Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1

[coldboys]

This is for prompts for all things general Polar Explorer RPF.

If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!

Under this umbrella you can prompt: 

• Historical versions of Franklin Expedition(-adjacent) guys (Rossier, Gore/McClure, etc)
• Madhouse at the End of the Earth/Belgica Expedition
• Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration - Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, Mawson
• Andrée Expedition
  
• Karluk Expedition
• etc

Prompts in line with adaptations of Heroic Age stories can also fit here, for example if you want to specifically prompt Hugh Grant!Cherry from The Last Place On Earth getting wrecked (which someone really should). 

No blorbo too obscure for this post! EXCEPT: NO PEARY ALLOWED. God I hate that guy.



Rules: 

1. Be fucking nice. YKINMATO/KINKTOMATO at all times.

 

2. This meme is CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) but warnings are highly encouraged.

 

3. Prompts should use this format in the subject line: [SHIP], [DESCRIPTION]

e.g.

Mertz/Ninnis, sex crying

 

Solo gen can be prompted as well alongside (a) character name and description

e.g.

Gen, Emil Racovitza, discovering a crazy new fish

 

4. Fills should use this format in the subject line: FILL: [TITLE], [PAIRING], [RATING], [ANY WARNINGS]

e.g.

Fill: The Very Next Day, Cherry/Birdie, E, cw self-harm

 

5. One prompt per comment please. 

 

6. Multiple fills for each prompt are welcome! 

 

7. You don't have to be anon for your prompts or your fills but we do encourage it because of the vibe. You're also welcome to deanon your stuff by posting on AO3/Tumblr as you please! 

 

8. Feedback on prompts and fills is AWESOME; please take longer conversations to the discussion post.

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Kathleen Scott/Oriana Wilson, pegging, cunnilingus

[(Anonymous)]

Kathleen and Oriana explore each other while their husbands are away exploring the polar regions.

Fill: Kathleen Scott/Oriana Wilson, pegging + cunnilingus, E, no warnings

[(Anonymous)]

Ory finds Kathleen asleep on the balcony of the Admiralty House, wrapped in a rug. She seems undisturbed by the harsh Australian sun. Cold-blooded, Ory thinks.

It had been all too easy to persuade their elderly hostess to hand her the keys to Kathleen’s suite. Ory suspects that she is afraid of the both of them, waiting for them to reveal themselves as anything more than tame cats. Kathleen’s already come close to giving the game away, with the way she clung to that young South African at dinner.

Ory raps thrice against the open door with a gloved hand.

Kathleen stirs at once, on guard. Ory notices that her hair is still pinned up as it was last night at the banquet. She’s only wearing her slip. She doesn’t bother pulling the rug up over her chest, pink peeking through the translucent weave of the cotton.

“Tea in town. With Mrs. Evans,” Ory says, by way of explanation.

Kathleen props herself up on her elbows and blinks. “We scheduled that for two o’clock.”

“It is two o’clock.”

“Christ.” Kathleen is up instantly, shouldering past Ory as she begins the search for her discarded garments in the sitting room.

“You two are the reason I haven’t slept.” Kathleen snatches up a stocking. “First, putting an end to Hilda’s hysterics. I had to read to her for hours. Then pacifying you, in the stern–”

“I didn’t need pacifying. You simply wanted to make yourself feel useful.” Ory watches dispassionately as Kathleen extracts the second stocking from beneath a cabinet.

Kathleen scowls. “I rise to the occasion. That’s all.”

“You like taking care of people. That, I understand. You also like starting fires so you can put them out again.”

Kathleen stops dead in her tracks. “What a perfectly absurd thing to say.”

“I’ve never heard you hold back when it comes to absurdity.”

Kathleen recovers a plain pearl earring from the rug. “You can come to my room and accuse me of whatever you’d like. But the truth is we only keep these appointments for the sake of your own nerves.”

Ory steps onto the rug with her boots, closing the distance. She’d never do this in her own house. She enjoys the way Kathleen recoils with disgust. Kathleen has always found her to be disarmingly clean.

“As if you didn’t make appointments of your own the very day they left.”

“I cannot possibly know what you mean-”

“As if no one saw you crawl off with that man last night, after dinner.”

“You poor thing.” Kathleen focuses her attention in her reflection in the vanity as she attempts to salvage her hair. “You must know that Con does not mind a thing I do, so long as I don’t get talked about.”

“I guessed as much. That’s not what I came here to discuss.”

“You, on the other hand, are alone in the world. And that is why we get tea every week.”

“I never know what to make of it.”

“Of what?”

“Whether you know it or not. How lonely you are.”

Kathleen meets her eye in the mirror.

“I want you to admit that it’s not tea that either of us need at the moment. Nor sleep.” The tip of Ory’s boot comes into contact with something. It’s the other pearl earring, discarded. She rolls it under her foot absentmindedly. Kathleen watches her.

“I hope you know what you are volunteering yourself for.”

“No one will talk.” Ory shrugs. “What would they have to say?”




It isn’t until Kathleen is deep inside of her that she recognizes that this must be part of the arrangement she has with her husband. She tenses around the artificial cock. Of course, Kathleen can’t feel it. Ory’s hand flies back and latches onto Kathleen’s hip as she seeks purchase.

“I love your back,” Kathleen says silkily. “You should have kept your hair up.” Kathleen brushes her hands up through Ory’s damp curls, revealing the length of her neck. She smoothes the muscles of her back down with her sculptor’s hand. It’s still warm from the sun.

“That’s why you wanted me like this,” Ory gasps against the pillow. Kathleen’s weight flattens her against the mattress. There isn’t enough room for her to snake her hand down beneath herself, leaving her aching,

“You wanted it,” Kathleen hisses into her ear. “No wonder you didn’t cry when he left you.”

“Please don’t bring them up. Not if you want me to–”

Kathleen picks up the pace and they sink further into the old mattress. Ory concedes that Kathleen is correct, this time. She fucks her like an angry young man, pulls at her hair like a schoolground tyrant. Ory has avoided either experience her whole life by being very good.

“It’s what he likes, too.” Kathleen fakes detachment through her breathlessness.

Ory clutches at the pillow as Kathleen drives in deeper than anything she’s used to. The punishment is the aim. “Fuck him,” she manages, deliriously.

Kathleen stills entirely within her. Ory groans against the dusty sheets..

“You’re being a terribly vulgar girl,” Kathleen teases. Her hand skirts Ory’s waist, but she doesn’t move it an inch lower.

“Fuck you. Move.”

Kathleen laughs and sinks her teeth into her neck. It’s enough for Ory to hoist the both of them back up in one swift movement. She guides Kathleen’s elegant fingers where she wants them. All too soon, she feels her entire body twitch with a finality, spasming around the intrusion. She’s quiet with concentration. She doesn’t even dare breathe through it. Her climax hits her all the way to the gnawing want in her belly, a satisfaction she hasn’t felt in a long time.

Kathleen allows her to lay boneless against the sheets for a few minutes before slipping out. Ory doesn’t even move when Kathleen redoubles in her affections against the back of her neck, the interfering object disposed of.

“No wonder you didn’t cry,” Kathleen repeats, with a quiet pride.

“You don’t know anything about me.” Ory turns to face her, not without considerable effort. “Don’t start thinking that you do.” She’s suddenly aware of her spend dripping down her backside, sullying Kathleen’s sheets.

Kathleen smiles catlike, an inch above Ory’s face. “Then show me what you are.”




Ory wastes no time. This was a scheduled appointment, after all.

She mouths hungrily at the pink of her breasts, the pink traces of stretch marks that line her lower belly. Ory loves the way Kathleen flexes beneath her attention, muscles leaping wildly. Unlike Ory, Kathleen is quite loud. Ory privately hopes that their hostess lies awake in the room below them. She hopes she is afraid. She has no recourse against the reputation of two exemplary officer’s wives.

“You told your husband that you found me too womanly.” Ory breathes against her thighs. She studies the shape of her with curiosity. It ultimately seems more familiar to her than alien. “Do you still feel that way?”

“How could you know that?” Kathleen squirms against her, flexing her things. Ory patiently pries them back open.

“I’ve been his friend longer than you have. He confides in me.”

There’s real anger to the way Kathleen sinks her nails back into Ory’s long, dark hair, pulling at the roots. “I’ve told him to be more discerning. He’s too good for half of the rabble he speaks to.”

“But you’re not too good for this.” Ory rests her damp cheek against the hot core of Kathleen’s desire. Kathleen ruts up against her impatiently.

“I thought so.” Ory brushes a thumb indifferently against Kathleen’s sex.

“Please,” Kathleen implores. “Please shut your damned mouth.” It’s almost sweet, the way she says it.

“Now you know how I feel about you most of the time.” She sinks down onto her slick cunt.

It doesn’t take much to draw more noise out of her, the experimental application and release of pressure, like the push and pull of the sea. At each retreat, Kathleen reels her back in with her hands, the heel of her stockinged foot against her back. It occurs to Ory that this is what Kathleen loves; to be an anchor. Ory slips her fingers inside of her as a retort. A way of fixing herself in Kathleen’s life.

Ory maintains her torturous rhythm, but even so it isn’t long before she gets Kathleen to cry out her whole name. Orianna. She likes the way it sounds, in this empty room. Ory laps up her release as Kathleen shudders at the surfeit of stimulus.

“If only they could see us now,” Kathleen says, when they’ve both regained their breath. Ory is still nestled between Kathleen’s hips, head heavy.

“They will never hear of it.”

“Or dream of it.”

Ory hauls herself up until she lies against Kathleen’s chest. Kathleen is too weary to protest, threading a hand through her hair absentmindedly.

Ory imagines the two of them on a ship at sea. Kathleen is a terrible sailor; she would need to be looked after. Ory smiles at the thought, but does not open her eyes.

“I suppose not. They are quite unadventurous.”

Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

An interesting effect of the aurora/the poles/the Antarctic night/whatever! Who gets sex pollened is up to you. Maybe it's Roald and he has to deal with suddenly having a sex drive. Maybe it's Fred and Roald has to figure out a way to address the issue (because he doesn't have a sex drive). Bonus points for Raco banging on the cabin door demanding to be made part of this scientific study. Have fun with it!

Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die: emphasis on the "or die"/handjob

[(Anonymous)]

Dilated pupils, low-grade fever, tachycardia, pronounced nerve sensitivity, patient experiencing—

Fred looks at his journal, bottom lip pinned underneath his teeth, pen lingering above the paper like a predator. Beside him, curled up uncharacteristically small on the bed, Roald's breaths are coming and going in shudders, his head dipped low so his chin presses to his chest. Fred looks up at him, sweat golden in the wax-yellow lantern light, eyes screwed shut as his body goes through another spasm. Outside, through the ship's cracks, a brilliant aurora wavers and gives the rest of the room a sickly light.

