Tyiswriting
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in the good company of the dead by Tyiswriting for Amuelia
Fandoms: The Terror (TV 2018)
12 Dec 2025
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He had been calling Mallory a grifter for months — first behind Fitzjames’ back, then to his face. Another book about the man would be redundant, even if it was about his memory amongst a certain kind of people. This certain kind of people were the kind to read one of the very first cautionary tales about climbing Everest and decide to, movement for movement, trace the exact same route walked fifty-five years before with the bold assumption that the invention of waterproofing would not make this a stupid decision.
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I received him, returned from his own people a third time, at night. It was under a fishnet of stars: I had seen him coming by their light for I watched for him, alone, at the edges of our camp. When he came at last I found, as I did after he returned to me last time, that I had forgiven him in his absence. He fluttered the fabric of the dull green thawb he had travelled in like the wings of a beetle, halting under the moon. He looked into my face with an uneasy expression I had not expected.
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I'll start with some of the things I thought on my walk today.
Nice pretty flowers coming up with spring you always yelped at your first yearly sight of a daffodil.
Sky bright you'd have remembered my sunglasses I never do.
You kept playing tennis to keep yourself fit until the end. Do you remember how I would watch you play? Trying to memorise your parries. (haha.) I didn't used to like it when I saw you playing on the hill courts back when I hated you. I felt like it was just like all those vitamins you took bloody ridiculous modern attempts to stave off wrinkles and ageing. I used to wonder about the money you wasted on creams like they advertise on the telly with smiling women always in white. Funny those vitamins and creams they filled up our bedside table eventually.
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The Importance of Being Frank by Tyiswriting for maddysgotagun
Fandoms: The Terror (TV 2018)
01 Apr 2025
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1893 in London was shaping to be a hot, festering summer which followed a horribly dry spring. The entire city, it seemed, was thirsty –but this did not deplete its business. The streets swarmed; they seemed to gain a new hundred in population each day. Francis Crozier, who had not long ago been so keen to give everything in his possession for a glimpse of warm sun, sweltered in regret for how earnestly he had made his prayers.
It was not only the heat: the months were suitably tortuous as Francis’s first summer spent on dry land with no eye for returning to sea, and worse as his first summer without Sophia.
Blackmail, broken hearts and love affairs abound in a crowd of idle gentlemen, ambitious ladies and grizzled, retired navy-men.
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It had always been this way; the tingling coming-back-to-life once the tunnel had been traversed once more and the numbness in had thawed out. The fog of the day before, coincidentally, had cleared that night to reveal a bright sky of clear stars, which was a rare sight for London.
Francis walks home across Blackheath.
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James can't stop caressing the fabric of the dress.
He knows it's not the softest thing he's ever touched, but it feels like it: the silk is of such high quality that it feels pleasantly fresh under his trembling touch and looks almost wet to the eye, for how shiny and sleek it is. The deep green shade Francis has picked -which was incidentally complementing the deep red blush on his ears so well,- makes the gown look like a precious jewel itself, so much that James almost feels covered in a cascade of tiny, shining emeralds.
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Written for #terrortober2020 day 6: dress, and tumblr prompt "Don't look at me like that."Bookmarked by Tyiswriting
06 Feb 2024