He clearly goes with the later.

- The most prominent reason as to why quality time is so important to him is because he’s at sea for years at a time, so he feels it would be foolish to waste what little time he has with you.

- Reading, simple conversation, games, he’ll do it all as long as he gets to spend time with you.

- One of his favorite pastimes to do is read Shakespeare (as much as Francis makes fun of him for it)

- He’ll simply read aloud with you either sitting next to him or a chair across from him.

- Thomas claims he doesn’t have a favorite play, but you know it’s hamlet because of the slight different tone he uses when reading it compared to all the other plays.

- The Icemaster loves verbal affection because he can reach you from anywhere so long as there is a postal office.

- While he’s at sea expect long letters detailing his journey and how beautiful everything is, but that beauty pales in comparison to you.

- ”Her Oceans majesty is great, her arms are open, and her body sparkles yet I cannot help but wish to swim back to you, for you outshine her tenfold.”

- However he always finds a way to playfully jab at you in his letters, wether it be over the spilled ink in your last letter or mispelled words.

- Sometimes when he goes to the arctic he’ll write multiple letters before the last stop and then have those letters mailed at different dates.That way you almost always have a letter to open.

- Although he doesn’t know it, you save each and every letter to look back at when you feel lonely.

- When he’s gone and the loneliness gets to you more than usual you sleep with a few, clutching them to your chest with hopes that you’ll receive another letter from him soon and not the admiralty.

- When Thomas does return he answers your worries with a laugh and “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easy right?”

Thomas Jopson

- Thomas Jopson is ever the observant man and he adores you.

- So he tries to make your life as easy as possible by using his time as a steward to help.

- In this way he shows affection through acts of service and and physical affection.

- The two types of affection are quite different, and while some may believe he doesn’t show physical affection at all they just haven’t seen him behind closed doors.

- As soon as the two of you aren’t in public he clings to you like a sloth.

- While it did take a while for him to show physical affection in your relationship, you’re too deep now and can’t escape.

- Lots of times while he’s cleaning and you are taking care of things like cooking or bills he’ll do drive by kisses, although you have no issue returning them.

- The both of you almost make it a game to see how many kisses the other can sneak into their routine.

- Damn his sparkling eyes as he looks at you with so much adoration and love.

- “Thomas! You’ll ruin my makeup!” You proclaim while trying to hold him back and continue cooking.

- The love struck Stewart with obvious lipstick stains all over his face: “Why Ma’am I would never consider doing such a thing!”

- He definitely ‘let’s you win’ just so he gets more kisses.

- One time before he left for an expedition you snuck a kiss onto his cheek. He forgot about the lipstick you were wearing so he was very confused as to why he kept getting strange looks on the first day on the ship, or why some men laughed and whistled his way? When he realizes why he doesn’t wipe the lipstick or the smile off his face for the rest of the day. (That is until the captain orders him to and he mopes like a kicked puppy.)

- When it comes to acts of service this man works like an ant, it’s almost like he can’t separate his job and his time at home. So sometimes you have to just hold him for a while to get him to slow down.

- ”Thomas you’re working too hard again.”

- ”Only for you Love.”

- This response earns him a playful smack on the arm and a bear hug that he’s not released from until he agrees to sit down with you.

- You truly appreciate him cleaning and doing chores but don’t want him to wear himself out :(

- On that note once when you practically demanded him to rest he accidentally responded with “In a minute Captain.” He turned bright red and once you got over the initial shock you respond “As your Captain I order you to take a break now.”

- Cue Thomas sitting down on the nearest chair immediately.

- You ended up pestering him for the rest of the night and occasionally when he’s working you’ll say something with a shit eating grin like “I think the Captain wants you to take a break.”

- Hold this man close because it doesn’t get much better than this.

_________

Y/n: You know sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky-

Blanky*drinking out of a peg leg*: I think the question you should be asking is how do you put up with me love, but ok.

_________

Fitzjames*lamenting about ho much he misses his partner*

Crozier: For gods sake Fitzjames! Just go back to the damn sniper story already!

Fitzjames: You’re just sour because I’m not alone and you are-

*Cue a punch thrown over the table*

_________

Y/n: Make sure you tell that Captain of yours that you need to make it back in one piece.

Jopson*with a grin aimed at you*: Captain I need to make it back in one piece or else Mrs/Mr/Ms. Jopson might come after you.

Y/n*blushing furiously*: I- OK

_________

Y/n: I went in for a kiss- EUGH- and now he won’t let go and I’m stuck.

Jopson: Mine

_________

Y/n: He asked for no pickles!

Goodsir: It’s okay really-

—————

Sidenote: Some of these will make more sense if you read the attached headcanons.