—spasms, he writes. Not his first thought, which would have to be written for perpetuity, able to be read by scientists and medical professionals the world over once they return to Europe. He should be thorough and truthful, but part of him doesn't want the truth leaving this room.

To distract himself, he sets his pen down and looks back up at Roald. "Is it getting any better?"

Roald shakes his head, not bothering to open his eyes. "Worse," he croaks. Another shiver, then a short, cut-off phrase in Norwegian that Fred assumes is a curse. Then, quietly, "It's too hot."

Not a typical complaint at their latitude. Honestly, Fred could do with adding a few more layers, but he can see how uncomfortable Roald is. He tries to be clinical about this, even as his concern for his friend far outweighs his professionalism. "I don't want you to risk hypothermia," he starts. He should get the thermometer, his stethoscope——something. And he should definitely ignore the way Roald's hips are moving, rutting almost imperceptibly against his own hand, like he's trying to reach for an itch he can't scratch. Fred's mouth goes dry, and he has to try a few times for his words. "I could give you something to help you rest," he says, voice cracking.

Roald shakes his head again, more vigorously. "No, no, no no no," he moans. The last 'no' is drawn out, agonized. It makes Fred's heart sink in his chest.

"What can I do?" he finally asks, desperate.

At this, Roald's eyes snap open, pupils like massive ink spots in the flickering light. He turns his gaze to Fred, and for a moment, it's frightening, like regarding a shark scenting blood. His bottom lip glistens from where he's been biting it, and Fred can see his chest heaving, skin stained red from—— Oh, damn it all, Fred. Say it. Say he's aroused.

It was his arousal that alerted Roald that something was wrong to begin with, that his body was hosting some rebellion against its usual nature. He wasn't prone to feelings of that kind, not given to lusting after their usual gallery of photographs of lovely ladies with come-hither stares and blushes high in their cheeks. He's never had to beg off for time alone with the explicit but unsaid warning that anyone intruding would get an eyeful.

Yet here he is, feverish with it——and Fred can't understand why.

Roald tries his words again, but something in his head seems scrambled, a loose wire not quite connecting to its home. "I... I need——" he starts, then stutters, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip again, teeth shark-white against his red, red mouth.

He needs an outlet, is Fred's conclusion. Roald will never say it, but can sense it in his manner, in the way his body seems suddenly drawn to Fred through some strange Antarctic magnetism.

For science, old boy. For the good of it all.

Fred braces himself, then crosses their small shared space to place a hand against Roald's burning cheek. Roald closes his eyes and nuzzles against his hand like a great blonde cat, and there is the transient look of pure relief. He needs to be touched. He needs Fred to open that valve and let out whatever godforsaken miasma is infecting him.

Fred's voice is hoarse, shocking to his own ears when he speaks. "Tell me if I do something you don't like," he mutters.

Roald nods against his hand, but doesn't offer a word of protest.

Experimentally, Fred runs his opposite hand down the proud column of Roald's throat, where his pulse flutters at a damn near dangerous rate against Fred's palm. It's impossibly quick, like a clock ticking ever faster toward its final termination, reminding Fred of exactly what's at stake. Down, down further to his exposed clavicle, peeking up above the hem of his shirt. As Fred's fingers brush along its length, Roald shudders and moans.

"Vær så——" Roald starts, before the words catch in his throat, drowned out by another moan and shiver. His own hands go to the bottom hem, trying to pull his shirt up.

In the interest of good medical practice, Fred shouldn't help him. Truly, he doesn't want to risk hypothermia in this situation, but his hands work against that better sense, helping Roald pull the shirt up over his head. He can't ignore Roald's sigh of relief, or the way he turns his whole body toward Fred, exposing that long stretch of skin and muscle. Their rations haven't had much of an effect on him, which doesn't surprise Fred in the least. Roald's built for places like this, the finest specimen their line of work can produce.

Fred now runs both hands along Roald's abdomen, further and further down to his trousers, where his erection is an unavoidable sight.

Roald's fallen to pure gibberish now, a maddening mix of multiple languages even beyond their Belgica pidgin. Words rise in one language and fall in another, and he skips through syllables so even just one word is a patchwork form of multiple others. All Fred catches in his own tongue is, "Take it off, please."

Fred doesn't bother questioning his understanding of medicine any further. What Roald needs and what he should need are on two separate courses of thought. Instead, Fred undoes the button of his trousers, sliding them down Roald's hips, down to his knees. His long underwear next, the band catching for just a moment on Roald's cock before slipping lose and exposing the long red length of it, tip glistening with moisture.

If they were lovers, if this was any other situation, Fred would prolong this. He supposes he would tease Roald, drawing out the wait minute by agonizing minute. But their situation is at its direst, and Fred thinks that if he waits much longer, Roald's state will devolve into something dangerous. His heart, powerful as it is, could give out. So many things could go wrong.

So Fred doesn't think on it much longer. He does what feels right, what feels like the closest cure. His right hand goes to Roald's erection, fingers a tight ring around it, thumb going up under the head of his cock. This single touch is enough to send Roald into a mindless frenzy, his head falling back against the pillow, his moan a primal sound completely devoid of higher thought. Immediately, his back arches off the bed as Fred fists his cock.

He's being loud, and Fred can only hope either the constant buffeting wind or the creak of the ship is enough to drown out the noise. If not, he hopes the crew decides to be willfully ignorant of what's happening.

Roald's hips thrust up, setting a quick pace for Fred's hand to follow. He's panting, his noises animalistic, his eyes rolling back in his head as Fred's strokes quicken.

Fred retreats to his usual mental post of observation and study. If this keeps up, or if it happens again to another member of their crew, he wants to know what to do. For this to happen to Roald, of all people, is almost unthinkable. And if it's happening to him, what's to say it won't happen to someone like Lecointe, or Arctowski, or one of their ABs?

God forbid, Fred thinks. I don't think my wrists would hold up.

Best to solve it quickly, to come up with a cure no matter what he needs to do.

There's little ceremony and absolutely no warning when Roald comes. It's quick, brutal, and apparently surprising to Roald himself as he stares at his spend striping across his torso and Fred's hand as though he wasn't expecting to see it, either. His sounds are guttural, hands fisting Fred's sheets, knuckles bone-white. Fred strokes him through it, whispering encouragements even as his fingers slip and his rhythm wavers.

"Come on," he hears himself whisper. "That's it."

Roald's hips jerk once, twice more, before he finally settles back against the pillow. His breaths even out, eyelids drooping until they completely close. His cock twitches minutely, but not another drop issues forth. Fred waits just a moment, fingers still precariously locked around his shaft, before he thinks it safe to let go. Then, he reaches for a rag to wipe his hand, and then gently wipe away the rest from Roald's hips and stomach.

Pointedly ignoring that Roald's still erect.

"Did that help?" he asks. It obviously didn't get rid of the entire problem, but he can see that Roald's more relaxed, looking much less ill now than he did only minutes before. Already, Fred's mind is turning over ideas: do it again and again until Roald's completely exhausted, try new techniques (mouth, perhaps) to attempt to make his orgasm more powerful), possibly enlist one of the more sympathetic crew to help so that Roald has constant attention.

Roald nods mutely, but Fred can see a slight smile start to form.

"I think so," he says, and Fred notes with pleasure that he can enunciate again.

"Well, rest a moment, my friend. I'll get you some water. I certainly can't have you being dehydrated on my watch."

Roald nods again, breaths becoming yet more even, despite his erection failing to flag an single centimeter.

But he'll be fine. Fred's set on discovering the cause and the cure, no matter how he needs to go about it. Here, in the dark and isolation, he doesn't need to let the truth go out into the world just yet. He can write spasm and not sexual arousal, and he'll take no penalty for it. He needs to treat his friend first before self-interest butts in. Furthermore, he needs to start correlating causation. The aurora, perhaps, is a good place to start——

Two solid knocks on the door interrupt his thoughts, and then Racoviță's voice cutting right through the wood as though it isn't there. "Do you need help, Doctor? I heard a noise. Is it Roald? It sounded like Roald. Can I help?"

Fred didn't hear any footsteps leading up to this, and immediately wonders how long Racoviță's been standing there. Probably the whole time. Fred smiles, just as Roald does.

"Yes, Mister Racoviță," Fred says, reaching for the door. "I think you can."

Adrien de Gerlache/Frederick Cook, findom

[(Anonymous)]

Adrien de Gerlache is a man aroused by being extorted. He is also in possession of a sizable trust fund to which no better use can be put than shepherding him to the peaks of paypig pleasure. And what a coincidence, his buddy Fred gets off on extracting every last penny from sorry suckers: usually they're not so horny about it though!

I'm imagining this as a modern AU but if you can find out a way to make it work in canon era, even better tbh.

Re: Adrien de Gerlache/Frederick Cook, findom

[(Anonymous)]

Seconded! Just reading the prompt is killing me 😂

Lashly/Evans, daddy kink

[(Anonymous)]

After Crean leaves to get help, a half-mad, nearly dead Evans calls Lashly daddy and it awakens something in him. My kingdom for some finger sucking somewhere in there too. Maybe they revisit this daddy business after Evans recovers?

FILL: Terra Firma, Lashly/Teddy Evans, E (1/2)

[(Anonymous)]

The spoon hurts Mr. Evans’s teeth. That’s why he does it; there’s no other reason, and definitely not one that could be considered untoward.

Evans’s gums are bleeding freely now, his weak smile tinged with pink as he assures Lashly that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need help, to please leave him and let him die. The days pass as they wait for Crean, and Evans descends further into incoherence. Lashly doesn’t think for a moment that Tom might not have made it—he knows Tom and so he believes in Tom more than anyone else on the expedition—so he keeps a detailed record of Evans’s health and spends his hours caring for him as the man mumbles and moans in pain. He washes him, combs his hair, feeds him—but now the spoon hurts his teeth and Lashly has no other choice.

He scoops the warm hoosh onto his first two fingers, transporting it carefully over to where Evans lies helplessly in his sleeping bag. He rouses Evans, telling him he has to eat, and presses the food into his open mouth.
Evans’s mouth is hot and wet. His tongue seeks out the space between Lashly’s fingers, licking the taste of pemmican from his skin. When Lashly withdraws his fingers, they are slick with saliva and blood.

He does it again.

He feeds Evans this way, allowing him ample time to swallow around his fingers. Despite himself, he finds his fingers linger longer, brushing over the rough flatness of Evans’s tongue and stroking his swollen gums. When Lashly makes to remove his fingers, one of Evans’s hands claws its way out of his bag, grasping at Lashly’s wrist.

