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

Belgica any/any, Raco's magic pencil

[(Anonymous)]

When Raco realizes his drawings suddenly have the power to influence reality because of aurora magic or what have you, he naturally decides to get Extremely Silly with it. And by silly I mean horny. Artocho's butt gets bigger and bigger? ADG big naturals? Lecointe truth curse? Clothes disappearing, someone's got two dicks now, macro/micro, anything is possible as long as Raco's pencil doesn't run out...

Cherry/Birdie, kissing

[(Anonymous)]

Maybe that's all they have time to do, maybe it's just all they're interested in doing, but I want Cherry and Birdie smooches galore pls. (A 5+1 with the obvious ending if you want to be violent about it.)

FILL: Grown To Outlive Their Season, cw death

[(Anonymous)]

Hey Nonny, sorry to report that I've chosen violence. Hope you enjoy!



1. En route to South Africa, August 1910

Cherry runs out of the crew mess as fast as his legs will carry him, with Atch and Titus hot on his trail. As a shy, awkward child with poor vision, Cherry rarely had the opportunity to enjoy sports and silly games. On the Terra Nova under Evans’ command, though, he makes up for lost time. Their days may have been filled with exhausting, backbreaking labor, but every evening was spent engaging in rowdy activities that more often than not left them naked, sprawled out on the floor, and weeping with laughter. This level of camaraderie and closeness between men is new to Cherry, but it feels natural and soothes an ache he wasn't aware he had.

Atch lunges at him, but Cherry evades him and squeals with delight when Silas catches the doctor’s leg and brings him crashing down in a hailstorm of laughter. Cherry takes off his shirt and throws it in Titus’ face, hoping to buy himself more time to escape, and fails to notice that his glasses also come off in the process. Birdie appears and somehow tackles the much larger Titus to the ground, and as Cherry takes in the scene before him with amusement and awe, he fails to notice that Uncle Bill is beside him and poised to strike until it is too late.

The four of them lay on the ground for some time, breathless and hysterical. When they finally regain their composure, Bill winks knowingly at Cherry, then rises to go search for his next victim, taking Titus with him. Cherry is still down, frantically running his hands across the floor looking for his lost glasses. He sees a shape approach him-- it is Birdie, of course, who gently slips his glasses back onto his face and offers him a hand.

“Didn’t want these to get trampled,” Birdie says with a grin. “Our adaptable helper won’t be very helpful if he can’t see!”

“My hero,” Cherry chuckles, letting out a sigh of relief. Birdie helps him to his feet, and Cherry plants a loud, exaggerated kiss on the tip of his nose. “Now let’s go find Titus and Uncle Bill and pay them back”

Birdie’s ruddy skin flushes an even darker shade of pink.

2. Dunedin, November 1910

"Cherry, you simply must try this!"

Birdie appears next to him and offers him a chocolate confection, only slightly melted by the warmth of his large hand. Cherry pops it into his mouth, the first burst of sweetness soon giving way to a sharper flavor on his tongue.

"Do these have *alcohol* in them?"

Birdie nods, a small laugh escaping his lips. "Uncle Bill said you would love them!" Cherry looks past his friend at the tower of confections across the room. The party is in full swing around them, a glittering gala of rich food and lively music and beautiful women who glance his way despite his lack of appropriate dinner attire. It is everything a man of his station is supposed to want… and yet.

Cherry looks back at Birdie with a knowing smile. “Fill your pockets and meet me in the west hallway. I’ll sneak around the back and do the same.”

Some time later, they find themselves sitting beside each other in the hallway outside the ballroom, pleasantly drunk and lighter than air. They already inhaled the chocolates and gossiped about the news of the day, ranging from shock at the row between the wives to delight at Omelchenko’s unconventional dance moves. As the conversation tapers off and they sit in companionable silence, Cherry is more content than he has been in ages, a feeling that only intensifies when Birdie leans his head ever so slightly on his shoulder. “It’s a lovely party,” Birdie mutters, “but wasted on me. This is much nicer.”

Cherry smiles, his face flushed almost as red as Birdie’s. Maybe the alcohol is making him brave, or maybe this was inevitable, but he looks over at Birdie and notices him, really notices him, for the first time. Birdie is his closest friend and one of the best men he's ever known. He is the only person Cherry wants to see when he's in a dark mood, because Birdie knows just how to cheer him up. He’s kind, compassionate, and brilliant. He's also… beautiful? Cherry takes in his strong features, his hair the color of the late afternoon sun, and his radiant smile. Yes, Birdie Bowers is beautiful.

Everything becomes clear in an instant.

“Cherry? Is everything alri--”

Birdie pulls out of the kiss after only a second, the shock registering on his face, and Cherry is sure that he has made the biggest mistake of his life.

Then, Birdie looks into his eyes with awe and reaches up to stroke his cheek.

The second kiss is everything Cherry dreamed it would be. They press their lips together experimentally at first, but they quickly find their rhythm. Neither of them are experienced, so they take their time, learning the contours of each others’ bodies. Birdie puts one hand on the back of Cherry’s neck to pull him closer and runs his fingers through his dark hair. Cherry parts his lips to accommodate Birdie's questing tongue. He does not expect Birdie to be this gentle, but his kisses are soft, softer than a girl’s, and they take his breath away.

The party would continue on for hours, but Cherry and Birdie celebrate with chocolate flavored kisses until the sun comes up.

3. Hut Point, January 1911

“Shhhh!” Cherry hisses at Birdie, giggling through his grin. “Everyone will see!”

Birdie grabs his hand and guides him through the hut, then pulls him close and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I don’t care who sees,” he whispers breathlessly. “I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. I can’t wait any longer

They timed this perfectly. The Tenements are empty, with Titus, Meares, and Atch outside the hut and unlikely to return for hours. Amazingly enough, their entire part of the hut seems to be empty. They cannot see into the Owner’s room, and Lord only knows what goes on behind the curtain in the cubicle that Deb, Griff, and Trigger share, so there are no guarantees. They still have to be careful, but for all intents and purposes, they are alone.

Cherry grabs Birdie’s shirt collar and drags him toward the Tenements. They shed their outerwear in between kisses, kicking it out of the way as they make their way toward Cherry’s bed, which offers slightly more privacy than Birdie’s top bunk. Cherry falls into bed first, dragging Birdie after him and pulling the blanket on top of both of them. Finally, they are in their own little world.

Birdie wastes no time snuggling in, and it feels good, so good, to have him close. Cherry rakes his fingers down Birdie’s broad, muscular chest, then leans over to stroke his face. “So,” Cherry says softly, waggling his eyebrows ever so slightly, “tell me more about how you’ve been waiting for this for weeks.”

Birdie climbs on top of Cherry and kisses him with ferocity. Their previous kisses had been nothing like this-- passionate, yes, but quick, stolen moments of joy carved out of a grueling workday. This kiss is slow, deliberate, and all fire. This is a kiss that could bring the empire to its knees. It’s taken long enough, but Cherry finally, truly understands what the poets have been going on about for millennia.

Birdie breaks the kiss and whispers directly in Cherry’s ear. “You don’t know what you do to me, Cherry. Not being able to touch you has been torture, because all I want to do is touch you. You’re perfect, and I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

Cherry cannot believe what he is hearing. Does he really bring Birdie such pleasure? Having this kind of power over anyone is incomprehensible to him, but to have it over Birdie? The thought of it is intoxicating and incredibly arousing. Cherry lets out a pretty little moan at the thought, and it makes Birdie go mad. They’re both hard now, and Birdie kisses him again, bringing his knee between Cherry’s legs and slowly rutting against him. Cherry squirms beneath him, trying desperately to stay quiet and succeeding about half the time.

“Birdie?” Cherry says, more a sigh than a whisper.

“Yes, love?”

“...keep talking."

--------

Next door, in the bunk he shares with Con and Teddy, Dr. Bill Wilson hears a few hushed snippets involving Birdie taking Cherry to a hotel when this is all over and seeing to him proper, as well as the unmistakable sounds of pleasure. He smiles to himself-- Cherry and Birdie are good men who are well matched, and Bill is happy to have encouraged them. All love that is freely given and shared is a blessing, and if God has seen fit to bring them together the way that He brought Ory and Con to him, then what right does he have to complain about being woken up from his nap? He closes his eyes and returns to his dream.