[cold-boys-of-grief-and-despair]

General Headcanons <3

Lt. Edward Little 

SFW/NSFW

My sopping wet shelter dog with big sad eyes, I love you

You may not know anything about him, but Tuunbaq came to my house and spilt this man's life story to me

Before even entering a relationship with you he melts at any sort of attention you give him. He definitely reads into things too much and wonders if you hate him. You could make a face of mild disgust at the tea you're drinking or a gross comment from some random crew member, and Edward would take it personally

He’s also very awkward around you, refusing to make direct eye contact in fear of starting a conversation that he is not equipped to adequately contribute to. Edward is uncomfortable about the space that he takes up, especially when he believes he can do nothing but fail Crozier and the other men (don’t get me wrong he’s very capable, but also very insecure especially as time goes on and bad things continue to happen). A lot of your conversations are you trying to subtly reassure him and his place in the world, while he stares at how pretty you are and starts panicking when he realizes he hasn’t been listening to anything you’ve said

On top of that ^ Lt. Little’s yearning levels are through the roof; he could be having an important conversation with another officer and completely miss out on what was said because he’s too busy thinks about you or staring at you from across the room

You would have to be the first to confess, he wouldn’t even dream of it unless some horrible thing happened and he worried for your safety (like the carnival fire)

After establishing a relationship, the yearning still continues except now he doesn't have to do it across the room from you. He can do it by your side while you're talking with someone, squeezing your hand as it's wrapped around his arm. He can yearn for you through whimpers when he’s been laboring for hours to keep you happy and satisfied late at night, even when his own sensitive pleasure is causing him pain 

He cries during sex; I know this in my heart. 

I’m talking full on sobs wracking his body as he sinks into you, constant whimpers of thank you and i love you falling from his mouth as if he could not stop the words even if he wanted to. The first several times you have sex he’s gonna sob profusely, it will calm down as time goes on and you spend more and more nights together, but the tears never really stop

Outside of you linking arms with him, he’s not really into PDA. He might kiss your cheek here and there, but it’s only really used as a greeting or a farewell and he only does this around family and the other officers (but are they not also his family?)

Mornings with him, when he doesn’t have to be up and working before sunrise, are typically very cozy and soft spoken. Sunlight comes through the thin curtains over the window and paints the bedsheets gold. You open your eyes to see him still asleep, his long lashes (that you’ve always been jealous of) spreading across his cheeks, his mouth just slightly open to let the softest snores escape him. You brush your fingertips across his nose and push his hair out of his face to see him better. When he finally opens his eyes, they are full of the sunlight seeping through the curtains and look as if he could not be more in love with you. He smiles, leans forward, and brushes his lips against yours; and in that moment one word drifts through your mind…home

But seriously this man needs some weed, good head, and 14 hours of uninterrupted sleep (all of which I am happy to give him)

[auroracalisto]

Lt Little yearning for his wife back home? 😎🤏🥺🕶️🤏

i love the way you think, nonny. hope this works for you (if not, send in another request and we will see what i can do :'))

gone, gone, gone. — Years on the ice. No communication with the outside world, let alone his beloved wife. word count: 1.26k words a/n: no usage of y/n + reader is addressed as “she/her.” some period-typical attitudes (specifically towards the arctic). religious themes? i'm assuming Ned was religious as most of the men were during this time. this is heavily based on the show, with a few elements from history so please be mindful of that. his command position is based on the show, not real life. :P

Late 1847

He was out of his depth—not that he'd ever reveal that aloud. Amongst the few decorated polar officers on duty, he did not have the proper experience. He came from the Mediterranean fleet.

He left his wife back in Portsmouth, his family close behind. There was not a day that went by that he did not think of her—that he did not wish to be in her bed, that he did not wish to be home.

This godforsaken wasteland stretched on for miles, rock as far as the eye could see. Tents were pitched, tinned food eaten. The chill of the Arctic spread deep into him in ways that he did not dream possible. It found its way into the base of his spine, his hips, his aching wrists. He wouldn't have wished this on his worst enemy (and truly, he did not have one—the only enemy now was that damned bear who seemed intent on wiping them out).

Captain Crozier had called for a command meeting. Awarding Jopson the rank of third lieutenant sent the men into a much more positive mood, regardless of how difficult this entire expedition had been. But as soon as the moment was over, as soon as Edward stepped out of the tent, the feeling was back.

An overwhelming sense of confusion—one that stayed no matter how many times he tried to rationalize the Crown. Bouts of despair which quickly passed—they would get out of this. They had to. Captain Crozier was a polar veteran, after all. If anyone could do it, it would be him.

Mulling over his thoughts, he found himself standing at the edge of their camp sight, looking out at the vast rocky range.

He did not hear his name being called, but the crunch of rock under boot caught his attention. Head tilting back, he saw Mr. Goodsir.

Edward's brows furrowed at the sight.

