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

Amundsen/Wisting, comfort sex

[(Anonymous)]

We all know Roald and Fred Cook are soulmates, but sometimes your soulmate is in prison and your right hand man would do anything to comfort you and mend your broken heart...

Evans/Evans, watersports

[(Anonymous)]

Since he's not allowed to kick him out of the expedition entirely, Teddy decides to punish Taff and teach him a lesson. So how is he the one who ends up on his knees with Taff pissing on his face?

Various/Various, following orders

[(Anonymous)]

During a midwinter or midsummer celebration, the Terra Nova crew draw lots to see who will be crowned king for a day. The rules are that as long as they don't put the expedition at risk, the winner gets to order people around for a day and they have to obey. What starts as some light-hearted fun ends up... however you want. Any and all kinks appreciated except for scat or blood play. Make it as dirty as you want.

Racovitza/Arctowski, anonymous sex on the metro

[(Anonymous)]

Rush hour and the metro is packed. Somehow Raco ends up pushed against the most delicious ass he's ever felt. The motion of the metro and people moving around him make him accidentally rub his crotch against this perfect ass and once he starts, he can't stop

Cook/Amundsen, exes to lovers

[(Anonymous)]

When Cook's NFT empire crumbles and the law is after him, he runs to the Norwegian wilderness and his former lover, survivalist expert Roald Amundsen.

Re: Cook/Amundsen, exes to lovers

[(Anonymous)]

omg somebody please. “cook’s nft empire” 😭😭😭

De Gerlache, raising money for the Belgica, consent issues

[(Anonymous)]

Oh no, there is not enough money for the expedition, Adrien must sugar baby/straight up sell his body to make up the shortfall! Bonus points if Cook is somehow already involved with the expedition and (platonically??) arranges things so that multiple rich Belgians believe that they have purchased Adrien's ass and mouth virginity. Bonus bonus points if other crewmates get roped into the fun: does Adrien need his best friend Danco to be in the room for emotional support or even take a few dicks for the team and reasonable sums, does Cook manage to find any rich patrons with a thing for being Norwegianly glared at, in order to make the best of Roald's particular set of skills, and more bonus points for Leonie in general...THE SKY'S THE LIMIT...as long as Adrien de Gerlache is trying his best to take it well enough to earn the good provisions and falling way short.

FILL: prix-fixe, de Gerlache/Léonie/others, E, heavy dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

The blindfold should have made things easier. They bent Adrien over the table and got to work; the first man was efficient, punishing. He kept himself quiet. And quite neat: he pulled out all at once and, presumably, spent into his own hand, leaving Adrien free to imagine he’d never been fucked at all.

“Five hundred,” Leonie reminded him, “five more for the ones who finish inside.”

Having determined that imagination would not be enough, Adrien turned to prayer. If the Lord had any mercy, this would go quickly, and he would manage to resist any physical stimulation long enough to avoid hideously embarrassing himself. If the Lord had any mercy, surely he would’ve granted Adrien a better way to fund his expedition than this.

This was another sort of debasement.

He had known from the outset that some of the funders Leonie might gather would already be known to him; he hadn’t known how eagerly he would be touched by the men who had thus far ignored him. Not one of them bothered to conceal his excitement. Pinches were stolen. Men chuckled in the corners. Whispers: de Gerlache père, le roi, la bouche.

And then someone pulled Adrien’s legs up, up onto the table, spreading them even wider than he knew they could go while leaving his aching prick bent down against the table's edge. The angle was unnatural, the stretch far enough to bring tears to his eyes. He had no hope of moving. Even as the unseen hands were pulling him apart, the next man was taking his place, slathering a cold oil over Adrien’s twitching hole.

His cry of shock was ignored. Rather: it was punished, swiftly silenced by Madame Osterrieth’s long, strong fingers pushing down on his tongue. She pressed in far enough to make him gag. And then she drew her fingers back, slowly, rubbing them over his tongue as he gagged and whined and the unknown man began to breach him.