4. Near Cape Crozier, July 1911

There are truly no words to adequately convey the horror of the Winter Journey. After losing their tent on the return journey, Cherry, Birdie, and Uncle Bill cower in the frozen tatters of their bags and listen to the blizzard rage above them. Cherry is sure he will die here, nestled down into a snowdrift, but he cannot imagine the same of Bill. And Birdie? Simply impossible. He is too vibrant, too relentlessly cheerful to succumb to something as common as death. He will tell their story when Cherry is gone. This thought is the one that finally breaks him.

“Things must improve,” Bill exclaims over the howling wind. “They simply must!”

Cherry almost believes him.

Birdie senses Cherry’s despair in that way that only a lover can. He removes one arm from his bag and stretches it across Cherry’s shivering body. Birdie runs hotter than other men; the cold barely affects him and he freely shares his warmth with Cherry.

“Don’t give up, Cherry. I need you.”

Bill takes this opportunity to turn away and offer them a modicum of privacy. He pulls his bag over his head and quietly sings a hymn.

Cherry rolls over to face Birdie, who strokes his frostbitten cheek with his gloved hand. “We have unfinished business,” Birdie proclaims. “Remember the hotel?”

If Cherry could move his face, he would smile. “Of course I remember. You owe me.”

Birdie leans over and gently kisses Cherry’s lips, ever mindful of his broken teeth and the fact that their mouths will stick together in these temps if they aren’t quick about it.

“We will survive and we will get there. Don’t forget.”

Cherry never did.

5. Beardmore Glacier, December 1911

Cherry is disappointed but not surprised to be turning back to Cape Evans. He knows that the others are stronger sledgers, and he’s honored to have made it this far. The hardest part is knowing that Birdie is going on while he is turning back, and that he will be deprived of his company for months. Cherry and Birdie are practically joined at the hip, a state of affairs that the others tolerate with fondness, and life without Birdie is unthinkable.

There is no time for drawn out goodbyes, so Cherry pulls Birdie aside and offers him gifts, a pair of good finnesko and a handkerchief, which he receives with gratitude.

“Thank you Cherry, truly.”

“It’s nothing at all, I wish I had more to give. I… love you. I suppose you know that already.”

Birdie beams, his smile warm enough to melt every glacier in Antarctica. “Of course I know. I love you, too.”

Cherry looks around cautiously to make sure no one is watching (and no one is, except for Uncle Bill, who has always known), then places his hands on the back of Birdie’s neck and kisses him like he means it.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I imagine I’ll lead the next returning party. Bill is for the pole, probably Teddy, and either Lashly or Crean. Maybe a couple months.”

“The Owner would be a fool not to take you to the pole.”

Birdie chuckles at this remark. “I guess stranger things have happened, but the sooner I get back to you, the happier I will be.”

Cherry squeezes Birdie’s hand one last time. “Come back soon. Be safe.”

Birdie walks on toward the pole, Cherry’s heart beating inside his chest.

6. Eleven miles from One Ton Depot, November 1912

“It is the tent.”

Cherry knew. He’d known since he made the journey to One Ton himself months ago. He made peace with it, and he grieved. Now all that remained was to see what horrors awaited them in the tent.

Atch insists that each man should enter the tent, so there can be no confusion about what happened to the Polar Party. When it is Cherry’s turn, his eyes are immediately drawn to Scott and Wilson, frozen in an eternal embrace. He is glad they had each other at the end.

He folds back Birdie’s blanket and sees his ruined face, sallow and rigid. Cherry loved Birdie’s pink skin, the way his entire body would blush with pleasure. How cruel that death has robbed him of it.

Cherry knows that the man he loves is not here anymore. He is in Heaven, he supposes-- Birdie was always religious, and if anyone deserved eternal reward, it was him.

The air in the tent is stifling, and Cherry is ready to go, but there is one more thing he must do. He bends down and places a gentle kiss on the tip of Birdie’s exposed nose.

“Rest now, beloved.”

He will tell Birdie’s story now that he is gone.

shackleton/worsley, dancing

[(Anonymous)]

absolutely obsessed with the account of shackleton and worsley interrupting their survey of the motor sledge to waltz with one another across the ice. feel free to describe either this specific incident or some other time shacks and wuzzles danced with one another. just please describe to me "the famous polar explorer's courtly gyrations" (caroline alexander, the endurance, p. 68)

Cherry/Lillie; cross(?)dressing

[(Anonymous)]

Cherry buys Lillie a pretty dress for the next time s/he visits Lamer. Lillie's gender identity (or lack thereof) is up to the author (any interpretation is interesting for OP!), I just want Cherry and Lillie to be happy and kiss (or more?) in a beautiful garden.

FILL: August, 1917, Cherry/Lillie

[(Anonymous)]

Author's note, in the frenzy of reading this prompt I missed the Cherry buys Lillie the dress part, so know the dress is just acquired, somehow, and Lillie looks lovely in it nonetheless <3


It has been a lovely summer, bright and warm, at Lamer this year. The beauty of the green countryside is not altogether lost on me, even having traveled to such distant places and having seen such alien beauties. In truth, none of the glimmering Antarctic whiteness could evoke the same comfort as the dappled shade of the cedars and the babbling of the Lea.

I confess, however, that the emptiness of the place has taken some adjustment. On most days I do not mind the solitude. Indeed, the quietness has at last given me opportunity to relax and recover from my illness, free from the additional anxieties of being fretted over, and I find I am much improved. I am more than satisfied with my solitary long walks, and in this season the flowers smile with their bright petals, and I find myself compelled to smile back. On frequent occasions, I have the company of Kathleen, and her boy, Peter, of whom I’ve grown very fond. He is so much like his father in so many ways. He’ll never know it, of course—not if Kathleen can help it.

But this is not all days. On some mornings I wake and the solitude bears down on me so heavily I struggle to rise. I am brought back on these occasions to my four days spent alone at the Cape Evans hut. It is not a memory I recall warmly.

I am pleased to say that Denis Lillie will be visiting Lamer shortly. I will be glad to see my old friend again, after what has felt like far too long. His company during my illness was valuable beyond words, but I look forward to the time we may spend together unencumbered by my poor health. Our correspondence has been fairly frequent, but letters cannot compare to his company in person. He may stay as long as he wishes, and, with luck, may be convinced to stay longer than that.

-

Lillie arrived at last earlier this week, and at once the comfort of his presence brightened my disposition markedly. We converse so naturally it is as if no time at all has passed.

The sun was bright and the air warm. We picnicked by a stream, under the privacy of the drooping willow trees. The slanting afternoon sunlight and the murmuring of the stream entreated our attention, but all wrapped up in each others' company, our conversation soon fell to matters polar. Lillie brought up memories I had forgotten, joyful moments from our easting. He fills with such a youthful energy when he reminisces, while I can’t imagine I look anything less than a decade older.

I asked him what he thought had gone wrong. It was a disastrous accumulation of coincidences, of course—too many to conceive of. But among them, there must have been a few that could have been affected, perhaps just enough that the disaster may have been averted. I had mulled over what felt like every single factor and each link in the chain that had led to what had happened, down to the last box of pemmican. But I needed a fresh set of eyes on it.

He was silent for a long time before answering. He did not patronize me by telling me it happened for a reason, although I am sure by some definition or another, he believed as much. I wanted to be told that none of the causes of the disaster could directly have been prevented by myself. There was a horrible weight on my shoulders and I was nearly hysterical for it to be lifted. He only said, “I don’t know,” sparing no platitudes. “None of us could have, Cherry. Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps not.”

