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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Comments

Anyone/Teddy Evans, bratty pillow princess Evans

[(Anonymous)]

Please… let someone obliterate gods perfect pillow princess Teddy Evans on board the Terra Nova. It can be Crean or Lashly or Atch or even Scott! Just give annoying bratty Teddy a good spanking and then destroy him!

Hurley/everyone, gangbang + sex tape

[(Anonymous)]

Hurley is the expedition bicycle– it's great for morale! He makes the first sex tape of all time about it. Your choice as to whether it's set in-universe or if it's an academic pastiche about the footage being discovered a century later...

FILL: For Immediate Release, Hurley/everyone, T

[(Anonymous)]

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: FOOTAGE FOUND FROM LOST ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION

Ernest Shackleton’s ship Endurance, which was discovered in April of 2022, has continued to yield new information about the 1914 expedition during which she was lost to the ice. Searchers recently retrieved glass photographic plates and even cinematic film from the ship, which will, it is hoped, reveal previously unseen images and footage taken by Frank Hurley. The surviving photographs and film reveal the thrilling story of the expedition’s survival, and any new insight into life aboard Endurance before she sank would be a priceless addition to this incredible tale of hardiness and struggle to live in the worst conditions imaginable.

-------------

“That’s it, Boss, just turn the handle when you’re ready,” Hurley said.

“I know very well how a camera works,” came the terse reply. “Now stop directing and focus. Form an orderly queue, you lot.”

The midwinter celebration was drawing to its climax, following the feasting, singing, and other performances. The men’s cabins had been raided for an array of mattresses, pillows, and blankets, which were arranged on the makeshift stage in the Ritz to form an ill-equipped Edwardian’s idea of an exotic Eastern boudoir. Frank Hurley reclined at the centre in a state of undress quite unsuited to the party’s extreme southern latitude.

To one side, the ship’s company jostled and joked as they lined up.

“Ladies first!” someone called, and McIlroy, still done up as a Spanish dancer, was unceremoniously bundled forward. He shook himself free and tossed his black curls.

“This rather reminds me of a night in Ibiza, actually,” he drawled, only to be shouted down by his comrades.

“Action!” called Shackleton, and began to crank the camera.

The Spanish dancer showed remarkable energy and stamina, and other members of the crew soon joined in the frolic. Crean’s creative encouragements prompted much speculation about what the film’s dialogue cards would look like. Worsley and Macklin made an enthusiastic team effort, as did Bakewell and Blackborrow. The latter was heard to mutter weakly afterwards,

“I didn’t know a man could do that with his tongue, like.”

Hussey flopped down next to Hurley and declared that he couldn’t possibly let his shipmate take on all these great rugged seamen alone, and his heroic self-sacrifice was duly rewarded.

Frank Wild approached Shackleton, who was diligently recording the proceedings as Hurley had requested, and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Need me to take over the camera, Boss?” he asked. “It looks like you might fancy a turn.”

Shackleton glanced at him with a smile.

“I’m just fine where I am, Frankie,” he said, “if you’re willing to lend me a hand.”

--------------

The Scott Polar Research Institute, which has been leading the effort to conserve and reconstruct the photographic materials found on board the wreck of Endurance, finally made a much-anticipated announcement today regarding their condition.

“Unfortunately for all the polar enthusiasts and scholars who have taken an interest,” SPRI’s representative said, “the film was too badly damaged by seawater to preserve. But judging from the label, it was not directly connected to the expedition and of little historical significance. Don’t worry about it.”

An archivist tapped her on the arm and whispered in her ear.

“Excuse me,” she said, “we have some pressing research to attend to.”

Shackleton/Hurley, Shackleton 2002 specific, praise kink

[(Anonymous)]

Hurley needs daddy’s m&ms to survive; Shackleton refuses to let any of his men go wanting!

FILL: sweet talk, Shackleton/Hurley, explicit, 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

There is a part of Hurley that didn’t expect Shackleton to give in about the photographs. Maybe it was the way he’d talked about their weight limits, the way he’d torn that page from the Bible, the way he’d thrown his own things down on the ice. The gleam in his eye, determined not to do a single thing that wasn’t absolutely necessary for survival.

And the thing is, Hurley understands. He understands that Shackleton’s priority is the men. He understands that Shackleton would do anything, anything to make sure they all make it out of this alive. And he respects that, even—he knows it’s the thing that makes Shackleton so admirable, so…irresistible. It’s why all of these men would do anything in return for their leader.

But Shackleton doesn’t understand that Hurley has a responsibility to these men, too. He understands the value of the photographs, the film, for profit, for paying off debt. But he doesn’t understand what it means, to have these photos, to have this proof. That they were here, that they lived, even if they may yet die.

It’s Hurley pressing this, saying, “Without these we’ve done nothing,” that finally convinces Shackleton in the end. He can see the shift in his eyes, the set of his shoulders. And that’s something Hurley respects, too—the way he’ll concede when he’s realized he’s wrong. And there’s nothing as satisfying as that handshake when they reach a deal.

Going through his photo plates is surprisingly enjoyable, despite how much it pains Hurley to destroy any of them for good. Shackleton keeps his voice light and makes his choices quickly and decisively, never giving Hurley a moment to second guess them, and he makes congenial comments about each photograph, whether he keeps it or doesn’t. Oh, that’s the Skipper alright, or, I remember that day, I hadn’t realized you had your camera out. It’s the first time Shackleton has seen any of them, Hurley thinks, and it’s…nice, really, to have Shackleton’s undivided attention on his work. He feels his face warm as Shackleton puts a few of Endurance into boxes with almost reverent hands, feels his shoulders hunch a little as he hands over one or two that he’s particularly proud of, and feels his stomach stir when Shackleton nods and keeps them.

“Oh,” Shackleton says, taking a new plate from him. He blinks, and looks at it with bright eyes. “This is one of the ones you took at night, then?”

Hurley hums, pretending all of his attention isn’t on Shackleton just now, fiddling with the corner of the box in front of him.

“Well,” Shackleton says, and smiles. “It really is very good.”

Hurley clears his throat, feeling his ears go hot. “Yes, well. It came out quite nicely, I think.”

“You really are very good,” Shackleton says.

“Oh,” Hurley says, stupidly. His voice comes out a little unevenly.

Shackleton’s eyes flick to him instantly. “What, no one’s told you?”

Hurley’s shoulders hitch. They have—of course they have. But not. Not like this, somehow. It hasn’t come from…from someone like Shackleton. It hasn’t made him feel quite like this, bashful and…and shy. Hurley isn’t known for being shy.

“How long have you been taking photos, Hurley?” Shackleton asks him, turning to look at him more evenly.

“Since I was seventeen,” Hurley says, clearing his throat again.

“Who taught you?”

Hurley blinks. “I—I taught myself.”

“Really?” Shackleton looks genuinely surprised, as well as…impressed, maybe. “Extraordinary.”

Hurley’s stomach drops, and he shifts from foot to foot. “I sold them as postcards.”

Shackleton’s gaze is steady, thoughtful. “Astounding,” he says, voice low.

Hurley can feel how red his face is. He licks his wind-chapped lips and turns back to his plates.

Shackleton doesn’t take the hint. “You like to be told you’re good.”

Hurley coughs slightly. “Well, what man doesn’t?”

“Not just with photos, though,” Shackleton says. He shifts forward, voice dropping slightly. “You like to be told you’re good.”

Hurley feels like he may well burst into flames. He can’t look at Shackleton. He can feel his cock stirring, and it’s hard enough to feign composure as it is. “Yes,” he says breathlessly.

“Well.” Shackleton leans back. “Let it not be said that I’ve ever let one of my men go wanting.”

 


The details of how they actually make their way into the tent—and how Shackleton convinces everyone else to stay out of it—are fuzzy to Hurley, especially once he’s on his back atop the sleeping bags and Shackleton is pushing up the hem of his sweater and undershirts, sweeping a warm palm over shivering skin.

“Oh, god,” Hurley groans softly, eyes fluttering shut.

“Beautiful,” Shackleton says, voice low, private. Hurley bites back a pathetic sound at the comment. “Oh, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?”

“Oh,” Hurley breathes, arching up into his touch.

Shackleton leans over him, and Hurley feels warm lips against his quivering stomach, his sternum, his heaving chest. There’s a quick, sharp suck over his nipple, and Hurley makes a high whine of sound in response, squirming into the sensation. Shackleton leans up, though, chuckling softly, and murmurs, “Yes, just like that. Gorgeous.”

“Christ,” Hurley says weakly.

“You love to be told you’re beautiful,” Shackleton says.

It’s not a question, but Hurley says, unevenly, “Who doesn’t?”

“It does things to you, though,” Shackleton says, and catches his nipple gently between his teeth.

Hurley gasps, and says, “Yes.”

“Good,” Shackleton says, shifting to kiss the base of his throat. “Good boy.”

Hurley moans at that, unable to stop himself, and pushes up desperately as Shackleton moves to capture his mouth in a messy kiss, one hand curled around his jaw.

“So responsive,” Shackleton says as he pulls away, thumbing Hurley’s nipple where it’s hard and exposed to the cold, making him whine quietly. “Have you been touched like this before?”

And Hurley has—he’s no blushing virgin—but it’s never felt like this before. He feels as though he’s on fire, burning from the inside out. “Not like this,” he manages to say, clutching at Shackleton’s broad shoulders helplessly.

“You’re doing so well,” Shackleton tells him, and his voice is so warm, his gaze is so steady. “Do you want me to tell you you’re good?”

“Yes,” Hurley groans, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“You do many things well.” Shackleton’s thumb strokes his cheek where Hurley can feel it putting off so much heat it must be steaming, and then he leans back again, and the pressure moves from his face down to his chest, and then to the front of his trousers. “I hired you as our photographer, but that’s not the only service you provide onboard, is it?”

Hurley swallows thickly, pushing his hips up against Shackleton’s hand. He feels the flat of his palm press there where his cock is stiffening rapidly, and he pushes up against it a little desperately, sighing with relief.