“Please,” he whimpers. His hold is weak but his need is strong, and Lashly lets him suck his fingers back into his mouth. Evans moans quietly around them. “Daddy,” he groans, words garbled around the intrusion of Lashly’s fingers but unmistakeable all the same. Evans’s tongue laps at the base of Lashly’s fingers, having taken them all the way into his mouth. He looks, for the first time in days, at peace. Lashly refuses to take this comfort away. He lets Evans suckle at his fingers until he finally releases them, head falling back as he slips, once again, into unconsciousness.

It’s lucky he’s half-dead, Lashly thinks before he turns on his side and takes himself in hand with his fingers still wet from Evans’s mouth and his ears still ringing with his broken mewl of Daddy .




Lashly arrives at Mr. Evans’s hotel in Cardiff uninvited and unannounced. It’s terribly rude of him; Lashly would never have considered such a thing if not at the urging of both Tom Crean and Mr. Cherry-Garrard. Mr. Evans’s situation must be dire if Mr. Garrard was concerned; his dislike of Commander Evans, while pale in comparison to certain other members of the Cambridge expedition veterans, was clear, even to the men of the lower decks.

Lashly is greeted warmly by one of the hotel maids.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, sir,” she says. Her square jaw and Welsh accent remind him too much of Taff and he feels, for a moment, like turning around and leaving. “He’s stopped eating, won’t leave his room. We just hear the typewriter going day and night. The other girls and me, we don’t know what to do.” She leads him through the hall passage to the carpeted stairs. “It’s sad news about his wife, sir,” she continues. “To be away for so long and then for her to pass so quickly afterwards, it must have broken his poor heart! It’s no wonder he’s locked himself away.”

“He’ll speak with me,” Lashly says, more confidently than he feels. Who is he, really, to Commander Evans? A companion by circumstance, a nurse by necessity. The man who fucked him in the captain’s berth on the Terra Nova on the journey back to Lyttleton. The man who said his firm goodbyes to Commander and Mrs. Evans, silently asking for forgiveness through the kiss pressed to the back of her hand while Evans watched him with something akin to sadness in the pout of his lips.

But here he is. The only one who could come; perhaps the only one who would come. He knocks on the door.

“Did you bring coffee this time?” Evans’s voice calls through the door. It sounds low, rough.

“I’ll ask for some later, Sir,” Lashly calls back. “It’s Lashly,” he adds after a moment’s pause. Another silent moment, and then the padding of slippers on the carpet and the jingle of the chain being unlatched.

“Lashly!” Evans throws open the door and announces his name with false cheer. “What a lovely surprise!” He smells like stale smoke and bitter coffee, both vices that he has obviously been using to stay awake: his bloodshot eyes are ringed with pink, flaking skin, the only colour on his pallid face. He runs a self-conscious hand over his unshaven face, aware for the first time in many days, it seems, of his unkempt appearance.

“May I come in?” Lashly asks. Another impolite thing, to invite oneself in, but he has saved Teddy Evans’s life once, and he is going to do it again.

“It’s lovely to see you, really, but I have so much to do—expedition papers, organizing—you know how it is! The whole narrative, minus the Owner’s diaries, of course—Mrs. Scott has control over those, but everything else is up to me, you see, and—“

Lashly takes drastic action and shoulders his way bodily past Evans and into the room. “Close the door, Sir,” he says. Evans shuts the door. “We’re worried about your health, Mr. Evans.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” he asks. He leans back against the door. “Certainly not Silas?”

Silas Wright’s addition to Mr. Cherry-Garrard’s letter read don’t bother—maybe he’ll do us all a favour and drown himself in the bay but Lashly figures Mr. Evans doesn’t need to know the particulars.

“Crean, Mr. Cherry, Doctor Atkinson. Me. We’ve all had a hard time, sir, but—“

“I have lots of work to keep me occupied! It’s helping, really. It’s best to hop back on the horse and ride forward, don’t you think?”

Lashly presses forward, closing Evans’s body in against the door. They’re standing toe-to-toe now, and when Lashly raises a hand Evans responds with a natural impulse Lashly has become privy to: he pushes his face into Lashly’s palm like a cat.

“Is this why you’re here?” Evans asks quietly. He looks so tired.

“I’m here to help.” Evans closes his eyes and rubs his stubbled cheek against the palm of Lashly’s hand.

“Take me to bed,” he whispers, deflated, and Lashly draws him closer before leading him towards the unmade bed in the centre of the room.

Cook/Amundsen, and also Lecointe is there

[(Anonymous)]

Speed! Deprivation! ...accidental voyeurism?

Truly just give me anything from any POV where poor Lecointe has to deal with the other two occupants of his three-man sleeping bag doing Something That Isn't Sleeping.

Mawson/anyone, somnophilia

[(Anonymous)]

Mawson is a known sleep-cuddler (according to Madigan who is ALWAYS RIGHT) which makes sharing a sleeping bag with him... a burden. Snuggly Doug likes to spoon! And rub himself off on his tent-mates's legs! But he's also really awkward about it and no one wants to say anything because he's still the boss.

(Sex can go further if the partner is surprisingly into it)

Football AU Shackleton/Hurley, Sex Tapes & voyeurism

[(Anonymous)]

Social media manager Hurley has the brilliant idea to make and leak a sex tape of him and Polar Institute Academicals Goalkeeper (and/or Captain and/or Manager?) Shackleton to generate some buzz about the team. Shackleton is not aware of this plan.

Bonus points for other teammates watching the video and their reactions!

Gore/McClure, There Was Only One Bed

[(Anonymous)]

When Terror makes it across the Atlantic in near-sinking condition in 1837, they made it to the port of Lough Swilly. What if the mates all had to bunk up, and McClure had to share with Gore? This can be consummated or unconsummated, just as long as McClure is absolutely doolally with lust and guilt.

FILL: Lough Swilly 1837, Graham Gore/Robert McClure, E, realistic tummy troubles

[(Anonymous)]

Terror barely makes port at Lough Swilly. She’s in sinking condition long before land is in sight. Half the crew cries with relief the moment their chilblained feet touch solid ground. Robert scrubs his sleeve across his eyes and pretends his stifled sob is a sneeze-cough hybrid. The other wardroom officers kindly ignore him.



Lieutenant Smyth, who has spread twelve hours of sleep across sixty-five waking ones, sets to billeting the near-delirious ship’s company. The mates are put up in an inn near the harbour. There are only two rooms to four mates. They draw lots, because Fisher snores. Marcuad draws Fisher and groans. Gore grins at Robert and Robert stares hard at his cocoa.



It’s a small room. Robert has to sit on the bed while Gore performs his ablutions at the washstand, scrubbing so roughly at the back of his neck that his curls shake. Robert watches him. He reasons there are very few other places to put his gaze in this bare little chamber, so he might as well watch Gore, unselfconscious as a cat at his evening toilette.



“Cleaning the Arctic off?” asks Robert. His voice wobbles. He’s tired, that’s all. In the candlelight, Gore’s nightshirt goes gossamer. His body is visible as a silhouette through the linen, long and flexing like a whip.



“I’ll tell you what, McClure,” says Gore, “there’s no Babylon in this world that can compare to having enough hot water for a wash.”



There’s a gentle rap at the door. Before either man can protest they’re part-dressed, the door creaks open. The publican’s pretty niece wedges her face into the room.



“Will you be needing anything further, sirs?” she asks.



“No, thank you,” says Robert stiffly. He’s pulled the blanket up to his chest.



“We’ll be sure to let you know if we do,” says Gore, using his drawing-room voice in his drawers. “Thank you, Miss –?”



“Ryan, sir. Emelia Ryan.”



“Thank you, Miss Ryan,” says Robert. Miss Emelia Ryan does not unwedge her handsome head.



“Should you find yourselves in need, sir,” she says, “I’m just two doors down on the left.”



She is looking at Gore, who is glowing dewily from his wash-up. He smiles.



“Two doors down,” he repeats.



“Right so, sir. But if you find yourself needing something after eleven, do be quiet-like. My uncle is across the hall.”



“I see,” says Gore. “Light sleeper, is he?”



“He’ll sleep through a tempest, sir, but there’s a floorboard outside my chamber that cracks when it’s stepped on and wakes the whole house. You can’t miss it, sir. Middle of the passage with a big black knot.”



“That will be all, Miss Evans,” says Robert sharply. At last she bids them goodnight and withdraws.



Gore smiles sweetly at him. “Shuffle up, will you, McClure? I prefer to sleep on the outside.”



Robert feels something like nausea. All of his emotions register, initially, as nausea, so this will take some working out.



He blows out the candle – they don’t even have a lamp – and tries not to feel the way Gore’s body is warming the bed. Gore stretches to find a comfortable spot, edging his lean racehound flanks across the space between them.



“’Night, McClure,” he says, mock-sleepy.



“Goodnight.”



Robert lies back and panics.



His hands are clasped over his sternum, in what he thinks of as his come-to-Jesus position. His heart is skittering under his palm. Gore is still and quiet as the truly sleeping never are.



Five minutes past. Gore shifts. The bedframe snaps.



“Gore,” he murmurs.



“Sshh,” whispers Gore. “Sleep now.”



Robert’s stomach-ache has intensified. The mattress shifts in a much more definite way. Gore is sitting up on the edge of the bed.



“Gore,” he hisses.



Gore sighs. “Do sleep, McClure.”



“Are you planning – what I think you’re planning?”



“You shouldn’t be thinking about it at all,” says Gore. Robert can hear the smile. “Very naughty of you. Aren’t you a married man?”



Robert feels a horrid stab in his stomach. Acid reflux, maybe.



“You disgrace the name of the Service –”



“Oh, come now. I had an invitation. A gentleman disgraces himself when he turns down a lady’s invitation.”



Robert gives a little shriek of rage. The force of his anger throws him upright.



“Get back into bed!” he shouts.



Immediately he feels something hot hand heavy across his face. Gore’s palm. In the dark he was aiming to clap his hand over Robert’s mouth but he’s awkwardly grabbed the whole jaw.



“Shut up,” he mutters. “You’ll wake our hosts.”



“Get BACK into bbmmghhhffff.”



He lets Gore force him back into a horizontal position, then shoves his arms at Gore’s chest. Gore grunts with pain, but quietly. Robert feels several ribs under his knuckles. They’ve all got so thin on this dreadful voyage. He tries to force Gore down onto the bed but Gore digs his elbows in and bears his weight on top of him.



“Do you – have any – idea,” pants Gore, “how long – it’s been – since I last – had a woman?”