Of course, he was right. Tears welled up in my eyes, if for no other reason than the feeling of pure catharsis for simply having said anything aloud to someone who had accompanied me down south. L. enfolded me in his arms and deposited the softest kiss upon my brow. I was startled, and am embarrassed to recall produced a hiccup of sorts, which Lillie quelled with a second kiss just below my eye, and a third lower on my cheek. He drew back and the perfect innocence of his intentions was instantly clear, his face lined with concern for me, but my own thoughts, which had turned decidedly desirous, were evidently less subtle as I chanced a glance down at his mouth. Within the length of a single heartbeat, his lips were then on mine, and I kissed with an animal ferocity I hadn’t known I’d been capable of.

I was caught very much by surprise at L.’s shared passion, for I tend to consider myself something of an oddity as a man with such desires for other men, but indeed I may still be. Lillie isn’t much like any man I’ve ever known.

That evening, I invited Lillie to share my bed, and I was treated to the tenderness of his affection—I remember very little, as I succumbed to sleep almost immediately (I simply cannot hang on to wakefulness with two warm arms slung around me, I confess), but at some point in the night, I suppose I began to mutter, or perhaps even talk out loud in distress, as I have been known to do when I am asleep, to the bane and amusement of any and all who have bunked with me. Lillie didn’t seem to mind a titch, however, and woke me warmly to a flurry of kisses. Whatever nightmare had gripped me was dispelled in an instant, and sleep soon came again to find the two of us even more tightly intertwined than before.

-

The next morning, I awoke to feathery white tendrils of sunshine filtering in through the window, and Lillie standing a pace’s length from the foot of the bed, undressed and holding up a handsome dress as though assessing whether or not it would fit. It was not mine, of course—there were no women in the house but the housekeeper—it must have been Lillie’s, and it seemed brand new, by the pristine look of it. L. noticed I was awake, and smiled bashfully, and I suppose I was staring a good deal more than was polite. I excused myself—even after the intimacy we had shared, it seemed more proper to dress separately—and when I was done, I awaited L. downstairs.

Lillie descended a short while later, having evidently elected to don the dress. Later that afternoon, we strolled along the chain walk, arm-in-arm. The gown was a beautiful and formal number—a bright and rosy garment with floral detail and a demure little shawl, much better suited to the ballroom than to a stroll in the garden, but it was so flattering that L. kept it on the whole afternoon, surpassing in beauty all the other flowers along the path by far.

We came to a bench and seated ourselves, Lillie’s hand in mine as we talked and laughed and reminisced, feeling much lighter than the day prior. L. made a comment that struck home, something along the lines of I had never seemed happier than back aboard the old Terra Nova, even when I was soaked through and through or volunteering to trim the coal. My present joy and optimism felt somewhat shot through (by no fault of L.’s, I hasten to add), the observation rendering me suddenly self-conscious—but oh, what a fickle thing to feel when Lillie is one of the only living people who understands just what happened down there at the end of the world, and just what such an ordeal does to a person.

On the other hand, I responded after a moment’s reflection, I had never seen L. quite so happy as at the present moment, even when we had been on the expedition. Now, the passing years having found the two of us alone here in my garden, mirth seemed to radiate from my dear friend with almost perceptible warmth.

Lillie attempted to explain why this unlikely moment was so particularly joyful, and struggled to find the right words, stumbling over them a great deal—I regret to say, I could not quite follow, until it was laid out before me in terms so simple that even I, dense and beginning to suffer from a bout of lovesickness, could wrap my head around—“I suppose it is because I feel more like a woman than I have ever been permitted to in the past,” she said.

It may not sound so straightforward in the recounting of it, but at the moment it made perfect sense to me that being a woman was equal to joy for Lillie, for indeed I loved her like one. It is difficult, now, for me to think of her differently, although I apologize for any confusion caused by the abrupt change in how she is referred to hereafter—“she” is the very same Lillie I was hitherto addressing as “he,” rest assured.

Somewhat overcome, I drew her in and kissed her. Her skin was sun-warmed beneath my palm where I held her cheek, and warmed further with the deep blush that bloomed across her face. I could have stayed that way until the sun set.

A surge of new, resplendent joy has washed over me like a rising tide, so alien it feels as if the last time I found myself so content was in another lifetime. Lillie has her sights set on East Africa. I will be loath to see her go, but I’m not yet confident my health would permit such travel. I was beginning to entertain the possibility of welcoming her as a permanent fixture here at Lamer—how like summertime in Antarctica this old house would become, albeit a good deal warmer, with the sunshine of her company ever shining! But she reassures me of her return, and joins me in fond reverie of settling down together.

I do wish I may share this newfound joy with old friends. But for all that has been lost, I cannot bring myself to regret any more.

Atch/Oates, outsider POV

[(Anonymous)]

Max and Climax... What's their freaking deal?????? Obviously Teddy POV is the funny/canon choice here but I'd love a bunch of different perspectives - 5 people who don't understand what Atch and Oates have, and one who does?

Scott/Amundsen, Terra Nova (the play) hatefuck

[(Anonymous)]

If you're familiar with Terra Nova by Ted Tally, you know about the insane sexual tension between Scott and the specter of Roald Amundsen that is the embodiment of his self-doubt and taunts him on his whole journey to and from the pole. Let's say some of the frustration that causes is sexual, and Scott dreams the most legendary hatefuck of all time (or maybe it really is Amundsen railing him from the spirit realm). Please have Amundsen call Scott "English" as a condescending pet name.

Gran/anyone, energetic fucking

[(Anonymous)]

The graphic novel has given me a very intense need for some porn of Terra Nova’s very own Large Himbo. I can only imagine that hardly anyone would be able to keep up with his youthful energy, and he’d get very judgy about it.

As for pairing, dealer’s choice — Griff would be hilarious, maybe Hooper for some hunk4hunk action?

Shackleton/Wilson, punishment for being a slut

[(Anonymous)]

Discovery era, naturally. Wilson’s masochistic streak reveals itself when he asks Shackleton to punish him for messing around with the Captain. You can play with the parameters- whether they’ve also hooked up before, whether Shackleton feels betrayed or knew about it all along, if it’s just another weird power move where Wilson is actually calling the shots, etc.

FILL: Dealt With, Shackleton/Wilson, punishment for being a slut, bastinado, under-negotiated kink

[(Anonymous)]

Unusual, that Wilson would give off this sense of deep moody dissatisfaction—the kind which Shackleton had spent that very morning observing, and then carefully dismantling, on the part of one of the seamen. But there it was: a darkening of the brow, a hunch of the neck, a tighter grip than usual on the brush.

“Bill, what’s got you tonight?”

A tight smile and a shake of the head was all he received. Wilson remained resolutely focused on his work.

Minutes passed in silence. But as much as he respected Wilson’s desire to keep his own counsel, he could not continue with his own composition, feeling that tension radiate from beside him.

He laid a hand lightly between Wilson’s shoulder blades. “Come on, now. Has someone offended you? Tell me who it is, and I’ll take care of them for you.”

Wilson, when he looked over, had an inscrutable expression. Peering at—into—Shackleton as if to find proof of something, Shackleton knew not what, but he tried to clear his own face, open his own gaze, so that Wilson might not find anything at all objectionable there.

It must have worked. Wilson said, “Do you promise, Shackles?”

“I—?”

“To take care of the culprit. To deal out an appropriate punishment. Appropriate as I deem it.”

“Why—yes, of course. You know I’m your man.” Wilson had never dispatched him on this sort of a mission before. Shackleton had not imagined it could ever be necessary, for who on the ship would do wrong against him? But he was willing: naturally, he was willing. They shook hands on it. “Just give me the name.”

Wilson came close. His hand around the back of Shackleton’s head, and his mouth gentle against the shell of his ear, whispering: “Edward Adrian Wilson.”

Shackleton jerked back, alarmed. A moment of confusion before he managed, “You’re joking?”

“I am not.”

“Bill, what on Earth could you have possibly done—? I’m sure it wasn’t very bad at all.”

“Ah, you promised.” Now Wilson was getting up—placing one foot and then the other on the chair, removing his boots. Then his first pair of socks, then his second.

Shackleton was not sure what to say. “You must tell me,” he said eventually. “I will—I will keep my promise, but—just tell me, won’t you. I won’t think anything of it, no matter what.”