“You take such beautiful photos, you capture everything just as it is, but you do so much else, don’t you,” Shackleton says, allowing Hurley to rut against his hand, thumbing his nipple again with the other. “You rigged up the lights on Endurance, and you’ve done work with the stove, too. You do such good work.”

Hurley’s stomach flips, and his cock pulses. “Oh,” he says again, his voice small.

“You do such good work,” Shackleton says again, rubbing the heel of his hand against Hurley’s cock. “You’re so good for me.”

Hurley’s hips buck against his will, and his eyes snap open against his will to see Shackleton smiling down at him, pleased, and oh how Hurley wants to please him. Oh how he wants to be good for him. “Please,” he whispers, wanting more, wanting everything.

“Yes,” Shackleton says. “I shall give you whatever you like. You’re being so good for me.”

Something hot pricks behind Hurley’s eyes, and he scrabbles at the waist of his trousers as his cock throbs. “I can be so good.”

“I know,” Shackleton says soothingly, pulling his hand away to help Hurley with his trousers. As his cock bobs free, hard and aching, Shackleton hums and says, “Beautiful, so perfect for me. So eager to please.”

“Yes,” Hurley gasps, and arches as Shackleton’s broad hand wraps around his cock, stroking him firmly, unhesitatingly.

“But I’m sure this isn’t all you can do, hm?” Shackleton says, spreading the fluid beading at the tip of his cock down over the head. “You, who has so many talents. Perhaps they extend to more private skills?”

Hurley squirms and blinks at him, unsure what he means. It’s hard enough to concentrate on anything at all, with arousal coursing through his veins, his hands gripping the reindeer bags below him tightly.

“Perhaps you take other things as well as you take praise?” Shackleton says, releasing his cock and dipping his hand lower, pressing his fingers up behind his bollocks.

“Oh,” Hurley says softly, dazedly. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Yes, I—I could. I could do it well.”

“Yes,” Shackleton hums. “I thought you might.”

Quickly, his trousers are removed completely, and Hurley lets his legs spread invitingly, sweat cooling on his brow even as the chill makes his cock wilt. Shackleton has with him a small amount of seal oil, and it’s with this that he coats his fingers, looking down at Hurley’s body below him as he strokes slippery fingertips over his clenching rim. “You’re so very lovely,” he murmurs, pushing a finger into him relentlessly. Hurley bites down on a whine, arching his back. “So lovely for me. That’s it. You take it so well.”

Hurley feels positively desperate for it. “Another,” he gasps.

“So soon?” Shackleton’s eyebrows rise, and his eyes are bright. He pushes his finger in and out of him, slick and wonderful.

“Please,” Hurley says, spreading his legs wider. “Oh, I want it. I want to be good.”

“And you are,” Shackleton tells him. “You’re so good at this, darling. And you love it, don’t you?”

Hurley’s face flushes hot, and he groans as Shackleton pushes a second finger into him, fucking him open slowly.

“You excel in photography because you love it,” Shackleton says lowly, pumping two fingers into him, wonderfully thick, but too slowly to give Hurley what he needs. “And it’s the same for this, isn’t it. You love it, and you do it so well.”

“Yes,” Hurley gasps. “Yes, yes.”

“You love being touched like this.”

“Yes.”

“Everything you do, you do it for praise.”

Hurley’s eyes flutter shut again. God, how he loves it. All of it. Shackleton’s eyes on him, appreciating him, admiring him. His attention, his respect. His fingers inside him, fucking him, feeling him. His words, always just what Hurley wants to hear. He always knows just what Hurley wants to hear.

“Tell me what you want,” Shackleton says, curling his thick fingers inside Hurley, pressing into him just right. “I’ll give you anything you want if you’re good.”

“Please,” Hurley says on a sob. “Please fuck me. Tell me it’s good.”

“Yes,” Shackleton says, spreading his fingers slightly, stretching Hurley around them. “It’s going to be so good. You lovely thing.”

He nearly cries out when Shackleton withdraws his hand, but it’s only to help him turn over onto his stomach, to bring his knees up under him. And he talks to Hurley all the while—“It’s all right, can you spread your knees for me? Yes, that’s exactly right, that’s so good. You want three, don’t you. You can take three. Don’t you love how it feels, three fingers inside you?” And Hurley does, oh he does, he loves it and he can’t stop squirming, sighing, making pathetic noises for more.

“Sorry,” he says, feeling raw and vulnerable, speared on three of Shackleton’s fingers and being fucked steadily open, face pressed into reindeer hair. “Oh, sorry, I can’t— I’m being too loud—”

“Don’t you want everyone to hear?” Shackleton asks. “Don’t you want them to hear how good you are for me?”

“Yes,” Hurley says, even though he knows he won’t feel the same later. “Oh, god. Please fuck me.”

“Yes. You deserve it, don’t you? You deserve to be fucked for all the hard work you’ve done. When you’ve been so good.”

“Yes,” Hurley says desperately. “Yes, yes—”

He barely hears the rustle of clothing as Shackleton deals with his trousers. He can barely hear past the harsh panting of his own breaths, the pounding of his heart. And then he feels Shackleton’s hand on his hip, holding him steady, and then the thick, blunt pressure of his cock, sinking into him.

“Oh, god,” Hurley says, half cry, half sigh.

“That’s it,” Shackleton says, and for the first time his voice is strained. “That’s it, taking it so well.”

Tom Crean/Any, dirty talk

[(Anonymous)]

We know Tom Crean fucks. We know Tom Crean has a filthy mouth. Make him spew all kinds of hot filth to any partner of your choosing, and make that partner lose their mind

FILL: a little more conversation, Crean/Worsley, explicit

[(Anonymous)]

The walls of the bunkhouse at Grytviken were not what could be called particularly well-insulated, and it was advisable that any extracurricular activities taking place within the little rooms be kept with a minimum of noise. Tom was well aware of this fact, but at the moment he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

“Tom. Tom. I swear, if you don’t hop to it and fuck me now, might just about lose my mind.”

“Getting there,” Tom said, teasing Worsley with a slow, amused drawl despite the fact that he was half-mad for it himself. Everything had gone into a sort of sluggish sleep out on the ice, his body saving as much strength as it could for the more crucial functions, he supposed. Now, warm, clean, well-fed, and with Worsley spread out before him like a picnic dinner and panting for it, everything long-dormant was awake with a renewed vigour and his prick was harder than it had been in over a year.

He stroked a hand along the length of Worsley’s muscled thigh before dipping down to tease coyly at his hole and Worsley practically growled in frustration, arching back and chasing the contact. It made Tom feel light-headed to have reduced the skipper to such pliable incoherency. Worsley was hot and quivering beneath his probing fingers, stretched eagerly open from their earlier fumbling, and Tom was nearly shaking himself as he pushed inside.

“Alright?”

“Yes, c’mon-”

Knowing the man as well as he did by now, Tom would have been able to guess that Worsley would be an absolute delight to fall into bed with. His unrestrained enjoyment made Tom feel nearly giddy, and everything Tom did returned him a string of babbled praises and obscenities, blessings and curses intermingled freely in an increasingly thick accent.

He couldn’t quite believe his luck, really. Worsley felt unbelievably good, the ideal antidote to everything that had happened since Endurance had gone down, and he told him so. “Got me through the ice and now you’re getting me through the aftermath,” Tom said, breathing hard and rolling his hips. “Feel so good, you do. This gorgeous, tight hole: I’ll fuck you all nice and loose and fill you up. That what you want? A round full belly?”

“Yeah – god, yes, Tom – haven’t had a – proper – ah, fuck-”

“Feels perfect, Skipper.” Tom leaned forward, trying to get as much contact with Worsley’s overheated skin as possible while starting to get into his pace. “Just perfect. Like you were made for it – made for me, really, I would keep you on my cock all the time if I could.”

Worsley twitched violently and moaned. “And I’d stay there, Christ alive-”

He was properly on Tom’s cock now and Tom slowed briefly to run a hand soothingly down his back, fingers coming to a rest where his rim was stretched wide. He stuck a finger into his mouth to wet it and eased it inside, his own hips twitching involuntarily at the sensation. “Just look at you. You seem like you can take more, do you want it?”

The reply was barely comprehensible but nonetheless enthusiastic.

“If I’d known how much you like a good, fat prick, I’d have been buggering you silly all winter,” Tom said, affectionately. “You are eager for it, aren’t you.” He pushed a second finger in alongside his cock and Worsley yelped, biting down on his knuckles to cut off the sound.

“Tom- ah fuck, I’m going to-” Worsley struggled to lever himself up on his elbows, reaching between his legs to give himself a harsh, preventative yank. “Don’t- not yet.”

Tom laughed, highly appreciative. “Not ready to finish? Oh, darling.” He leaned forward to smack a kiss at the top of Worsley’s spine and pulled out his fingers to get a good grasp on Worsley’s thighs with both hands. “Think I might love you, just a bit. Don’t worry, I’m more than capable of bringing you off and then keep fucking you for another hour. This sweet arse of yours, fancy I could stay here all day. The Boss might wonder where we’ve got to, though.”

“Let him wonder,” Worsley panted, rocking back against Tom, taking him deeper still until they were fully flush against each other. “Let him find out. Maybe he’ll want a turn after you.”

“He’ll have to wait a while. I’m not done yet. Unless you’d want both of us at once.” Tom rutted his hips a few times with increased vigour. “That what you like? Get the Boss in here to take your mouth, fill you up on both ends. I think you’d enjoy that.”

Worsley half-laughed, half-sobbed, on his elbows and knees, face pushed into the cushion, round arse in the air. Tom pumped into him like a steam train, feeling the quivering heat of climax building in his own belly. He couldn’t last much longer himself despite his grand claims, and Worsley’s running dialogue had dissolved into wordless little begging noises punctuated by hot, ragged breaths.