"Shouldn't you be in your tent, Mr. Goodsir?"

"Yes," he said, nodding in response. "But I needed a moment. Bridgens is a capable man."

Edward's lips upticks in a small smile, but he does not say anything more on the matter. He looked back at the landscape and sighed.

Mr. Goodsir shuffled in his spot, stuffing his gloved hands in his pockets. "You have had that look on your face for many days now, Lieutenant."

Brown eyes flicker away from the rocks. For once, he took a moment to assess Mr. Goodsir. He imagined his wife would have quite liked him—kind, courteous, inquisitive to a fault.

"What look?"

"You are brooding."

"Brooding?"

Mr. Goodsir gave a weak smile. "Yes, Lieutenant. Brooding."

Edward's hands twitched at his sides.

"I know I am a surgeon, but I know that there is more to wellness than just physicalities. This entire expedition has been one terrible thing after another."

"Yes, well..." Edward looked down at his boots, kicking a rock away from it to distract himself.

"We will make it home," Mr. Goodsir said, averting his gaze. "We must."

"Yes," Edward agreed, nodding. "Yes, we must."

Mr. Goodsir hesitated before he said: "If you need to talk, you know where to find me."

Edward let out a sound in between acknowledgement and dismissal; he did not watch as the good doctor left, and he did not look back to see where he had went.

Is that how he was seen? A brooding mess?

He was brooding. How could he not? Years on the ice have been spent amongst men. Years of treading the ground carefully as not to hurt himself. Years of trying to remember the color of his wife's eyes, the sound of her voice.

He had taken her final letter to him along, but at some point he had misplaced it. A bout of confusion, of forgetfulness, had awarded him nothing. The last thing he had from his wife was gone. Knowing the circumstances, it was liable to have been destroyed by the elements of the Arctic.

The Lieutenant was a man of grandstanding. He was fourth in command after Lieutenant Gore was killed. If something happened to the Captain, to Fitzjames, to Irving—there was nothing Edward could do but let it happen. He would gain the hoard of men still left rotting in their own bones. He would guide them as far as he possibly could, and then what?

If something happened to the other officers, Edward knew it meant death.

He knew that he would never see her again. Never touch her soft skin, never hear the way she said his name. Even the "Lieutenant" she said was sweeter than the man would ever admit aloud to another man.

He would never be near her, never smell her, never taste her skin as he had so many nights leading up to his departure.

A few months on the ice and he had taken his gold wedding band off of his ring finger, placing it in a pocket where he could hold onto it. That, at least, was something he had yet to lose.

Did she wear hers? Did she think him dead? Did she move on, did she—God, no. She loved him more than he could put into words, and he her. How God must have rejoiced when he found her. Heralding angels lined the path to her.

Where were they now? Had God forsaken him? Had he committed some crime, something minuscule to him but astronomical to the Lord above?

And what of his wife? Was she well? Poorly?

Lieutenant Edward Little sucked in a breath and stood up a little straighter. He fixed his jaw, tight and clenched. Returning to camp would be the next best thing for him. There was nothing he could do about it until he returned home—until he was able to find his way back into her embrace.

Placing one foot in front of the other, Edward made his way back into the chaos and pandemonium. If he took it one day at a time, perhaps he would survive this trek. He would survive for her.

March 31, 1854

They had disembarked May 19th, 1845. They had been gone for all this time and only now did the Admiralty declare them all most definitely dead. Almost nine years. And in those nine years, Lady Jane Franklin had advocated for the ships lost to the ice. She had raved about how they needed to be searched for and had even outfitted a few ships of her own coin.

129 men. The number was startling to the Admiralty and society. It had become one of the most well-known expeditions, inspiring many to try and save the men. Inspiring many to try and do God-knows-what out in the world.

Lieutenant Edward Little's wife sat in their once shared bedroom, hands trembling as she looked down at one of Edward's final letters to her. It was dated May 13th, 1845—only six days before they set sail for their final voyage. Their demise was well-known (or, at least, well-speculated). Rumors floated about their voyage; rumors hounded her mind, but she did her best to ignore it all.

Edward, her Ned, gone. Never to return.

How she wished she knew his last moments. How she wished she knew when he died, where it was, how it happened. There was no positive to his—no closure in sight. She was completely and utterly alone, and there was no end to this nightmare that has become her life.

If only she knew how hard the Lieutenant tried to return home.

[yns-world]

I am begging you for a historical courting headcanons of the Terror mains. On my knees. Please.

The Terror Historical Courting Headcanons

Pairings: Francis Crozier x Reader, John Franklin x Reader, James Fitzjames x Reader, Henry Goodsir x Reader

Warnings: i'm sorry johnny boy 💔💔💔

a/n: gender neutral reader!!! some non-canon variation to the history, reader is established as a member of the upper class and able to mingle among these fine, high society gentlemen :) 

i tried to be somewhat historically accurate given each character’s background and personality. enjoy and pls support your writers :) 

Francis Crozier:

This is an Irish man who had to fight his way into society. Even with all his medals and accolades, he’s still discriminated against and looked down upon by the rest of English society. 