Wilson said, observing his bare feet as if they belonged to someone else, “I gave in to my baser urges.” He looked up. “And to his. A moment of weakness…”

Now he reached across the table, and handed his long wooden drawing ruler over to Shackleton, the lower bound of whose stomach suddenly extended down, down through the deck and through the ice and into the black icy water below.

You come to me for this, he thought, vision going dark at the edges, but him, for that?

He had promised. He had. He took the ruler and leaned over, observing Wilson’s pale soles propped up before him on the chair in which he himself had just been sitting.

When he struck him there, with a sound like a shot, Wilson went white, his eyes rolling back slightly. “That’s it.”

Shackleton asked, “Will you do it again?”

“I may.”

He struck again. Harder.

“Will you want this again?”

“I may.”

Again. Hard, but keeping well below the limits of his strength.

“Will you need this again?”

“Very likely. I’m—oh—incorrigible.”

Wilson’s forehead was beaded with sweat, his jaw was clenched: but he was enjoying it. As if it were morning calisthenics. As if it was better—now there was a thought—than the encounter which preceded. Better than a cilice or hair-shirt; better yet still than any warm hand or mouth, any slack, limp touch borne out of mere animal lust… Oh, Shackleton could make it good for him. If it were to be all that was allowed.

A half-dozen more times—How-dare-you-how-dare-you. For days, he would have to crawl…

Then Wilson had him by the wrist, bringing him up short. “You mustn’t lose your head.”

Shackleton bristled momentarily; then, embarrassed, shrunk away. But Wilson tugged him back, until he stood alongside him, and then he rested his head on Shackleton’s chest.

Ear as stethoscope; he must have been able to hear Shackleton’s bounding heart, his ragged breath. Slowly as he stayed there, warm and heavy, it resolved.

Wilson at last straightened up and eased his feet onto the floor, letting out a pleased sort of groan. Then he said, pensively, “I should have given you more warning.”

“No—no. It’s alright.” Shackleton cleared his throat. Hands held stiff behind his back; ruler still clutched there. “As I said. I’m your man.”

Worsley/Macklin, reunion sex

[(Anonymous)]

That’s it. Frantic, passionate, “I’ve missed you and we’re both alive” sex post-Elephant Island rescue

FILL: and back again, Macklin/Worsley, E 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

There is a moment, when Shackleton has his binoculars up and trained on the coast of Elephant Island, where Worsley allows himself to think the worst. That they are too late, that all is lost, that they were not fast enough in returning. Something hard and horribly cold, a tooth of ice, jams itself in his stomach, his chest. And when Shackleton says, voice low and tight, “I only see two,” it bites deeper. He keeps his eyes on the shoals, the reefs, knowing he cannot afford to look away, unsure if he would want to regardless.

But then— “No, four!” and the grip loosens, incrementally. And then, “Six, eight—” and Worsley is breathless, praying, God he is praying. Please, let there be more. Please, let one of them be him.

“They are all there,” Shackleton says, voice cracking only slightly. “They are all there, Skipper.”

Worsley wants to turn away, wants to take a moment to compose himself, want to rip the binoculars from Shackleton’s hands to look for himself, to be sure. But he is still a ship’s captain before anything, and he will take the Yelcho in safely, now more than ever. “All?” he manages to say, blinking rapidly against the biting wind, against hot tears of relief. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Shackleton says, and he looks a decade younger now, taking off his hat to pass a hand over his brow, smiling. “I’ve counted. Every one of them.”

Worsley swallows, swallows again, and casts one look to the shore ahead of them. He sees a bare flicker of movement against the rocks, and sends up the first grateful prayer of many. And then he focuses his attention on bringing the ship in.

*

He wants to be on the boat with Shackleton, going to shore, seeing the men they left behind. He wants it more than anything. But he knows his place is on the Yelcho, and he knows it won’t be long until he too is able to greet those left behind. Still, he stands by anxiously, waiting, praying. Watching the activity onshore, watching men climb into the boat with Shackleton to return. It’ll take several trips to ferry everyone back onboard, but Worsley is hopeful, prayerful, desperate. He lifts Shackleton’s binoculars and peers through them, biting his tongue.

He recognizes Macklin from the slope of his shoulders, the particular manner of his walk. His heart jams up in his throat. He watches, breathless, as that beloved figure clambers into Shackleton’s boat. He bites back a curse of impatience, a prayer of thanks. His heartbeat thrums.

Greenstreet is first off the boat when it pulls up alongside the Yelcho—he strides forward, clasps Worsley’s hand, grinning. Worsley is desperately glad to see him, alive and well, but he hardly remembers what either of them say to each other. His eyes are pulled to the other men coming aboard, one after the other. Hudson. Hurley. Wordie. And there—Macklin, his face soot-black, his spectacles crooked, his eyes searching. Their gazes meet with a frisson of crackling energy. Worsley’s tongue is thick in his mouth.

“Skipper,” Macklin says, and his face is so haggard, his complexion utterly filthy, but he is the loveliest thing Worsley has ever seen, and his voice the sweetest music. He steps forward, and Worsley does as well, drawn to him like a compass needle to north.

“Mack,” Worsley says, with some difficulty. He reaches out clumsily, and a hand clasps his forearm, solid and real. “I’ve—I’ve come to get you. As promised.”

Macklin laughs, sudden and bright, and Worsley thinks he could weep. He thinks he may weep. “We all knew you would,” he says. “I knew you would.”

Worsley wants to kiss him with a fierceness that nearly consumes him. He has to swallow it back with such enormous effort that it makes his temples pound. “I—” he says, and then words fail him.

“I know,” Macklin says, and the light in his eyes tells Worsley that he does.

*

It’s three long, excruciating hours before they’re able to fall together.

“Christ,” Macklin says, his back to the door of the cabin Worsley shares with Shackleton, arching against the leg between his thighs. “Oh, Christ, Frank.”

Worsley doesn’t respond, one hand fisted in Macklin’s threadbare sweater, the other on his freshly washed face, hauling him down to crush their mouths together, too hard, not hard enough. Their teeth clack, and Worsley swallows down Macklin’s groan, kissing him with a fervour that makes him feel wild, makes him feel like he’s on fire. And Macklin is stoking him, clutching at his shoulder, the back of his head, shuddering as he breathes desperate sounds into Worsley’s mouth.

“Please,” Macklin says, scrabbling at the hem of Worsley’s sweater, his shirt beneath it, his calloused fingertips seeking skin. “Oh, please, please—”

“I’ve got you,” Worsley says, dragging a hand down his throat, his broad chest, feeling the lovely, familiar shape of him. “You’re all right, I’ve got you, I have you now.”

“I missed you,” Macklin groans, like it pains him, spreading his warm hand at the small of Worsley’s back. “Christ, but I missed you. Every day.”

“I thought of little else,” Worsley says, wanting to push a hand up his shirt, to rub his thumb over his nipples, feel the way it makes his breath hitch and his chest jump. Instead, he kisses Macklin’s warm mouth, and says, “I’m so glad you’re here, I’m so glad to have you. If you’d been—” He doesn’t dare finish the thought.

“I’m so—” Macklin says, and then cuts off to kiss him again, messily, fervently, like he can’t stop to do it well. His teeth are sharp and clumsy, pressing into Worsley’s lip, and Worsley will have a hell of a time explaining it if he breaks skin but it’ll be worth it for this, a hundred times over. He hooks an arm around Macklin’s solid waist and uses the other hand to bring Macklin’s face down to his, his thumb pressing into the hinge of his jaw to urge it further open, licking into his mouth eagerly. Macklin moans softly, shuddering under his touch, so wonderfully responsive, so deliciously sensitive. He hasn’t been touched, Worsley knows, for months—and neither has he, but it makes him feel wildly hungry, to know it.

“We don’t have long,” Worsley tells him, and they never have, they have only ever had stolen moments, hurried encounters, breathless confessions before they are pulled apart again. But soon, soon they will be on land again, at last. Worsley is dreaming of the rooms he will have at the first hotel, he is dreaming of the bed he will have there, and the way he will lay Macklin down on it, spread him out like a six-course meal to feast upon. And they will take their time, away from the swell of the sea, and the prying eyes of the public.