“Wouldn’t mind seeing the Boss fuck you,” Tom went on, unable to stop talking now that he’d started. He was quite struck by the image he’d conjured, Shackleton taking the skipper with the same authority with which he gave orders. “But – it’d be a shame not to hear all these pretty sounds you make. Better to let him come right next to me. You could sit pretty on both our cocks. Perhaps that would satisfy you – lovely little hole getting what it needs.”

He punctuated the words with a particularly forceful snap of his hips and an open-palm slap against Worsley’s thigh. Maybe it was the slap that did it: Worsley came with a shout and a full-body shudder, clenching around Tom and making him see stars.

He only needed a few more aggressive pumps to follow, spilling deep inside with a satisfied groan. Worsley whimpered when Tom pulled out and Tom stroked his side, ran fingers through his hair, conciliatory, before dropping down on the mattress beside him.

They were both a wreck, to say nothing of the state of the bed. Worsley was sprawled on the blankets, a hazy expression of bliss on his handsome face and Tom’s release drooling from his reddened arse. He looked a picture. Were Tom a younger man the sight alone would likely have been enough to stir him for a second go.

“I needed that,” Worsley mumbled sleepily, his voice rough. He rolled over and flopped an arm over his eyes, a big, lazy, sated feline. “Heaven knows.” He peeked at Tom from beneath his forearm. “Alright for you?”

“A bit more than alright,” said Tom, and was rewarded with a wide smile.

“Good. Say, do you mind if I stop here a bit?”

“Spend the whole night,” said Tom. “If you like.” He always liked a bit of a cuddle in the afterglow and he suspected that Worsley did as well.

He wasn’t wrong. Worsley dropped his arm from his face. “You don’t mind?”

Tom didn’t reply, just opened his arms invitingly and Worsley didn’t have to be asked twice: he wriggled forward into Tom’s embrace, cosying up against his chest with a contented sigh. “S’nice. Thanks.”

“Think it’s me should be thanking you,” said Tom, amused, petting at Worsley’s shoulder.

“Well,” said Worsley, managing to sound salacious despite already being half-asleep, “maybe you can show me your appreciation tomorrow.”

Tom very nearly came up with a reply to that, but Worsley’s eyes had closed and on this occasion, he felt he could well afford to let the man have the last word.

Cherry/Wilson or gen, Terra Nova reincarnation AU

[(Anonymous)]

Modern AU (or maybe 80s/90s AU) - it takes meeting in the next life, but Cherry finally forgives himself. Bonus points for iconic “I remember you” scene(s) triggered by touching or kissing.

FILL: How Will I Know, Cherry/Wilson, E

[(Anonymous)]

OP I don't know if this is precisely what you had in mind, but this is the idea that fully took over my brain and kept me up until 3am on a work night writing it. Title courtesy of Whitney Houston, of course.

Cw: Recreational drug use, semi-public and frankly pretty embarrassing sex



“My friends call me Cherry,” Cherry shouts over the thump of the bass.

“I’ll bet they do.”

The man he’s dancing with is tall and lean, with a twinkle in his blue eyes and a wry smile. He seems a bit older, a bit more conservatively dressed than most of the men in the club, and he has a slightly unreachable air that has Cherry throwing himself at him.

“He looks like someone’s actual dad,” was Henry’s unimpressed reply when Cherry pointed him out earlier. “Have fun with your closet case, babe.”

Henry tipped a couple brightly coloured pills into Cherry’s hand, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and made a beeline for a man with the ugliest mustache Cherry had ever seen, so there was really no accounting for taste.

Now the music is filling up Cherry’s whole body, and the lights are shimmering above his head. He turns around to face the stage and watches the silhouettes of bodies all moving in rhythm, beams of light breaking around them. Soho on a Saturday night is the most beautiful place in the world.

The man’s hands are on Cherry’s hips and his lips brush his ear.

“I’m Ted,” he says, and it’s such an old man name that Cherry laughs. Maybe Henry was right. But Ted’s solid chest feels perfect to lean back on, and his hands move confidently on Cherry’s body, down his thighs and up under the hem of his cropped t-shirt. Ted is getting hard in his jeans, and Cherry grinds back against him. This is going to be a fun night.

Ted bites Cherry’s shoulder, not hard but right on the muscle, and Cherry is abruptly impatient. His body is buzzing with energy and he’s ready to climb Ted like a tree.

“Come on,” he says, the words lost but the gesture clear as he grabs Ted’s hand and pulls him off the dance floor and towards the toilets.

“We could go–” Ted starts to say, gesturing toward the exit, but Cherry isn’t ready to leave behind the comfort of the throbbing, sweaty, atmosphere. Things always look different when the cold air hits. So Cherry shakes his head and Ted shrugs, looking amused, and lets Cherry pull him down the corridor.

Cherry confidently shoves past the queue for the urinal, heading for the one stall on the end with a working lock. He pushes Ted against the wall, fumbling at his belt, but to his surprise, Ted turns them around.

“Let me,” he says, “you look delicious.”

Cherry is happy to tip his spinning head back against the tiles and wiggle his hips obligingly as Ted works his trousers down. Then there is beautiful wet pressure around his aching dick, and Ted makes a satisfied noise. He takes Cherry deep before pulling back to swirl his tongue around the head, and Cherry whimpers. Ted sucks dick like it’s an art form.

The lights still dancing behind his closed eyes move with the rhythm of Ted’s mouth on him, steadily pulling him toward release. There are flickering stripes of blue and green, and with the clarity of a memory Cherry sees them in the sky above a dark expanse of snow stretching to the horizon. He remembers what it feels like to be cold down to his bones.

“Bill!” Cherry cries.

The man breaks his rhythm, pulling away, and Cherry’s eyes fly open to see the dingy ceiling of the club toilet. Fuck, he said the wrong name and he has no idea why. Fuck. He reaches down to try to put himself away, salvage the night, something. But he’s too close and as soon as he closes a hand around his dick it pulses, his hips jerk of their own accord, and then he’s coming hard.

“Fuck, fuck!”

Ted is still on his knees, he hasn’t pulled back far, and Cherry watches in horrified arousal as his come spatters his face. Ted looks up at him.

“Cherry.”

The voice is achingly familiar, fond but gently reproving.

Cherry blinks, and remembers everything.

Bill Wilson is kneeling on the sticky floor of a gay club toilet in front of him, and Cherry just ejaculated on his face and swore at him, and he’s not sure which is worse. Bill smiles ruefully and wipes at his face with the back of his hand. The last time Cherry saw that face, it was mottled blue and white with frostbite, frozen in the gloom of a half-buried tent.

Cherry swallows around the painful lump that has just formed in his throat, like he’s going to cry or be sick or maybe both.

Someone bangs on the stall door, making them jump.

“Come on, ladies, hurry up! Other people want to get their rocks off too, you know!”

Cherry is suddenly someone who remembers wearing starched collars every day, who spent decades mourning the man who has suddenly reappeared in front of him, the man who was supposed to have died on the Ross Ice Shelf a hundred years before. It’s a lot for a twenty year old twink to take in, and his eyes well up and spill over.

Bill scrambles to his feet, gets Cherry tucked in and fastened up, swipes a thumb across his cheeks, and gives his own face another wipe with his sleeve.

“Come on, let’s get you outside,” he says gently, and steers Cherry out with a firm arm around his shoulders. “Bad trip,” he tells anyone who looks at them funny. Bill manages to find his coat on the way out. Cherry didn’t wear one, and he shivers as the outside air hits them.

Bill puts his coat around Cherry’s shoulders and fishes in the pocket for a pack of smokes. Cherry accepts one gratefully, breathing in deep to smother the sobs trying to fight their way out of his chest. His ears are still ringing from the music, but he feels absolutely sober now.

“Well then,” Bill says drily.

Cherry risks a glance at him and sees the corner of his mouth quirk up in a smile. He can’t help smiling back, and before he knows it he is shaking in slightly hysterical laughter. He grabs Bill’s hand to make sure he’s real, and Bill is laughing and clutching at him too.

“I’m so sorry,” Cherry says, “I’m sorry for this–” he gestures at himself and the dirty alley they’ve ended up in. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you. Dimitri and I went as far as One Ton but the weather was so bad and Scott said to save the dogs, and I couldn’t imagine that you would be in so much trouble. But I should have gone on. I should have kept going until I found you–”

Cherry’s cheeks are wet again, and Bill wraps his arms around him.

“You did, darling,” he murmurs into Cherry’s hair. “You’ve found me now.”

He holds Cherry tight, pressing kisses to his head, until Cherry’s breathing calms. Bill pulls away just enough to re-light his cigarette.

“And you don’t need to apologise for anything else,” he adds, giving Cherry a quick up and down glance. “I was quite enjoying myself until I abruptly remembered freezing to death.”

Cherry gives him a hesitant wet smile, and Bill tilts his face up and kisses him: softly, then deeply, then softly again, over and over.

“Come on, Cherry,” Bill says finally. “Come home with me.”

Cherry takes his hand, and as they walk, snow begins to fall.

Seaman Evans/Scott/Lashly, Discovery-era ‘thank god we’re alive’ tent sex

[(Anonymous)]

After Evans and Scott fall into the crevasse and Lashly saves them, they make camp and celebrate surviving their ordeal. Can be 100% cuddles and kissing or blubbery tent handjobs or whatever direction you want to take!

take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [1/2]

[(Anonymous)]

(I think I've taken a bit of a different direction than you intended, but I hope it's alright!)

“My word, but it was a close call!” Evans repeats, over and over, eyes as wide as the crevasse we nearly perished in even as he pokes at the rent in my trousers with his needle. “When did this happen, sir??” He says it with some alarm, for the tear is large enough to fit his hand clean through, which he does as he holds them up to show me.

