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

Shackleton/Wild, reunion

[(Anonymous)]

The spirits of Shackleton and Wild are reunited after Wild's ashes are buried next to Shackleton's grave.

Adrien de Gerlache/any, piss kink

[(Anonymous)]

We know that de Gerlache was reluctant to accept Cook's recommendations about eating penguin and standing in front of the fireplace, but what if Cook also suggested that getting pissed on might cure his severe scurvy? And what if the men volunteered to help with this important task? Would Adrien be into it? Who would participate? Would it be a team building activity? Please make this as rancid and depraved as your heart desires!

Oates/Any, rough sex

[(Anonymous)]

Titus Oates needs to get fucked hard, and one of his Terra Nova shipmates is just the man for the job! Preference for bottom Oates and dealer's choice of partners!

Raco/Cook, post-rat hunt victory sex

[(Anonymous)]

Just happy celebratory sex that will give ADG nightmares, probably

Scott/Wilson, power imbalance roleplay

[(Anonymous)]

Discovery era. Riffing off of boss/employee + transactional sex + corruption tropes. Basically both of them want to hook up but Scott keeps hesitating because he doesn't want it to seem like he's exploiting the captaincy. Wilson is a menace and decides to lean into it to tease him. To Scott's horror it makes him even hornier.

Fill: its end dances its creation in reverse, Scott/Wilson, E, cws depression, infidelity

[(Anonymous)]

I wanted this on Dreamwidth, but I'm having trouble with the formatting, so here it is on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56331844

Feel free to comment either here or there.

As well, OP, this post is the one that inspired the idea, but I'm afraid I've deviated from it quite a lot...here are the other prompts that provided some inspo:

https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?thread=224157#cmt224157
https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?thread=374685#cmt374685
https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?thread=448925#cmt448925

Cherry/Wilson, discipline

[(Anonymous)]

Cherry slips up one day (skinned a bird wrong? forgot the cocoa powder??) and Bill reprimands him a bit too harshly. He’s apologetic, but Cherry realizes that’s what he’s into. Can have period-flavored schoolmaster/pupil undertones if you want. Also you can get grimy because I do think it’s more fun when Bill is mean :)

Cherry/Wilson, E, <i>Dressing-down</i>, caning

[(Anonymous)]

"Well Cherry," says Bill, looking down at the inexpertly skinned and stuffed sea bird, "You've made a pig's ear of this one and no mistake."

"Oh!" The young man looks up at him from his seat at the wardroom table. "Gosh, I'm awfully -"

"Were you wearing your glasses when you did this one?"

Bill is irate in spite of himself. Cherry's hand on the table twitches as if he might snatch up the specs lying inches away.

"I don't need them for close work, Bill, you know I - "

"Mr Cherry-Garrard!" Bill raises his voice to a shout; it is ill-advised and intemperate but he cannot help himself. "Were you or were you not wearing your glasses when you ruined the usefulness of this specimen?"

Cherry looks down. Perhaps he thinks to hide his blushes, but the tips of his ears have reliably reddened. He takes a moment to reply.

"I wasn't," he replies in a voice scarcely more than a whisper, "I'm sorry, sir."

Cherry's contrite embarrassment brings Bill back from his fit of pique. He needn't have been so harsh on the fellow - young Apsley wants a bit of direction, is all.

"It's all right, Cherry," he sighs, "I'll sit with you the next few birds. We can catch another specimen before New Zealand I'm certain of it. I oughtn’t to have snapped at you."

Cherry looks up, wide-eyed and still flushed visibly red. He does take his glasses now, and puts them on before nodding determinedly. But there is something else.

"Are you quite well, Cherry?"

He nods. There is a dewy quality to his complexion, too healthful to be feverish.

"Ah, yes. It's only your shouting, it rather put me in mind of the masters at school - when a boy was spoiling for a caning."

Bill mulls this over for a moment. Cherry's eyes are wide and dark behind his glasses.

"Were you often in trouble, then?"

Cherry shakes his head.

"No, hardly ever," he looks back down at his hands, "but I do wonder if I wouldn’t have been better for a caning or two all the same. It might have done me the world of good."

Bill turns away from Cherry and pinches the bridge of his nose in thought.

"We'll make Port Chalmers in - what? Five days?

*

The gentle chime of birdsong drifts in through the window. Bill traces Cherry's exposed arse with the tip of the cane.

"At least those poor bellbirds won't have to suffer under your ministrations, Cherry-Garrard."

He draws back the cane, swinging it down for another satisfying thwack onto Cherry’s behind.

The birds cry, startle and are off; the lad whimpers into the desk. As ever, Cherry takes instruction wonderfully and has done his utmost to remain still and silent. His endeavour to make not even the smallest sound render those few that escape his bitten lips all the more precious.

"Cherry-Garrard," he tells him in detached tones, "you are young for your age and overreach your abilities in trying to impress the older boys."

A few quick strikes to the same spot. Bill is lucky the cane requires more skill than strength to wield.

"Do you think yourself capable of doing every job to perfection?"

"No b-but I -" Cherry stammers, before Bill interrupts him with a stinging swipe.

"Did I say you could speak?"

Silence, except for Cherry's breaths coming in little whimpers.

"Good boy."

He delivers several more strikes in quick succession, Cherry’s body trembling under them. Over the course of the blows, his stance has shifted. His legs are wider apart, the neat sack of his balls now visible and so too the lightly furred cleft between his arse-cheeks.

The sensation of the beating must have made Cherry less able to hold his position; pummelled into this wanton display. And yet Bill can't help but feel that Cherry is presenting himself to be mated, just as one sees in the animal kingdom. The thought of burying himself in hot home of the boy's body is an appealing one, but he does not let himself become lost in it: there is work yet to be done.

"You will make a fool of yourself if you do not learn your limits, Cherry-Garrard. The other fellows are burly, hardened men. You are smaller and less able than you imagine."

Cherry's body is lean but muscular, more so than one would think to look at him. In fact, if their roles were reversed, he could deliver a more ferocious beating than Bill can. He considers it for a moment, the possibility of coaxing timid Cherry into giving him a real thrashing.

It's an amusing thought, but one for another time. Cherry's need is greater just at present, and there are others he can turn to for his own needs, few that they are. Bill knows how mortification can clarify one's feelings, pleasantly dulling the mind while sharpening one's senses to a needlepoint. There is a divine quality to the sensation, and Cherry needs that focus now, will need it even more when the real hardships of their voyage descend.

Thwack.

Against instructions, Cherry lets out a little cry. One of his knees is bent, the toes pressing desperately into to the floor like the pointed foot of a ballerina.

Bill traces where Cherry's arse meets his legs with the cane. Between them he can see that Cherry's balls are reddened. He hasn't hit them - they flush in sympathy with his arse. The hang close to his body and are the fleshly pink of ripening fruit. He cannot see the man's pretty cock, but Bill sure it is hard and leaking against the desk. He wonders if Cherry knows how very enticing he is, wearing the red stripes of a punished schoolboy on his round little arse.

Bill has seen Cherry naked already, of course, working and washing and larking about aboard ship. Cherry’s form changes week by week; it strengthens, roughened and tanned by the hard work he seems to revel in. Bill's seen how the other fellows let their gazes linger on Cherry's body, safe in the knowledge that without his glasses the boy can't catch them leering.

He hits him again with the cane, harder, perhaps, than he means to.

“The other boys are going to see these marks, Cherry-Garrard,” he tells him, panting from the exertion, “if you insist on parading around in front of them again. What do you think they will make of them?”

Wind rustles through the trees at the window. They are both panting.

“You may answer.”

“They will,” Cherry’s voice is small and weak, as if coming from a great distance away, “they will know I’ve been misbehaving.”

“They will see,” says Bill, striking him again, Cherry yelping in surprise, “what a silly little boy you have been, and how all your money cannot buy good sense."

Cherry's shoulders heave in what must be a sob, but he does not ask Bill to stop. A few more good hits should do it.

"They will know that you are such a child in all things that you need to be punished like one."

He keeps the blows coming.

"It is disgraceful, at your age, to require such a thing. You have been spoiled, Cherry-Garrard, you have grown into a soft boy who still requires a bit of discipline. Thank heavens there is someone who cares about you enough to show you some real love, you crude. Little. Infant."