Nobody heard, then, when Adrien tried to warn them; nobody was prepared for him to finish without further assistance. He slobbered and shivered most violently as it hit him, as some greedy stranger sent him soaring into that white-hot bliss he’d been hoping to avoid. The stranger fucked the come out of him and then abruptly withdrew, slapping him hard on the ass just as Leonie reclaimed her fingers. Adrien let out a cry so loud it must’ve been heard in the Netherlands. Worse, he let out another short burst of come, hips jerking down against the edge of the table while the man behind him laughed an unsettlingly familiar laugh.

Adrien decided against thinking through the sense of recognition.

The man pushed in again and Adrien truly saw stars, glowing bits of heaven dancing behind his eyelids as he was fucked past the edge of pleasure. Any attempts to push himself up were futile—he could only lay there on that table like a limpet, taking what he was given as real men laughed. Their leavings began leaking out of his ass after the third one, and dribbling down his thighs, a strange heat going cool and tacky on his skin. And still, they touched him. At some point, he simply lost count. It was around the time someone yanked his head up. And demanded he open his mouth.

In the end, he did take all of them: not just one at a time but in any configuration they chose, Leonie having declared that each and every act had its own price. Adrien took four in his mouth and—he hated himself—he loved it, loved the warm weight of each cock sliding over his tongue. He came a second time with his mouth and ass occupied, salty promises leaking down his throat as the man in the rear pumped his swollen cock hard. (This, Leonie informed him sweetly, was worth an extra 1500 francs.) One man fucked him so hard he couldn’t do anything but cry. The table was hard and cruel and cold, facing the wrong direction from the fireplace and too close to the window to get properly warm. Adrien knew he would have bruises. Another man asked Leonie if he could piss on Adrien, swearing to outfit the entire crew with fur coats and pants if Adrien opened his mouth to drink it.

She declined on behalf of the carpet.

After the room cleared, Leonie removed his blindfold. She took him down off of the table and led him into the suite’s bath, guiding him into the big claw-footed tub with soft, soothing murmurs of good boy and well done and I'm so proud of you, Adrien. He nearly sobbed when he felt the water. She helped him, then, and touched him gently, washing him as tenderly as a mother might their child. She even dried him, and dressed him, and drew him towards the bed.

But the bed wasn’t empty.

Adrien cried when she began touching him, bitter tears that stung his cheeks as she stroked his aching prick back to a semblance of hardness. With enough time, and her fingers inside him, she managed to coax his body into submission, just enough so that she could mount him herself. It burned. Every bit of him cried out for relief from the stimulation, and still, she ground herself down on top of him, roasting him inside the oven of her sex as he sobbed into his elbow. She seemed to be flaying him, peeling back every inch of his skin to play over his raw nerves like a piano’s keys, each little jostle of her body on top of his own working another weak sound of protest out of his throat. He spent inside her with a wrecked sob, just the smallest burst of fluid as all the muscles of his body screamed in pain. She stayed to rub herself off—he wailed, noisily, as she dug her nails into his skin—and then slipped away, exposing his burning flesh to the cool, soothing air of the hotel room. Adrien nearly vomited. All he could do was retch.

In the aftermath, as his vision blurred, Léonie came to sit beside him, gently smoothing his hair with her fingers as he shivered on the sheets. “You are just darling, Adrien,” she said sweetly, “and you’ll come back again next week, yes?”

She placed a check on the table.

Only 16,000 francs to go.

LPOE Meares/any

[(Anonymous)]

Look, I just want to see Cecil Meares as portrayed by Bill Nighy in Last Place on Earth get wrecked. Do your worst.

Cherry/any, bad eyesight glasses CUTE??!

[(Anonymous)]

Cherry needing glasses... cute 😳 Cherry without glasses poor eyesight... adorable 😳😳😳 Someone should have sex with him about it.

Could just be someone lusting over this trait bc cute. OR something more involved with multiple partners, Cherry has to guess who's doing what to him cos he can't really see?