We are sat, the three of us, in our pleasurable tent after the most harrowing day imaginable. If Providence had chosen to throw us one final challenge at the close of our great venture onto the Polar Plateau, now Nature has declared our fight over as the weather has become as calm as the day was invigorating. Lashly tends the jolly primus as Evans, freshly changed into his nightclothes, addresses my battered kit with my trousers and the housewife spread over his ample lap. I sit half in the sleeping bag with my diary open atop my pyjama-clad knees, but I have abandoned it for the time being in favour of visually drinking in the company of these two marvellous sailors. I want this day to leave an impression on my memory.

Supper has been nothing but jokes and good humour, and not for the first time on this trek I can feel my guard easing, and the duties and expectations that separate my station from theirs if not disappearing, then decidedly slipping. Steam curls thinly up through the still, still air. It is so warm I have thrown open my jacket out of necessity.

Remembering my awful discovery of the split in my trouser seat, I laugh at my recent and ongoing tribulation.

“Do you know, I can’t remember a thing from the moment we stepped onto nothing until we were dangling in the traces?” Coming to, I had blinked out pain and found the blue ice walls of the crevasse yawning on either side. Above me, Evans hung rapturously and mutely until he responded in the affirmative when I asked after his wellbeing. Higher still, the broken sledge precariously bridged the trap we’d fallen into, and Lashly strained heroically with our weight. “They must have torn in the lurch of the fall. I only remember realising there was naught but my undergarments between me and the air. There was a moment I thought my tackle was so frostbit I’d never enjoy amorous congress again!”

But upon finding that neither of them join in my uproarious mirth, my cheeks quickly redden at the twin looks of concern on their grimy faces. Probably my blush is invisible beneath my sunburn.

“You’ll want to have children someday, won’t you, sir?” This quite seriously from Lashly after a pause. Six months my senior, he is a family man himself and the bearer of a precise and retiring temperament.

I could kick myself. Why did I make such an uncouth reference? What is wrong with me? Lashly certainly hasn’t put any brandy in the cocoa, but never have I felt drunker despite having imbibed nothing. I am a cadet on the Britannia again, reprimanded by the supervising officer, except I am supposed to be him. I shiver, feeling every bruise in my weary body. Nearly every bruise, rather—the nether regions of which I so callously spoke remain duller than they ought to be.

I had resolved to reawaken myself as quietly as I could that night in the sleeping bag, so as to little disturb the others. But the sway of the evening had gotten away from me—the heady yet impossible notion of the three of us somehow running the Navy as a team had somehow become more real than my current responsibility for their lives and duty to set an example. What a poor excuse for a Captain I was, so easily forgetting my place. I had to be harder than this. I had to. Once weakness is shown to a man, he will of course refuse to let it go.

“I hardly think that’s your concern, Lashly.” I snap, and it is too abrasive and comes out rather squeakier than intended.

“Does it hurt?” Lashly continues, not at all chagrined.

“No!” I say hotly, wishing to bury myself in the bag, or perhaps turn the clock back a minute.

“I remember what the doctors said about frostbite, sir.” Lashly is diplomatic as ever. “If it hurts, it’s alive. If it doesn’t…”

Evans rushes into the conversation headfirst and earnest, as he is wont. “You wouldn’t want your—” he does not change tack gracefully, but he censors his sailorish vocabulary regardless. “You wouldn’t want it looking like my poor nose, would you, sir?” His feature in question is mottled and swollen, frayed from the rubbings it endures each time it goes white.

“Well, no—” I start indelicately, “but I am hardly about to—about to—rub myself in front of you both.” It sounds ridiculous. This landscape surely does strip men to basics.

“Of course you don’t have to.” Lashly is as soft and low as I am loud and bothered. “Let us warm you up, sir.”

“We’ve all been celebrating being alive and here you are suffering right in front of us!” Evans adds vehemently, almost indignant. “Well, sir, it’s for us to look after you, you’ll find, and don’t say it isn’t! I’ve got three pair of socks on and all my toes thanks to you, sir!” I blanch, remembering having been rather harsh during the instance he referenced—it really wasn’t necessary to have questioned his ability to count after he got frostbit feet from wearing only two layers of socks instead of the ordered three—“We’re ready to do what needs doing, for you, sir!” He finishes.

This makes me squirm, but the resultant lack of sensation between my legs is enough for me to sigh out “What would you have me do?”

The two sailors exchange a glance. Evans and Lashly each have two stone on me, and between them, I feel small. I am not accustomed to feeling small, yet, it stirs something in me. The thought of them warming me…I would be lying to say I have not admired their strength through the traces, or worked all the harder to pull my own weight, or awoken to find that in the night I had wriggled my way even closer to their warm, comforting bulks in the three-man bag. I’ve felt wretched through this journey that such magnificent men must subsist on the same rations as me—and here they are wanting to give of themselves still more. I do not deserve it—and yet I want what they have to give. What’s more, I wanted it even before my present difficulty.

“Lie down, sir,” Lashly starts, “as deep as you can go in the bag, so you’ll be warm. We’ll have to disrobe you at least partially, see.” Efficient and careful as ever, he stows away the primus apparatus for the time being—it appears my predicament has trumped the completion of supper, which was to be a second pannikin of cocoa now we have reached our depot.

My skin is prickly all over with anticipation—aside from the obvious exception—as I sink into the reindeer fur bag. On a day as warm as today the bag is as dry and supple as we are likely to have it, and, not wanting to be coddled, I hook my thumb under the top of my pyjama bottoms, preparatory so that when the time comes I may disrobe myself. I face Lashly as I feel the weight of Evans settle into the bag behind me. My breath catches as he moulds his front to my backside, tucking his knees behind mine, his stomach to my back, sharing his warmth. Something instinctive takes over, for I find I press back into him before I quite know what I am doing. His hand, rough and callous and yet so deft with a needle, finds my hip and I feel his nose poke the back of my neck.

Lashly sits atop the sleeping bag flap, playing doctor. “I need to take a look, sir.” He lifts the bag open, and as clinically as I can manage, I push my pyjamas down, settling them around my mid-thighs. For all that sledging has bared our natures to each other, for all it has brought us to share hardships and the stark necessities of life, still this feels as if I am peeling myself open before them. I am as dreadfully sensitive about it as my member is not. I wish Bill were here.

The brightness outside throws light enough even through the tent fabric that Lashly need not squint. “You’re red, but turning paler, sir. It’s frostnip, not frostbite, though a bad nip if you’re going numb.” He confirms. “May I?”

Finding myself quite incapable of speech, I nod. When he touches me, I flinch, but this is entirely out of nervous anticipation, for I would in fact barely be aware he had done so if I could not see his hand on my sad prick with my own eyes. There is a slight pressure, but none of the responsiveness and reaction typical of me. The flinching, of course, makes the ever-attentive Lashly think he has hurt me.

“Apologies, sir. I’ll be more gentle.” His touch becomes feathery, and with the transition goes my ability to feel it at all.

“No,” I choke out. “It doesn’t hurt. I can’t—I can’t feel it.”

“Maybe try the balls, Lasho.” Evans suggests into my neck. I smell the hoosh on his breath. “Sorry, sir, for my language.”

Lashly slides his fingers under my limp member, rounding the balls, then tracing down my inner thigh. There is a gradient, a barrier, beyond which my sensation is full and sharp, and I cry out when he crosses it. “Very good, sir.” Lashly curls back up to gently cup my balls as a pair of dice. “I don’t think there’ll be permanent trouble. We need to get his blood moving, Taff.”

“I know how to do that, if you’ll have me, sir!” Evans is already rubbing his hands up and down my back in preparation when the more cautious Lashly warns him.

“With your fingers, Taffy—we haven’t the room otherwise, if we’re all to be in the bag. And we don’t want to be too rough.” Lashly shuffles his legs between the reindeer fur and slides in himself, blessedly enclosing the flap over my nakedness and enveloping us all in warmth and darkness.

Taff Evans’ fingers—how many times have I watched him at work, cutting wood or stitching fabric or dipping a candle? How many times have my eyes lingered rather longer than was appropriate on his strong, manly hands? I imagine they are warm and coarse. It sounds as if needn’t imagine much longer.

“Will you let us take care of you, sir?” Evans grunts behind me as Lashly settles in front. Strangely his voice sounds tender to my ears, but my mouth fills with saliva.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper.

Lashly pauses, his hand wrapped around my prick—or at least, I think it is.

“Why are you sorry?” This from Evans.

“You have nothing to apologise for, sir.” Lashly adds.

“I’m not meant to—be like this.” I force out. I’m not meant to be weak, I’m meant to lead by example. I am not meant to need their help. Yet I do need it, and what’s more, I want it, and I do not know if I can go through this without that terrible fact becoming all too apparent. My brain is frantically trying to sort this scramble into words that will not debase me too dearly in their eyes when Evans’ strong arms wrap round my stomach and squeeze reassuringly.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Captain. Even while injured you climbed to get you and me out of that crevasse today, you did. I don’t think I could have done it myself. You saved us, sir! I’m not glad for your injury, but I’m glad there is something I can do to make you feel better.” And before I can retort, he adds “I take joy in it, sir, I do. Joy.”

He really is dear. The sheer force of his belief in me makes me desire to do something to earn it, but in the moment it is enough to know this—all this—is wanted. Rather overcome with this show of loyalty, I manage “Thank you, Evans.”

“And there is nothing wrong if you take joy in it, too.” Lashly confirms, peering through my paltry words in that perceptive way of his.

“Thank you.” I doubt if the darkness is hiding my tears at all.

“Alright, Lasho?”

“Ready, Taff.”

“What are you going to do?”

“If you get the Captain’s blood going, I’ll warm him up. If we were on the ship, we’d put frostnip in warm water, so I reckon my mouth will do.”

I hear Evans suck on his fingers, slathering them up with spit, as Lashly burrows further down into the now-cramped bag, stopping at my hips. Both Evans and Lashly are constrained against the sides and I am in the glorious middle, wrapped up in wonderful pressure. The strapping young sailor behind me slides a slick finger between my cheeks, and the pride of our engine room before me places my pitiable prick between his lips. What strikes me, more than anything, is how these forceful presences are not only capable of, but adept with the subtlety needed to avoid worsening my fragile condition. I could not have made a better choice from among my crew for this journey, and truly, there is no class of men better suited to the rigours and skill necessary for sledging than the British bluejacket. Surrounded by attention, there is nowhere to hide, so I close my eyes and allow myself to melt.