Alas, the cruelties enacted upon him have grafted a deep, empathetic, and gentle soul. Every insult, every dig to his character, to his morals, to his upbringing had only brought him the confirmation that he was somebody; a threat to a prejudiced society, but a beacon of light for those to come after him.

Social gatherings were never his calling--it was less about the mockery, and more of the futile flaunting done by both the men and women of high society; futile flaunting to try and feed their barren souls.

No, Francis was not a social man. But he was patient; patient and steadfast. 

Having spent his prime on the seas, Francis was not well-versed in the art of romance or courting compared to his counterparts, but he harbored what they sorely lacked: an honest heart.

You and Francis first meet when your parents were hurriedly attempting to marry you off--it didn’t look good that it’s been this long without a single proposal. What your parents refused to acknowledge was the utter lack of sincerity within all of the candidates that appeared at your front door.

Neither upper echelon politicians with centuries of legacy nor counterfeit war veterans were able to cross your manor’s threshold twice. 

Francis, though, was a different story. 

He had come into your home carrying nothing save for a novel and an empty journal. 

Believing that your parents had finally lost their minds, you wanted to be done with this meeting and storm back into your chambers, but his demeanor was what disarmed you.

The first thing you noticed about him was his age of course, but that realization gave way to his wisdom--wisdom that wasn’t used as a weapon to force you into submission, but rather fodder for the mind. Wisdom that called for soft-spoken debate. 

Francis introduced you to one of his favorite novels--one of many--and offered you the empty journal.

“To note your thoughts, feelings, reactions. All good analysis comes from those basics.” Francis had told you.

Part of that social call was spent with you slowly flipping through the pages, eyes soaking up whatever ink was left after the many years of use this book has experienced; the other part spent out in the gardens, silently observing nature’s drama unfold before you. 

Francis was peculiar, to say the least…but he was an original. Independent yet reserved. Years of rough sea hadn’t cut into him like stone, but carved him like marble.

He came by your manor the following week, this time toting another novel and more inquiries.

“What do your eyes see?” Francis questioned, following that question with a smile: “Now what does your mind tell you you saw?”

A friendship between you two blossomed in step with the tulips of spring. The harsh winter surrounding both of you was melting with every thought shared. 

Although steady with his consistent courting that would span over weeks, Francis knew immediately within the first call that you were the one. It was you, that he knew with no doubt in his mind. 

Those qualities carry into your marriage with him--reliable, wise, and loving. And his love wasn’t exclusive to just you, no, his love was pulpable to the world around him. Especially the world. There was no place for contempt in a man like Francis; no room for the arbitrary sins of humanity that plague the rest of us. 

John Franklin:

Sir John Franklin is a political man--fame and fortune have been following him for longer than you have been alive. 

An egotistical man who wields religion as both his shield and weapon, John is no stranger to the ways of society. But given the fact that he had married twice, and both wives having departed, things were not looking good for him.

Unfortunately, no amount of power can fully control how people will see you, and how people see Sir John Franklin was crucial to his entire way of living. 

First marrying a poet, then an explorer, he needed a change of pace.

You and John would first meet across a table in front of the Admiralty--you being sent there as a liaison to figure out the numbers it would take from the Crown to fund yet another one of Sir John Franklin’s expeditions.

Initially, you two had butt heads. Him, with his religious spewing about “new-found land”; and you, with your utter contempt for people of his nature and ego. 

Contrary to his silver spoon upbringing, you had to claw your way into your position, and even then, you were constantly being challenged. 

You noticed the stares, you tallied the scores, and they were counted by men just like John. The meeting was doomed from the start.

John, although miffed that neither you nor the Crown are bending to his will and whim, enjoyed the pushback. Like I mentioned before, no one had really given John a run for his money before, especially not at his big age now.

Hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks of back and forth pestering about costs, fuel, and the necessity for such an expedition.

Every meeting ended the same--John with his lackeys standing their ground at one end of the table; you and your associates refusing to move an inch and storming out of the room. Clearly, this negotiation was going nowhere--exactly what the Crown wanted.

You see, you were sent in for one reason--to not budge. With every failed negotiation attempt, more money was being hemorrhaged from John’s pockets as he had to quarter and pay the fees for the “Royal Consulting” he was receiving. 

Finally, John caught wind of this, and decided to concede. He agreed to privately fund the bulk of the expedition, under one condition. 

On May 19th, 1845 the HMS Terror, HMS Erebus, and HMS Liberty set sail. 