But for now, time is limited, and Worsley is still desperately grateful to have any at all. To have this at all, when it was so nearly lost. “Mack,” he says, and bites at his mouth, pushes a hand down the back of his trousers. “Do you—”

“Please,” Macklin says, arching against him again, warm and eager and so very, very alive.

Worsley surges against him, pinning him roughly against the door, pushing his hand down into Macklin’s woolen underwear, down to where he’s even warmer, even more eager. He rubs hard against his rim, and Macklin makes a wounded noise against him mouth, hips jerking forwards, caught between Worsley’s rough fingers and his hip.

For some time, Worsley thinks it’s going to end like this—with their mouths pressed hard together and his hand down the back of Macklin’s trousers, rutting against each other desperately. He feels too frantic, too wild to do anything else, coaxing breathless sounds from Macklin’s throat, wanting more, needing every moment of this, every inch that they are touching, every exhale from his lover’s mouth that he breathes deep into his own lungs. He thinks they’ll finish like this, and he knows it will be so easy, so glorious. He can feel it building already, a wave rising within him, growing with every push of Macklin’s hips, every sound he wrings from his mouth.

But he can feel Macklin’s hard cock through their trousers, pushing insistently against his hip, and his deep, ravenous want of it is the only thing strong enough to rip him away from Macklin’s mouth. “Mack,” he says, voice rough with desire. “Come, I want you, won’t you let me—”

“Yes, yes, anything,” Macklin says, his hands on either side of Worsley’s face, trying to bring him back for another kiss.

“Let me,” Worsley says, opening up his trousers with a clumsy hand, still pressing against his rim with the other, making his hips jerk, feeling him spasm against his fingertips.

“I’d let you do anything,” Macklin says, breathless, perfect. “You’re mad if you think I wouldn’t. You came back for me.”

“Yes,” Worsley says, and he would have done it for anyone, would have come back for any man left behind, but sometimes he wonders if he would have managed it all if not for this one man waiting for him on Elephant Island. “God, Mack, but I would have done it all a hundred times over to get you back. Crossed a hundred seas.”

Macklin stares at him from mere inches away, glassy-eyed and panting, like he has never believed in anything like he believes Worsley. It makes Worsley want to dive into him, consume him from the inside out.

The best he can do is tug open Macklin’s trousers and fall to his knees.

“Oh, Christ,” Macklin says shakily, a hand falling immediately to cradle the back of Worsley’s skull.

“Let me take care of you,” Worsley says, pressing his mouth to the base of his cock, breathing him in.

“God,” Macklin groans. “God, Frank, you’re the one who’s saved me. It should be, oh, it should be me on my knees, I should be, should be worshipping you.”

And Worsley has much to say to that, has much to say on the topic of Macklin owing him nothing, on his being alive being repayment enough for the rest of their lives, but he is far too busy mouthing at the head of his cock, slipping his mouth around it, lapping at the fluid that beads at the slit and drips down his tongue. Macklin’s head knocks against the door, but Worsley isn’t concerned at the sound, well aware that those gathered in the wardroom are making more than enough noise to cover it, well aware that no one will hear the sounds he is wringing from his lover.

“Jesus Christ,” Macklin says brokenly, hips arching off the door, pushing his cock deeper into Worsley’s mouth. Worsley has a hand at his waist, holding firm, and the other is still up between his legs, kneading at his rim. The dual sensations have Macklin moaning pathetically, his cock leaking in Worsley’s mouth, and he swallows it down hungrily. He hasn’t the time for finesse, for tricks, and he wouldn’t have the patience for it right now either. Instead, he’s sloppy and eager, sucking down as much of Macklin’s cock as he can fit, pushing just the tip of one finger into him. He hears Macklin clap a hand over his mouth, and he casts his eyes up, drinking in the sight of him, revelling in the weight of him on his tongue, the taste of him, the sweat-sour smell of him.

Macklin/Worsley, medical kink

[(Anonymous)]

Exact nature of the kink is up to you but might i suggest something along the lines of prostate exam, rectal temperature, etc! Bonus points if it's Worsley's idea and he has to goad a skeptical/begrudging Macklin into going along with it (but guess who ends up getting super into it by the end...)

Rossier, body worship

[(Anonymous)]

I have not been the same since I learned Sophia Cracroft fat-shamed James Ross to his face. Right at the same time his boyfriend Frank was enamoured with her. Ouch. The boy needs some reassurance! Someone (Anne? Francis? Both?) show him he’s perfect.

Shackleton/Wild/Hurley threesome

[(Anonymous)]

Arrogant young Frank Hurley, who always gets what he wants in the end, tries to talk his way into a threesome with established Shackles/Wild. Modern AU or historical Endurance era!

Worsley/Macklin, modern AU

[(Anonymous)]

I would just like to see these two personalities on display in a modern day AU. Please put them in Situations! Power bottom Wuzzles would be an added bonus!

Wilson/Debenham, close quarters

[(Anonymous)]

Deb is over the moon at "having fewer people to share [Bill] with" when a group of them get stuck in the old hut. How does Bilson react when he realises his undivided attention has an effect on Deb's lower half?

FILL: First And Only Warning, Wilson/Debenham, close quarters, edging, mild Dark Fuck Bill, E

[(Anonymous)]

He was still growing used to it: the way the men found their way to him; the accompanying feeling of being loftily regarded.

Being back here, breathing the air and sketching the coastline, it was all too easily to conceive of himself as the youth of 1902, energetic and curious, peer and equal and friend to all.

But even if the landscape had not changed in in his time away, everything else had. He had been from the very moment Terra Nova departed "Uncle Bill,” advisor and confidante and Esteemed Scientific Director. Where he had had friends on Discovery, he now had subordinates, and acolytes. What he had always found flattering from sweet Cherry was beginning to not half overwhelm, when directed at him from all comers.

Perhaps it was the primitive environs of Hut Point, which seemed to strip the men of so many societal pretensions. Perhaps it was the exhaustion from the depot journeys, which had left them all utterly spent and with little energy for niceties while recovering. But whatever the cause, the effect was on the whole a sort of euphoric vulgarity: jockeying for attention, unapologetic appeals to vanity.

Debenham seemed to be the worst affected. The other morning Bill had felt eyes on him as he took his snow bath outside of the hut. As he turned around he had seen that distinct slim form duck behind the eaves. To say nothing of how regularly at dinner around the blubber stove in the evening, Deb took every opportunity to sit beside him, ply him with questions, brush his hand against his knee, carelessly as if on accident.

God knows, he did not want to humiliate the young man. Certainly not—it was only that he was sure Debenham, the darling, had really no idea how obvious he was being, and how he was opening himself up to all sorts of injuries. He just needed to be let down gently, that was all. Or if not gently then with just as much force as it would require.


***

In fine autumn sunshine they walked together up to Observation Hill. Debenham ranged out ahead to inspect the kenyte outcroppings, turning back every so often to make sure that Bill still followed, and flashing a bright smile at him when he saw that he was.

Were he a bird, Bill would have loved dearly to paint him. He would have such appealing colors: pale blue shading into white, perhaps, with a fluffy black crest and sleek golden beak.

But alas Bill had always been rather weak and unpracticed when it came to capturing the human form, and his crude style of caricature would hardly do when it came to the delicacy of Debenham’s features, their uncanny sculpted symmetry, the splendid way in which as you looked at him you perceived a man’s face halfway through its emergence from the chrysalis of youth…

About a mile distant from the hut they came to the great erratic boulder which so much of Debenham’s geological efforts had thus far been focused on. He took out his tools and began making samples, while Bill crouched and sketched the lowering sun across the bay, taking careful note of the stunning colors.

He realized after a little while that the noises of the chisel and the note-taking pencil had ceased. Deb was, he saw when he looked, posed artfully against the boulder, at great risk of frostbite having taken off his scarf to reveal his smooth pale neck.