My body responds quickly to Evans’ touch, and I rut back against him as his thick finger plunges into me. It is indeed warm and coarse. “Aye, that’s it, sir, that’s it,” he can always be counted on for chatter, and this is no different. His voice is a delightful rumble, and guides my thoughts to fix on him, his hand, his finger curling inside me. For the first time in weeks I am really, truly, hot.

I grip Lashly’s shoulders for stability. The knots in his muscles, no doubt obtained from his effort with the sledge earlier, are apparent. While I retain my faculties, I try my best to smooth them. We are all of us a mess, physically, collectively covered in bruises and tensions and layered thick in the filth accumulated from weeks of sledging. Scents of sweat, body, and musty reindeer mingle with the new scent of lust in the choking air of the three-man bag. Ah, well. I feel lightheaded anyway. Gamely, Evans brings a second finger to join the first and my massage effort on Lashly must cease as I feel ripping, in both senses of the word. My heart races as the blood courses down to my very toes, until suddenly “Ow!” I cry out sharply as Lashly’s mouth becomes searingly painful on my prick.

“What’s wrong?” He says, vigilantly releasing me. “Does it hurt?”

“Y-yes!”

“Good.” Lashly intones, “Does it feel hot?”

“Burning.”

“Then the blood is returning.”

Evans, concerned, ceases his work in my rear, but I cry out almost as loud as before to “Keep going, man!”

“Sir?”

“It takes—mmmph—takes the edge off the pain.” And I brazenly wriggle my bum back towards him, begging. Though I am accustomed to the stinging tingling of an extremity returning to life, this is leagues worse than any other frostnip I’ve faced—thus far, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid it in such precarious places.

“Yes, sir!” He fails to hide the distinct pleasure in his voice, which only goes to further flood me with want.

I almost faint from relief as his fingers re-enter me, and I re-orient myself, desperately trying to push him in deeper. Meanwhile Lashly, aware his saliva on my prick will feel cold now it is exposed to the air, massages me carefully—a true talent given how much I am moving. Each stroke burns, but also brings a rush of life closer and closer as feeling returns and my nerves scream with the stimulus. My balls, too, react as he lightly taps out a rhythm and begins to sing. It is his same old song about plucking a rose, the one I have not yet been able to parse. Its application to this scenario would make me laugh were I not so very occupied. This state of affairs carries on for several renditions of the song, as Evans encourages me all the way.

“Good, yes, sir, don’t stop now, sir—Lasho, how are we looking? Time to raise the flag?” Evans asks.

“Aye, Taffy, that’s it, our Captain is back in action.”

And I can feel the way my prick stands ready as the pain transitions from the awful burning to the more pleasurable strain, nay, need of intimacy. The seamen’s method is wildly effective—never have I felt so reinvigorated so quickly after the cold has had its way with a body part.

Markham/Scott; coercion

[(Anonymous)]

Dirty old man Clem expects something in exchange for backing Scott for the Discovery Expedition.

Cherry/Atch, Hurt/Comfort

[(Anonymous)]

*slaps cherry* this sweet boy can fit so much survivor’s guilt in him. please have atch kiss him cuddle him tell him he’s done a good job and it’s not his fault. please

FILL: Splendid in this trying time, Cherry/Atch, Hurt/Comfort

[(Anonymous)]

Four days of pain. Of crawling, weeping, aching. Of wishing the dogs were dead; of wishing he were dead; of wishing the whole bloody continent would sink soundlessly into the icy sea and take them all with it. The sounds from his swollen throat and the screams of the wind outside were indistinguishable. He had never been so alone in his life. No man for miles. And it would be like this forever. How could it not be? This was what the world was really like. Howling darkness and bone-sharp cold and pain, endless pain.

The growling of the dogs burrowed into his head like iron corkscrews. He choked on the smoke from the blubber stove and retched onto the floor and made sorry attempts at doctoring himself from the medicine kit. He prayed. He wanted his mother. He wanted Bill… he was so cold, Bill should be getting the Primus going, otherwise he and Birdie would freeze before they ever reached Crozier, and he wanted to help but he couldn’t, he couldn’t move, it hurt too much and the dogs were whining, yelping, scratching at the door and the roof was collapsing over their heads and they would die and they were dead and Cherry screamed, begging, stop, stop, please, God, please stop—

A face swam into focus out of the haze of pain. Atkinson—!

And behind him, blurry, the others, leaning over in concern. They had come back from Cape Evans.

“Good lord, Cherry. What happened?”

A question he found impossible to answer. Nothing had happened. Things had only continued. He tried to sit up and speak, for he didn’t—he couldn’t be seen like this, it was humiliating.

“No, no. Please—don’t move.” A insistent hand on his chest pushed him back down; then Atch called Silas over and together they lifted Cherry from his abject sprawl on the freezing wooden floor and placed him back in his bunk. Atch quietly gave instructions to Silas; Silas said something before hurrying away which Cherry couldn’t quite hear, but it might have been “And then he’ll be alright?”

Atch’s attention was on Cherry now. He was stroking Cherry’s head, pushing fingers without care through the grease and soot coating his hair. “Relief has arrived,” he said. “You did well, and now you can rest.”

“I didn’t,” Cherry managed to choke out. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it…”

“No matter. Silas, some water too, if you will, please.” Now came that old friend morphia and a few of Atch’s bitter tonics and a bolus, which Cherry duly swallowed. These brought some relief; and Atch remained by his bedside as they took effect. When Cherry struggled up into a seated position just to prove he could, Atch caught him as he toppled forward and held him there, hand moving in gentle circles on his back. Then he began to massage feeling back into Cherry’s own chilled hands, gentle warmth and pressure which felt so deeply good he nearly cried.

“You were doing alright before we left, dear boy,” said Atch, “and you’ll be doing alright again soon enough. I know you will be. And in the meantime I’ll be right here.” He said it with such easy authority that Cherry couldn’t help but believe it. He let Atch bear his weight and warm him; he took deep shuddering breaths and inhaled the smell of him, the rough outdoor scent they all shared but underneath it something musky and sweet.

Rocked back and forth like a child, he began to drift off into a contented drugged sleep; he was laid back down and had the impossible impression before the soft dark descended that someone might have been kissing him.

***

After the funeral Cherry was left alone with Atkinson. Dmitri was with the mule party, probably cadging their tobacco. It was past midnight. Rivulets of golden light leaked in through the tent fabric. Cherry was utterly exhausted. On his knees he balanced his journal, pencil poised against the paper, having scratched out the last three lines he’d written, because they didn’t sound right, they weren’t right at all, but for the life of him he could not find the ones that were. Perhaps they didn’t exist.

“Go to sleep, Cherry,” Atch said. He himself was half-in, half out of his bag, carefully wrapping and securing the box which contained the vital records.

“I have to write.”

Atch blinked slowly at him. “Get some rest, and you’ll write in the morning.”

“But I must write now. I must record, that is my duty, that has been my only real duty. But I can’t—What use am I if I can’t find the words? Shall I fail at this, too?” His voice shook.

“Cherry, you haven’t failed at anything, I won’t hear that from you now or ever, do you understand? Nothing which has gone wrong was due to you, of all people, you are a perfect angel and there is no one who does not know that you did it all to your very, very best.”

Cherry couldn’t meet Atch’s kind gaze. He tore off his spectacles and rubbed at his own eyes, willing himself not to cry, for Atch had not cried yet, and he should not until Atch did. “I won’t sleep tonight, I don’t know how you can plan to,” he said through the lump in his throat.

“Because I am very tired, and tired men need sleep if they are to drive dogs. That includes you.”

“But—aren’t you afraid?”

“Afraid of what? That I’ll see them in my dreams?” Though Atch was unfailingly polite he was also unfailingly direct, when other men would talk round a subject in circles till their meaning came across. That was the doctor in him, one assumed.

Cherry swallowed, and nodded.

“No, I am not afraid. In fact I hope I do see them,” Atch said matter-of-factly, “so that I might be able to tell them all how marvelously you’ve carried on, and how worthy you are to carry on their memory.”

All the strength went from Cherry’s body. He was weeping before he even knew it, despite his promises; collapsing like the tent had with its poles removed.

Then Atch was beside him, offering that embrace which promised more relief than anything in his apothecary, a strong grasp which held him effortlessly above the crevasse that loomed…

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he blubbered, but Atch wouldn’t hear it, he never would hear any of it, any of Cherry’s apologies, he shushed and stroked Cherry until he quieted and there was only the sound of the tent and the lamp and his own labored sobs, diminishing and then evening out.

Eventually Atch said, “Brave heart, Cherry,” and pressed his lips swiftly to Cherry’s forehead. Then he pulled away, but Cherry wasn’t ready. He tugged Atch back towards him, really wanting only to be held longer, but when Atch drew in again it was to give Cherry a long and lasting kiss. Cherry gasped into Atch’s mouth; surprised, delighted, even. Atch held him and kissed him and for a little while Cherry forgot to be afraid.

“Can you sleep now, do you think?” Atch asked, his face still quite close to Cherry’s, and his thumb softly and intimately sweeping the curve of Cherry’s ear.

Dizzied, Cherry said, “I think so, yes.”

“Then goodnight, Cherry.”

Atch gave Cherry’s shoulder one final squeeze, then drew back into his own bag and turned away. If he was at last crying then, then Cherry could not hear it above the wind.

Scott/Wilson, first time

[(Anonymous)]

At the tail end of the Discovery expedition when Scott and Wilson go on a solo trip to Cape Royds, they have a tender first time in the tent the night before the relief ships show up.

And alright yes perhaps the ghost of Shackleton shadows the moment a bit (he’s not dead but you know what I mean) but it’s all-around very sweet. Scott cries.