Captain Francis Crozier of The Terror, Captain James Fitzjames of Erebus, and Captain Y/N L/N of Liberty.

You were no marine, nor were you bred for Arctic exploration like the rest of these men, but alas, John Franklin flexed what power he had over you when he convinced the Crown to bring you onboard, despite your valid and loud protests.

Now you’re stuck at commander meetings seated next to John himself, going over charts and maps, hundreds of miles out in sea.

You do your job as newly-appointed captain, your ship would be no laughing stock to anybody, but you do so with malicious compliance. 

The other captains pick up on the undercurrent of animosity between you and John but don’t know how to bring it up. 

It is only when the ice pack turns dire and all hope of rescue has been destroyed that you two were able to put your political agendas aside. 

Surprisingly, with your brain and respect among your crew, and his ability to rally a cause, you were able save at least some of these innocent men and bring them back home. 

Malnourished, traumatized, and knocking on death’s door, you and John had formed a bond through your suffering that was inexplicable to anyone who hadn’t been through the great misfortune you have seen and experienced.

You and John had clearly lost a large piece of your humanity that is visible in a single look in your eyes. No medal, accolade, or promotion could provide a single ounce of solace--nothing but each other. 

Soon after your return back to Great Britain, you both opted for quiet lives. A small wedding with few guests was held, and eventually you both went off the grid to live in the high mountains.

You both know that you weren’t supposed to survive that expedition, but whether it was by God’s graces or the devil’s work, you did. Every night, you both hold a death grip on each as you fall asleep--a habit you picked up from the cruel and merciless frozen land. Every night, you both die in your sleep and wake up waiting for your bodies to freeze over. They never do, and you force yourselves to trudge on.  

James Fitzjames:

For too long you had been cooped up in your manor and your family had had ENOUGH. They practically threw you into whatever social call there was for the members of high English society.

From the very first call of the season, you were dressed to the nines and constantly badgered to mingle as much as possible, but it was nothing but hell. 

The stiff collars, the aching shoes, the constant noise and the boasting of fake personalities. Unfortunately, the alcohol they served was nowhere near strong enough to numb anything.

To make matters worse, there was this idiotic baboon rambling on about all his war stories, just basking in all of the attention from desperate constituents.

You saw this imbecile everywhere, and every single time he was in his full get up--the Royal uniform with gold epaulettes, the freshly-shined points, and all adorned with a gleaming smile. Ugh. You didn’t bother hiding your irritation at the unfortunate luck to cross paths every time. 

Despite the extreme opinions you had of these events and all of the posh attendants, you did your best to stay out of eyesight as much as possible. You thought you were doing a good job finding your little hide-and-seek spots. 

It had been a few weeks into the social season and you were adept of your routine of scouting food, slipping away, and then riding the carriage home. That was it. That was every single event. Until a certain someone had finally spotted you. 

Him. 

James Fitzjames. 

Why him?

As puzzled as you were to find James standing beside you behind the large bushes, away from the flock of potential suitors, James was just as perplexed as to why you were hiding. 

“Quite the palace.” James sarcastically remarks, hands clasped behind his back as he makes a spectacle of craning his head back to gander around the aforementioned “palace.”

“You lost, soldier boy?” You retort. 

James smirks at your response. “So you know who I am.”

“Get over yourself; half the world has probably grown sick of being constantly bombarded with your ‘war stories.’”

This was the start of the cat-and-mouse game between you and James--he had his eyes set on you from the first time you were begrudgingly dropped off to one of these events; you’d be lying if you said that you hadn’t noticed him, too. 

Most of the “courting” between the two of you is spent slipping away from everyone else just to pester each other out of eyesight. The jokes gave way to comfortable conversation, comfortable conversation gave way to soft gazes. 

It was nearing the end of the social season of the year, and both you and James were getting antsy. James was telling you about a voyage that was suggested for him to take, but neither you nor him actually wanted to leave. 

“How long will you be gone?” You asked.

“Three years, they say.” James' voice was low, heavy with his own disappointment. 

Both of you couldn’t bear to look each other in the eye until finally you turned back to face him. 

“What if you stay?”

James’ deep frown had slowly begun to melt into a smile. 

Of course he’d stay. 

Henry Goodsir:

The most normal of the bunch, as well as the most shy. 

Henry had come from a long history of esteemed doctors, and this had given his family name some prestige to it. Although having that added cushion to his place in society, he was never one for the formal social calls or events where one would gather to peacock. 

He had first learned of your name through his own family--as your two families were loosely connected by mutual friends. 

Given the minimal information on who you were, Henry agreed to set up a call to come visit you at your manor. 

Upon meeting, you quickly realize just how respectful and modest he is. Too respectful. 

There were moments you were sure that he didn’t want to be here--that was false, of course, but the lack of eye contact and the distance between you made it seem that way. 