With that final strike, Cherry wails and shudders on the desk like a pinned butterfly - from this loss of all control Bill is sure he has climaxed. His suspicion is confirmed by a dribble of semen onto the carpet below Cherry's hips. His own arousal, present but a matter of little importance, he sets to one side.

He sets down the cane, approaching Cherry carefully. His face has been squashed against the desk, his glasses are still on but rather askew and fogged up. Bill removes them gently, wiping the tear-splotched lenses on the soft fabric of his own shirt before placing them back on the table.

“Come along now, Cherry,” he says, dropping his role as strict disciplinarian. He places an arm around the lad’s shoulders, encouraging him up from the desk and over onto his front on the bed. “Stay there,” he instructs him, “I’ll get something to clean you up, and we'll see what we can do to ease the pain."

Cherry reaches out blearily for Bill instead, clutching his waist and wriggling up to press his face into his chest. His breaths are hot and warm, the presence of his limp, blissed out body all temptation.

"I'd’ve been ever so bad if you were my schoolmaster, Bill," murmurs Cherry into his shirt front.

"Well I am, and you mustn't be," says Bill. "Now let me take care of you. I believe we've a dance to attend tonight."

Scott/any; stamina, overstimulation, marathon fucking

[(Anonymous)]

(Let’s pretend for the sake of this prompt that Scott has the ability to top anyone) Cherry notes that Scott has incredible stamina for a man of 42, and it’s clear from everyone else’s accounts that he can sledge with the best of them. So let’s see Scott put that magnificent stamina towards a different purpose!

Dealer’s choice of partners but suggestions could be Kathleen (sometimes you gotta put the strap away and get pregnant!), Cherry (get daddy’s m&ms!), or Shackleton (Discovery era Shackles thinks it’s going to be a forgettable experience but boy howdy he is wrong)

FILL: Again and again and again, Kathleen/Scott(/Wilson), stamina, goal-oriented dirty talk, E

[(Anonymous)]

OP, this started with your prompt and then went off somewhere weird, I hope you enjoy nevertheless!


He had been at it for ages. Hours, maybe, with his cock as hard as it had been at the start; so long now that she hardly felt the stretch, the brightness of sensation having dulled somewhat, and as he drove into her again and again, her mind was no longer fully present but full of diffuse, visions: cloudy, silky, shiny, ropy, wet, white, filling her, so much of it, swelling her stomach, multiplying, increasing, another son… what she wanted so very much…

Yet still, still he fucked her. Days, now, it felt like, with no signs of approaching end: his thick thighs like pistons around her hips, untrembling, and one ropy arm at the headboard, the other down at the mattress. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose and landed in her mouth. The way he looked at her was more pleasurable, at this point, than the mundane feeling of him inside: the glow of his gaze, the strength and fierce determination which had made him the pillar of her universe.

“Come on,” she encouraged him, “yes, darling, yes!” Although at her command he sped his pace, and she clenched down hard around him, there were no signs he was coming any closer to his conclusion.

It was her fault—she could admit as much. For when they had been teasing and toying with each other earlier, she had been enjoying herself, with his member half-down her throat, and him making such nice noises above, and tugging at her hair—she hadn’t heard him when he warned her. After she’d wiped her face clean and apologized, he had kissed her, tasting himself as his cock grew soft between his legs.

“Give me a minute,” he had said then. He never wanted to disappoint, not ever. True to his word he had risen fully again, and quickly—a man of his age! Marvelous, miraculous—but muscular strength in excess could not make up for the recalcitrance of his fickle plumbing.

“Con,” she whispered up to him, “do you think you can spend like this? It’s very important it happens tonight.”

“Yes, I can, of course,” he grunted, but naturally he would say that. Because it pleased her to see him exert himself like this, she let him go on for some minutes more.

Then she said, “Just a moment,” and pushed him gently off. He rolled obediently onto his back and she came to sit astride one leg, rubbing some feeling back into her numbed cunt on the skin there. Below the taut, burnished skin of his stomach rose the mainmast of his cock, and below that his bollocks, swollen with seed again but so damned reluctant to give it up.

She dipped fingers into her cunt, gathering up some of her own juices, and then took him in hand. “I wish I could take it away from you,” she said, reveling in the breadth and solidity of his organ. “To have with me always, good company while you’re gone. Just like this—better than any ivory or wood.”

He was gazing at her with watery eyes—a tender, dumb expression. So sweet: like this he would let her do anything to him. "What?" he said.

“You heard right,” she purred, tightening her grip. “I’d get it off if I could—have a nice box made for it—after all, where you’re going you’ll hardly need it. It would only be a distraction. Quite unnecessary.”

As she stroked him he tensed, drawing slightly back—so slightly she wouldn’t have noticed, had she not been so attuned to every inch of him.

She gave him an accusing look. “Will you need it? For what? With whom?”

“I—“ His mouth opened and closed, fishlike, and she barreled confidently ahead.

“No, don’t tell me. I know, of course. Imagine Bill’s surprise when he finally gets a moment with you… only to find I’ve stolen your part, kept it for my own pleasure…”

Con tried, really tried now, to pull away, but she had him, and would not let go. Blushing high up the stately dome of his forehead, he averted his gaze. “My dear, what an imagination you have…”

“Eyes, I have, too. The way I’ve seen you two look at each other! Here I was thinking you understood, that I understood. Did we not discuss your love for him just the other night?”

“Our friendship, we were speaking of—I’ve not—we have not—you must believe me—“ A bitten off groan, as Kathleen slid her hand further down his shaft and gave a few brutal pumps there.

“I do! I believe you, darling. I do, but I also believe that you must have thought about it. Haven’t you wondered? About his wife doing to him as I do now to you? What she might taste? The flavor of him?”

She dipped her face to the darkened tip of his cock and kissed it, licked it delicately; and smelled quite suddenly the velvety tang of that precious elixir—it was pooling, rising, closer now.

“Or perhaps,” she said, snaking her other hand down his thigh to feel him quiver there, “him in my place. Those long, long, fingers of his here… or here… he’d be far gentler than I. Afraid to hurt you. Or anger you.” She dug her nails in. “Well, I am not afraid.”

“He would never—! He wouldn’t.” Con threw his head back onto the pillow, shaking it vehemently, as if to clear an image swimming before his eyes.

“Yes,” sighed Kathleen, “that awful self-denying tendency of his, you’re quite right. He must know how much he’d like it, that’s why he won’t do it.” Con was breathing hard now, and the scent of semen grew stronger. She kept at it: “Poor man. He won’t ever have it in his hand even if I don’t manage to spirit it away. More’s the pity. I think it’d do him some good to fuck you.”

“Kath—please,” he rasped, and she knew that look on his face. Quickly, she clambered up to straddle him, and in one swift motion brought herself down on his cock.

For just a moment she was seated there, on her throne, observing her handiwork in the form of her husband, undone at last—and then she let out a long, pleased sigh, almost a cry, as she felt it flood her.

When she had her legs securely up against the wall to ensure safe passage, she looked over at her husband and found him laying limp where she’d left him, an arm thrown over his eyes. Deep fondness for every part of him—from the damp whorls of hair around his nipples, to the slight protrusion of his navel—unfurled in her breast. It bewildered her that anyone could come this close and yet resist breaching that last inch of distance. When at all times he was, she thought, crying out to be touched.

“It wouldn’t be unfaithfulness,” she reassured him matter-of-factly. “He had a claim on you long before I did. Or Ory for that matter—if anyone's got the power to make him loosen up a bit, it’s certainly you and not her, she’s the same way. I think it would really affect him, to see how wonderfully you can—“

She fell silent, abruptly, having noticed the gleam of a tear in his eye.

Oates/Meares, kink discovery, first time

[(Anonymous)]

Worldly and knowing Meares observes Oates's reaction to something he does (perhaps something with the dogs?) and notes that it's got the subdued fellow unusually worked up. After a period of denial on Oates's end (he thought it was a normal and perfectly non-sexual reaction!) and then some charitable enlightenment by Meares, they proceed to show each other a rollicking good time.

FILL: It's not unusual, Oates/Meares, kink discovery, first time

[(Anonymous)]

“No use denying it, old chap. I saw it with my own eyes.”

TItus frowned at him, honest confusion giving his handsome, creased face a childish cast. Did he really not understand? The man, reflected Meares, never ceased to amaze.