FILL: and the warm weather is holding, Scott/Wilson, E, no cw, 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

Two men walk on a beach. Here the sky is bigger than anything either of them have ever seen before. They step out of the ordinary rhythm of their lives into the annihilating blue.

Careful, one says to the other, although they are both sure-footed on the black sand. A steadying hand on the back. Something novel and tentative.

Wilson glances back with a smile, and looks away again. There’s no reproach to it, no vanity. The light reaches his eyes.





“What shall we do tomorrow?”

They camp by the edge of the ice. From their high vantage point, Scott can make out the form of Erebus through the mouth of the tent. A dark brushstroke against a night sky that dims lazily. He recalls one of Wilson’s paintings and marvels at the exactness. What would it be like to see the way he does, God in the air?

“We could try for the peak.”

“Do you want to?”

Wilson’s movements as he stows away the cooking equipment are loose and unhurried. His limbs lack the stiffness one sees in Navy men.

“I’m not inclined to do much hard work at present.”

Wilson hums in agreement. “I hope you’re not still feeling unwell?”

“Not physically. I don’t quite know why I told you that.”

“Metaphysically, then?” Wilson joins him on the furs. Scott turns from his assessing gaze, pretends to look back at the mountain.

“Twenty miles of ice and I don’t see a chance of a break-up. I thought it would do us some good to get away.”

“Away from the cockfighting, you mean?”

Scott does look then, and recognizes a knowing sort of amusement in Wilson’s expression. Something in the curve of his mouth. The easy lowering of his eyelids. Blood rises into Scott’s face.

“Do you think it was selfish of me?”

Wilson’s levity does not abate. “To come here? Or to bring me with you?”

The rhythm of the conversation is elliptical, the path well-trodden. Perhaps both of them are waiting for something to break.

For now, Wilson simply takes his hand in his own. “It wasn’t selfish. I’m very glad we came.”




On the journey South there was already a distance. There’s room enough for another man between them when they lay down to sleep, a gulf of cold air neither of them wishes to speak about.

Not so cold, though, as to justify the way Scott wakes, flattened against Wilson’s back. It’s too warm, in truth. He had not slept well, but it matters little as he takes in the pleasant scent of wool and soap and sweat.

His hand has strayed. Wilson’s chest feels vital and solid beneath his palm.

Scott is unsure whether it is the involuntary, frightened tightening of his body or the cries of the skuas outside that causes Wilson to stir. Without a word or a sign of waking– Scott hopes against hopes that he has not awakened– Wilson wraps his own hand around the crook of his arm.




The following morning, Scott relishes each time Wilson’s shoulder meets his own as they meander towards the beach, side by side. He waits for the ax to fall. It shouldn’t be this simple. He observes the russet of the stones, tries not to remember what blood looks like on ice, red spat out onto perfect white.

His mind is elsewhere when they come across the rookery.

“So many nests,” Wilson says, his eyes bright with amazement.

The landscape is pointillistic in recurring black and white but vibrant with the sound of life. Sun-swept, the starkness of austral summer abating into a gentler beauty. Scott is the first to descend the slope, reaching the bottom with ease.

“One can hardly miss home in a place like this,” He calls up, delighted.

“As lovely as any spring in Cheltenham,” Wilson concedes, before closing his eyes. “But I do miss the color green. And the owls.”

Scott smiles. “Of course.”

“Now you’re teasing me.”

“No,” he answers, seriously, a substitute for all he would like to say about how much it pleases him to hear Wilson speak of the things that fill him with purpose.

The seam between Wilson’s brow softens. “Help me down then, will you?”

Scott scrambles into action, feeling as boorish as one might after forgetting to help a lady down the steps of a train. Wilson chuckles at the eagerness, but allows it. If Scott wasn’t a creature of pure and fixed reality he would imagine that Wilson almost leans into the embrace, even though he is capable of making his own way down.

Wilson’s hands remain on his shoulders. Experimentally, he applies pressure to the right side of his neck.

“What’s this?” Scott tries not to sound hesitant or hopeful.

“You’re exceedingly tense. Your levator scapulae. I could tell from the way you were holding yourself.”

Scott looks anywhere but Wilson’s face though it is inches away from his own. The sensation of Wilson’s thumb hovering by his pulse scours him. Is this what motivates the penitent to crawl to the confessional?

“I slept poorly.”

“Really? I slept quite well.” Wilson’s grayish eyes are very blue today, and full of mirth. He pats him once more on the shoulder and steps away, unmooring him.

“We’d better hurry,” Wilson calls over his shoulder, stepping already into that great expanse. He carries himself with a newfound bravado that is unlike him but suits him extraordinarily well. As if he has swallowed up the other man, who might be here with them.“If you want eggs for supper, that is.”

Scott cups his own neck between his hands, chasing the ghost of a moment, then follows.




“It’s Eden,” Scott declares later, when they’ve eaten their fill of eggs and fried seal livers straight out of the pan. They grow lenient and soft here.

“What do you know about Eden?”

“Nothing.”

They both fall into laughter easily. Scott thinks of the first– the only time he overindulged in drink, as a midshipman.

Wilson’s boot brushes up against his. He notices that Wilson’s feet are somewhat smaller than his own, perfectly manly but with that delicate aspect that colors the rest of him. Oh, like that night when he was young, he must call upon a higher instinct to pull back, to heed reason.

“There’s a stream that leads to the sea. We could examine the density of the ice,” Scott says.

“Or we could take a proper bath.”

Reason does not win out. Scott finds it amusing that an ice bath is Wilson’s idea of hedonism, but he obliges, enjoys the uncommon pleasure of falling into line. Not shrinking or diminishing but bending gladly.

At the shore, everything is very large and small at once, a stretching sea latticed with filaments of conferva that spiral across the surface of the waves in mystic patterns. Maybe he is learning, gradually, how to see.

“This is what I’ve missed the most,” Scott confesses.

“The blue?”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He makes the fatal miscalculation of turning back to face Wilson, where he has stripped himself of his clothes entirely. His eyes inquiring, open like doors to that other place he inhabits.

Scott averts his eyes, his gaze landing at his feet. He can see the fine knit lines of his calves, even so.

“Blue, and beautiful,” he says, quietly. “But above all else, one always thinks himself unbound by the sea. I was starting to feel terribly closed in.”

“Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me,” Wilson recites. “Tennyson’s of the same mind as you. Although I suppose he wasn’t really speaking of the sea.”

“Oh?” Scott grows uneasy at the mention of poetry– a language Wilson spoke with one other man alone.

“It’s about death,” Wilson muses, turning unhurriedly towards the steady stream of ice-thaw.

Now that his back is turned, Scott steals a glance and regrets it at once. Wilson’s vigor lies mostly in his spirit and not his body, to be sure. And yet he looks well, better than he has in a long time. Perhaps he strengthens on spiritual sustenance alone.

There were nights during their unhappy march when Scott stayed awake just to be sure that Wilson slept, blindfold wound tight around his eyes, saintly and immaculate. Even then he had not felt that he had been granted permission to touch him, to smooth his brow.

Wilson turns again, knee-deep in the stream.

“Never mind all that. Come here,” he says. “It’s warm.”

Shackleton/Wilson, nipple torture

[(Anonymous)]

Like, not TOO much torture, just enough to get Shackleton to come in his pants. Bonus for Scott watching them, but not necessary.

Re: Shackleton/Wilson, nipple torture

[(Anonymous)]

Hey OP would Wilson piercing Shackles’s nipples be too much?

Cherry/Oates, vaginal fingering and semi-public sex

[(Anonymous)]

After discovering Cherry's secret, Oates likes to corner him in random places and finger him until Cherry is an absolute mess

Re: Cherry/Oates, vaginal fingering and semi-public sex

[(Anonymous)]

Oh please, this is so good 🫠

Scott/Wilson/Kathleen, toxic threesome

[(Anonymous)]

Based on the knowledge that Bill and Kathleen at the very least disliked each other intensely I think that it would be very funny if these three had the worst sex ever. Ft. Bill and Kathleen sparring over who can fuck Con better, competitive pegging, etc.

(Sorry to Ory for leaving her out I would like to imagine she is having a drama-free time somewhere discovering a rare bird or something)

Terra Nova hut, sex pollen

[(Anonymous)]

Set some time before the Winter Journey so that everyone’s still mostly present. Could even be set during the midwinter party if you want a Climax vibe. Up to you as to how it happens (The Aurora? The fossil specimens? The curry powder??) and what pairing(s) you want to focus on.

Fill: Clissold's Curry Disaster!, Multiple Pairings, E, sex pollen 1/3

[(Anonymous)]

Sorry to post in installments but I'm impatient and this fic is turning out a lot longer than I had anticipated!


The Owner & Dr. Wilson

Scott feels it first.

“Spicier than usual,” he notes after the first bite of Clissold’s curry. The others nod in agreement, but it is only Scott’s face that turns increasingly red with each bite.

“Are you quite alright, Con?” Bill asks. His brow is furrowed with concern. Scott’s forehead breaks out in a cold sweat.

“Excuse me,” Scott says in lieu of answering, and excuses himself from the table.

It isn’t the usual stomach pain he feels after eating something that disagrees with his sensitive digestion—it’s lower, hotter, and, to his horror, feels an awful lot like arousal. Scott unties his boots and toes them off, then removes his woolen jumper. It’s become unbearably hot under his skin. He lays down on his bed, listening to the clinking of cutlery and the chatter of his men. He focuses on the sound rather than his pain. When Wilson crosses the threshold into their sequestered quarters asking after his health, the pain suddenly changes into overwhelming desire.

“Bill,” he says, reaching for him, and Wilson comes into his arms, kissing him soundly and crawling into his bunk beside him.

“You’re burning up, Con,” Wilson says. His hand brushes over Scott’s forehead before cupping his cheek and drawing him in for another kiss.

“Do you feel the heat?” he asks when Wilson pulls away. Wilson nods and pulls back to strip off his jumper. “What should we do, Bill?”