Carefully replacing his sketchbook in its pouch, Bill rose, and approached.

“Have you finished, then?”

“Oh, I’m just admiring the view.” Deb was peering up at him with an expression he probably believed was seductive.

Bill placed a mittened hand on the boulder to one side of Deb’s head. With his teeth he slowly removed the mitten and glove of the other hand, then ran his palm down Deb’s chest. The lad was ever so sensitive. Before Bill had even found his bare skin he was shivering with blissful anticipation.

When eventually he burrowed past layers of wool and jersey and had Debenham’s prick heavy in his hand, he could not help growing warm himself; but his body was separate from his mind and still yet separate from his soul and so he paid the sensations no heed.

The sunset’s glow surrounded them. No wind: only, from a distance, seal calls and the rumbles of the ice, and the both of their breathing, Debenham’s pleased giggles. On this very hilltop a decade long past another man had laughed sweetly at him as they performed a merry sort of dance. Heavy black brows and pale eyes… a certain lustful bravery borne out of youth… as if here he was in his hands again and no harm done, time turned back to before betrayal.

Then a high, silly simpering sound which was Deb’s and Deb’s alone sent him sharply back down to Earth. His concerns today were solely cautionary.

So to the matter at hand—quite literally.

“We have a long winter ahead of us,” Bill said, when he judged Debenham was growing close to his crisis. “I would like to be confident that you are capable of taming this. I don’t intend to humor it.”

Deb nodded, biting his lip. “Of course—of course.”

But he was still bucking up into Bill’s tight, inviting fist.

“You might prove it,” Bill suggested.

He held Debenham’s gaze until the boy, with great effort, halted.

“Very good,” said Bill approvingly. Deb quivered with a wordless plea but Bill remained unmoved.

“You have a sharp mind. We’ll rely on it. Don’t let your urges overcome your intelligence so easily.”

“I won’t,” gasped Debenham.

Bill said, “I’m really nothing special, you know.” He gave Deb’s prick one final too-hard squeeze, and then withdrew.

Leaving him there, wanting on the verge, he began his stride back down to the hut. If Debenham wished to truly do right by Bill, he would button himself back up and go without release.

But Bill had little enough confidence in that. He only wished to be out of earshot before the sordid event occurred.

Scott/Wilson, body worship

[(Anonymous)]

We know Con's insecurities can get the better of him sometimes. Bill wants to make sure he knows that every part of him is lovely, even the parts he doesn't like. (This prompt brought to you by me having an entire episode about his cute little soft chin...)

wuzzles/wwi u-boat captain whose ship he sank

[(Anonymous)]

i know they fucked. you know they fucked.

FILL: U(boat) + Me, Worsley/U-boat captain, G

[(Anonymous)]

[I'm so sorry about the rating, it's not what I planned! I got them there and then it was almost midnight but I may post a director's cut on Ao3 in the future?? Also fun fact this event occurred 26 September 1917!]

Reminisces of Alfred Arnold, Captain, UC-33, German Imperial Navy

Of the collision and the sinking, I remember nothing. The first thing I recall is being doubled over coughing up water, my ears ringing and head pounding. It took me several moments to notice that someone was sat beside me, supporting me and delivering firm slaps to my back. When the choking finally subsided I slumped over with my arms on my knees, utterly exhausted. There was a blanket around my shoulders, and the hand remained on my back, a reassuring pressure.

“Stennie, pour us a brandy, will you?” The man beside me said- or at least, that was what I later determined the words must have been. At the time, I only registered that the voice was speaking English, and that my submarine must have been sunk.

At this realisation, I sat up to see where I was, which turned out to be the cramped wardroom of a P-boat.

“Ah, that brought you round!” the man said cheerfully.

My first impression was of bright blue eyes and a broad grin in the tanned face of a man who had spent his life at sea. He was strong and compact, and moreover conveyed an immediate sense of warmth and camaraderie, rather than the disdain or triumph one might expect from a victorious enemy.

The man to whom he had spoken turned at the sound of his voice, and also offered me a friendly smile. He was tall and square-jawed, and I found myself wondering if all English ships were crewed by such handsome men. He came forward with glasses for all of us.

“Congrats on your victory, Wuzz,” he said, raising his glass to my companion, then, to me, “and commiserations to you, my friend.”

I gave a nod of acknowledgement and gratefully downed the liquor. It worked wonders for clearing my head and restoring my senses, so I was finally able to properly greet my hosts.

“I believe I must owe you gentlemen my life,” I said. “I thank you.”

The man called Wuzz gave a wry smile.

“I’m afraid I was also responsible for sinking your U-boat,” he said, “so don’t be too grateful.”

“My men–” I asked suddenly, “are they–?”

He shook his head grimly.

“I’m sorry. You were the only one to come to the surface.”

I bowed my head, thinking of the sub’s massive weight carrying twenty-five good men into the deep, and how narrowly I had avoided such a fate. The crew, with their gallows humour, already called it a metal coffin.

“I suppose,” I said eventually, “we may call it even. I believe my vessel has sunk at least thirty of your ships.”

“Thirty!” Wuzz exclaimed, “That seems excessive, old chap!”

I felt some pride at this, and hastened to assure him that I had not been personally responsible for more than six.

“That’s not bad for a young man,” he said, still smiling. “You can’t be more than thirty yourself.”

The appraising way he looked at me almost made me want to blush.

“I was twenty-six in February,” I told him, then, remembering my manners, “My apologies, I have not even introduced myself. Captain Alfred Arnold, SM UC-33.”

“A pleasure,” he said, proffering his hand. “Frank Worsley, PC.61. This is Joseph Stenhouse, my second in command.”

I shook hands with both of them.

“Is he always this charming to prisoners?” I asked Stenhouse, who laughed and shook his head.

“You know, you are our first. But I think Wuzzles here could charm the Kaiser himself into a peace treaty, given the chance.”

Worsley nudged me with an elbow.

“This is why I keep him around, you see? The flattery!”

I laughed along with them, and felt touched to the core that they were treating me not just with courtesy, but drawing me, a stranger and an enemy, into their private jokes. At that point, the adrenaline of my adventure must have been wearing off, for I suddenly remembered that I was drenched to the skin and gave a violent shiver.

“That will never do!” Worsley exclaimed. “Come on, let’s find you some dry clothes.” He gave me another appraising look. “I think you’re built more along Stennie’s lines than mine, perhaps he’ll be good enough to lend you something?”

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

I dined with Captain Worsley that evening, as we steamed our way toward Ireland with the ship I had torpedoed in tow. The thought of what would await me on shore was weighing on my mind- imprisonment, sitting out the rest of the war, my crew’s families and my own all ignorant of our fates.

I did not wish to sink into a gloom after Worsley had been so courteous, but I could not help asking, “Have you ever lost a ship, Captain?”

His smile turned sad.

“I have, as a matter of fact. Not very long ago.”

“What happened?”

“Well, she was trapped in Antarctic pack ice and crushed. Not a very glamorous end.”

“The Antarctic?” I asked eagerly. “You cannot be speaking of Shackleton’s expedition?”

He beamed at the mention of the explorer’s name.

“The same! I’m surprised you’ve heard of it.”

“Your blockade is not so good that we receive no news of the outside world, sir.” He let out laugh, and raised his glass to me in acknowledgement of a point scored. “But I am honoured to meet such an accomplished explorer,” I added, and proceeded to draw the whole tale out of him. He was modest about his own role, but he could not tell the story without making clear the vital part he had played in bringing the whole expedition home safely.

I cannot say that this was the moment I began to feel attracted to him, for to my chagrin that had been almost immediate, but the glowing way he spoke of his comrades certainly cemented it for me. Moreover, I don’t know if you have ever had your submarine rammed and nearly drowned, but a brush with death will certainly make one feel grateful to be alive.

As we sat there, knees bumping under the tiny table and Worsley laughing and animated, I began to feel that I might like to do something about that attraction. The way he had eyed my physique earlier had certainly made me feel that such an advance might not be wholly unwelcome.