The truth was that Henry wasn’t the type to openly express his feelings, regardless if they were swallowing him whole or not (which they certainly were when it came to you)

It took weeks of these calls until Henry began showing some warmth, but when he finally cracked, you were able to peek through the curtain and see a glimpse of the gentle soul you were dealing with.

He’s a quiet man, but deeply intuitive and understanding. There’s never any flash of judgement or rash thinking behind his eyes. There is nothing you could say that would put him off. 

He loves listening to you talk, and would add some of his own thoughts and opinions every so often, but by god was that man devout. 

Anyone with eyes could clearly see that he was just-near kissing the ground you walked on, but I guess being so close to the flame made you blind to it-- at least at first.

And like a flower, Henry finally began to blossom and started to be more forward, especially since you were receiving more and more proposals. 

All of his gifts were deeply personal--flowers carved out of wood, charcoal portraits, watercolor landscapes--his love for you was an endless waterfall. 

A genuine man makes for a genuine husband. You literally hit the jack-pot with Henry 🥰

a/n: i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging since it helps my account! :)

DON'T BE A GHOST READER!!!! i would love to hear your thoughts and opinions, and comments are what keep writers going <3

[auroracalisto]

the view in between - francis crozier x fem!reader — using this list with the prompt, "you've something in your hair..." word count: 2.4k words a/n: a ball, francis x sophia, unrequited love... angst. female reader. find all posted here or here.

The ball was in full swing, chatter from the party-goers reaching as far as the great outdoors (the patio where you found yourself attempting to find your bearings). It had been a long night already, but it was only eleven in the evening; the ball would go on for another few hours, and if you knew your host well, it would surely end well past six in the morning. The host, a friend of your family, always held such strenuous balls in hopes that their wealth would be flaunted and those who attended would go home with envy and the want to have balls far more grandiose than this—it often did not procure much, but the thought, the regret of many ladies hung loosely in the frays. 

You did not know if you could bear it. You had been so sure of yourself, telling your family that you would do well at this ball, that perhaps it was what you needed, and then... well, you arrived at and realized you were wrong. So terribly wrong, especially when you had a moment to scout the area. Then, it was as if God Himself had threatened to pull the floorboards from under your feet. 

You were wrong in that the man you wished you could avoid was there. Wrong in that the woman who the man was infatuated with was also there. A terrible combination alongside of an upset stomach and an inkling of a headache had you regretting your choice the moment you spotted him. 

Was regret the right word? Perhaps you were feeling the pangs of conscience, picking away at the seams of your not-so-new gown. 

Your gloved hands rested against the patio railing as you looked out at the night sky, wondering if you should go inside—if you should attempt to communicate with someone, anyone, before you drove yourself mad. Maybe you should attempt to even speak with the man you wished to avoid—see how he had been, see if he had made any progress in his idealization of her.

You knew the answer even if the words never left your lips. He wouldn't have, and that was that. A few dismissed marriage proposals typically led to that. 

It seemed like the universe decided to punish you that night; the only thing that would have made things worse would be a cold chill in the air, but fortunately it was quite warm that season. With a rather dry year, the weather was working with you instead of against you. 

Steady footsteps could be heard before his voice, but you did not need to look back to know that it was him. You could have pinned him down out of anyone in the ballroom—you knew him better than you knew the keys of your piano, the notes of your sibling's favorite piece. The pads of your fingertips remembered the feel of his, your knuckles a ghost of his lips. 

You were a downright fool for the man and he hardly even knew it. 

The man plaguing your thoughts finally came into view, his warm gaze inviting as always—you knew it was reserved for very few people, and you were fortunate that he gave it to you. Eyes still staring out at the sky, you forced your focus to him. Your eyes adjusted to the change in lighting, the lanterns close to the door creating a soft glow around the man.

"Captain Crozier," you said in greeting, a smile on your lips though it did not quite meet your eyes. That gnawing feeling of a headache remained ever present in the back of your head. Only the dark and a deep sleep would help you now. 

He smiled in greeting. "My lady," he sounded, as routine as ever. Each time you met, it was the same thing over and over. It was a routine that Francis Crozier had easily fallen into. It was like breathing to him. 

"Should you not be inside, enjoying the party?" you asked, turning to face him completely. 

Francis stood a few feet before you, one hand dangling by his side while the other was bent and held across his torso. He had been shaking far too many hands that night, greeting far too many ladies—the stance was default on a night like this. 

He answered your question with a question of his own: "I suppose I could ask you the same thing, could I not?" 

"Oh, surely you know why I am out here instead of in there."

"It is not something a gentleman did, is it?"

You could not help but scoff, though a soft smile played at your lips. He was kind to you, always. 