Wilson’s lips find his neck and he bites down. Scott’s hips buck up, his desperately hard cock seeking the friction of Wilson’s thigh between his legs.

“Sometimes we do best to remember that, in certain respects, we are no better than animals,” Wilson says.

“You speak as though you intend to mate with me, Bill,” Scott says it with a wry smile, but his cock twitches at the thought of Wilson pushing him down and mounting him like a dog in heat.

Wilson’s pupils dilate and his breaths come rough and ragged. “You can’t argue with nature.”

Their hands meet on Scott’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons before tearing it over his head. His undershirt and trousers are flung to the floor, where Wilson’s clothes quickly join them in an unkempt pile on the ground.

And then they are pressed together, Wilson sitting upright against the wall, cold wood against the flushed skin of his back, and Scott has rubbed his cock with lanolin and is sinking down on him until he is sitting in his lap with Wilson’s cock buried all the way inside him. He pauses there, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness, the tears in his eyes that begin to fall too early.

“It feels right,” Scott says. Wilson’s hand brushes away the tears that fall down his cheeks, his nose. “Right that you and I should be together, here. I was so worried you wouldn’t come with me.”

Wilson kisses him, soft and sweet. “I will always come with you.”

Scott smiles through his tears as they both begin to move, a perfect complement to each other. The blood pounding in his ears drowns out the clatter of the hut until it’s just them, breathing the same air and sharing the same heat. There is, at one point, a startled sound behind them, but neither of them notices, lost as they are in each other’s eyes.

When Wilson climaxes he pull out to spurt hot and heavy over Scott’s belly, and when Scott follows with a few quick tugs to his cock, he brands Wilson’s stomach the same way. They sit together, panting into each other’s mouths as their lust burns down to embers, casting a soporific fog over their minds, and together they burrow into the bedding and sleep, entwined as closely in each other’s arms as they are in each other’s lives.


Silas & Deb

“What do you suppose they’re doing in there?”

Griff Taylor looks over his shoulder at the partitioning wall that separates the Owner’s bunk from the officers’ common area. A loud, rhythmic thumping against the storage boxes echoes through the hut. He looks back at Silas.

“Discussing grouse disease.” Silas laughs, then abruptly turns bright pink.

“Oi, the curry too spicy for your American palate?” Birdie laughs.

“I’m Canadian, you tiny bast—“ Silas chokes on his words, mouth filling with saliva. It’s suddenly very, very hot in the hut and his dick is suddenly very, very hard. He means to excuse himself and retreat to his bunk or, if privacy allows, the latrine for a quick tug, but instead his body moves on its own, and Silas is, for some reason, climbing up onto the table like a wine-drunk aunt. And then he’s crawling across it until he’s close enough to grab Deb by the collar of his jumper, and now he’s kissing Deb like they’re alone and not in front of the entire expedition (save The Owner and Dr. Bill who are obviously fucking in Scott’s bunk).

Deb kisses him back before he remembers he’s at the table with the rest of the expedition. “Silas! What’s gotten into you, man?” Quietly, he adds, “I thought the time behind the stables was for science. And the time in the observation hut. And on the glacier.”

“To hell with science,” Silas growls—growls! “Fuck me right now.” He swings his long legs around so he’s sitting on the table with Deb between his legs and he kisses him again, and Deb feels like the bottom of his stomach has dropped through the ground and then he feels it too—the sudden, all-consuming knowledge that if he doesn’t sink his cock into Silas Wright as soon as possible, he’s going to die. Deb’s position allows him to stand up, push Silas on his back and crawl on top of him. Silas is taller but Deb is wider, and Silas’s gangly limbs are easy enough to pin down as Deb ruts on top of him, frantically pushing his many articles of clothing out of the way so he can get his hands on Silas’s skin.

“Good God! Are they going to do it right on the table!?” he hears Griff exclaim. Deb can’t answer, not when his mouth is being put to much better use sucking on one of Silas’s nipples.

“I’m going to the magnetic hut before they sodomize each other over dessert,” Simpson says. There is the sound of chairs scraping against the floor of the hut. Someone steps over them, having climbed up on the table to reach the other side faster.

“I’m going to find Bill,” Cherry says, and then he too is gone from the table.
Not that either Silas or Deb are in a state to notice: they’re half-naked, rolling over half-finished bowls of curry in their attempts to strip each other of their remaining clothes.

“a=(v-u)t,” Silas swears.

“You’re unbelievable. I should fuck that dirty mouth of yours, Wright.” Deb has wrestled Silas onto his front and he kneels over his back, caging him in.

“Why fuck my mouth when I have a sweet little hole that’s been waiting for you all bloody day?” Silas turns over a hand to reveal a tin of medical ointment, liberated from one of the doctors’ bags. He smiles over his shoulder at Deb. “A gentleman is always prepared.”

Deb slaps him across the arse. “You’re a scoundrel, is what you are.”

“F^→=F^→ 1+F^→ 2!”

“That’s right,” Deb says as he pushes two fingers into Silas’s entrance. He adds another, his partner’s body relaxed and opening so sweetly beneath him. He doesn’t waste any time more than necessary: Deb slicks his cock and pushes in. Silas takes him with a moan. He braces himself on his elbows, knocking a pile of bowls off the table with a clatter and letting Deb slide that much further inside him.

“Fuck me like you mean it,” Silas says over his shoulder, and Deb accepts the challenge. The sweet, giggling exploration of their last (multiple) encounters is gone, replaced by a desperate, violent need. Deb’s fingers dig into the flesh of Silas’s hips as he slams his cock inside him. There’s an energy running through him, red-hot and electric, and he rides each pulsing current to completion.

“Jesus motherfucking F_d=1/2 pu^2 c_d A!”

He can feel Silas’s muscles spasm against him, sees him convulse with pleasure as he comes. It feels so tight and hot around his cock that Deb can’t bring himself to care when he comes inside, spurting with such volume and velocity that his come oozes out around his cock, still buried to the hilt in Silas’s stretched, pink hole. He expects a characteristic quip, but Silas is quiet.

“Alright?” Deb asks tentatively.

“Hrrng,” Silas responds. Deb nods, considering that to be a good sign, and slowly pulls his cock out of Silas’s still body. A blurt of come follows, and Silas groans.
“Right. I’ll clean you up.” Deb looks around the table for a napkin. Finding none, he takes an unused teaspoon and attempts to scoop the remaining semen out of Silas’s arse.

Of course, this is when Silas regains the ability to speak. “Are you fucking me with a spoon?”

“No!”

“You are!”

“I’m not! You said ‘hrrng’, which I interpreted to mean ‘My beloved Frank Debenham, please empty my anus of your semen’.”

“And you use a spoon?”

“There are no napkins!”

“Use the bloody tablecloth!”

“It seemed impolite!”

“Impolite! You know what’s impolite?” Silas drops to his knees and rolls off the table. “Sleeping in your bunk and dripping your filthy emissions all over your blankets, that’s what.” With this, he ducks behind the only curtain in the Antarctic, climbs up to Deb’s bunk, crawls under his blankets, and promptly falls asleep. With a sign, Deb drops the dirty spoon onto a pile of broken dishes and follows Silas to his bunk.

Karluk any/any

[(Anonymous)]

Baring my entire ass on this kinkmeme to beg for any fic featuring the boys from the Karluk. Make it gen, make it horny, I don't care, I just know that I would love to see it

Re: Karluk any/any

[(Anonymous)]

Is Stefansson still in the picture? Or is he long gone by the time of this fic?

Scott/Wilson, modern domestic AU

[(Anonymous)]

Let them be warm and happy please! Do they run a bird sanctuary together? Does Bill's ex Shacks show up to cause drama? Are they lesbians?? The details are entirely up to you!

FILL: Inexplicable, Scott/Wilson and Oriana/Kathleen, G, modern domestic AU

[(Anonymous)]

(727 words, wildcard: outsider POV)

“So, let me get this right...” is the most common response when strangers encounter the Scott-Wilson-Bruce-Souper clan. It’s not that difficult to understand, really.

Between the four of them, there are two houses, two cars, three bicycles, one dog, four cats, any number of half-tame birds of prey, squirrels, foxes, badgers, and weasels, six chickens, one guinea pig, and one human child.

Robert Scott and Edward Wilson are married, and everyone calls them Con and Bill. They run the Discovery Wildlife Sanctuary together, rescuing and rehabilitating injured animals. Bill is an ornithologist who also studied medicine and is also an extremely talented artist and also somehow finds time to volunteer for his church. He may or may not ever sleep.

Con was in the Navy, and is now a happy house-husband. He is the father of Kathleen and Oriana Bruce-Souper’s son Peter, and co-parents with them. Oriana is also an ornithologist, and went to university with Bill. They were a couple for six years, until she persuaded him to act on his feelings for his friend Con, whom he’d been obsessed with since they first met. (It’s normal to agree to go on a two-year research trip to Antarctica with someone you’ve spoken to for half an hour at a party, right? Right?)

Anyway, Bill and Ory are still best friends, and she works with him at Discovery part-time, when she’s not teaching and carrying out her own research. Ory met Kathleen at a life drawing class, won over by the classic pickup line, “Let’s ditch this bullshit, I want to take you home and sculpt you.” A couple months into dating, Ory introduced her to Bill and Con, and Kathleen promptly informed her that they were having a son and Con was to be the father.

To be more precise, Kathleen planned to have Con’s son, and Ory could be along for the ride if she wanted. Some women might have objected, but Ory loved an adventure, and she loved Kathleen. Some men might have objected to being spontaneously selected as a sperm donor, especially on discovering that Kathleen had no intention of involving medical professionals when they could do the job perfectly well themselves. But Con agreed, and he loves his son.

Anyone seeing Kathleen and Bill interact would assume that they hated one another, and they gleefully tear each other apart like the pair of old queens they are. However, they are quite resigned to sharing two of their favourite people and sometimes even say kind things behind one another’s back, as long as there’s no chance of the other finding out.