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

It was with deep regret that I allowed myself to be taken out of Worsley’s custody upon our arrival in Britain, but I was grateful for the opportunity to send a small token of my thanks. Not only was the silver whistle the only item of any value I had on my person, but I hoped it might remind my new friend of other services performed by my mouth. I do earnestly hope that we will meet again after the war, and I may have the chance to return his truly incomparable hospitality.

Silas/anyone, dirty talk (+ sex toys?)

[(Anonymous)]

I love Silas so much and I want him to have a good time! Deb or Griff are my top choices but I'll take anything tbh. Obviously incorporating his dirty mouth into things is the way to go :D Also, thinking about his Weird Physics Devices™ which confused everyone else on the ship, maybe he invented a sex toy or some kind of stimulating device which gets used on him/he uses on his partner.

Scott/Oates, sickfic

[(Anonymous)]

At some point during the winter, Con is dealing with tummy problems but doesn't want anyone to know, especially Bill. However, Oates does notice and takes it upon himself to effect a cure and/or comfort. Maybe using his magical horse knowledge. This is embarrassing for everyone involved but also really hot.

Dark Fuck Bill/Cherry, manipulation, dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

Some sketchy coercion, please, especially if Bill couches it (as we know he is wont to do) in "This is what Scott wants" >:)

FILL: Cherry/Wilson, cw extremely dubious consent

[(Anonymous)]

Cherry doesn’t know how he wound up here. He is seated before Wilson on a plush bed, fully unclothed, and he shivers at every slight draft, knowing he’s likely pink down to his chest as Wilson’s eyes rake over his naked form. He seems to approve of what he sees, nodding thoughtfully, and Cherry glances up before averting his gaze bashfully.

A medical examination is routine in circumstances like these, of course—to meet the grueling demands of an Antarctic expedition, it must be ensured that all the potential crew are physically fit and healthy. There is no reason for shame or embarrassment here, Wilson has reassured him. Even still, Cherry feels warm, and he shifts and fidgets beneath Wilson’s gaze. Never has he been inspected so closely by someone who seems to see right into the depths of him like peering into clear water.

The more time Cherry spends with Wilson, whose kindness and patience borders on saintly, whose fondness and regard Cherry hungers for more than he ever thought it possible to hunger, the more he’s convinced that it must simply be impossible to know Wilson and not to love him.

What’s worse, he’s almost certain Wilson knows his thoughts somehow, can discern the desire Cherry harbors for him, and is somehow privy to the burning deep inside him that he hopes doesn’t make itself physically obvious. He would cross his legs, if it would do anything but bring more attention to it.

Wilson’s hands land on his neck, feel for his lymph nodes, and it feels terribly more intimate than it ought to. Cherry avoids eye contact.

“You seem to be in perfect health,” Wilson reports.

Cherry clears his throat. “Ah, good,” he manages.

Wilson’s hands make their way down Cherry’s body, feeling his arms, his chest, his abdomen. “Aside from your vision, of course, but that can be overlooked. Strong, fit,” Wilson’s eyes flit lower. “Fine circulation.”

If Cherry wasn’t already as red as he could be, he flushes a new shade properly befitting his name. “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” he begins, but Wilson cuts him off quickly.

“Don’t be, Cherry, it’s only natural. In fact, I’m pleased to see it.” Wilson’s hand moves to his thigh, dangerously close to the seat of his desire. He pauses a moment, and the tension grows thick. “If you are selected, there will be… certain duties expected of you in your capacity as an adaptable helper.” Cherry already feels like his mind is racing to keep up, but he falls pitifully far behind when Wilson’s hand wraps around his prick.

“I, for one, am fully confident in your ability to fulfill your duties to the utmost satisfaction. But the captain would want to know beyond a doubt. Do you understand?” Cherry thinks he does, but his mind swims. The pleasure of Wilson’s fist, pumping slowly, drowns most every other thought out. He nods dumbly.

Wilson leans forward then, and every thought is brought to an abrupt halt as Cherry is kissed. For the way Wilson grips his cock, thumbing over the slit, the kiss is remarkably chaste—the gentlest press of the lips, little more than a tickle, almost, sweet and brief. When he withdraws, Cherry meets Wilson’s eyes at last. They are dark and the depths of them are precarious.

Wilson reaches out and strokes Cherry’s hair, caresses his cheek with his knuckles. Cherry leans into his touch like an affectionate puppy. “Would you lay down, Cherry, flat on your front?” Wilson entreats him sweetly. Cherry does as he says—how could he do anything different?

Wilson’s touch is searing, so hot it feels cold, as it wanders down Cherry’s body. His hands are wonderful—careful, gentle and deliberate—and Cherry wishes he could compel himself to relax and enjoy it, but he can feel the pounding of his heart in his throat and every hair on his body standing on end.

After some time, Wilson’s roving hands leave him for a moment, and he hears the sound of Wilson undoing his belt. A shudder passes through Cherry, and on its tail a rush of a feeling Cherry isn’t sure how to identify—he wouldn’t call it panic, but it pins him in place the same way, makes his blood go cold in the same manner as a rush of adrenaline. When Wilson’s touch returns to him, it’s with one hand flat on his back and the other trailing an oiled finger down between Cherry’s buttocks. “This may feel invasive,” Wilson warns, “but I’d like for you to bear down for me.” His fingers rub firmly against Cherry’s rim, making his meaning clear. Cherry is trembling, his face red and buried in the sheets. He’s near tears, and knows he must look pathetic—he doesn’t want Wilson to see him like this. But when he says, in the gentlest tone, “can you do that for me, Cherry?” Cherry nods, and does as he says.

The probing finger slips inside of him, and Cherry lets out a muffled yelp. “There’s a good lad,” Wilson says encouragingly, extinguishing some of his doubts. He has to see this through, Cherry realizes—he’s determined not to let Wilson down.

He musters all his fortitude to bear the second finger that soon enters him, but when he is breached by a third, he lets out a cry. “You’re doing well,” comes Wilson’s gentle voice, which sends chills down Cherry’s whole body. “Captain Scott will be very pleased to hear how nicely you’re taking it.”

Cherry is just beginning to grow used to the feeling of the invading fingers inside his body when they leave him. “Are you ready for more?” Wilson asks, and Cherry nods without a second thought. Wilson climbs onto the bed, and Cherry feels his weight over him, knows what’s coming, but still feels alarm flare in him when he feels the pressure of Wilson’s cock at his rim, pressure that seems to build by magnitudes every half a second and threatens to split Cherry in two.

“Please,” he gasps. The pressure is relieved for a moment.

“Please what?” Wilson asks.

“I–I don’t know if I can,” Cherry says. He tries not to let his voice tremble.

Wilson rubs Cherry’s shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “I know you can,” he insists. “You do want to come on the expedition, don’t you?” Cherry nods quickly—of course he does, more than anything else in the world. “Then you will be able to bear it. It would be a shame not to have such a bright young thing as you along just because of an inability to perform one simple thing that’s expected of him. I know Captain Scott would be especially disappointed,” Cherry feels breath on the back of his neck, making his hairs raise before a soft kiss is deposited there. “He’s taken quite a liking to you. As have I.”

Cherry takes a steadying breath. “I can,” he decides, “I can do it.”

“Very good,” Wilson praises, and all at once the pressure is back, pressing incessantly forward until it gives, and with an even thrust forward, Wilson is buried inside of Cherry to the hilt.

He feels so much bigger than Cherry expected, and out of instinct his arm flails out behind him, trying to find Wilson and push him off, before Cherry thinks better of it and forces it back down, tightly gripping the sheets instead. It doesn’t even seem to deter Wilson for a second, as he begins fucking him steadily.

The slow drag outwards and then back in again makes Cherry feels as if he’s being gutted, caught by Wilson like some fish or fowl to be stuffed and mounted. Small noises escape him, and when the rebuke he half-expects never comes, they grow steadily louder. Soon, Cherry can no longer tell if the sounds he’s producing are in protest or in pleasure, but he lows and whimpers and Wilson seems to like it, having increased pace.