“Well, so what if I did?”

Meares had been dealing with the dogs; with only one bitch and that one heavily pregnant and hidden away in the stables, the ones outside had taken to scrapping in the most vulgar way.

“I know Kris is a beaut,” Meares had snapped, hauling Czigane bodily off, “but if you want to bugger him you’ll have to buy him a drink first! Dirty bastard.”

Titus had been staring at him from the doorway, knuckles of one hand at his mouth, the other quite blatantly palming at his front. Meares had only glimpsed it in flashes, as he darted about disciplining the dogs, but he had seen it, and known what it meant, and had dealt the creatures further English reprimands in that vein solely for the Soldier’s benefit.

When at last the dogs were marshaled, Meares straightened up, expecting to see Titus still looking on—but he had gone.

Back inside the stables, of course. There, in his usual attitude at the blubber stove. As if nothing at all had happened. So now Meares found himself having to explain Oates’s motivations to him, like a detective at the end of a mystery story, having caught the criminal red-handed.

His preemptive satisfaction at having stumbled upon the key to Titus’s lock was in danger of dissolving. But he was quite sure he was not mistaken.

“You heard the way I was talking to the dogs,” Meares said patiently, “and it had you hot all over, didn’t it?”

“It was rather cold outside, dearie.”

“And you couldn’t help thinking about receiving the same treatment from me. Is that so?”

Titus squinted up at him, chewing on his pipe. An answer was not forthcoming.

Meares said, lightly, “Titus, you disappoint me. I walked in here quite excited to finally have something to do with you.”

After a long pause: “Is that what you’re saying when you talk Russian?”

“Hardly. It’s very English. And it would scandalize Anton, don’t you know. Ah—but I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t heard before—don’t know why I thought I had anything to offer. My mistake. I’ll see myself out.”

“No—just a moment.”

Meares turned slowly back. “Yes?”

“You’re serious.”

“As the grave.”

“You’ve met other men who—just by talking to them?”

He caught Titus’s drift. “Why, of course. It’s a normal sort of way to get a chap going. You didn’t think you were some kind of freak of nature, did you?”

“I don’t think. As a rule. You ought to know by now.”

“Too true.”

Meares sat down and put a gentle hand on Titus's thigh. “Has that mind of yours been too overtaxed by revelation? Or could it yet stand for a bit of fun?”

Titus contemplated this. “Just talking sort of fun?”

“I’m no cocktease. I’ll go as far as you like.”

“You're very eager.”

More of that young, earnest disbelief. It occurred to Meares that Titus had no idea at all what he did to others. It was high time, Meares thought, that he found out.

Ljunberg/Landeskog, midwinter crossdressing

[(Anonymous)]

Landy deserves to know he's a pretty girl, what better way to tell him than fucking his brains out after (or during!) the festivities

FILL: Come On, Sweet Girl, Let's Find You An Ocean, E, Ljunberg/Landeskog, midwinter crossdressing

[(Anonymous)]

Hey OP, I hope you enjoy! CW for under-negotiated kink


St. Lucia Day, 1904, aboard the Linnea

“Thank you boys, good night!”

Dr. Erik Landeskog steps off the makeshift stage to a chorus of cheers and applause. He is no great singer like Hansson, but the song and dance routine he performs wearing a tattered navy blue dress they found in the bowels of the ship goes better than expected. It’s been a tough four months-- he is haunted by the loss of Östberg in October, and the Linnea is frozen into the pack now, their scientific mission on hold until they can free the ship and reach their destination. As the ship's doctor, he understands the importance of breaking up the monotony of their day to day existence with occasional holidays, good food and drink (what has Ström done to the roast anyway, it’s divine), and laughter. His angular frame bears little resemblance to the softer figures of the doxies back home, but he hopes that the sight of a body in a dress might be enough to encourage some of the men to visit the secret closet on the orlop deck and release some tension, another remedy he endorses enthusiastically.

The performance is an enjoyable experience for him as well. The dress has clearly been used in many shipboard theatricals, but the silky fabric against his skin and the feeling of air circulating between his legs makes him shiver with pleasure, a wholly unexpected sensation. He pauses to curtsy, suggestively lifting the hem of his dress above his knees, eager to prolong the moment. He winks at Ljungberg and blows him a kiss before leaving the mess hall.

Back in his bunk, Landeskog begins to remove his stockings when he feels a presence behind him, hovering at the open sick bay door.

“You.”

Landeskog’s face lights up when he turns and sees Ljungberg. “Oh it’s you, come in! Are you well?”

“No, I am not at all well,” Ljungberg hisses.

“Is it the coughing again? Was there more blood? I can give you more--”

“No,” Ljungberg interjects, “the problem is you”

Landeskog’s eyes go wide. “Have I done something to upset you? Did you… did you not like the performance?”

“I loved the performance,” Ljungberg says, “and that’s the problem. A beautiful girl like you dancing, putting your body on display for every man on this ship, parading around like a whore when you belong to me?”

Ljungberg looks directly at Landeskog knowingly, his eyes sparkling. Oh. It was going to be one of those evenings.

Landeskog’s entire demeanor changes instantly. He blushes and looks up at Ljungberg through his long, dark eyelashes.

“I’m so sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

“Maybe, but I’ll need you to prove that you can be a good girl. Now take off that dress.”

Landeskog stands up, pulls the dress all the way up over his shoulders, and tosses it in his bunk

“Stockings too.”

He removes his heavy wool stockings and stands naked in front of Ljungberg, shivering with anticipation.

“Beautiful. I’m a lucky man to have such a pretty girl to warm my bed, even if she is a faithless whore. Now get yourself ready for me.”

Landeskog breathes deeply and retreats to his bunk, stopping to slick his shaking fingers with lamp oil. He lays down and carefully slips one finger into himself, the short burst of pain giving way to a delicious stretch. He quests deeper and deeper until he finds the spot that brings his cock to life and makes him moan so sweetly. Ljungberg watches, heart pounding, palming his cock through his trousers.

“You have the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen, no wonder the men can’t get enough of you."

Landeskog moans again, his cock so hard he is afraid it will burst.

"Be a good girl and roll over.”

Landeskog removes his finger and rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. He feels Ljungberg’s hot breath on his arse as he plants a kiss on his gaping hole, then inserts two thick oil-slicked fingers inside him.

“Ljun-- Jakob… God!”

“Are you ready for me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” Landeskog moaned. “Fuck me, fill me up, please don’t stop!”

“Anything for my sweet girl”

Ljungberg enters him carefully, then begins to fuck him in earnest. He finds his rhythm quickly, grabbing a handful of Landeskog’s overly long dark hair with one hand and lightly smacking his arse with the other. Landeskog is so overwhelmed with sensations that he feels like he is outside his body, experiencing someone else's pleasure. Ljungberg is merciless, fucking him harder and deeper than ever before.

"You're so tight," Ljungberg groans, "like a virgin."

Ljungberg comes first, deep inside Landeskog as he bucks and writhes beneath him. Landeskog finishes a moment later, coating the blue dress beneath him in the bunk with his spend.

They lay there together for a moment, breathless, sticky limbs entwined, until Ljungberg pulls out and rolls Landeskog back over.

“Erik,” he says matter of factly, “you’ve ruined the dress.”

They both burst out laughing, and Landeskog pulls Ljungberg down for a sweet kiss.

“Maybe Hansson can fix it, I believe he’s discreet.”

“I haven’t even seen Hansson for days!”

“He’s out there right now leading the men in song!”

“Not THAT Hansson, the other one, the one that helps with laundry!”

“Oh,” Landeskog says, eyeing the ruined dress. “This might be beyond his skills anyway.”

Ljungberg grabs his hand and kisses him again. “We can burn it now for all I care. Happy Midwinter, Erik.”