Collectively, their domestic arrangements perplex neighbours, Peter’s nursery school, visitors to the wildlife sanctuary, and anyone else who might at first glance mistake them for two heterosexual couples. For reasons best known to himself, Peter calls them Dad, Mum, Mama, and Uncle Bill. Con gets called Mr. Bruce-Souper often enough that he has just started to answer to it. Ory’s nickname around Discovery is Mrs. Bill. Only Ory is permitted to call Kathleen Kath– everyone else must pay her the respect of two full syllables.

This harmonious arrangement is only disturbed occasionally, when the mountain-climbing, poetry-quoting sailor Ernest Shackleton comes to visit. Rumour has it that he and Bill had a fling in Antarctica, and there was definitely some sort of subsequent falling out over publication rights for research data. Fortunately, Ernest’s husband Frank is a determined peace-maker, and Con only ends up going round to sit in Kathleen and Ory’s kitchen fuming about once per visit now. Every time after he leaves, Ory tells Kathleen that Con should just sleep with him too and have done with it, but Frank would probably object to that.

Every once in a while, Con and Bill talk about going back to Antarctica, so that Bill can continue his studies of emperor penguins. Kathleen tells him that he can see penguins at the zoo, to which he loftily replies that most UK institutions only have Humboldts or Gentoos, which is not his area of speciality at all. Ory adds that she would rather not have another two years of wondering whether the two of them have frozen to death in some lonely tent somewhere. “But wouldn’t that be romantic?” says Con, and this is really the most inexplicable thing about any of them.

Atch/Oates, medical roleplay + dehumanization

[(Anonymous)]

Oates requests that Atch pretend he is a parasite and examine/sketch/describe him.

Possibly Oates thinks this is just a fun game to pass the time and doesn’t realize how horny it’s making Atch, but once it becomes clear, it’s game on.

Wilson/Shackleton, snowblindness + subterfuge

[(Anonymous)]

Discovery era, Wilson and Scott have a pre-existing relationship. Wilson is recovering from snowblindness in his cabin. Shackleton comes to visit him and is promptly mistaken for Scott. You can play around with just how much Shackleton leans into it (I’d prefer dubcon over anything heavier, but you’re free to get really nasty if you want)

FILL: A circular design, Wilson/Shackleton, snowblindness + subterfuge, dubcon (or is it)

[(Anonymous)]

He had stepped very quietly over the threshold, meaning to do nothing other than observe the rise and fall of Bill’s chest for a little while. To freely admire the blindfolded martyr in repose: to say a prayer over him, perhaps.

No one on the ship would say that a soft footfall was his normal attitude; peace-keeping was the aim, not subterfuge. Yet Bill was, it seemed, already awake underneath the bandages, not sleeping as Koettlitz had sternly instructed, and at the gentle creak of the deck he turned, his chin lifting as he sought, and Shackleton froze.

“Con?” rasped Bill. “No—no, please don’t go, it’s only that I’m so horribly bored… you wouldn’t read to me, would you? No, you’re too busy. I understand. Just sit with me a while, won’t you?”

Bill was not asleep but he was not entirely lucid, clearly; there was a slur to his voice characteristic of the strongest the medicine chest had to offer. It was hard to deny him anything in the best of times. And in his piteous state nearly impossible. Shackleton, conscious of his tread, carefully came to the chair.

Almost at once Bill reached out to find his hand. “There you are,” he said with such relief and contentment that words dissolved on Shackleton's tongue. He had been about to say, it’s me, Bill—he really had been—perhaps it could wait a little longer. He let Bill clutch his hand; he ran his thumbs over the frostbitten and flaking knuckles, massaging Bill’s palm with a gentle but firm’s pressure, the way he imagined Scott might, when he and Bill were alone…

Scott and Bill were alone, more and more. Cosseted together, one might say. A world of their own.

To peer through a keyhole which had not existed mere weeks ago and catch the barest glimpse of them: Shackleton could have hardly predicted how it would make him feel. He tried not to feel it, and yet. To seek him at his side and find him gone caused something like a sore, unhealing and raw.

But it felt a little better now, despite.

Bill made some satisfied sounds and Shackleton shifted in his seat, coming a little closer.

What might Scott say now? There there, Bill, or That’s a good fellow. Such kindnesses off his own rough tongue would give the game away at once. What might Scott do now? He might pass a hand up and down Bill’s chest, palm playing over fabric to feel the familiar muscles beneath. The pale skin unseen. The virile heartbeat, its energy without outlet in a bedbound body.

“Oh, Con,” said Bill. A smile tugged at the edges of his soft mouth as Shackleton stroked him. “I really am sorry, you know. Only the view was so beautiful, and I couldn’t help myself from staying outside to capture it. It will look marvelous, anyway, when I finish it. A fine frontispiece for the new issue of the Times. It may bring Shackle to tears, I hope—oh, I'm sorry. I won’t speak of him now. Don’t stop. Do go on…”

Shackleton’s hand was moving lower and lower. Bill was beginning to shift his hips upwards, small thrusting motions that betokened one thing and one thing only. His lips were slightly parted and his cupid’s bow glistened with the faintest sheen of sweat. Who knew what he was picturing behind his aching eyes? Shackleton wished he didn’t.

Yes, Bill may have whispered, yes. Shackleton thrust his hand into Bill’s wool unders and found his stiffening yard. He tried to restrained himself somewhat; Scott would not have such fixity of purpose. Shackleton knew Bill was only a man, and treated him as such, and loved him for it; but Scott saw him as more than that, walking around dazzled and stupefied. It would be like touching an angel.

Does he savor the hot human feel of Bill’s straining member in his hand as he works him to his crisis? Does he understand how lucky he is? His mouth would be dry and nervous, not flooded with spit and the desire to taste. He might close his eyes, overwhelmed by the sight of what his touch was doing, and miss the best of it, the end.

Shackleton realized too late that he failed to go as slow as he ought to. Scott, ever lumbering and deliberate, must always drag it out. Ah, well. Bill certainly didn’t seem to mind. Shackleton had never seen him so given over.

Lord, he was lovely. Worth going blind to behold.

“You should have me with this bandage on more often,” said Bill, languorously, as Shackleton arose and moved to leave. “It quite makes the difference.”

Something in the way he said it. A twitch of the lips. Shackleton froze. The thought flashed across his mind: has he known, this whole time?

Shackleton stared at the satisfied face in its white cloth wrapper. Bill could not be so cruel, surely. No. Not him. It was he himself who was a villain. He did not wish to be, but he could be. If and when one was needed. Surely not for much longer, though: when summer sledging began things would fall away, all of this would end, they would go back to how they had been. Balanced on a pin-head. Room enough to spare.

Shackleton/Scott, pre-expedition anonymous sex

[(Anonymous)]

Pre-Discovery, before they’ve been formally introduced to one another. Shackleton picks Scott up somewhere shady (mollyhouse/opium den/any other grungy edwardian locale he shouldn’t be at) and they hook up anonymously, being none the wiser.

Bonus points if you feature the fallout when they do meet before shipping off.

Re: Shackleton/Scott, pre-expedition anonymous sex

[(Anonymous)]

This is truly the trope of all time, we must continue the honorable tradition!!!

Amundsen/De Gerlache, hate sex

[(Anonymous)]

Keep thinking about ADG going into the expedition with weird prejudice against Norwegians and doubting Amundsen’s abilities. I think that Roald should find out about these comments and make Adrien come embarassingly fast as revenge. D/s undertones, naturally. Sex crying welcome.

FILL: mightier than the sword, Amundsen/de Gerlache, M, one-sided(?) hate-lust

[(Anonymous)]

Adrien lies face down in his bunk - ever his habit when composing difficult letters.

Your last missive bordered on insubordination…

He nods into his pillow, fucking urgently into his fist.

Your qualities as an Adventurer I cannot fault but as an officer and a man…!

He's always preferred to do it on his front. Not to mention, it is easier to imagine -

You wrote you might crush me beneath your boot - what was the meaning of this?

Adrien groans, kicks his legs.

How, pray tell, would you accomplish it? As your commanding -

He whimpers and finishes. With effort, he hauls himself up, wiping his hand on rumpled bedsheets. He takes up his pen.

Teddy Evans/Many

[(Anonymous)]

Trying to regain favour with the members of the expedition who think he’s useless, Teddy offers to make himself useful/necessary by giving sordid handies/blowjobs in the latrine and behind the stables.

Cherry/any(/many), A/B/O

[(Anonymous)]

Oh no, Cherry is in heat!!!!!!!!!!

That's it, that's the prompt. Please make this as unsubversive and tropey and messy as possible. Wreck that omega.

Cherry/Wilson, lord/vicar AU

[(Anonymous)]

Bilson the hot local vicar offers 'spiritual' comfort to lonely lord of the manor Cherry. Can be Edwardian setting or any other era, and feel free to include other cold boys in this universe!

Re: Cherry/Wilson, lord/vicar AU

[(Anonymous)]

GOD, Bilson riding his bicycle to visit Cherry

Wilson/various (gen?), praise

[(Anonymous)]

5 people Wilson praised and how they reacted. It can be gen or shippy, or a mix of the two.

ALTERNATIVELY, you could do 5 people Wilson praised + 1 person who praised Wilson

ALTERNATIVE 2: 5 people who praised Wilson + 1 person Wilson praised

Any rating and pairings (if any) are ok! The important bit is the praise and the reaction.

Roland Huntford, ghosts of polar explorers past

[(Anonymous)]

Haunt that bitch. Make him suffer.

Re: Roland Huntford, ghosts of polar explorers past

[(Anonymous)]

OP YOUR MIND +100000

Wilson/Ory, marriage negotiations

[(Anonymous)]

Honestly fascinated by their relationship and I'm like 99% sure it was actually an open lavender marriage.

How did they go about negotiating that? Did Bill know how bi he was, or did Ory encourage him to explore his sexuality? Did they tell each other about their affairs? Tell me all about it!