They wrestle in bitter near-silence, biting down on their tongues when one lands a blow.



“Disgusting – to talk – like that – an officer – of – the – Royal – Navy – out whoring –”



“That’s a – horrible way – to think – about that – poor girl – where’s your – sense of – romance –”



“Died – with my – marriage,” gasps Robert. Gore is straddling him now, trying to catch and pin his fists, but this makes him stop. He goes ‘oof’ very softly as Robert lamps him on the ear.



Robert drops his arms, exhausted. He is crying. He has been crying for some time, possibly since he realised Gore was sneaking off to make love to the redoubtable Miss Evans. The tears track down his temples and fall in his ears.



Gore is panting, but he’s still. He’s also on top of Robert. He’s sitting right on top of Robert. He’s plonked right on top of a vital and deeply personal part of Robert, which is reacting to this new situation by rising, as it were, to attention.



“Did you make a joke, McClure?” says Gore, uncertaintly.



Robert sniffs. “No.”



“Oh.”



Gore sits for a while longer, like a baffled chicken. He seems unaware of the stiffening effect this repose has on Robert.



“I’m very sorry,” Gore adds, awkwardly.



A deeply pleasurable sensation lances through Robert’s crotch. This is one of the things he despises most about himself: he has an instant physical reaction to penitence. Sometimes, he imagines being hurt – whipped by an admiral, tormented by a wife – and it’s interesting, but then he imagines, for example, Mary on her knees, weeping with remorse, begging for his forgiveness, and he feels not simply aroused but pleasured, as if the velvet seam at the head of his yard is being caressed. This will happen even if he has not laid hands upon himself. The intensity of the feeling is always astonishing, because it is as bluntly corporeal as a sprain or a cut. He feels sure such sensory reactions should be reserved for actual stimulation, or at the very least, naked bosoms.



Gore is leaning down now, his mouth closer to one of Robert’s tear-filled ears. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he mumbles, and it’s all Robert can do not to moan.



He is so distracted by the onslaught of this erotic apology that he doesn’t realise that Gore’s fingers have been creeping up his nightshirt. By the time he notices, Gore’s fingers are in his armpits, and it’s much too late.



“Oh nooo,” he squeaks, and bucks like a beached fish.



“Bit ticklish?” says Gore, delighted. He digs his fingers in. Robert spasms. He starts to wheeze with squalid, stupid hilarity.



Gore is laughing, not unkindly, in his ear. “You silly little man,” whispers Gore, and Robert shrieks.



They are thrashing about in the bed again – God knows what Miss Evans makes of the noise – but now Gore is trying to shush the wretchedly giggling McClure, who is crying again through the laughter because his stomach hurts and he has a cockstand and he wants to sleep and he wants a kiss and he wishes he was at the bottom of the Polar Sea. He’s making a noise that’s probably best written as a bloo bloo bloo.



Gore’s magnificent nose is pressed against Robert’s wet cheek. He’s still tickling with soldierly determination. Robert, rendered bonkers by the evening’s progress, turns his head and gives Gore a frantic kiss on the cheekbone.



If he could still register surprise, he would be surprised that Gore doesn’t turn away. Instead, he sinks his fingers into Robert’s ribs, and nuzzles him roughly, rasping stubble against Robert’s neck.



“If you won’t let me get away to Miss Evans,” Gore says hotly, “you’ll have to take me in hand yourself, Miss McClure.”



Robert sobs. He licks his own smeared tears off Gore’s chin.



In the course of all the tickling, Gore has rucked up Robert’s nightshirt, and now he sticks both hands unceremoniously under it. He pinches and squeezes like he’s taking snuff.



“You have puffy nipples,” he says affectionately.



“Yes,” Robert weeps.



“Whorish big buttons for such a chaste thing,” Gore says. Then he ducks his head and mumbles, “Is that alright? May I talk to you like that?”



It’s almost an apology. Robert groans and feels his yard begin to leak.



“You’re pretty,” says Gore. “I’ve always thought so. You should be painted while you’ve still got the hairline.”



“Oh,” whimpers Robert, “you rascal, you –”



“Sshh. I’m teasing. Where do you want me?”



What Robert wants is for Gore to take charge – take possession like a husband, take command like a captain – but he emits a nervous whinny when Gore cups his buttock, one finger questing for the secret valley between the folds. Robert does crave it – that gruesome splitting on the pole of a prick – but he’s also acutely aware of his stomach. It’s humiliating, but what’s holding him back from all-out buggery is not a hatred of sin, but a desire not to have digestive repercussions.



“Graham. Could you,” he croaks, “maybe – in my mouth?”



“Oh!” says Gore. It’s a fresh little noise – the ‘oh!’ of a young man still capable of boyish astonishment. “Oh, well!” says Gore, and he’s scrambling to pull off his drawers and position himself over Robert’s head with deliciously unseemly haste. His knees press into Robert’s temples. The gorse of his stones brush Robert’s mouth. His musk is ripe and leafy, faintly bitter like crushed berries. Robert takes a deep huff in.



“You are quite the tart,” says Gore, guiding his cock down.



A bead of something wet and salty seeps through Robert’s lips. “You’re being so despicable to me,” he says.



“Oh Robbie,” says Gore. “I am sorry. I’m just excited to discover there’s so much jade behind that prissy little frown.”



Robert sighs happily. ‘Robbie’, ‘sorry’, together they’re as sweet as a cunt around his cock, and feel just as wanton. He lifts up his head and swallows as much of Gore as he can reach.



“Impressive,” says Gore, through his teeth, “that’s very impressive, now lie back and let me –”



He lowers his hips with practised care. Robert can feel Gore’s thighs shaking with the effort to hold himself back. He presses his tongue as low as it will go and takes Gore’s yard down to the root. The tip of his nose is buried in Gore’s pillow of black hair.



“Your nose,” says Gore, lovingly, “is cold.”



“Gggkkkk.”



“Shocking language,” says Gore, then abruptly pulls back and thrusts back in so hard that Robert gags.



They pick up a rhythm. Gore presses down on the top of his head with one hand, feeding his cock in like a man forcefeeding a pet. By some miracle of Gore’s deft handling and natural balance, the other hand is twisted back to tug playfully at Robert’s cockstand. Robert makes disgusting noises – choking and gagging, drooling and burping – and grunts continuously, uhh, uhh, uhh, around the rod of flesh down his throat.



Gore lets out a shaking breath. “I don’t think I’ll last very long,” he says, in an urgent whisper. “I think – Robbie – I’m really – quite close – it’s been – too long – since I – had a woman –”



Robert makes a gross carnal sound around Gore’s cock and this proves the tipping point. Gore – who has been so voluble – finishes in silence, robbed of sound and speech by the sheer thunder of his climax.



There’s a lot of it, and Robert can’t swallow it all. He splutters that gluey cream, feels it leak down his face into his whiskers. It has a distinct scent, somewhere between decay and cologne. He wishes he could bottle it.



After a few breathless moment, Gore whispers, “Did I hurt you, McClure? I hope not. Shall I get you a washcloth?”



Robert’s cock twitches hopefully. He coughs. There’s jism on his nose.



“You poor pummelled wretch,” says Gore, who sounds guilt-stricken. “I should have given you more warning. I’m sorry. Can I help you sit up? Oh, poor fellow. What have I done to you?”



It’s too much. It’s all his fantasies all at once. He gives a yelp and hunches over an orgasm as abrupt as a fist to the face. Gore’s hand is still resting on his thigh; he grabs it and pumps six hot sticky spurts all over Gore’s fist.



He lets out a ragged breath and slumps against Gore’s shoulder. For a moment he rests there, letting his blush cool.



Gore says, in a very different, ironic voice, “Thought so.”



Robert, startled, sits up.



“What?”



In the darkness, he can hear, once again, the smile in Gore’s voice. “Jesus loves a sinner, doesn’t he, McClure? Particularly when he atones on his knees. Now, shove over. A man needs his beauty sleep after a little instructive sin.”

Cook/Amundsen, post-jailbreak sex

[(Anonymous)]

AU where they're on the run and have reunion sex about it. You decide how sappy/angsty/downright deranged you want it to be!

Re: Cook/Amundsen, post-jailbreak sex

[(Anonymous)]

+1000!

How have you read my mind for things I didn’t know I wanted! Sad old man adventure time :D

Cherry/any, dressfic, polar theatricals

[(Anonymous)]

The Terra Nova lads put on a theatrical production and Cherry ends up in a dress. Things get scandalous. Dealer's choice as to how scandalous, and with whom.

FILL: Behind the Scenes, Cherry/Oates, E

[(Anonymous)]

“May I request some assistance, please?” Cherry asks nervously, poking his head out from behind the curtain.

For as long as men have set out on absurd expeditions to inhospitable places, they have kept a box full of venetian masks, dresses, and props, for moments when morale plunges down in the murky depths of the long, dark winter. Even the most stoic of expedition leaders will indulge, and though they will reflect disparagingly in their journals afterwards on the debauchery and raunchiness of men long separated from their wives and sweethearts, conceding grudgingly in the end that it is a necessary measure to stave of madness and mutiny, history will not mark how they laugh alongside the men at the most base of innuendos and double entendres.

Captain Scott is no stranger to polar theatrics, and although he tuts and shakes his head at some of the sorts of things that happen on their little makeshift stage, he has never lifted a finger to stop it—sometimes, you can even hear a quiet chuckle. Grif has written an irreverent little number, one act long and to be performed in an explosive ten minutes or less, ending with himself buried under a lady’s skirts. It may, he optimistically predicts, get a laugh out of Scott.

They do, of course, need a leading lady, and their dear Cherry proved the obvious choice. He is really the fittest to fulfill the role, Oates thinks, slipping behind the curtain and setting eyes on him. Cherry is a frightfully attractive young thing. His face is soft and a touch feminine when he’s clean-shaven, his cheeks are full and often tinged with color, and of course the sweetness of his demeanor makes him all the more desirable. Oates knows he’s not the only one who looks on at him this way.

The scientists have been good enough to offer up their space as a “backstage,” secluded from the rest of the hut as much as the thin curtain will allow. It’s certainly not a question of modesty–they have almost all, by this point, stripped fully before one another to shower in warm rains on the deck of the Terra Nova, or simply as part of after-dinner roughhousing. These are simply the rules of the theater, the men know, and they follow them.

“I’ve never had to put a corset on before,” Cherry laughs self-consciously, holding it about himself. The dress itself is wrinkled and faded, having been stored away for goodness knows how long in its box. Even so, it fits Cherry remarkably well. The color, once a striking mauve, now faded to a dark, dusty pink, compliments his dark hair, the blush high in his cheeks. The neckline dips low, exposing the pale length of his throat down to his collarbone. He looks all at once demure, bashful, and perfectly innocent, as well as utterly indecent.