“Happy Midwinter, Jakob”

Lindstrøm/Bjaaland, sickfic, h/c

[(Anonymous)]

Those damned Englishmen brought cooties when they visited and now everyone's sick as a dog. Bjaaland's got it worse of anyone and, with no doctor on board, Lindstrøm takes the matter into his own hands to nurse his friend back to health.

svetmann/bjornsøn, tent sex

[(Anonymous)]

let them keep each other warm in that shared sleeping bag during the outing ;)

Danco/De Gerlache, size kink, humiliation

[(Anonymous)]

mon dieu...who could it be....

danco/adg where danco assumes all dicks are danco size dicks and is shocked, shocked i tell you, to discover that adg's is not, and hastens to reassure his commandant that it's all right, it doesn't lessen his respect for him at all, and the resulting humiliation etc etc

Fill: l'anchois et l'angouille, Danco/de Gerlache, E

[(Anonymous)]

“Oh!” Danco says brightly. “How precious!” He reaches out to give Adrien a quick squeeze and then kisses his cheek, giggling softly at the fresh heat there. “So cute, mon commandant! Like a sweet little mushroom!”

Adrien makes a weak noise and closes his eyes again, hiding his face in Danco’s shoulder when he goes for another kiss. “Must you say that?”

“Say what?”

“Little,” Adrien mumbles. “I’m—I’m well aware that it’s—”

“Oh! No, no, I quite like it,” Danco says quickly. “It’s lovely, my dear. I’m sure it would fit just perfectly in my mouth—and, look, look how neatly it lies against my fingers—”

“Émile—”

“See? I could stroke you off with only my pinkie!”

“Please—just—”

“It’s so much smaller than mine,” Danco continues, still tracing his fingers up and down his friend’s lovely little prick. He shifts his hips for show—his cock is indeed much larger, both longer and wider than the charming little thing between his beloved commander’s legs. When fully hard, as it is now, it reminds him (most endearingly) of a cannon standing guard between its turrets, or perhaps a very thick flagpole between two fuzzy hills. It only takes a short turn to smack the weight of it against Adrien’s skinny thighs. “See? I would have assumed you would be larger, mon Commandant. You’re just so wonderfully masculine!”

Adrien groans, but the noise is softer—needier—and his legs twitch against Danco’s own, stiffening and twisting under the absentminded petting. He’s terribly hard now. But he keeps his face hidden, pressing himself into Danco’s shirt, and that just won’t do, not at all. Danco kisses the top of his head. “Just look! The whole thing could just disappear, right into my hand!”

“Mmph.” He shakes his head, but his cock jumps a bit. Danco presses his hand down harder—and then harder again, grinning into Adrien’s hair as his friend whines against his neck. “Émile, let’s… we should… ohhh…”

“It’s hardly any bigger than my bollocks,” Danco says thoughtfully. He drags his palm up a bit, reveling in the way Adrien’s darling little cock throbs and jerks under his hand. “Like a little anchovy!”

“Oh, God. Oh God.”

“It’s just darling, my love. Is it very easy for you to come off, then? It’s so short,” Danco muses, “I’d imagine, with such a quick little journey along the sweet little shaft, your precious little sperms must be racing down—and if you were trying to put it inside me, well, would I even have the opportunity to feel it, or would you shoot right off like a rocket?”

“Émile, please don’t—mmph—tease—”

He gives him a quick squeeze and Adrien moans, bucking up from the bed as if he’s been shocked. His head hits the pillow. And now—victory!!—Danco may kiss him again, properly, hot and full on the mouth with all the passion cooped up inside him. He grabs Adrien’s face with both hands and kisses him hard, eagerly smothering his desperate moans beneath his tongue. Adrien jerks up against him—claws at his shirt, whines through his nose—twists, grunts, shakes—and then, with Danco’s tongue diving for his throat, Adrien shudders and stiffens and spills right between them, hips jumping into nothing as Danco strokes through his hair. He makes a soft, shocked noise and goes limp. Danco slowly pulls back.

“Hmm?”

“Please don’t laugh,” Adrien says weakly. “Oh, God, I’m just—I’m so sorry—didn’t mean to—”

“Well! That answers that,” Danco says fondly, kissing the words into Adrien’s cheeks as his friend trembles. “How darling you are, my dearest commander!”

“Nngh.”

“Mine will most likely take a bit longer,” Danco tells him. He gives himself a showy stroke and then bats his cock against Adrien’s thighs again, giggling meanly when Adrien whimpers. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Wilson/any, voyeurism/exhibitionism

[(Anonymous)]

Pious Bilson has a special sketchbook for portraits. Sometimes one of the lads will pose for him in his cabin, french girl style. Some enjoy it... a lot.

Sweet boy Cherry has been kept out of the loop but he finds the sketchbook one day while looking for something else. The portraits go as far back as Discovery and some are explicit. How does he react?

FILL: Hung and Drawn, Wilson/Cherry, E

[(Anonymous)]

“Look at the tendons here– how strong the wing joints are! I really must make a note of that.”

Doctor Wilson was up to his elbows in albatross, so he asked Cherry, never far from his side, to run down to his cabin and fetch his notebook while he washed up. There was a neat line of black-bound sketchbooks on the doctor’s desk, so Cherry grabbed the nearest, supposing it to be the one currently in use. He was halfway out the door again when it occurred to him to grab a pencil as well, and when he returned to the desk he saw the corner of another sketchbook protruding from under some papers.

That must be the one Bill wanted, Cherry thought, and pulled it closer.

To his great surprise, he found that it was not open to a drawing of a bird, or a sunset, or a shipboard scene, as he expected. He was not shocked to recognise the likeness of one of his crewmates on the Terra Nova, even Tom Crean, one of the lower-deck men. No, the surprising fact was that the drawing captured Crean in the act of undressing: the muscles of his naked back were rendered in perfect detail, even the tension in his arms as he grasped his trousers low about his hips. His braces were loose around his knees and the dimpled top of a muscular pair of buttocks was visible above the waist of his trousers. His head was turned, looking over his shoulder in a cheeky grin.

Cherry jumped backwards as though he had caught the man himself in a state of undress, so vivid was the likeness. A moment later, overcome by curiosity, he crept forward again, clutching the other sketchbook in front of his chest like a shield. He had the strongest sense that he had stumbled upon something private, which he was not meant to see, but he could not quite have said what the difference was between this image, and the nightly nudity and hijinks of the officer’s mess. It was the deliberateness, perhaps, of both Crean’s pose, and the fact that Bill would have had to sit and observe him thus.

Cherry didn’t know whether he was blushing at such a suggestive image of one of his crewmates, or at the fact that it was Bill who had drawn him. Good, patient Bill, who had a kind word for everyone but who Cherry had flattered himself might be particularly attached to him. Cherry had quietly thrilled like a lovestruck schoolboy when their hands brushed over a dead bird, or when Bill’s voice was close against his ear in the dark nights up on the deckhouse. And all this time Bill had been drawing sailors undressing for him! Compelled by the need to know what more there could be, Cherry turned back to the previous page.

Deb’s face met him, a secretive smile on his lips above a bare neck and collarbones. On the next page, Oates, looking deadly serious in nothing but a pair of riding boots. A crop rested across one bare knee. Cherry hurriedly moved on, flipping to the front of the book. He landed on a close-up of a hand grasping a hard member, the thumb reaching up to caress the head of it. Cherry shifted awkwardly, his own prick tingling in sympathy. But surely that was– he leaned in closer in spite of himself–could that be the Owner’s signet ring on that hand? Embarrassed at the thought that he might be looking at his expedition leader’s erection, Cherry hurriedly turned the page again.

There was a man he didn’t recognise, staring out from the page with legs spread, elbows on his knees. There was the shadow of arousal between his legs, but Cherry was most arrested by the almost pugnacious look of his square-jawed face, the direct gaze of his dark eyes. This was certainly a man to be reckoned with. There was scrawled in the corner, in writing not Bill’s, “Too racy for the SPT? All my love, EHS.” Intrigued, Cherry turned another page, to find the lower half of a face, cradled by a pair of large hands. One thumb pressed obscenely past the lower lip. There wasn’t enough of the face visible to identify, but Cherry thought the chin looked like Scott’s. His mind whirled.

Just then, the sound of steps in the companionway startled him. He slammed the book shut, but he wasn’t fast enough for Bill’s long stride, and the doctor ducked through the cabin door a moment later.

“I wondered where you had got to,” he said with a smile, which shifted to an assessing look as he took in the sketchbook still clutched to Cherry’s chest, the closed one on the desk, and Cherry’s flaming cheeks and tented trousers. “Ah.”

Bill closed the door behind him. Cherry opened his mouth to issue a stream of apologies and explanations, but Bill shushed him, moving forward to take the book from him and check both it and its companion, nodding with suspicion confirmed.