Amundsen/Scott, South Pole station ghosts

[(Anonymous)]

Once more thinking about their geographical get-along shirt :''')) Doesn't really need to be shippy but god, I would love to see how their first meeting went - during the construction/naming of the station maybe? And then how long did it take them to learn to put up with each other - did they ever?

Re: Amundsen/Scott, South Pole station ghosts

[(Anonymous)]

Somebody please do this and have them talk shit about all of the scientists there now who get to have hot water and food that isn't pemmican.

Freuchen/Rasmussen, there was only one trading post

[(Anonymous)]

Taking my chances here. Freuchen and Rasmussen are snowed in at Thule trading post, the rest is up to you. Maybe Freuchen's fake leg makes an appearance, idk

Endurance, any/any, kissing

[(Anonymous)]

Please give me some Endurance lad kisses! Dealer's choice of pairing(s) but I would love to see an Elephant Island celebratory rescue kiss. Make this as sweet or spicy as you desire!

FILL: don't lose faith, Hussey/Wordie, T

[(Anonymous)]

this is not the fic i set out to write but it's the one that happened. enjoy my extremely niche ship.

AO3 LINK (https://archiveofourown.org/works/44116770)

Endurance, grief/comfort

[(Anonymous)]

After the Endurance goes down, the men try to comfort each other the best way they know how-- kissing, and maybe more!

Endurance, post football match celebration

[(Anonymous)]

Out on the ice, the crew played a lot of football to keep their spirits up. What if one particular victory celebration turned into more? Who is involved and how horny does it get? That's up to you!

FILL: eat em up, Macklin/Worsley, E

[(Anonymous)]

posted on ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/44136777
(it's just porn)

Football on the ice can hardly even be called that. The pitch is a mere suggestion, the rules are ignored if they’re even understood in the first place, the surface is uneven and difficult to slog through with any sort of speed or agility. There are a few players with some amount of skill on the pitch, but under the circumstances, that doesn’t amount to much.

Still, Macklin enjoys playing, as little resemblance as the game has to actual football. He’s captain of his team, and as much as everyone cheats and stumbles and laughs, they’re also fiercely competitive—Macklin wants to win.

Scott/Wilson, parent/teacher

[(Anonymous)]

Con and Kathleen are best friends and co-parents but aren't together as a couple. It's the start of a new school year and Con meets his son's new teacher, Mr. Bill. Romance!

Kathleen/Oriana, lesbian cruise rivalry

[(Anonymous)]

Preferably a 1920s, 30s or 50s au where Kathleen and Con are happily divorced (Kathleen is happy, Con is Con) and Oriana and Ted have a surprisingly chill lavender Christian marriage.

One of Kathleen's wealthy friends organises a "women only" cruise. Kathleen's planning on fucking a bunch of women and making them fall in love with her. Oriana is there to enjoy whatever fauna they come across. Kathleen hates her on sight.

Gen, Tom Crean's afterlife pub

[(Anonymous)]

When explorers die with unfinished business, their spirits are sent to Tom Crean's afterlife pub, run by the spirit of Tom Crean himself. There they get to rest, meet other explorers, and figure out what their unfinished business is before they can pass on.

FILL: I Am Alive (And How Much I Am Alive), McKinlay/Mamen, T, Re: Gen, Tom Crean's afterlife pub

[(Anonymous)]

Hello OP! I apologize for taking what was obviously supposed to be an Endurance or Terra Nova prompt and making it about the Karluk boys because of who I am as as person, but I hope there are enough easter eggs in here that anyone can enjoy it, even if they aren't familiar with the expedition of my heart.

This is an amazing prompt and I would LOVE to see more people tackle it in completely different ways! I am begging for multiple fills, do not let this self indulgent thing stop you!

Title taken from a letter from McKinlay to his family after his rescue. Rated T, no CWs apply, I hope you enjoy!