“You look a treat,” Oates compliments him, slipping behind Cherry in the confined space to help him fit the corset. The blush the compliment incites warms Cherry’s face, and he’s red down to the back of his neck, as if the dye of the dress has bled out and stained his skin. He’s the loveliest thing Oates has ever seen. He’s compelled to bend and press a kiss to the nape of Cherry’s neck, and Cherry, despite himself, mewls like a kitten.

Oates smirks, his mind filling with all the things he could do to Cherry in this rare moment of relative privacy, but he dutifully turns his attention to the task at hand, giving the laces of the corset a little tug. It cinches his waist beautifully, makes Oates want to grip it, just to see how much his large hands could encircle. “What does this play of Grif’s entail, anyway?” He asks as he laces him up.

“Well, I don’t mean to give too much away,” Cherry replies, good humor giving his voice a pleasant inflection, “but I know I’m to play the part of Grif’s paramour, and that he will eventually wind up beneath my skirts.”

“Of course he will,” Oates scoffs, “I can’t quite blame him. I daresay a good number of us in the audience would be happy to be in his place.”

Cherry laughs bashfully. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know I’m a poor substitute for a real woman.”

“Nonsense. But I think you know that, don’t you.” Oates’ resolve is slackening fast, and temptation wins over as he bends forward and kisses Cherry’s neck, right below his ear. “You know how sweet you look, and what good it’ll do the men to look on a flower as pretty as you, out here among all the ice. Awful generous of you, Cherry.”

“Mmn,” Cherry moans softly, as Oates mouths along the exposed length of his neck.

Oates knows he has him completely in the palm of his hand. With his frame enveloping Cherry from behind, Oates corrals him against the wall, until his cheek is pressed up against it and his glasses are knocked askew. “Do you want to know what we’ll all be thinking?” Oates asks, lifting Cherry’s voluminous skirts and bunching them up at his waist. “There will be so many eyes on you, each of them wishing to have their way with you.”

“Oh God, please,” Cherry gasps. He has his trousers on, still, beneath all the petticoats. Oates makes quick work of divesting him of them.

Cherry has never fucked anyone else–not on the expedition, nor at any point before. He had admitted as much to Oates, months ago when they had first fallen in together. Oates can hardly believe it, with how whorish he can be, how eagerly he takes it, but then, Cherry has been full of surprises.

“You’d let them, wouldn’t you?” Oates continues. He wraps his hand around Cherry’s cock, hard and hot and leaking. Cherry cries out so loudly Oates can practically feel heads turning and eyes falling curiously upon the thin curtain that conceals them. Hastily, he stuffs two fingers into Cherry’s mouth, shutting him up effectively as Cherry begins sucking them at once.

“You’d let them take you, one after the other. Fucking you arseways until you can’t take any more.” Cherry whines, the sound quiet and muffled around the fingers in his mouth, which languidly stroke the length of his tongue. Oates is hard by now, and ruts up against Cherry.

“Will you be quiet?” he murmurs into Cherry’s ear, and is met with an eager nod. Oates withdraws his fingers from Cherry’s mouth, and brings them, dripping with saliva, to his hole. He presses firmly, rubs the tight muscle, and Cherry’s breaths come out strained and hitching as he struggles to stay quiet. It would be cruel to deny him any longer, and Oates finds he doesn’t have the fortitude to, anyhow, so he presses forward, breaching Cherry with a long finger.

“Yes, yes, Titus, please,” Cherry is whispering rapidly under his breath, and Oates forces himself to recall the values of patience, as all he desires right now is to sheathe himself inside Cherry and drive relentlessly into him.

Cherry takes a second and third finger beautifully. They are thick and calloused, Oates’ fingers, and they plunge so deep inside him–Cherry writhes on them, almost unbearably sensitive. Oates has often toyed with the fantasy of giving him more and more, until Cherry’s body accepts his whole hand. Cherry loves everything he is given, and Oates has yet to encounter any of his limits.

Cherry’s brow is tinged with sweat and his brow is all furrowed–he appears deeply focussed, the way he does applying himself to any task he is given. He pushes his ass farther backwards, desperate for more sensation. Oates is fingerfucking him so hard and fast he feels lightheaded. “Please, please, can I touch myself,” he begs, and Oates grunts in the affirmative. Within seconds of taking his prick in hand, Cherry is convulsing with the force of the orgasm that hits him.

Oates swears, slipping his fingers out of Cherry after his crisis passes and he has finished clenching and spasming. “You’ll wet my cock, won’t you, pet?” he asks, and before he has even finished speaking, Cherry sinks to his knees, gazing up expectantly. “Christ,” Oates murmurs to himself as he fishes his cock out.

Cherry’s mouth is just as hot as his hole, and Oates watches with immense satisfaction as his prick sinks past those soft lips, all bitten and reddened. He hardly waits for Cherry to adjust, knows he doesn’t have to–gripping the back of Cherry’s skull, he begins fucking his mouth, care and patience having gone fully out the window.

He pulls Cherry off his cock just in time to paint his pretty face with spend, which Cherry accepts enthusiastically, catching some on his tongue. “So good for me, Cherry, so bloody perfect,” Oates sighs, running his thumb through the mess on Cherry’s lower lip.

“We’d best get you cleaned up, love,” Oates says, grabbing the errant scrap of fabric closest at hand to wipe Cherry’s face when he wobbles to his feet. “Can’t have you going out on stage all painted like this,” he smirks, “your makeup smeared.”

“Oh, Christ,” Cherry huffs, “Grif is probably getting impatient. I’m only glad he didn’t come looking.”

That does strike Oates as a little odd–the chatter of the audience hasn’t quieted, and when he peaks his head out the curtain, the stage is empty. “Where has he gotten off to, anyway,” he wonders aloud.

“Maybe he’s had second thoughts and called the whole show off,” Cherry suggests.

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

“No,” Cherry grimaces, pulling his trousers back on, “I suppose not.” There’s an almost drunken sway to his stance, his hair is disheveled and his face pink–he’s visibly well-fucked, and hardly fit for the stage.

A thud sounds from nearby, giving Oates pause. “Did you hear that?” he asks.

“Hear what?”

“You stay here,” he says, and slips out from behind the curtain. There are whoops and hollers at the appearance of a figure on stage that quickly devolve into boos when Oates slinks off.

“Is the show starting anytime this season?” comes an impatient cry from the crowd.

“Very shortly, Birdie,” Oates responds, “we’re missing our director.”

He beats a quick path to the storage annex—there are only so many places to hide, in a hut this size, and the sound he’d heard had almost certainly been on the other side of the wall.

He’s got his suspicions as to what’s going on and, perhaps somewhat hypocritically, doesn’t want to walk in on an eyeful of that. “Grif?” he calls out, as a cautionary measure.

He rounds the corner, and sure enough, there’s the senior geologist, adjusting his sleeves. “Hullo, Titus,” he says nonchalantly, “am I wanted onstage?”

Oates gives him a judgemental once-over. “Imminently,” he replies.

“Well, then I guess we’d better see to it,” comes a third voice, and Debenham emerges from behind crates and shadows. Oates has to do a double-take. Deb is Cherry’s mirror-image, from the long, elegant skirts to the red-flushed face and tousled hair.

“Ah,” Oates says, with a hint of indignation on Cherry’s behalf, “gone and given Cherry’s role away, have you?”

“No, no, of course not!” Grif says quickly. Oates awaits further elaboration. None is forthcoming.

“So then why is Deb–”

“Understand my vision, Titus,” Grif interrupts, splaying his hands out wide as though he is about to spin some great yarn, “myself, the adulterer.” Here he pauses long enough that Oates fears he will have to prompt him to speak again, but Grif continues on his own. “Cherry, the temptress. Which makes Jessie here, of course, my wife.”

“...Ah.”

“Well? You seem nonplussed.”

Oates heaves a sigh that is nothing short of long-suffering. How the Owner handles all these men, he’ll never know, and he has to fork up some respect for that. “So be it, Grif,” he says, “so long as you never try and put me in a dress.”

Orde-Lees, oviposition & egg-laying

[(Anonymous)]

Why is Orde-Lees so grumpy all the time? He ingested a strange Antarctic organism (to win a bet with Hurley) and now he lays gross slimy eggs.

Can be as funny, nonsensical, or horny as you like

(I’m so sorry)

FILL: the day Orde-Lees became a mum, I don't even know what to rate this...M? T?

[(Anonymous)]

“Fascinating! Does it hurt?” Hurley cocked his head, amused, looking worryingly like he was calculating Orde-Lees’ best angle.

“Of course it bloody hurts!” The storekeeper squatted as if answering the call of Nature, only Nature had reassigned him to an egg-laying denizen. A long, narrow, slime-drenched gelatinous oblate spheroid exited via his rectum onto the floorcloth as a teeth-mashing howl exited his mouth. “Damn you, Hurley, this is why we ration! So we don’t have to eat—this—”

“What was it?” Hurley beamed at the biologist.

“Marine annelid unknown to science.” Clark intoned, note-taking.

“Marine annelid known to Lees!” Orde-Lees yelped. “Well, I won! Cough up!”

“Anyone crazed enough to eat that worm deserves my pemmican.” Hurley gestured at the glistening egg. “Can I…?”

Lightning-quick, Orde-Lees clutched the egg to his chest, tripping over his own dropped trousers. “NO!”

Lecointe/de Gerlache, accidental domming

[(Anonymous)]

Shorty after the Belgica gets trapped in the pack, their whole power play thing takes an unexpected turn after Lecointe accidentally puts Adrien into subspace. Maybe Lecointe slaps him during a disagreement and it escalates from there. Maybe he simply gives him a very stern but gentle lecture while holding him by the wrists. Either way I want it to be rancid.

FILL: Performance Review, Lecointe/de Gerlache, M, accidental domming

[(Anonymous)]

Of course had not planned to do it. Only, as the discussion grew more tense, and de Gerlache’s continued refusal to acknowledge the reality of their situation bit into Lecointe’s patience, his mind had gone to ever darker places. He thought of how he might not ever see his Charlotte again. He might well die a bachelor. The map spread before them on the table—the intricate coastlines he’d effortfully plotted—would all of it have been for nothing?

And then De Gerlache was saying, pitifully, “But you ought to have stopped me. You could have tried to convince me it was wrong, instead of encouraging the plan. Then perhaps we might be at home now, and not in this hell… If you had only tried—”

“How dare you,” Lecointe had gasped, and slapped de Gerlache full across the face.