“I see you’ve found my private sketchbook. It’s a bit of an Antarctic tradition, you know. As it’s your first expedition I wasn’t quite sure what you would make of it.”

To Cherry’s chagrin, the first words out of his mouth were a petulant,

“It’s Titus’s first expedition and he’s in it!”

Bill chuckled indulgently.

“Well, he was in the army, and it’s not too different there.” Bill stepped closer, taking Cherry’s face in his hand, and Cherry found his lips unconsciously parting like the picture he had seen. “I’m sorry you had a bit of a shock, dear boy. Not an unpleasant one, I hope?” Cherry shook his head vehemently, and Bill ducked in to kiss his mouth so quickly he could barely react. “Would you like me to draw you too?” he asked with a warm smile.

“Oh, would you?” Cherry said. It was the highest honour he could imagine to have Bill’s focus solely on him, capturing him as he saw him with deft strokes of his pencil.

“Of course,” Bill said, moving easily to the desk and finding the next blank page in the appropriate book.

“How—how would you like me to pose?” Cherry asked, his mind’s eye suddenly full of possibilities. Bill looked him over in a way that made him blush.

“Would you take your shirt off? Good lad,” Bill added as Cherry scrambled to comply. “No, leave your glasses on.”

Cherry shed his upper garments quickly, then stood uncertainly facing the bunk. Bill’s mouth quirked into a smile.

“I think…” he murmured, and then he was arranging Cherry with quick burning touches, bending him over the bunk, half facing the desk. Bill sat facing him and crossed his long legs, pulling the sketchbook into his lap. “Perfect,” he said, “are you comfortable? Good. Now look up at me through your lashes like when Ponko asks for a photograph.” Bill laughed gently at Cherry’s confusion. “Don’t worry about your face, I’ve got to start with the overall outline first. Just do what feels natural and I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

Cherry was pleased to be able to watch as Bill settled in to work, watching the confident sweeps of his pencil across the page, preening under his focused attention and occasional praise. It was relaxing to be told exactly what to do, where to put his body. At the same time he was aware of his prone position, the provocativeness of his pose. He couldn’t stop thinking of the images he had seen, and the certainty that Bill had arranged them just he had confidently placed Cherry, with deft touches and focused gaze. Cherry was achingly hard and without thinking he reached down to alleviate the pressure.

“You want to touch yourself for me?” Bill’s voice was gentle, coaxing. “That’s perfect. Lovely boy.”

Cherry found himself fumbling with his trouser buttons, somewhere between embarrassment and being too far gone to care. He let out a moan of relief as his hand closed around his prick, rutting into his own hand.

“Yes, just like that,” Bill was saying, the soft scratch of the pencil accompanying his words. “Are you thinking about all the pictures you saw? Not everyone gets to see them all. I know I can rely on your discretion.” Cherry nodded, hand flying faster. Bill went on, “You look so good like that. Imagine I’m behind you, your thighs tight around my prick. So tight, Cherry darling, so perfect. Don’t come yet, I’ve almost got you–”

Cherry whimpered, gripping desperately at the base of his cock to delay his spending. He didn’t think he had ever been so aroused in his entire life. He looked up at Bill, unexpectedly in focus. He had forgotten he still had his glasses on. Bill’s mouth was pursed, his hand moving quickly over the page. Bill looked up and their eyes met. Cherry cried out, spasming helplessly as his crisis overcame him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped as he returned to himself. “I couldn’t hold out any longer.”

Bill set the sketchbook down and gently helped him to clean up.

“That’s all right, dear boy,” he said, “but I may need you to sit for me again. And maybe ask Mr. Bowers if he would like to join you?”

Scott/Wilson - 5 times Scott and Wilson died together, + 1 time they lived together

[(Anonymous)]

because what if they survived the return journey just to die in the war together. And so on and so forth. :)))

FILL: We Both Go Down Together, Scott/Wilson, 5+1 fic, death, really sad Gen [1/2]

[(Anonymous)]

Sometimes, fate—or Providence, or whatever you wish to call her—finds a plaything.

Is this how it happens?



*******



30 December 1902, the southwest edge of the Great Ice Barrier

They set off on ski in a soup of fog. Shackleton stays behind, with tent and dogs. He watches as his companions morph first into silhouettes, then faded shadows of lightest grey, and finally, finally as they melt into white. They’ve been whispering, lately, the other two. Always after Wilson inspects everyone’s gums. Shackleton is not a fool. He is feeling better, and he wants to be out there.

A dog barks. Shackleton is surprised it’s found the energy. Attempting to allay his own restlessness, he picks up the Darwin and reads.

A mile south, Wilson’s left eye is still blurry from his latest attack of snow blindness. Given the fog, he only notices this when he looks at Scott, skiing next to and slightly ahead of him, swishing along with an enviable vengeance given the lack of anything life-giving in either of their bellies.

There is a strait ahead of them. Or an inlet? It is impossible to tell, and that is maddening. A glimpse of bare rock would let them fill in the map. Is this the end of the Barrier? Is this where it finally meets those mountains Scott described aloud in vivid detail during Wilson’s snow blindness, his voice rising as high as the loftiest peaks?

Scott calls a spell-oh, and Wilson thinks it must be for his sake. He smiles sweetly, asks “How much longer do you want to travel…Con?” It’s the first time he’s used that name; he’s been nervous to try it, and he monitors the Captain’s reaction closely.

Scott only grins, as if the familiar name from Wilson’s lips is as natural as anything. “A little further, Bill, if you’re feeling equal to it.”

Palpable relief washes over the doctor. “I am. We’ve not shot our bolt just yet.”

“Not yet, but nearly.” Scott, deaf to Wilson’s double meaning, peers into the nothingness as if sheer force of will can make the heavens draw back its curtain. “If only this blasted fog would clear!”

They do not fear getting lost, for their ski tracks will lead back to camp. But, thinking of the huge cracks of pressure radiating out from the cape they passed yesterday, the two men tie themselves together, a long stretch of alpine rope hanging in between.

An hour later, cold gnaws at his fingertips and hunger pangs in his core. But Wilson does not complain. There is little sound, just the Barrier Hush, and Scott, who is counting his steps again. The Captain thinks he does it under his breath. Wilson’s own mind wanders back to the time he foolishly refused a second helping at his sister’s birthday, then to the rack of lamb at the farewell dinner in London, then cool milk at the Crippetts, then Oriana cupping a juicy strawberry in her hands, dark red on white, dark red on white, stark shape in a sea of—

“Land ho!” Scott cries, and it is loud and ridiculous and Wilson joins in, not making words but only a strangled noise. Surely, surely anyone would forgive the two of them such deranged joy because above and before them in the clearing mist, a huge dark rock juts out of the ice. No—more precisely, it juts out of a glacier.

Coming up alongside his Captain, Wilson fumbles for his sketchpad. “That’s-”

“A nunatak!”

“A nunatak, which means this isn’t an inlet-

“It’s not the sea at all-”

“-it’s a glacier.” He scratches at the paper, almost snapping the graphite off the pencil in the frantic excitement of their breathless exchange.

Scott looks down on the scene forming on Wilson’s page, his coat brushing Wilson’s arm. “A glacier. Coming down from the same range of mountains we’ve been seeing all along…”

“…so they can’t be islands.

“They can’t be. They’re all connected.”

“Which means this is…” Wilson allows Scott to finish the sentence.

“A continent!”

The snow bridge collapses beneath them.

When Scott and Wilson don’t return, Shackleton, alarmed, takes the dogs and follows their tracks to the place where they disappear.

Months pass. Day turns to night turns to dawn as summer turns to winter turns to spring. Hundreds of miles north, officers from the Discovery find and unearth a lone tent, digging it up from the drifting snow. Inside, they find three diaries, and one body, frozen stiff.



*******

Is this how it happens?

*******



29 March 1912, 11 miles south of One Ton Depot

Wilson’s eyes are blue.

Scott cannot move. He lies curled in his bag, on his side, diary tucked under one arm against his chest. Birdie snores behind him, he can hear it over the howling wind, and in front of him Wilson’s eyes are open and Wilson’s eyes are blue. Any second now Scott will prop himself up, force his mouth to move, and speak. And Wilson will turn to him, and laugh, and tell him to buck up, old sport, we’re not played out yet!

