Fitzier - Tumblr Posts
Uhm
I had an intense hyperfixation for "The Terror" for a few weeks in December sooo have some Francis and James doodles
(also I listened to "Itaca" a bunch while I was thinking about them and realized that the song kinda fit)
Graham’s company has already gone over. Francis can hear the men yelling interspersed with gunfire and explosions. His company– a hundred and thirty five men– stand at the ladders, ready to charge out on the second wave. The air is cold, the sun blotted out by dark clouds of smoke.
“Affix bayonets!” James calls out to the assembled men.
Francis sees them all move together, locking the knife on to the end of their rifles. He slings his own over one shoulder, walking down the length of the trench to check his men are ready. They’re tense, knuckles white as they grip their guns.
“Steady men!” He yells, reaching out to pat the more nervous looking ones on the shoulders as he passes them. Francis touches his gas mask, then the three grenades hanging at his hip. He sees James, standing with his rifle tucked under one arm, pocket watch in hand.
“Thirty seconds.” James tells him.
A soldier in line turns to the side and retches.
“Rifles at the ready!” Francis roars. “Hold men! Forward on my order!”
He reaches out and rests a hand on James’s shoulder. “I’m with you.” James whispers. Francis squeezes his shoulder.
I wrote a Downton Abbey AU for the Terror
The Terror bingo round 5, prompt: "like a bad pun."
Terror bingo round 5, prompt: almost kiss
Terror bingo round 5, prompt: trapped together and bare feet
reblogging so I can keep it because I love this.
ohhh the mini fic game... 11 for fitzier? 👀
*very* overdue because things have been so busy and outlander happened but here it is, 11 for fitzier
11. things you said when you were drunk
In all his dreams, before his helpless sight, Francis will see it—James, stumbling his way into the mess, eyes barely visible above the scarf wrapped around his face, and as his fingers fumbled with his slops, as Jopson moved to help him, those dark eyes rolled and he crumpled in a heap to the floor.
For one heart-stopping moment he thought him dead as simple as that, how Hornby collapsed on the ice not six weeks ago, and his own knees buckled when he reaches James’ side, pulling that scarf away.
“The shock, sir,” Jopson’s voice soft even as he felt a warm (warm) breath faint against his fingertips, “the heat after being out so long.”
Hornby had not been caught in a sudden blizzard. Had not gotten separated and lost and wandered.
Ice crystals melting in the soft web of James’ lashes.
“My quarters,” Francis’ throat aching, a wonder it could make sound, “he can rest and warm up there.”
And so it is that James has been situated in Francis’ own bunk, stripped of his slops and outer layers, wrapped in blankets. He woke, once, wretched, murmured of the cold. Francis pressed a glass of gin to his lips, smell making his own stomach churn but alas they have been short of brandy for some time. James’ fingers too thick and clumsy with bandages and frostbite to take it, but Francis bade him sip and he did, and in minutes his eyes were closed again.
He will not lose the fingers. A little sore, true, but not so severely damaged as that.
They must thank God for small mercies.
He’s taken a little hot tea since, more gin, fallen back to sleep. An exhaustion to recover from, hypothermia.
Francis prays the cold has not gone into his chest, squeezes the fingers thin and limp beneath the bandages. It was James who reached for him, the last time he woke.
(And who he thought it might have been sitting with him—but no. The faint shape of his name on those lips, the crinkle of a lopsided smile.)
(Too much gin on an empty stomach. They must get something proper into him soon.)
Of all the misfortunes they have suffered—if they had lost James—
(If he were still a drinking man—)
A low whimper from the bed drags him from his thoughts. Those thin fingers spasm, a grimace twisting that pale face. Francis shushes him, smooths back a lock of damp dark hair, curls his fingers tighter around that limp hand. The whimper turns to a moan, sloe-dark eyes flickering open, feeling out the corners of the berth.
Find him, latch on as his breath catches, and cracked lips twist into a smile, the murmur so low he strains to hear it.
“Kiss me, Crozier.”
Drunk, he tells himself, drunk, too much gin, nothing to read into it until a dry cough and again, stronger,
“Kiss me, Francis.”
Don’t call me—
“James—” name escaping him but all it earns him is a slow blink, that frail hand tightening around his own.
“Please.”
He will not remember this in the morning, and the words are a lie but they are the ones Francis clings to as he leans in, presses a chaste kiss to that clammy forehead, that sandpaper cheek and as he is about to draw back James’ head tilts and there is the brush, the faintest brush, of dry lips against his own.
“You’re drunk, James,” he whispers, inhales the acrid smell of gin, lamp light shining in those eyes, and the answering smile is pressed against his jaw.
“That’s as may be, but the drunk man speaks a sober truth.”