Immediately he regretted it. He stepped back, stood at attention, bowed his head, and waited for his reprimand.

But didn’t come. De Gerlache was standing silently, with a dazed look on his face. Lecointe said, “Sir?”

The dumb silence quickly reignited Lecointe’s ire. The very least the commandant could do was show some backbone in keeping his subordinates in order, but apparently he was not even capable of that! Furiously Lecointe reached out and grabbed de Gerlache forcefully by the face.

“You must answer for yourself,” said Lecointe. “I followed your lead. I am loyal to you alone. You are in command of this expedition, entirely. Will you shrink now before the obligation? Like a wretched slug under the sun?”

De Gerlache closed his eyes—as if in bliss, but how could that be? When Lecointe was speaking so foully to him? Had some sickness overtaken him, a sudden apoplexy?

Lecointe dug his fingernails into the skin under his commander’s beard. “So you will not speak? So you have no tongue, so you are a coward? How far must I go to remind you of your duty?”

De Gerlache was not commanding him to stop—exactly the opposite. He seemed as if he wanted Lecointe to continue; Lecointe felt an urge to do so, to go on until de Gerlache well and truly understood, no matter what it took…

Yet he was suddenly and painfully aware of the impropriety of what was happening. He had his commander by the throat! An astonishing breach of discipline!

He dropped his hand; he stepped away; and, without saying a word, fled the wardroom.


***

Cook’s reaction, when Lecointe worriedly described the scene to him, was to laugh out loud. Of all things!

Lecointe frowned at him until he stopped. “He is not sick, no,” Cook said. “And you haven’t harmed him. Perhaps just the opposite. Hm. How to explain this to you… ah, if only I spoke better French… Let’s see. There is a state of mind that can be activated by personal encounters. Slightly below the normal level of consciousness. One becomes relaxed and, ah—suggestive, perhaps.”

“Personal encounters…? I don’t understand.”

“...Érotique?” Cook tried.

“I—erotic? You mean… what I did to him was—sexual?” This last word Lecointe whispered hoarsely.

“Perhaps. I can’t be sure. It is very mysterious. Almost mystical. Certainly it had an effect—a pleasurable one.”

“And I suppose now you’re going to tell me you learned about this from the Greenlanders, like all your other quackery,” Lecointe scoffed. “Doctor Cook, I really don’t think—”

“No, I learned about it at an underground sex club in Manhattan.” The matter-of-fact way he said it stunned Lecointe into silence. “It can be a very effective tool for the relief of stress,” Cook went on. “Especially in men of more leaderly persuasions, who are feeling the strain of command. I’m quite fond of getting spanked, myself. Hey, that gives me an idea. I wonder if Amundsen—”

“I am leaving!” shrilled Lecointe, once again nearly tripping over himself to get out of the room. “Goodbye! Merci, Doctor!”

“Wait!” called Cook, “I must tell you what to do when you’re finished—” but Lecointe did not stay to listen.

***

The moment the clock ticked over from work hours into evening-time, Lecointe found himself considering the topic again. He was furious at de Gerlache, still, for the insult to his own honor; yet he also pitied the man; and still further yet he respected him, and wished sincerely to see him rise to the occasion that presented itself. To relieve him of the burden of some of his anxieties… in an unorthodox way, yes, but was not this whole expedition already long past the bounds of orthodoxy? De Gerlache had never himself been one to constrain himself to the bounds of what was expected, after all, and that was why Lecointe admired him.

Lecointe entered de Gerlache’s berth without knocking. He closed the door behind him as de Gerlache looked up from his book, with a fearful mien like that of a cornered animal.

“Er—I should say, Georges, that I really do—”

“Get on the floor,” Lecointe said. There was a pause; and then the commandant did so, dropping slowly to his hands and knees beside the table. Lecointe was not feeling the wrench of impropriety he had felt before. Precisely the reverse: this was, he thought, exactly what needed to happen.

“All the way on the floor,” said Lecointe. And so de Gerlache went. His face was in the filthy rug. As Lecointe put his boot on his head he may have moaned, or perhaps it was the creak of the ship in the ice around them.

“Have you been thinking about what you said? Are you ashamed?”

Lecointe heard a muffled, “Yes…” from below.

“Say I am ashamed, captain.”

“I am ashamed, captain,” choked de Gerlache.

“A leader must stand behind his decisions. He must not waver. He must not for one moment encourage his men to waver. If you fail in that, you are no leader. Have you failed?”

“I have failed, Captain…”

Lecointe considered, from this angle, the commandant’s behind. If he only had brought his wooden cartographic ruler along with him, he could apply it; but he certainly could not use his hand. He increased by just a fraction the pressure of his foot, and watched with a swelling sense of perverse satisfaction as de Gerlache began to grind himself against the floor. Was he already erect? Good lord!

“Belay that!” he commanded. De Gerlache ceased immediately; his hands flexed desperately at his sides.

Lecointe kicked de Gerlache over onto his back. His eyes, gazing up at the deckhead, were glazed in that same look of untethered pleasure as when Lecointe had slapped him. A myriad of cruelties ran through his head at the pathetic sight: the sort that had always come too easily to him, and which he had long ago learned to ignore and suppress, lest he offend—for he had always been small, and could not risk a fight for fear of his life.

But now…

Lecointe lifted his foot from de Gerlache’s head and moved it to his chest. “You miserable worm,” he spat, “you blind invertebrate!”

De Gerlache’s throat bobbed; his eyes glistened.

“You are a disgrace, a deplorable beggar!”

Again he lifted his foot, and now brought it between de Gerlache’s legs. Even through the sole of his boot he could feel the commandant’s arousal. He bore down, hard, on that most sensitive member, and hissed, “If you do not improve your approach, mon commandant, and take responsibility, history will remember you as nothing but a spoiled, witless, blinkered idiot. You will leave a legacy of nothing but incompetence!”

With a weak cry, de Gerlache writhed and shuddered, arching up and then falling back, spent.

Lecointe removed his boot and stumbled backwards into a chair. He took out his handkerchief and mechanically wiped his hands with it, though they were spotless: for it did feel strangely like he had reached some sort of climax as well. His heart was pounding and his skin tingled lightly.

After a moment it occurred to him that he really should have allowed Cook to tell him what exactly came next. He had absolutely no idea what to do now. Surely de Gerlache, currently still prone, his breath evening, would not wish to engage in a debrief…!

For the third time within twenty-four hours, Lecointe fled the room without looking back—this time, leaving his commander sticky and bewildered on the carpet.

Lecointe/Racovitza, (Lecointe/others?), stag do sex

[(Anonymous)]

Things get frisky on Lecointe's last night of being a bachelor...

Terra Nova lads, measurements

[(Anonymous)]

You know the tables of everyone's chest measurements etc on the expedition? Tell me about how hornily that went down. Maybe they do some other measuring too. Any pairings and rating welcome!

Oates/Any, Riding

[(Anonymous)]

Known horse boy Titus Oates treats his sex partner like a prize stallion and then rides him like one

Partial to Meares or Cherry for his partner but anyone you fancy will work!

(What the term ‘Riding’ means is up to you- Oates can top or bottom)

Wilson/Scott/Cherry - first time threesome

[(Anonymous)]

I'd love the awkwardness, slight embarrassment, and sweetness of the first threesome between these three - especially if at least two are in a pre-established relationship.

(Bonus if it's Wilson bringing together his two boys, and it's Scott and Cherry who need to be guided and such.)

Re: Wilson/Scott/Cherry - first time threesome

[(Anonymous)]

It had been a long winter.

Though it is April, gray ice still lines the streets of Westminster. Cherry hardly notices; nothing can dampen the prospect of sailing within a few short weeks. He has traversed the city thrice today alone, marching from meeting to meeting, not minding terribly whether he keeps his boots dry.

He works up the courage to approach Wilson after dinner at the Devonshire Club. Cherry has to wait for the usual throng of admirers to dissipate.

Wilson looks as shockingly handsome as ever, crisp and untiring. Cherry cannot dream of how he has accomplished such a feat in these final days.

"Thank you for speaking to him on my behalf. At the time, I would have taken anything."

Wilson regards him carefully. "Anything?"

"Yes." The sound of it reverent on his tongue, like communion, idolatry. He has never been good at hiding his adoration.

Wilson smiles.



Cherry slips into his new role with ease. Even so, he feels a familiar twinge of nerves when Reggie hands him the invitation to the theatre. The play is some standard romance, transpiring on an island. Both the Captain and Wilson have signed the cars, the latter with a leisurely "Yours, Bill." Cherry wants to believe that it means something.

Wilson's eyes crinkle with joy when Cherry enters their box at the Duke of York's Theatre in his best blue suit. Lassie used to pinch Cherry’s arm and call him a peacock every time he wore it to dinner.

"Am I overdressed?" Cherry asks, before he can compose himself. It's a ridiculous question.

"Hardly, seeing that Con is likely to arrive in full dress uniform. Shall we make a wager?" There's something conspiratorial to Wilson's voice, like he's drawing Cherry into the life he and the Captain share.

"A young man in a fine suit is always a pleasing sight," Wilson adds, as if as an afterthought. Cherry hopes that his face has not gone too pink. He might savor this moment for years.

The Captain does, indeed, arrive dressed to the nines. Instead of gravitating toward Wilson as expected, he seats himself on Cherry's other side. Even when looking so well there is something about his demeanor that betrays uncertainty.

Wilson leans over Cherry and plucks a stray thread off of the lapel of Scott's uniform.

"Have I missed much, gentlemen?" Scott eyes Wilson appreciatively.

Wilson toys with the thread absently, rolling it between his long fingers. Cherry cannot look anywhere else. "We were merely discussing decorum. I admit that I feel rather careless now, sitting next to the both of you."

Scott's brow furrows. "You could never be careless."

Wilson feigns abashment and reaches over Cherry once more, sliding his hand down Scott's knee in a pacifying gesture. Cherry increasingly thinks of himself as an interloper.

Mercifully, the curtains draw open.



Perhaps it is not so merciful. Cherry finds that he can think of nothing but the two men on either side of him.

Hazily, he recalls a passage from Scott's Discovery diary – which he has studied like scripture– regarding the use of three-man sleeping bags on Antarctic expeditions. He imagines himself bundled between them, too afraid to sleep.

Some small glances are exchanged over him at key moments. Cherry could not say what these moments were, increasingly anxious that he will not be able to make intelligent conversation regarding the contents of the play during the intermission. All too soon–

"Excuse me. It appears that a certain Sir Markham has materialized in the lobby."

"As he is wont to." Wilson looks displeased. "Do find your way back to us if you can, before the night ends."