Wilson’s eyes are blue.

He used to think how much he wanted to be like Wilson. Now he thinks how much he wants the boy to be like Wilson. Becoming a father changes one. He’ll never get the chance to really be a father, now, but he can still have hopes for his boy, can’t he?

When the last depot’s fuel can turned up short, again, Wilson had squeezed his shoulder and pointed up, where parhelia glittered round the fickle sun. His sob choked in his chest and died and instead he breathed out a question about the light, amazing even then, which Wilson answered.

Yesterday, Wilson massaged his blackened foot and he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

He tamps down a shiver. He cannot move. If he moves, the moment will stop. If he moves, he will realise how long it’s been since Wilson has blinked.

Wilson’s unblinking eyes are blue.

But Scott still must breathe, and he breathes out, and that’s when he hears it—between Birdie’s snores, despite the wind, he hears it—that murmur, that crackle almost beyond the reach of human hearing. That softest crepitation, that gentlest strangest sound that Wilson first pointed out to him all those years ago on the deck of the icebound Discovery. How is it possible he can hear such quiet? Isn’t there a blizzard outside?

The other officers didn’t believe it was real either, back on Discovery.

And he can bear this no longer. Slowly, heart working like the devil, he reaches his arm out—has it always been so heavy?—tearing through rotten reindeer flesh and fur—he pushes the lids down over those damnably blue eyes. Before they freeze.

He ought to rest as peaceful as Scott never could.

Scott’s arm slumps onto Wilson’s still-warm chest. He hasn’t the strength to return it, nor does he want to—it is home.



*******

Is this how it happens?

*******



27 May 1915, HMS Majestic, stationed off Cape Helles, Gallipoli

The soldiers are unimpressed, and Scott can hardly blame them. The flickering films of his exploits, far from being the morale-booster the Admiralty seems to think they are, ring hollow to this generation. A crevasse is as nothing to a mine; a killer whale is a friendly face next to a machine gun. They are simply nature acting as nature, and they hold no malice the way that man can. He knew this even back then, and these prematurely aged youths know it all too well now.

And, the black-dog mood inside him says, there is the fact he lost to a foreigner. The very thing that, no matter what, these lads must be sure not to do.

All told, Scott feels a useless, bloodless, atrophied appendage of the great and terrible Naval machine that night when Wilson shows up on the HMS Majestic. After some choice words to some choice admirals—thankfully closed-doors, for none would reflect well on him—Scott is, blessedly, finally on his way off the lecture circuit for command in the Grand Fleet. But he has made one last exception to visit Majestic. His old ship is supporting the troops at Helles, and Admiral Nicholson wants a famous old Majestic like him to inspire today’s young Majestics. Despite her refits and new mine-catching gear, beneath it all the ship looks the same as she always did—though whether her junior officers were so terribly baby-faced back in his day, Scott cannot say. He’s mucking his speech up as usual when a familiar figure appears at the back of the crowd. The way his heart leaps eagerly at the sight of Wilson’s long-legged slouch does nothing to improve his oratory prowess.

His old friend finds him after the painful smattering of polite applause dies out. “Evening, Commodore.”

“It’s Rear Admiral, actually. You can thank the war for that. Though why they call me an admiral when I’m doing less good here than a cadet, I can’t understand.” Scott snaps, mostly at himself. He immediately regrets it. I missed you, my dear chap. That’s what he meant.

Instead of words, Wilson takes Scott’s hand between his and gives it a firm shake, pouring what he can of himself into his old Captain. His gaze has the same steadying effect it always did, but in every other way it has changed. Scott catches his breath, forcing himself to meet that gaze. It is haunted, just like all the boys from the front: harder, sharper, hungrier somehow than it ever was while starving and sledging. Wilson has seen things no human should behold—not pristine plateaus of ice or revelations from le bon Dieu but boys crying for their mums in pits of mud, cradling severed limbs…probably. Scott has only heard the stories thus far.

He looks down, ashamed. For all that lies in Wilson’s gaze, what really arrests Scott is the state of his fingers. Beneath each nail is a half-circle of encrusted blood. He hasn’t cleaned them. He always cleaned them.

“I’m sorry, Bill.” He means it for so many things, but cannot make the words come, and so falls back on the old mainstay: attempts at humour. They are both entirely too good at being funny when the world around them is inconceivable. “I never thought I’d see you in a uniform.”

Last Scott had heard, Wilson was working at a military hospital in Cambridgeshire. Like his hands, Wilson’s uniform could use a wash. He looks down at it, sweeps out his arms in a broad gesture. The tip of his lip flicks up in a grin. “Ory says it suits me, though she jokes I ought to drink Maltine to fill it out.”

“You’re trimmer than in gabardine windproofs, to be sure.” Scott simply stares at the man in wonder. “However did you find me, old chap?”

And they talk, long into the night. Nicholson has lent Scott a cabin—a good deal roomier than his old accommodation as torpedo lieutenant—and Scott has a hearty dinner brought to it for Wilson. The latter is stationed ashore as a medic with the infantry, where he heard that he could find Scott on Majestic. Colour returns to his cheeks as he eats, yet there is a bitterness in his voice Scott has not heard since he was younger and less controlled. Scott does not need to ask why Wilson chose to serve. Of course there is no way he could sit idly. But if Wilson is angry with himself for having survived the Helles landing when so many in the Fusiliers did not, Scott is so grateful to Providence that he feels in that moment their respective trusts in God have flipped. He makes his appreciation known.

After his bath, Wilson wears Scott’s spare whites, his former immaculate appearance restored while Scott washes the dirty army uniform in the used bathwater. His back twinges a little in the effort of kneeling over the tub.

Night closes in, with muffled gunfire echoing in the distance. In the cosy nest of the cabin, they are as two old shipmates over a pint in a pub, discussing where all their old comrades have gone off to. A flurry of letters flit through the gun-smoke of Europe and the world, keeping the Antarctics in touch. They compare notes. Oates, now a Major, landed in France with his dragoons. Bowers went out at Heligoland Bight by all accounts in a blaze of glory, taking SMS Mainz with him. Pennell is newly married. Cherry is in Flanders. They do not speak of guilt. They speak little of death and dying.

And it is nice, to spend the night together. It is. Curled round each other in the too-small bunk, both find themselves filled with an odd yearning for a tent together on the Barrier. They sleep the best sleep they’ve slept in a long time.

Dawn brings with it a single torpedo, a lucky strike through the tangle of destroyers and defensive nets. When the bulkhead capsizes and the water rushes over them, they do not even have time to wake.



*******

Is this how it happens?

*******



31 May 1916, HMS Indefatigable, North Sea

15:48. Unmistakeable booms in the distance inform Wilson that the Germans have opened fire. A shudder through the hull tells him their aim is true. His surgery is in order—stretchers, tourniquets, bone saws, antiseptic dressings. He is ready for the first screams.

15:55. “Hold still,” he urges the wheezing young man. Blood gurgles with every wrenching twist and spasm from round the piece of metal jutting out of his throat. He’s beyond reason. Wilson is reminded of Scott’s description of Punch foundering in the killer-teeming icy water, of the first penguin Cherry tried to sacrifice to science, before he learned the painless pithing technique. There is no way this man will live. But he is not an animal, and Wilson sings lowly, hands never halting their futile work for an instant, sings so that singing has a chance at being the last thing this lad remembers. Wilson has seen many men die, but he has never shot anyone. He would sooner shoot himself than someone else—but equally he would sooner shoot himself than sit at home selfishly refusing to fight. Frankly, “conscientious objection” is the most immoral “moral” stance he has ever heard of. His brother Jim urged him to become a chaplain like himself, provide comfort without pain, but no, somehow that, too, rings selfish. It’s too tidy, too above-it-all. He cannot allow himself to be that way. But this, this is prayer, to him. He prays.

15:57. The young man has stopped moving. His heart still thuds, only just, each effort only pumping out more blood to places where blood shouldn’t go, only adding its sickly tang to the smoky pungent aroma of the surgery. There’s a call for a medic on deck, and Wilson takes a mobile kit from the surgeon who called him “a bit long in the tooth to join up so early” when he first came aboard. He rushes up the ladder as he feels the battlecruiser turn to starboard.