(And in the morning, how true those words shall prove to be, when he wakes with aching neck and back squeezed into that narrow bunk, James’ arm warm around him, James’ head tucked in against his chest.)
(“For warmth,” he will say, should Jopson find them.)
(And James’ kiss will be just as sweet sober as it was drunk.)
fizjimbles looking at frauncis: a journey
(1 glance per episode and 2 for ep 7 because i couldn’t decide and i make the rules in these parts)
Been mulling over a red dead redemption style fitzier au so I've been looking for western fics and I absolutely love yours!
down a twisted trail (x):
In the winter of 1878, Jas Fitzjames and Francis Crozier make their way to Dodge City for a Christmas party. On the way, Jas thinks over her life to this point, remembering her time in the cavalry and her life after the war, and how it all came together to unite her with the man she loves.
And there was blood on the leather and Tears in her eyes We swore at the devil Then went for a ride ~ Justin McBride, 'Went for a Ride'
THE TERROR ▸ 1.09 the c, the c, the open c
not the hand holding my heart 😭
THE TERROR ▸ 1.09 the c, the c, the open c
For @scala26's fitizer first kiss prompt - one of them kissing the other to stop them from saying something
Somehow this became a modern University professors AU, sorry not sorry.
The Rest is Still Unwritten
“Well I think that Franc–mmf!”
James tastes of champagne, is Francis’ first, muzzy thought.
Francis hasn’t had a drink in–well. A long while. He feels half drunk on the taste of it now, fancies he can still feel the bubbles popping on James’ tongue.
James makes a gratifying little squeak and opens his mouth wider, which he should absolutely not do, Francis thinks.
Francis shoves his tongue further down James’ throat regardless, because that’s the kind of man he is. Hungry, desperate, grasping for every spare and crumbling straw within his reach. Jealous and demanding. Always overlooked.
He sucks on James’ tongue, hands tightening on James’ waist, and James whimpers and presses closer.
Overlooked, overshadowed, passed over for every opportunity–Francis’ life has been a series of over, over, over. Never the start, always the finish.
He is accustomed to it. Besides, second fiddle is not always the worst position in the orchestra.
Then there is the simple fact that he does not want to be chair.
Franklin does. Most desperately.
That should be all there is to it.
Of course James–idealistic, beautiful, perfect James–would step in to fight for Francis in a battle he does not even wish to win.
They had not got on, at first.
Francis is used to new blood in the department. Bright-eyed and energetic and naive, only to be ground down into dirt by the institution, the bureaucracy, the apathy of their students.
He had stopped, long ago, trying to take them under his wing. The brightest flames burned out no matter how hard he attempted to shield them.
Fitzjames would be the same. There was no point in getting attached.
And then there was James’ forceful belief, his trust, his faith that the university would not fail them. That their funding would not be cut to the point of no return, that more assistant professors would be hired to replace the swath of retirements, that students would suddenly care enough about history and all their courses would miraculously make the enrollment cap.
Francis had hated James for it, this…optimism.
Simpler by far to believe that they were doomed and retreat into drink.
And then the loss of Ross–
Still, nearly a year on, Francis can hardly bear to think of it.
He would resent James Clark Ross if he could, would resent Ann if it was possible, but he loves them both too dearly. And, on some level, he does not blame Ann for demanding that her husband-to-be leave academia for a reliable–and lucrative–office job.
Unfortunately, now that he and Fitzjames are stuck together on this sinking ship of a department, he has started to…like the man.
It is the sort of liking that prickles uncomfortably. The kind of liking that Francis resents, that makes him cruel and snappish, pushing James away because having him close is unbearable.
James looks at him like a kicked puppy, every time, and then comes crawling back, all wide eyes and nervously wagging tail, begging for attention and praise.
Francis will never, ever let James know that he secretly agrees with him.
That he also believes John Franklin will be a disaster as Ross’ replacement. It will be the final nail in the coffin for their program.
Francis is ready to accept that fate.
James is not.
A fact he had just nearly made plain, before Francis kissed him and shut him up.
Department Christmas parties are always a little fraught. Too much alcohol, making tongues too loose. Too much informality, hosted as it is at one of the faculty’s houses. With their current tensions, it is a recipe for disaster–a.k.a. James attempting to garner support for his ridiculous idea that Francis should be their next chair.
Francis has no doubt that is what James was about to do. His cutoff sentence would have finished with the suggestion that Francis’ name be tossed in the hat.
Absolutely not, Francis had thought. And, somewhere beneath that, his lips look so soft.
It was perhaps not his wisest decision to plant one on his colleague in front of all his other colleagues. At the annual Christmas party. While wearing a truly hideous Christmas-themed jumper of all things.
It was not wise, certainly, to hold a lighter to the kindling of their attraction.