As Scott stands, Cherry is quick to rise in tandem and offer his hand, his mother's voice conjured in his ear. "I really must thank you again. For your generous offer–"

Cherry quite forgets the script he's written in his head when both of Scott's hands clasp around his own. Onlookers might describe the act as fatherly. It doesn't feel that way. Cherry is perfectly rooted to the ground, held upright by the steadiness of his Captain's hands.

Scott has the good sense to conjure some perfunctory words. "Of course." He squeezes Cherry's hand once. "It shall be a pleasure to have you."

After the Captain takes his leave, Cherry turns to find Wilson looking as if he is suppressing a smile. Not in mockery. There's something warm to the look.

Later, Cherry will place blame on the quality of the wine at the Savoy. In truth, he drank just enough to sit comfortably with Wilson, here in the back corner of the restaurant where they speak unobserved for some time. They are obscured by a ridiculous marble plinth and an obtrusive pot of lilies.

He’s thankful for it as the night draws on and he finds himself leaning against Wilson intimately, relishing the closeness.

Cherry is still in the process of recounting the ordeal his sisters have faced this past week– the fierce competition to stitch him the very best sledging flag– when Wilson steers him upstairs to the suite booked on their donors' dime.

“Too extravagant for me, I fear," Wilson confides after they pass the valet, placing a bracing hand on Cherry's back. There's something quaint about the sentiment. Cherry is not used to such genuine simplicity. He finds it immensely appealing.

So appealing that it compels him to slip his arm around Wilson’s waist. It was meant to be an assertion of a sort. Instead, he feels like a young woman clinging to her beau during a stroll through Hyde Park.

Not the worst feeling in the world, he decides.

Wilson laughs, a staccato whisper of a sound in the vacuous corridor, with its cold white paneling. He brushes the side of Cherry's cheek affectionately with his nose as he searches his pockets for the keys. Cherry wishes he was brave enough to kiss him. Even on the cheek.

When they enter, Scott is already settled in the sitting room with a glass of whiskey. He has neatly folded his dress jacket on the armchair. Something about the gesture makes Cherry's heart leap, in pain or some other unknown emotion. In his plain shirt, Scott looks smaller, easier to picture as he is. A living, breathing man.

Wilson crosses the room and kisses Scott on the mouth as casually as he would his wife.
It is as if nothing is amiss. It's simple, obvious. Wilson breaks the kiss in an instant and leaves to deposit both of their jackets on the coat rack.

Cherry at least has enough sense to avert his eyes.

"Didn't keep you long then, did he?" Wilson offers cheerfully, from the entryway.

"He couldn't," says Scott. Cherry can still feel his eyes on him but doesn't dare look up. He curses his choice of suit. He's suddenly hot, under the gabardine.

"I thought it would just be Cherry and I. Not that I would have minded-"

"I am afraid–" Cherry begins, delicately, "that I have intruded upon something." He still does not look, even in the brief silence that ensues.

"Nonsense," Wilson says, in his usual bright tone. And then, lower, consoling– "Why don't you have a seat, Cherry?"

Cherry meets Wilson's eye then. He sees only that same honesty he brings to all things.

"Unless you would prefer that we call you a motor cab."

"Please don't." Cherry does his best to sound firm, rather than the schoolboy sent upstairs by his older brothers at bedtime.

"There is no need. Reggie isn't expecting me," he adds. "I'm staying in the city on my own."

Wilson appraises him. "We wouldn't want you to be without company, then. Sit."

It's sweet, but it's an order. This compels him. Cherry settles himself on the couch next to Scott. The closeness is instantly intolerable. He smells clean but for the slight bite of whiskey on his breath. It makes Cherry think of his mouth.

He squeezes his thighs together.

"Don't feel obligated to stay for too long," Scott says, unsure. "We wouldn't want to keep a young man away from the world."

Wilson sits across from them in the armchair. "Con. He's a clever boy. He knows."

"I believe that I understand," Cherry offers. "Not that I suspected anything untoward. No, forgive me–"

Wilson reaches to clasp his hand. "There is no need to ask for forgiveness."

"I want– I want to stay."

Wilson's thumb presses down against Cherry's palm in a calming circle. "Good. Tell me more. Tell me what you want."

Cherry thinks. 'I'd like to be closer to you."

"The both of us?"

"Yes."

He has never been in a position before to dictate his desires.

"What else?" Wilson again, darker, deeper.

"I'd like to be of service." He is inches away from Wilson's mouth. The same wine on both of their tongues.

"Show me."


Cherry has never unlaced anyone's boots. There has not been any need for it. He's feverish with novelty, an electric pulse of transgression, when he kneels before Scott and begins to pull his laces apart. He even relishes the grind of his knees against the floorboards.

Scott's hand steals around the back of his neck, fingers warm. Cherry is emboldened to meet his attentive eye.

"What else?" Wilson echoes.

"I believe that I would like to be kissed."

The lovely sound of Wilson's laugh, as Scott draws Cherry up and crushes his mouth against his own.

Cherry is stunned by how natural it all is, a lesson he does not need to learn. His mouth against Scott's for the first time.

Wilson, drawing close and meeting Scott's mouth for the hundredth time. Easy.


Easy, until there are some complications. When one is eager to please, there is a tendency to bite off more than one can chew.

Cherry is met with nothing but praise when Scott enters him; from Scott himself, whose nerves have not tempered despite laying bare beneath him. From Wilson, who appraises them fondly from the bottom of the bed.

Cherry plants his hands firmly on Scott's chest, testing his resolve. Scott gasps in surprise. Cherry could never read weakness in him, only truth.

This is why he loves both of them.

"He likes that, doesn't he?" Wilson says.

"I don't know if I can– I can try." Cherry rocks his hips experimentally, taking Scott in deeper by the inch. It is equal parts pleasure and discomfort. Cherry resents the shallowness, wishes he could give himself entirely.

"Try."


Easy again, once they have learned the rhythm they must keep.

"Please," Cherry gasps, flush against the mattress on his belly. "More."

Scott rolls against him once, agonizingly gentle. "I don't wish to hurt you." He manages.

"But you'd like to give the boy what he wants." Wilson has approached the bedside. Cherry cannot see, his spectacles long lost, but he can sense Wilson like a magnet. He grits his teeth against the wave of pleasure that snakes up through his abdomen, at the mere hint of his presence.

"Listen to him," Wilson says, barely above a whisper.

Scott's courage finds him. Cherry responds, arching back against the force, the pleasure of the friction nothing compared to the pleasure of command and direction.

"Good," Scott pants. "Good boy."

It's enough to make Cherry lose control of his senses, unseeing and unhearing. He is distantly aware that he is making a great amount of noise as his climax hits him without much notice. He leaks into the sheets.

He's not sure if it is Scott's hand or Wilson's raking gently through his hair as He decides it does not matter.


He understands the rest of it through inchoate shapes, barely discernible; Wilson, finally mostly unclothed, an impressionistic blot of pink around the outline of his body. He laughs as his shirt catches above his head.

A heavy exhaustion settles within Cherry, but he still tries to be good. Someone less discerning might tell him there was no need. Wilson understands implicitly that he does need this, as Cherry rubs himself against his thigh, takes his cock in his mouth. A drop of sweat lands on Cherry's cheek and all he tastes is salt. The ache in his jaw is only encouraging.

Devotion takes many shapes. The three of them are pious, in their own way.


Naturally, it ends with the two of them, Scott and Wilson entwined. Cherry cannot tell where one form begins and the other ends. He studies Wilson’s gentleness as he guides Scott's hand lower with the familiarity borne out of ten years of intimate knowledge. Wilson is quiet when he comes, as if it is incidental to the rest of it, the speaking, the kissing.

"Wouldn't want you to freeze to death," Scott mumbles as he carefully pulls Wilson back into his underclothes. Wilson's expression slips out of Cherry's field of vision as he takes Scott's face in both of his hands and disappears into the curve of his neck.


The snow has started again by the time Cherry begins to drift away against Scott's chest. It rattles noisily against the windowpane.

"It's as if it never ends," Cherry mutters indistinctly, half lulled to sleep by the sound of the bath Wilson has drawn in the adjacent room.

"Winter is always ahead, no matter what," Scott offers thoughtfully.

"Oh, not now. Not yet. Let us have this."

Scott chuckles. Cherry doesn't hear it as much as feel it through his chest. "You are right. There is ample time, before all of that."

Wilson extinguishes every light in the room before climbing into bed. Scott does not complain when Cherry readily folds into his arms in his stead. Wilson’s damp from the bath, his arms always strong.

"Leave the poor boy alone, Con. He'll need his rest."

The sound of the fearsome wind fades all too soon when he is so warm between them. The two of them continue to speak through the night, but it is of no import to him. Cherry dreams.

Shackleton/any/all

[(Anonymous)]

the Boss knows what his boys need but sometimes he can't give that to them--that doesn't, however, mean that he isn't closely observing them and making sure their every need is fulfilled

basically shacks watching his boys fuck and telling them exactly what to do

Robert McClure/Mary McClure, literally anything

[(Anonymous)]

Pls. It can be Gen. It can be an AU. Just. Pls. My crops need water.

FILL: Robert McClure/Mary McClure, literally anything, gen

[(Anonymous)]

When she is done with her chores in the house, she scrubs the doorstep. Then she starts over and scrubs the step again, for want of anything better to do. She considers beginning a third time, but instead she straightens herself — her back seems to ache in a new place each day — and leans against the door frame for a moment. The view of the street from her front step never changes. In one direction, the row of houses, each grander than the last, ending with the Great House. In the other direction, the forest, almost obscured by fog.

She returns to the kitchen to check the clock. Somehow, it is not yet midday. If a letter comes, it will come at two o’clock. She knows, of course, that there will be no letter, but she finds it helpful to divide her day into smaller portions. Perhaps she might have a visitor this afternoon. It is a while since she has seen Anna, and she would be glad of the company.

If nobody visits, then Mary will bake bread. She will eat it with the jam that she made last week, and then she will write a letter to Robert, which nobody will come to collect. “Dear husband,” she will write. “I hope that your stomach is not troubling you.” She considers that she might bake a cake too. Robert always loved her cakes and then suffered for them later, but Robert and his sensitive digestion are not here. She will bake a cake, then, and eat it herself.

She will begin all her tasks in a few minutes. For now, she leaves by the front door again and descends the three freshly scrubbed steps, down into the little street.

Tidy houses, all in a row. They are so close that when Anna plays the piano on her bad nights, her heartache can be heard in every bedroom in the street.