"No," you supplied, shaking your head. "It was nothing a gentleman did. I just... it is far too stuffy, and I am far too warm inside. I thought perhaps some fresh air would do me well." You do not mention the prior want to stay away from him and Sophia. Seeing them together was something that you were not the biggest fan of, and who could blame you? A man you cared a bit too much for pining over a woman who denied, denied, denied. It was difficult. Knowing how Sophia treated him? It created such an unwelcome dissonance deep within you, your heart and mind at war with one another, one wishing for blood and the other for comfort. 

"Have you spent much time inside, then?" His voice drew you back to present. Sophia was not outside—at least, not yet. It was only Francis outside with you, and Francis only. 

"Not at all, though I am sure you already knew that," you chided. It wasn't too far fetched for you to be outside instead of in—many a ball or banquet could you be found elsewhere. Wherever the crowd was not, that is where Francis knew to look. 

A part of your heart skipped the faintest beat. He always knew where to find you, so it must have meant that he was looking for you, right? A happy thought regardless of the situation. He sought your friendship out of the depths of the ballroom, even more than he sought Sophia or a Naval officer who he wished to speak with. He sought your company rather than the woman you believed he loved (and let us be honest, was it not love? To ask for her hand in marriage multiple times—he was in love, through and through, though you wished it was not so). 

"Yes," Francis said, providing you with a small grin. "I did know that."

You made no effort to respond this time. You looked out at the night sky once more, taking in the stars in the sky. They were quite beautiful, twinkling and shining down for you to enjoy. The moon in its most magnificent full form provided light enough that had the lanterns been forgotten, you would have been able to see Francis just as well. On the face of it, you could have sworn the man in the moon was peering down at you, mocking the both of you for thoughts unsaid, feelings under wrap. Had you a heavier heart, you would have come right out and say it. But the weakness you felt, the sadness that clung to your being, it kept you from honesty. It kept you from speaking your truth, from telling Francis more than what he knew. 

Francis was silent, looking out at the sky as well. Eyes flickered from constellation to constellation, though he knew his astronomy was a bit rusty. He did not know which constellations he saw that night, but he knew one thing for certain—the moonlight shining down on you was one that he wished he could have forever and a day. The adoration you held in your eyes for the stars above? He would do anything if you would look at him in such a manner. As he averted his gaze from the stars to you, he noticed something odd. A piece of string, nothing more, clinging to your hair. Does he dare say a word? If it were him, he would want someone to tell him. Knowing the stares of the ladies within the ballroom, he knew if the wrong person were to see it, it could mean a few snide comments here and there. (Who was to say they hadn't already seen it?)

Francis cleared his throat, drawing your attention to him. "You've something in your hair..."

Brows furrowed, you made no move to touch it. "Which side?"

"The left," he said. As you moved, he smiled a bit. "No. My left. Your right. I apologize, my lady."

"Oh," you huffed softly, moving a gloved hand to touch your hair. "Am I close?"

"Not at all," he grinned, unable to stop the bit of schoolboy joy that struck his aging heart. There was something so mundane about this scene, something so... you. Human. Innocent. 

A few more bouts of touching and attempting to get whatever it was had Francis chuckling. 

"Would you prefer to stop musing your hair and allowing me to get it for you?" he asked. 

You glanced over your shoulder, noting the closed patio doors and no party-goer looking out the window in your direction. It was a risk to be on the patio with Francis alone as it was, but having him so close? If anyone saw, you were asking for trouble. But... the risk of that happening was not as great as your want to be close to Francis. Looking back at him, you nodded. 

"Be quick."

"Of course," he said, moving forward to grab the small string. A white thread, no bigger than your thumb. How it had gotten there, you would never know. Francis let the string drop after showing you, gently reaching forward and fixing the hair you had forced out of place. 

Your cheeks burned, not with embarrassment but with something else. Something you couldn't quite place though the feeling alone was something you had quite often when around the officer. However, Francis could. He knew that look from anywhere. He let his hand drop, a soft flush appearing on his cheeks. 

"I apologize," he said. "But you know how the crowd is. A hair out of place, a patio with an officer..."

"To hell with it, Francis," you sighed. You turned away from him and placed your crossed arms on the patio railing, leaning your body against it. "If I am to be the talk of the ladies here, then so be it. There would be nothing they could use against me, though. Only you."

He watched as you leaned against the railing, not a word leaving him this time. What could he say that would make you find peace with your situation? With the very people scattered throughout the ballroom separated only by the patio doors and cobblestone walls. 

Francis found himself leaning against the railing as well, looking out at the stars. 

"I must tell you something," Francis said.

You did not look at him, but he knew you could hear. 

"I wished for you to hear it from me instead of someone else," he continued, unable to tear his eyes away from the night sky. "I'm to return to the Arctic."