16:00. The deck is a chaos. Wilson has staunched what bloodflow he can aft and runs forward where, given the sounds, he must be needed. Amidships, he passes the commander of the Indefatigable—the reason he is on board. Wilson couldn’t stand the hospital, and it was Scott who got him out of there and properly joined up. Here he’s felt more of use, but even yet, the months of uneventful patrols take their toll on his need to be doing. Perhaps he will go to the trenches next. Yes. He will. He has not mentioned this idea to Scott. The two brush by each other in an instant. Weaving past a turret, they fail to correct their courses entirely and their arms bump each other, hard, though not clumsily enough for either to trip. Scott has come down from the bridge, running in the opposite direction, astern to where the rear turret just took a shelling. “Flood the magazine!” he is yelling, the first word directly in Wilson’s ear as they pass, but the doctor’s senses are long since deadened to loud noises and he doesn’t startle in the least. In the heat of the moment, neither looks back. They run apart. There is a crack! Wilson looks over the gunwale, sees Queen Mary in the distance. Pennell’s on board. He wrote such nice letters to Ory, when Wilson had to stay south an extra winter and she was left in the dark. Ory. He hasn’t told her he wants to go to France, either.

16:03. The forecastle is hit. Almost instantaneously, the armament explodes, and death is inevitable in the wall of fire. This time, they are merely two among one thousand.

Cookmundsen, Amundsen lives

[(Anonymous)]

Amundsen faked his own death! Old man reunion!

Scott/ Wilson - reincarnation and falling in love in each generation

[(Anonymous)]

Bonus points for The Nose Lives

Bilson in shorts

[(Anonymous)]

That’s all

Scott/Wilson, rimming

[(Anonymous)]

In celebration of the discovery of that Caked Up Bilson pic. Con and Bill have a whole week to themselves at Cape Royds during the last stretch of the Discovery expedition. What better way to spend the time than getting sexually adventurous in a tent? I'm handwaving the fact that I don't think either of these men knew what rimming was (perhaps Kathleen has a hand in all of this indirectly?).

FILL: your name is oil poured out, Scott/Wilson, rimming and body/chest worship

[(Anonymous)]

I hope it's OK that I made Bill the rimmer and also added some chest/body worship, the soup of the day!

The silence is deafening, vast stretches of eerie nothingness punctuated only by the occasional cries of skuas. Bill wants to break it, wants to hear Con break it moaning his name. They have almost a week here together, alone, and Bill means to take full advantage of it.

They bathe together in the sea. The water is frigid and they wash themselves quickly but thoroughly, rubbing themselves raw with harsh soap and ragged washcloths. After, Con touches Bill ever so hesitantly, gently running his hand down the side of his face then moving on to his pale, thin chest. He's as inexperienced with men as he is with women, that much is clear. They've spoken at length about Con's anxieties on the Discovery, his fear that he isn't masculine enough or handsome enough or experienced enough. Bill wants to teach him, wants to introduce this perfect man to all the secret places on the body that are designed for pleasure. He leans forward and plants a breathy kiss behind his ear, then gently bites his earlobe. Con exhales sharply, his entire body trembling. His hand is still on Bill's chest, and Bill places his own hand over it and pushes it down until Con's fingers touch the tip of his thickening cock. "Come back to the tent," he whispers in his ear. "There's so much I want to show you."

Inside, Con is spread out before him like a banquet. Bill promised himself he would take his time, make it last, make it good, but he's finding it harder and harder to keep that promise. Con is still damp from their bath, and Bill straddles him and runs his fingers through his wet, fine hair. He kisses his forehead, the top of his nose, his soft chin. "Beautiful," he whispers, awestruck. They kiss feverishly, breathing the same air into each other's lungs. Bill tugs on Con's hair, an act which elicits an eager moan, and he feels Con's cock stiffen beneath him. Bill smiles to himself, delighted at this new discovery.

Bill's body is hard and angular, but Con's is softer, more yielding, and he loves the feel of it under his fingers. Bill drags his hands down Con's chest, stopping at his pert nipples, and pinches them between his fingertips. Con inhales sharply, his blue-violet eyes wide with desire.

"Is this all right?" Bill asks. He knows the answer, but he asks anyway.

"Yes," Con moans breathlessly. "Please Bill, more…"

Bill leans down and takes one pink nipple between his teeth, applying gentle pressure at first, then biting down more forcefully. He follows with soft licks and light sucking, alternating between pleasure and pain. He teases Con's raw, sensitive nipple, circling it and licking it with the flat of his tongue before putting his lips on it and sucking hard. Con writhes beneath him, moaning Bill's name and begging for release.

He gives the other nipple the same treatment, using his free hand to grope the soft flesh of Con's chest. He has a body built for pleasure, lithe and strong but oh so sensitive, and Bill is the first to have him like this. It is, Bill thinks, one of the most wonderful gifts he has ever received.

He pulls away from Con's nipples and moves lower, running his fingers through his soft, sparse chest hair on the way down. When he reaches his destination, he lays his head on Con's hip and inhales the soft, musky aroma that is unique to him. Con is practically vibrating, panting with exertion, his cock leaking clear fluid from the tip. He's close, but there are things Bill wants to do before he lets him come.

"I want to try something," Bill says, breathing his hot breath on Con's cock. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," he moans, "Anything. You can do anything."

"Let my beloved come to his garden," Bill whispers to himself, "and eat its choicest fruits."

Bill moves lower still, sliding off Con and throwing his legs over his shoulders. He licks a hot, wet stripe across his entrance, and Con cries out, half pleasure and half horror.

"Bill, you can't!"

Bill licks him again, long and slow, then places his puckered lips on Con's hole and kisses him there as well.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, again knowing the answer before Con opens his mouth to speak.

"Please no," Con moans, "never stop..."

Bill teases his hole for what feels like hours, licking around his furled entrance and then across it with the flat of his tongue before inserting the tip. Con is incoherent, alternately shouting Bill's name and babbling nonsense as tears stream down his cheeks. He is absolutely radiant like this, and Bill is in ecstasy simply watching Con come undone beneath him. He files this memory away, what he hopes will be the first of many perfect moments of joy during their time together in this tent.

When he is stretched out and loose, Bill pushes his tongue into Con as far as it will go and begins to fuck him with it, then finally reaches up and grabs his cock. Con comes with a shout, finishing on himself and then collapsing, wrung out and boneless. Bill takes himself in hand and finishes in the same spot, his spend commingling with Con's on his reddened chest that is already beginning to bruise.

Bill returns to his senses first, grabbing a washcloth from their bath and using it to wipe Con's tear-streaked face, then his chest. He lies down beside Con and pulls a series of blankets over them, then curls up next to him and throws his arm protectively over his torso. Wordlessly, Con places his hand over Bill's and they drift off to sleep. They will stay like this all night and, if Bill has his way, forever.

Cherry/Lillie, T4T

[(Anonymous)]

Any variation or setting thereof welcome but if you give me enby Cherry I will lose my entire mind

FILL: repopulate the hive, M, Cherry/Lillie, T4T weird roleplay

[(Anonymous)]

“I'm not sure if this is a good idea,” says Cherry.

He tugs the fabric of his tunic down over the telltale jut of the rubber prick. His nerves are only partly a performance - he feels a little foolish pretending to be someone he is not.

“It's the only way,” insists Lillie, gorgeous in borrowed jewellery and nothing else. It had been such fun looting Lamer for each and every necklace, bracelet and watch-chain. Even more fun was adorning Lillie's naked body with the resulting horde.

“I made a vow,” Cherry continues, fiddling now with one of the brooches supporting his makeshift chiton, “of chastity. To the goddess Athena.”

“Artemis.”

“Artemis, sorry.”

“It's the only way,” says Lillie, reaching for Cherry's hips and pulling him closer, “a maiden sworn to the goddess of the hunt must join herself with a priest of Cybele for the fields to be fertile again!”

“The fields, of course,” says Cherry. He isn't sure what to do with his arms all of a sudden. He wants to adjust the harness the phallus sits in, but there is nothing to correct, Lillie has put it on him perfectly.

Luckily, Lillie knows just what Cherry should do, and seizes his arms to pull him closer.

“You have to fulfil the prophecy,” Lillie tells him earnestly, holding Cherry's face in hands covered in rings, “it's the only way.”