Mary likes Anna. She also likes Oriana and Kathleen, who share a little house a few doors down. Once, Mary passed by when they were digging in the front garden. Kathleen, leaning on her spade, protesting through laughter that her hair was in her eyes. Oriana, brushing the strands away with dirty fingers.

Mary often thinks of that glimpse into their lives. Perhaps, she is not the only one for whom waiting has turned into ritual. But then there is Anna, who has granted a man a lien over her heart. That poor child Hetty, too.

Last week, Hetty came by to borrow a cup of flour, or so she said, and stayed an hour to confess her small sins at Mary’s kitchen table. Hetty’s mind is sadly vexed by the question of whether she loves God or her Henry more. She remembers that, in another life, someone once told her that no man should occupy more of her thoughts and affections than God. She has tried to be dutiful in this, as in all things. Yet waiting for Henry occupies so much of her thoughts, and waiting for God so little.

Mary suspects that much of what they thought they knew about God was wrong. She remembers Robert’s letters, when she still used to receive them. The agonies of the soul and of the stomach. It would be very like Robert, to expend so much of his life drowning in a deep sense of sin, only for it to transpire that his fundamental assumptions were incorrect all along.

When she talks with Hetty, Mary is glad that she and Robert never had children. To have a daughter like Hetty would be like leaving your heart staked out in the open, for every wild creature to pick at.

Something runs past on the other side of the street, startling her, but it is only a cat. Robert has always loved cats. “Look, Mary,” he would say. “Look at this little fellow.” Her heart would make an impulsive little movement towards him, at the very same moment that he withdrew in anticipation of scorn.

As a child, she once brought home a kitten, which she had found in the street. It grew into a fine, sleek beast, but it never learned to sit in a lap like other cats. When it wanted affection, it would stick its claws into your ankles. “It must have been separated from its mother very young,” said Mary’s own mother. “It’s harder for them to learn to be cats, if they have nobody to teach them.”

Robert, writing from far-away lands. “In the event of my never returning to torment you.” Ah, Robert. What did you want from me?

The houses at the far end of the street are grander. Everyone would like to move closer to the Great House, where Lady Jane and her niece live. Lady Jane is their pattern in all things. Or at least she is their pattern in patience, and patience is the business of their lives.

It is not the Great House that draws Mary’s gaze today. In the other direction, the street falters and becomes a meandering dirt track which eventually enters the forest. Fog lies over the forest, as it always does. It reminds her of the sea, in the days when Robert was with the coastguard. They had their moment of pleasure, then suffered the consequences later — like Robert with his cake, she thinks wryly.

Not one of them has ever walked along the dirt track into the forest. They never go beyond their little street of houses. Yet suddenly, with a certainty that she has never felt before, Mary knows that one day she will be the first. She will take that track into the forest, wherever it leads her, and she will have no need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind her, for she will not intend to return or to be followed.

Cook/Amundsen or gen, selkie AU

[(Anonymous)]

Perhaps Cook being mistaken for a seal by Lecointe was no coincidence! Was he born a selkie or perhaps cursed to be one? Either way he deserves some snuggles as a treat. And also he definitely figures out how to use it to his advantage in various scams.

Cook/Amundsen, belgica dancing lessons

[(Anonymous)]

You know that one throwaway line in Huntford about Amundsen being a good dancer? Cook hears about this through the grapevine (i.e. gossipy crew mates) and requests that Amundsen teach him how to dance. Naturally, it’s just an excuse to get to know him better.

Shackleton/Scott, hate sex on Discovery

[(Anonymous)]

inarticulate gurgling noises......... Them.

Re: Shackleton/Scott, hate sex on Discovery

[(Anonymous)]

Alright "Anonymous", if that even really is your name, I'm thinking about it....

Danco/anyone or gen, came back wrong

[(Anonymous)]

Take this in any direction you would like - spooky, scary, silly, sad. (Or all of the above!) I can imagine Adrien fully being like oh thank god :))) welcome back bestie :))))) while Lecointe wishes he could be so accepting, but can't shake his suspicion that something is very very wrong...

FILL - hints of Lecointe/ Danco, Danco came back wrong

[(Anonymous)]

Their situation demands their tacit agreement to uphold certain comforting fictions. Their lives are not in any immediate danger. The long night is not beyond endurance. The commandant’s authority is not in question. The great fist which holds them is not capable of crushing them at any moment with a sudden contraction of its icy fingers.

Cook is delivering his professional recommendations in his usual animated blend of broken language and gesture. He has devised a new exercise regime — he has a theory about diet — he has plans to improve the health of the men by baking them. No, surely that is a mistranslation? The commandant, in buoyant spirits, is having none of it. The recent miraculous news, he insists, is all the men need to rouse them from the torpor of recent days.

“What do you think, my friend?” he asks Emile Danco. His voice is tender, as though addressing a young lady recovering from a fainting fit at a ball, and not a man who was a corpse three days ago.

Danco smiles.

“For God’s sake!” Lecointe can hold his tongue no longer. “Are we not going to discuss the fact that this man was dead, and now he is not?”

“Strike that last part from the official record of the meeting,” says de Gerlache. “God only knows what our country’s newspapers would say, were they ever to learn of it!”

“You ask too much of me!” says Lecointe, outraged.

Danco does not react to their raised voices. His face has a greenish tinge and there are shadows under his eyes. But you could say the same of any of them. His hands lie limp in his lap. The corners of his mouth turn upwards.



They have tried to question him, of course.

“What happened to you, my friend?”

“I feel better.”

“You must understand that this is unexpected. We all thought you dead. We grieved for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you remember what happened to you during those three days? Anything at all?”

Danco returns Lecointe’s gaze with perfect tranquility. “I feel better, thank you.”

“Christ, man! Can you not say anything else?”

“He has suffered a great shock,” says de Gerlache, quickly. “We can expect him to be a little quiet for a while.”

“Quiet? He is not even the same man!”

“You exaggerate. It is not as though he is roaming around drinking the blood of animals.”

Amundsen grunts.

“It would almost be better if he were drinking blood,” says Lecointe. “As it is, he has not had a bite to eat or a drop to drink, since he was returned to us.”

He controls himself, with an effort. “Here,” he says gently, handing Danco his old notebook. “I kept up your work, while you were ill.”

“Thank you,” says Danco.

“To surprise you, when you were better.”

“Better,” says Danco. He looks down at the observations in Lecointe’s handwriting, as though he has never seen anything like them before and has no idea what they mean.

“See?” says de Gerlache. “Lieutenant Danco has never been more himself in his life.”



Danco is not himself.

But the commandant is not a man who deals well with complications, unless it is the whims of the wind and the currents. All de Gerlache knows is that he has been given another chance. He has been absolved of his guilt — or rather, the thing for which he wanted absolution never even happened. He did not kill his dear friend with his ambition, for Danco is not dead. And the commandant is too weak a man not to welcome that second chance.

He, Lecointe, is different. It is akin to the act of striking words from the official minutes. The fact that you can expunge something does not mean that it was never there at all. And then there is something about being with a man in the last moments of his life. Squeezing his fingers in yours, feeling his fevered breath on your cheek as you bend close enough to hear his last words. Like a secret known only to the two of you. Now that Danco’s last words were not his last words, his last breaths not his last breaths, Lecointe does not know what to do with the emotion that attached to them.



Danco is not himself.

But no, this is another fiction, chosen because it is more comfortable than the truth.

The truth is that he is too much himself. His easy nature has turned to listlessness, his sweet temper to passivity. Emile Danco never lacked character. Lecointe knew him better than that. He had the quiet strength of a man who has chosen his friends and bestowed on them his unswerving loyalty, regardless of whether that loyalty is merited.

“Why can everyone not see that there’s something wrong with him?” says Lecointe, pacing. “You believe me, Raco, do you not?”

The two of them are alone. The others are amusing themselves after their own fashion. Cook and Amundsen are off somewhere together, inventing a self-assembling tent or a way to turn penguins into explosives.

Raco says, “I believe you, my friend. But you must understand their position. You also said that there was something wrong with the cat.”

He has been doodling on a sheet of paper during the conversation. Suddenly, he turns the page so that Lecointe can see. At first, Lecointe notices only the usual good-natured bawdiness of the cartoons. Artocho and his gigantic arse, which is in the act of blowing the ship free of the ice with one gigantic explosion of flatulence. And then he sees what Raco is showing him. There is Danco, sitting to one side like a child’s abandoned doll. His handsome face — the face of a story-book hero — is expressionless. His eyes are little black scrawls.

Lecointe does not realise that he is crying, until he feels Raco’s hand on his arm.



He says, “Come with me, Emile, my friend. There’s something I want to show you.”

He did not sleep last night. The ice groaned and howled around them, and he wished for a sudden spasm of that great fist, which would take this decision away from him.

Together, they walk out in the fleeting noon twilight. Perhaps they walk a little too far. In this place, things do not stay the same while your back is turned. Great ridges of ice rise up within hours like sleeping giants rousing themselves from sleep. In this place, you could shoot a man dead because, in that moment, he wore the appearance of a seal.

Danco walks beside him, like an obedient child. When Lecointe comes to a halt, so does he.

“Do you know what this is?” says Lecointe.

Danco does not reply.

“This is a hole in the ice, where an old crevasse has opened. Not the same one where—“ He is unable to continue.

“Thank you,” says Danco. He leans over the hole.

Lecointe says, “I love you.”

There is something about being with a man in the last moments of his life. Like a secret known only to the two of you.

Afterwards, the ice closes over as though the hole and the struggle were never there at all. Were Lecointe another kind of man, he might be able to pretend that this is true.

Scott/Wilson, voyeurism, ice baths

[(Anonymous)]

Terra Nova era. Remember that part in Scott’s diary where he mentions seeing Wilson naked in the mornings before his ice baths? Little does he know that Bill is doing it on purpose to tease him.

(The diary mentions that Birdie was also there. You decide whether he figures out what’s going on or remains blissfully unaware!)

Cherry/Oates, midwinter party hookup

[(Anonymous)]

Following the infamous pop gun and sponge incident, Oates is pleased by just how amenable Cherry is, and suggests they celebrate more privately.

Re: Cherry/Oates, midwinter party hookup

[(Anonymous)]

Hi OP, would you mind if I combined this with the Cherry/Oates prompt from page 4? (Fingering and semi-public sex) I am consumed by thoughts and images...

Historical Crozier/Fitzjames, first time

[(Anonymous)]

I’d love to see someone play around with historical fitzier based on what we know of the real dynamic. Maybe their first time is hate sex after the whole letting Erebus sail in the wrong direction fiasco. Or it could be much lighter- i.e. Crozier witnesses James capsizing his kayak and is haunted by the sight of his dumb coworker in wet shirtsleeves. Totally up to you.