A pause, a beat, your breath catching in your throat. You looked up at him, unable to stop the furrow in your brow. How often you did that—it was unmistakably a sign of confusion, frustration, an anger deep-rooted inside of you that only came out in your expression. 

"What?"

"With Sir John Franklin," he said. 

Sir John Franklin. The man famous for eating his boots. Sophia's uncle. The thought alone was enough to worsen the ache in your head. 

"Why?" you asked.

He hesitated, a frown raising to his lips. "Well... I am not getting any younger."

"What has influenced you to go back to the Arctic? Did you not have enough of it the first few times?"

"If I do not take this posting, who is to say I will sail again?"

His words were raw, honest. You knew he was right. 

He does not dare say he agreed to go to keep Sir John Franklin safe, as requested by the one and only Sophia Cracroft. He did not need to for you to know that there was something he wasn't telling you—something more to the story. 

"When do you leave?" you asked, turning to fully look at him, hip pressed against the railing. 

"We will leave in May."

"So you leave quite soon, then," you quipped. At his nod, you sighed. "Are you leaving for her?"

His eyes flickered from your face to the patio doors. Did he dare say yes? It seems as if you already knew the truth...

"You needn't say it," you said, nose scrunching as you spoke. "You are going for her. What do you think she will do, Captain? You will not gain her good graces by going." The words spilled from your lips, but regret was not there. Only anger, and perhaps a bit of remorse for the fact that he would never do such a grand gesture for you.

No answer was given. Was there truly an answer needed? Francis Crozier did nothing more to satiate your good graces. There was nothing more he could do. His fingers gently tapped against the railing. Minutes of silence passed by before he finally spoke. 

"If I do not see you again, my lady, I pray you are well."

You said not a word. You did not look back at him, did not attempt to grant him one last look at your face. Regrettably, he left without fuss, the patio doors shutting quietly behind him as he returned to the chaos of the ball inside. The memory of his touch just moments earlier against your hair pounded relentlessly in your mind, proliferated by the headache that was surely to remain and worsen by morning. 

That was that. He would be leaving for the Arctic to "protect" his good grades with Sophia Cracroft. 

God be damned, you were an afterthought. You would never be the one front and center in his mind, though you wished it weren't true. Could you live with the regret?

You did not have a choice. You dug your grave, and now you had to lie in it. You could not bear it, but you would have to.

With or without Francis Crozier. 

[yns-world]

How They Comfort You

Pairings: Francis Crozier x Reader, Henry Goodsir x Reader

Warnings: none

a/n: gender neutral reader!!!!

self-indulgent fic idc. why is there NO fanfiction for the terror??? HELLO????? ITS SO FUCKING GOOD!!!!! ugh i love you jared harris 🫶 feel free to send in your requests for the terror <333

Captain Francis Crozier:

Francis already melts when he’s around you, but his brows weave together and his eyes are filled with so much remorse and heartbreak when he sees you like this.

He takes your face in his hands and his thumbs stroke away your tears while he gazes into your red and glistening eyes.

“What’s burdening you, my love?” His voice is smooth and thick like the whiskey that comforts him, but he’s what comforts you. 

If you can’t bring yourself to speak, he’ll sit beside you as he strokes your hands, never tearing his soft gaze from you; never wanting you to feel the loneliness he’s so accustomed to.

If your tears are caused by something physical--a person, or a problem on the ship--he’ll see to it immediately. God have mercy on the bastard that ever lay awake to try and hurt you.

If the problem is more internal or relating to your past, Francis will invite you to lay your head on his chest as he strokes your hair. He may offer to recite anecdotes of his journeys or his political slip ups if it’ll cheer you up, but if you prefer silence, he’ll understand too. 

Dr. Henry Goodsir:

So sweet :((( so soft :(((( 

Puppy eyes all day everyday, but the sight of you crying might have him tear up too--which he’ll push away because he needs to be present and be your shoulder right now.

Gentle hands rub up and down your arms, a soothing mechanism to regulate your breathing but to also remind you that he’s here for you, forever and always.

Sympathetic nods while he brews lavender tea with honey for you--to alleviate your sore throat and further calm you.

He’ll never leave your side and listen intently to every word from your mouth if you do open up to him. 

If you don’t like to speak much, he’ll gently remind you that speaking of your sorrows will ease your mind but he won’t push you.

Henry always sleeps close to you, your bodies always touching in some way, but on this night especially he’ll hold you in an embrace and bring your head to his heart, hoping that his love will soothe the ache in yours.

When you wake up the next day, you’ll have found a sketch portrait of yourself--reflecting your tender gaze and the very smile that he fell in love with--on the nightstand next to you, with the words inked on the back: My North Star. 

a/n: i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging since it helps my account! :)

DON'T BE A GHOST READER!!!! i would love to hear your thoughts and opinions, and comments are what keep writers going <3