Lillie's legs open wide, hooking around Cherry's hips. Cherry knows how this part goes at least. He lines his body up to Lillie's and pushes just the head of his prick inside. Lillie cries out.

“It's all right,” says Cherry, gently, “relax and let me in. Think of how fertile the farmlands will be once we're done.”

Lillie nods bravely, and Cherry pushes his phallus all the way inside. He shifts a little, finding a position where its base will give him the most pleasure. Lillie waits, stroking his back soothingly. The bracelets jangle against his skin.

“Very well,” says Lillie, “we must do what the Gods bid us.”

“For the prophecy.”

“Plough into me then, like the rough men of the fields.”

Cherry doesn't need telling twice.

Teddy Evans/any, magical body changes

[(Anonymous)]

Teddy wakes up with tits and a pussy

FILL: The Antarctic Rose, Evans/Crean/Lashly, magical body changes, wet and messy, E [1/2]

[(Anonymous)]

“By what authority do you propose to remove me from a command which is by rank mine and mine alone?” Teddy demanded, trying to ignore how he sounded as he said it. It was the words that mattered, the words which were ultimately correct.

Atkinson was utterly unperturbed. “As doctor it is my responsibility to prevent harm to all expedition members, which includes you, sir, and it is my medical opinion that there are far too many dangerously complicating factors, were you to stay here in the midst of the entire crew. It’s simply not safe.”

Teddy found this utterly insulting, even given the circumstances. “You can’t fix this here?”

“Lieutenant,” said Atkinson. White-hot anger flickered in Teddy’s chest watching the barest hint of a smirk curl around the title. “I can’t fix this at all. It is, in my professional opinion, quite beyond me. What remains to be done is for you to recover somewhere away from prying eyes. Surely you can agree that would be preferable?” He made an expansive gesture towards the rest of the hut beyond Teddy’s nook; at the moment, Griff was currently engaged in one of his endless and loud cags with Marie Nelson on the eternal subject of women’s suffrage. Griff for, Marie against, naturally; the biologist’s misogynist tendencies seemed only to have been made more intense by a long winter with only male company.

Admittedly it did not sound like the worst idea, put that way. However, he balked when Atkinson, observing Teddy begin to get dressed, insisted that he needed an escort. “I haven’t come over sick,” Teddy snapped. “I feel perfectly well, apart from—I mean to say, fifteen miles in fine spring weather, I can make it on my own.”

Atkinson chewed on his pipe. Christ, he was enjoying this, wasn’t he? “Loss of muscle tone, shift in center of gravity, changes in blood circulation and distribution of body fat. Psychological and hormonal effects unknown. To say nothing of nutrition and appetite. Regardless of if you can make it, it wouldn’t be wise.”

Shut up, Teddy wished fervently, shut up. His boots weren’t fitting properly; he angrily tugged on a few extra pairs of socks to make up the difference. He did not actually want to sledge fifteen miles on his own. He wanted to curl up in his own bed and sleep, then wake to find all of this madness had been a particularly bad nightmare brought on by Clissold’s curry. “Fine,” he said eventually. “Crean and Lashly shall come with me. They have little enough to do. And they can return together in the morning.”

“Excellent. I’ll inform them now. I myself will come to you after Scott and Wilson return from the Western Mountains—it shouldn’t be long now. Reach me by the telephone if you recover before then and feel up to setting off back here alone.”

Assembled outside the hut, Crean and Lashly did not seem to notice anything amiss, thanks to the conveniently oversized sledging gear which covered Teddy top to bottom and muffled his voice. “Fine day for it, sir,” Crean said cheerily as he harnessed up. “A pity we’re only going so far as the Discovery hut.”

“Strap those down well, Lashly,” Teddy said automatically, pointing at the crates of dog biscuits on the sledge, which provided as good a flimsy excuse as any for their impromptu trip.

It seemed an eternity of Lashly looking his way before his gruff “Yes, sir,” emerged from his windproof hood. Could he tell? Had Teddy given the game away already? He resolved to adopt an Oatesian approach to unecessary talk for the rest of the day’s journey south.

The sea ice held, as did the weather; when they camped for a midday meal on the south side of the Tongue, Teddy’s stomach eagerly made its desire for some of Lashly’s excellent hoosh known, but for the life of him he could not figure out how to go about partaking without giving himself away. He ate an old biscuit from his pocket and then told Crean he wasn’t hungry.

“Really, sir? Sure that hoosh is going to be the best thing you’ll taste all week, and Lash will be mighty disappointed… well, alright. We’ll be off again in only a few.”

They reached Hut Point quickly enough after that; Teddy had been right, he could’ve gotten there just fine alone, in practically perfect weather conditions. But he was feeling—odd, underneath his layers of outerwear, and found the sight of Lashly and Crean unpacking the sledge outside the hut, hauling crates around like they weighed barely anything, gave him a full-body feeling which must have been relief. He might turn into a penguin next, and then surely he’d be glad to have them around.

He slept a bit that night, but after a few hours awoke with that odd feeling again, which might have just been burning curiosity, but had him restless and tingling. He had not done a full self-examination yesterday, after all; he had cringed away, unable to bear looking as Atkinson surveyed the situation in his detached medical manner. The seamen were safely ensconced in the northwest corner of the hut, laid out in their bags; Teddy deemed it safe to strip down.

This little berth, with its packing-crate walls, had been dubbed Virtue Villa when the combined depot and Western parties had lived in the hut for a lonely month earlier that year. Ironic that now it was a den of depravity, as Teddy gingerly poked and prodded at himself by lamplight.

It was the natural thing to do, but Teddy ought not to have taken it so far. Only, he couldn’t help himself, he had to, he’d been dying to try all day, and before he knew it he was letting out one moan and then another, forgetting himself completely, forgetting the way sound echoed in this place…

“Mr. Evans? Are you—alright…” Lashly trailed off. He and Crean were crowded in the door of Virtue Villa. They saw, lit efficiently and brightly by the lamp within, its sole occupant.

A girl of about thirty, no slender ravishing beauty, but all the same a girl, sturdy and pale, blanket slipped down to her stomach to reveal fair-sized breasts, with pink nipples peaking in the cold of the hut. Her short and unkempt hair must have given her the look of a recovering consumptive, which was quite at odds with the healthy glow of her clear and unblemished skin. Her labored breathing and flushed face, combined with her hand still hidden below the blanket, clearly betokened an intimate moment interrupted.

Crean swept Teddy up and down with his sharp, creased eyes. He whispered something to Lashly; Lashly nodded.

Then Crean said, quite matter-of-factly, “Is that you, Mr. Evans?”

Teddy understood what he was asking. He had the merest moment to decide what to do.

For if he said—yes, it’s me—they would leave. Crean and Lashly both would treat it as an order from their commanding officer, go back to their berth to sleep, and depart in the morning, acknowledging nothing other than their duty, like the loyal men they were. Teddy knew that; he knew the minds of his men like his own. It was a long-standing point of pride.

And he knew what they would do if he said no.

There was a vein which seemed to jump in Crean’s strong jaw. His shoulders were set confidently, awaiting a reply. He only had on his white cotton undershirt, through which the muscles of his chest were prominent. Beside him Lashly was still in his gray wool jumper, the dark pocket at its center stretched out by the breadth of the ribcage beneath. They were both very large men.

Is that you?

Teddy slowly and deliberately shook his head.

McClure/Maslin, guided masturbation

[(Anonymous)]

Maslin's "tummy rub" was very effective, but McClure is a strong(?), independent(?) lieutenant and he must to be able to cure himself in future! But maybe... he needs a marine sergeant... to show him how to do it right? 👀

Birdie Bowers/Cherry, face sitting

[(Anonymous)]

Trans man Cherry rides Birdie's nose

Nansen/Amundsen, cockwarming

[(Anonymous)]

Amundsen wants the Fram. Nansen wants him to prove himself.

Mawson/Mertz, griefsex, somnophilia?

[(Anonymous)]

Mertz is inconsolable after Ninnis' death and cries out for him in his sleep. Up to you if Doug has already decided to ear him.

Re: Mawson/Mertz, griefsex, somnophilia?

[(Anonymous)]

EAT, not ear

Scott/Shackleton, Discovery era hate sex

[(Anonymous)]

Con and Shackles hate each other with the fire of a thousand suns and decide to fuck about it. Up to you how and why that happens!