Francis has been dutifully avoiding it, ignoring James’ pleading, confused little looks, as if he cannot understand why Francis is denying him when the tension between them fairly sparks at even the faintest glance.
Francis has ensured that there is no opportunity for it to ignite. He sits far from James at faculty meetings, keeps his office door closed and ignores James’ knocking, makes sure they are never alone in a deserted hallway.
And now he has thrown it all to shit because he does not want to be the fucking department chair.
Still, he thinks dazedly, he cannot really bring himself to regret it.
Not when James tilts his head to get a better angle, sucking Francis’ lower lip between his teeth as if he would have him inside as fully as possible. One of his hands has come up to cup Francis’ face, gentle and sweet in perfect contrast to the frankly wanton way he kisses. As if he is asking to be filled up.
Francis is hit with the sudden, sinking certainty that he’s going to run for fucking department chair.
Not because he wants to, god, never.
But because James wants him to.
He could deny the gorgeous creature in his arms nothing, nothing at all. Would give anything to keep James happy and pliant and looking up at Francis with the sort of awe and devotion on his face right now, right this moment, as James finally pulls back to search his face.
Francis’ hand has migrated to the small of James’ back. On impulse, he uses it to press James closer, making him arch his back and press his chest forward against Francis’ own. James breathing stutters.
Belatedly, Francis glances around.
Everyone has moved on–the catered food has arrived. They are paying attention to Francis and James not one whit, distracted by the mouthwatering scent of chicken shawarma.
James continues to look at Francis with stars in his eyes.
“Take me home?,” he finally says, and it is so small, so soft, that Francis’ heart nearly cracks in half. He had not realized he was hurting James so very deeply (a lie if he ever heard one, but also one for which he will most dutifully repent).
He rubs his thumb over James’ arm, soothing.
“Alright. Let’s get our coats.”
The first in my installment of 15-Minute fics themed around fitzier first kiss prompts, in which I give myself ~15 minutes to write a mini fic based on prompts folks send me. Depending on my own/others' reactions, I may make one or more of these full length at some point.
This prompt is from @asparklethatisblue (thank you!!)
Prompt: If you’re at all fine with smut, years of fucking while pining and someone breaks and kisses in bed? It’s such a good trope for repressed idiots with complicated emotions
Title: Complicated
James shudders out a breath and leans his head to the side, letting Francis have greater access to his neck. His breath is wet and hot, and he is–licking James, sucking on the place where his neck and shoulder meet, and it is all James can do to throw his head back against the door with a solid thunk and grapple for a hold on Francis’ coat sleeves.
His long legs are all at angles, pressed and wrapped around Francis in a confusion of longing.
No matter how many times they do this, James is always starving for it. He will never be satiated.
It is a terrible prescription for a life, to be constantly aching for something he will only ever be given in half measure. It is untenable, but so is all else life has to offer subsequent to their rescue. At least this is warm, even if Francis will not kiss him.
They’ve been fucking for…Christ, for years now.
Ever since the day of their court martial, the day they knew they were well and truly home free, and Francis had yanked James into an alley by his collar and sunk to his knees.
They’ve been at it like rabbits ever since, but it is, and always has been, a matter of need rather than desire.
Or, at least, it has on Francis’ part.
He didn’t kiss James, that first time, even though James was practically begging for it, mouth hanging open panting and staring at Francis’ lips.
It set a precedent. They do not kiss. They do not caress, or cuddle, or fondle.
They fuck.
They fuck, to disperse the frantic shimmering energy that overcomes them both when memory is stronger than reality. James tries to keep it that way, keep his heart separate.
It was a losing battle from the start.
Back in the present, Francis shocks a gasp out of James when he nips at the delicate skin of his neck, forcing his leg further between James’ own so James can rut down on it.
They don’t talk–never do.
But James–well. Francis’ hand splays over his rib cage, and Francis sucks on his neck like he wishes it was James’ tongue and James makes a mistake.
“Francis,” he groans, just that.
But one word–that’s all it takes.
The feeling of disconnection between them disappears.
Shit, James thinks, shit, as Francis pulls away from his neck, raises his head and looks James straight in the eye.
He’s ruined it, he’s ruined everything–the thin justification that their identities do not matter, that their whole arrangement is just a matter of physical desires any bloke on the street could meet, crushed into dust all at once. All by one little word, one moment of weakness.
A cold frission of fear shivers down James’ spine.
He cannot lose this–he cannot. It will kill him.
“I–,” he stutters, desperate to fix this, and Francis is just starting at him, silent and expression so shuttered, “I am sorry, Fr–, I did not mean, it was–I will not do it again, I swear, I know we don’t–that is not–”
“James,” Francis finally murmurs, and it sends a warm tingling feeling through James’ extremities, and fuck, fuck, he’s still so hard it hurts–
“Would you like it to be?,” he asks, and his eyes flit down to James’ lips, and oh. Oh.