It feels as though the steady friction has numbed him, somewhat, and the pain has subsided, leaving in its wake only the strange feeling of fullness, which, when Cherry stops to consider it, is not necessarily disagreeable. He’s taken by surprise at the capabilities of his own body, the way it accommodates Wilson’s thick cock, holding him open and in place like an internal armature. He surrenders himself completely when Wilson drops to his elbows, his hot mouth a hair’s breadth from the shell of Cherry’s ear, and murmurs such sweet praise—Cherry would let him possess, fill, gut, stuff, mount him, anything he wants, his body altogether at Wilson’s mercy.

Pausing for just long enough that Cherry at last catches his breath, Wilson shifts and readjusts, before recommencing his pace in a way that makes Cherry’s mouth drop open soundlessly. He couldn’t have imagined such a minute change of angle would make such a difference, but now on every inward thrust Wilson hits something inside him that makes pleasure surge through him like an electrical wire. To make matters worse, Wilson takes the time to carefully pluck Cherry’s glasses off his nose, folding them and setting them aside. The world blurs, and there is nothing to focus on but the rapturous feeling of being so thoroughly used.

Wilson’s thrusts have become downright brutal, and Cherry feels like he’s caught in the middle of a gale. His climax builds so quickly he’s barely able to prepare for the force of it when it hits him, and he fears for a moment that he may lose consciousness before it subsides, leaving only a dull ache and a quiet ringing in his ears as Wilson continues to pound into him.

His mind comes back to him, and with it his worries, the pressure to please Wilson to the very extent of his ability. Feebly, he lifts his hips, tries to fuck himself back on Wilson’s cock, but with a steady hand on his back, he’s told “there, there, dear boy, hold still and let me finish,” and gratefully collapses, letting Wilson use him like an inanimate object.

At last Wilson lets out a shudder, and Cherry realizes he must have finished inside him. He sits up, his cock slipping out of Cherry, who feels suddenly empty and as though he’s been pried wide open. He shivers.

“Wonderful, Cherry,” Wilson says, and then he stands, his weight leaving Cherry like a cage opening.

Cherry painstakingly sits up, wincing as he does—he expects he may feel it for days. He gropes around for his glasses and, finding them, puts them on to see Wilson readjusting his clothes to look as if nothing ever happened.

“Will I be selected for the expedition?” Cherry asks. He has never felt or sounded so timid around Wilson.

There is a tense silence while Wilson smooths his coat, buttons his cuffs. “I can make no promises,” he says at last, “but I plan to report to Captain Scott what an eager and willing volunteer you are. You have my highest commendation.”

Cherry nods stoically. It bodes well, he feels. Beyond any doubt, he has done all he possibly can up to this point, and without hesitation, he would do more.

Teddy Evans/all gangbang

[(Anonymous)]

Teddy is an insatiable slut and can't be satisfied by just one partner anymore! Please put him in the middle of the hut and let all the men take a turn, exact details are up to you

Teddy Evans/Lashly and/or Crean, ABO

[(Anonymous)]

Oh no, on the return journey Teddy has scurvy AND he’s gone into heat! Someone better fuck him full of vitamin semen before he DIES!

Cherry/Birdie, first time

[(Anonymous)]

Birdie and Cherry lose their virginity to each other and it's awkward, adorable, and achingly sweet. Please let them have this before everything goes to hell.

Re: Cherry/Birdie, first time

[(Anonymous)]

Filled on ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/46705165

Cook/Amundsen, conjugal visit

[(Anonymous)]

They’re IN LOVE but Fred is IN JAIL so they fuck about it!

Scott/Taff Evans, stuck in a wall

[(Anonymous)]

Listen, I don't know. I just think Con needs the plausible deniability of some kind of contrived shipboard situation in order to live the dream of being fucked by his Dream Strongman. What starts as an extrication/rescue turns into, well, what it usually turns into. Dealer's choice as to how "in on it" Taff is, if at all.

FILL: Tightly Packed, Taff Evans/Scott, E

[(Anonymous)]

Taff Evans sees his arse first. Well, who couldn’t, with the way the Captain has somehow lodged himself headfirst in between some boxes in the hold. They make a cave around his prone body, and Evans knows as well as anyone how the cargo can puzzle together and trap a man. Hell, he’s taken part in trapping a misbehaving boy in a cargo maze once or twice. But Captain Scott? Surely he knows better, and surely he has no reason to be down here.

“Alright, sir?” Evans asks tentatively.

“Evans? Is that you?”

“Aye, it’s me. Need a hand?”

Scott sighs and shifts his feet. It wiggles his arse invitingly, flat as it is. Well, who can blame him for looking? Between the kids and the affair Lois hadn’t been particularly keen for months.

At sea, though. There was always someone at sea. Unusual that it should be the captain, but Scott wasn’t a usual man.

“Unless,” Evans says slowly, taking stock of the way Scott’s back moves as he inhales sharply. The way he moves, as if he has more than enough room to wriggle back out the way he came in. “Unless,” he says again, more sure of himself, “you would like me to help in another way.”

“Please,” Scott says. Gasps, really, desperate and wanton. Evans feels his cock twitch. Like a girl, Captain Scott is, all soft blue eyes filled with tears and a smile that men want to come home to. Evans clocked him as soon as he saw him, the way his eyes lingered on his bulging biceps and the thick spread of his ribs. Back on Discovery Scott came to rely on his strength, and by the time the Crevasse happened, they knew each other. They knew each other that night, in a way, when he and Lashly brought Scott off with hands and mouths in the tent as Evans rutted against Scott’s backside, sliding his cock tantalizingly close to his entrance in a satisfying imitation of what they both really wanted.

Evans makes quick work of his captain’s trouser fastenings and pulls them down to his knees. “You know, sir, you could have sent for me. I’d have come. You know I would’ve.”

“I know, but I need—“

Evans runs a thick finger down to Scott’s hole, prodding at the tight ring of muscle. He half expected Scott to have worked himself open, left himself greased and dripping for Evans to find him. “You want a big, common seaman to have his way with you?”

“Please,” Scott whimpers. “I just… use me, Evans. Have me, when all I can do is take it.”

“All I’ve got is spit to ease the way, Captain.”

“In my pocket. There’s—"

“Ah, you’re gagging for it, aren’t you sir?”

“I’ve been thinking about it since the crevasse, Evans. Now please, just—"

“It’s been years, sir. We’re both married men.”

“Rules are different at sea. You must know that.” He does, never mind that they’re still in port.

“Aye, I do,” Evans says, and he presses two slick fingers into Scott’s willing hole. He’s tight and it must be hurting him, the way Evans shoves his fingers inside, fucking him quick and ruthless. He’ll stop as soon as Scott asks—if he asks—but Evans knows he won’t. He knows his captain. He knows what he needs.

And so he pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the leg of his trousers and says, “You’ll be having me now,” before he pushes his cock in. Scott’s wail is at odds with the way he relaxes his hole, muscles slack enough to take Evans’s cock to the hilt. He fucks him like he did with his fingers, hard and fast. He wishes he could see Scott’s eyes. They’d be teary by now, wet with ecstasy and gratitude and it would make Evans feel like a king.

“How long were you waiting like that, sir? Would you have let any bluejacket fuck you like this, sir?”

Scott’s voice is muffled by the crates and, it sounds, by his own fist in his mouth. “I knew you’d come, Evans,” he pants. “You always come when I need you.”

Well, who is Evans to deny him? He pretends it’s the tight clench of Scott around him instead of the hot rush of affection that drives him to his climax. He pulls out just in time to paint Scott’s back with his seed. The sight is obscene, his captain covered in his come, and he barely registers yanking Scott out of the crates, flipping him over, and swallowing his cock down, keen as mustard. There’s no denying the affection between them now, not with Scott’s girlish flush and watery blue-violet eyes. Not with the way he bucks into Evans’s mouth, hands grasping at his hair, his shoulders, like he’s searching for an anchor. Well, Scott won’t have to search anymore, will he? Evans is here now, and he’ll see this whole show through by his captain’s side.

Belgica Princess Bride AU

[(Anonymous)]

Who’s who? Entirely up to you