“Yes,” James breathes, and it is the bravest he’s ever been but it sounds like he’s a dockside whore the way he’s wanton with it, fuck.
“Alright,” Francis says, soft and simple, and James is quite sure he is going to pass out. His gaze falls to James’ lips again, and James cannot help the way he is shaking apart in Francis’ arms, every breath and nerve on fire, as Francis leans in, slow and steady–
Kissing Francis is soft.
His lips are smooth, and dry, and he tilts his head so their mouths slot together better, and it is as if a susurration of doves has exploded from somewhere deep in James’ chest. He is bleeding out, and full of feathers.
He makes a destroyed, desperate noise into the kiss and throws himself at Francis–quite the feat given that they were already quite entangled, but he manages, arms around Francis’ shoulders and pressing in, opening his mouth, opening Francis’ mouth with his tongue and they last mere seconds before they are both pulling back, gasping.
“James,” Francis says, and oh, it sounds devoted, and ah–they’re both crying, now. “Are you–do you want–fuck, I have thought, all this time–”
“No, Francis, I have as well, I am so sorry, I did not mean to hurt you, I have wanted it as well, I have been half dying for you–”
Francis kisses him, again. James will never tire of it, never.
“You have me,” Francis says against his lips, “You always have.”
James kisses him, this time, and it tastes like salt and feels like a smile. It feels like the future.
Welcome to the next installment in my 15 minute fitzier first kiss fic challenge! For the anonymously submitted prompt "Could you write a fitzier kiss where one of them sustains a minor injury and the other kisses it better 🥺"
Hope this post finds you, anon!
A Metaphor for This
“Ah, damn,” James hisses, and flexes his hand, bending to inspect it.
There is a dot of blood welling on the tip of his finger where the envelope has cut it.
It is a vibrant, nearly lewd red against the pale of James’ skin, backgrounded by the slushy white of London’s slowly melting snow.
Francis’ heart is suddenly rabbit-quick in his chest, fluttering up against his ribcage in distress.
A memory, unbidden, of blood on shale. Blood dripping from James’ eye.
His throat is too thin for air to pass. When he attempts to gulp down a breath it stutters through him, strained. His mind is a susurration of buzzing sound, fuzzy and muddled.
James stares down at the blood now swelling from his finger, dripping down the side falling to dot the street.
“Clumsy of me,” James says, as if to himself.
Francis steps forward, shucking off his gloves as he goes, and takes James’ hand in his own lightly shaking grip.
He is gentle, so very careful, but he hears James’ sharp intake of breath nonetheless. He rubs a thumb over the soft underside of James’ wrist, reassuring. He will not hurt him.
“F-Francis?,” James says, voice lilting up a little at the end making it a question.
“Shush,” Francis tells him, and James does. He relinquishes himself to Francis’ care, posture slumping so that he rests against Francis’ side. As if he has just been waiting for this moment to lean on him, to be supported. Held. Cared for.
Francis fishes a handkerchief from his pocket, dabs ever so gently at the cut.
Within seconds, the blood is beading up again, the wound resisting. There is the vague thought in the back of Francis’ head, the specter of old wounds long-healed reopening, reopening, reopening–
He brings James’ finger to his mouth and licks it, cleaning the blood from it with a short swipe of his tongue. James makes a strangled sort of noise somewhere above him.
His blood tastes like iron, like salt, like the sea.
The cut is slower to bleed again, this time. It is working.
Francis lowers his head a bit further and slips the tip of James’ finger into his mouth, sucking.
Pressure, to stop the bleeding.
He pulls back to evaluate his work. The cut is still angry, red, but the active bleeding seems to have stopped. He nods in satisfaction and wraps his handkerchief around James’ finger for good measure, pressing the extra fabric into James’ palm and using his hand to curl James’ fingers around it. That should serve, until they can get home to proper medical supplies.
Duty fulfilled, he straightens to find James looking at him, wide-eyed and startled.
“James?” he asks, suddenly worried he has done something untoward, something to upset the man–
James drops the handkerchief, takes Francis’ face between his hands, and kisses him, once, firmly, right on the lips.
He pulls back just as fast, looking even more shocked at his own actions than he was at Francis’ suckling on his fingertip.
Francis feels as if he is melting, as if he is floating. He brings a hand up to card through James’ hair, thumb stroking across his cheek, and pulls him back in.
so excited for this au
“Cheer up, Francis, we’re climbing Everest.”
@nonagethimus Everest fic gave me brainrot and @jacquelying ‘s art made it even worse so here’s my take on mountaineer James
Polaroid taken by James Ross in the Swiss Alps, ca. late 60s to early 70s
(continues to have brainrot caused by @nonagethimus and @jacquelying Everest AU)