***

On May 9th, 1983, William Laird McKinlay’s eyes close for the last time. When they open again, he is standing in front of a pub with the words SOUTH POLE INN emblazoned above the weather-beaten door. It is a fair spring day, and the breeze smells sweet, like clover and wildflowers. He glances around and discovers that the building stands alone at the base of a hill, looking incredibly out of place against this pastoral backdrop. He definitely isn't in Scotland anymore, but where is he? At least it isn't the Arctic— he shudders at the thought. In his darker moments, he used to worry that he would find himself in Hell after his death and that it would take the shape of Wrangel Island. In this, at least, God is merciful.

The sounds of music and laughter drifting out of the pub refocus his attention, and he walks toward the entrance. When he reaches for the door handle, he does not see the gnarled, wrinkled hands of an old man. Instead, they are pink and lightly callused— schoolteacher's hands. Strange, he thinks, my hands haven’t looked like this for at least 60 years…

He reaches up and touches his thick, full head of hair, and he pulls out a piece to examine. Bright red, just as he expected. Although he doesn't have a mirror, he is fairly certain that he is a young man again, in appearance at least. He looks down at his trim figure and his smart tweed suit. Whatever is happening here, at least he will look his best for it.

McKinlay takes a deep breath, pulls open the door, and is greeted with a chorus of cheers from men he does not recognize, although many of them seem familiar in a way he can’t quite articulate. Some are wearing furs or thick sweaters, while others look resplendent in their immaculate Royal Navy uniforms. Judging by what he knows of the uniforms, several of them have been here for a very long time. One man sits in the corner strumming his banjo, and a small group has gathered around him, singing along merrily. Each table has at least two or three men around it, conversing and laughing. There’s even a large tabby cat, stretched out in a beam of sunlight on the wooden floor. The scene is overwhelming, and McKinlay is immensely grateful when the man behind the bar gestures for him to approach.

“What’ll it be, lad?”

The barkeep is an enormous man with a broad face and large ears, his mouth rigid with concentration as he wipes down the bar. McKinlay vaguely remembers seeing this same face in the newspapers, although it feels like a century ago.

“Excuse me sir, are you Tom Crean?”

“Aye, the very same! What can I get you?”

McKinlay considers his answer carefully.

“Whiskey. And… can you possibly tell me what’s going on here?”

Crean looks at him with a twinkle in his eye. "Have you never been to a pub before?"

"I…of COURSE, but..."

"I'm only codding, lad," Crean chuckles. "I don't know all the details, but I’ll tell you what I know, all right?”

McKinlay nods, captivated.

“Everyone here is a polar explorer of some sort. When they die, they come here to complete their unfinished business, and then they pass on to the next life.”

“That sounds impossible,” McKinlay interjected. “How could they—”

“I don’t know whys or hows, just what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I’ve seen it go quickly, like when Fred Cook punched that gobshite with the mustache the minute he showed up and then they both passed on, but some of them have been here since long before I took over. Those boys in the fancy uniforms? Franklin's lads. They don’t want to pass on until their bodies are identified. And then there's the Boss—"

"Shackleton is here?" McKinlay asks in disbelief.

"Aye, he's just outside," Crean says, gesturing to the window. McKinlay sees the great explorer pacing nervously outside. "He's waiting for… someone very special to him who got lost along the way. He's out there because Mrs. Chippy won't allow him in here."

"Mrs. Ch—"

Crean points at the cat, who is now staring daggers at Shackleton through the window.

"Oh."

"He'll get past it someday, he just likes to keep the Boss on his toes. It's far worse for the ones who were intentionally cruel to their animals. Mackintosh was held hostage by a pack of mad huskies for decades. And sometimes the animals come back for a bit of fun. It's been a while since that bleedin' pony Christopher knocked over my tables and broke all my beer steins, as though I was the one who decided to drag his sorry carcass to Antarctica! A cursed beast if ever there was one."

McKinlay chuckled. "Now THAT I would like to see!"

"Stick around long enough and you will!"

McKinlay grew quiet, and Crean's face softened.

"Do you know why you're here, lad?"

"I… have an idea."

One idea, one fantasy, he thinks. It is dangerous to hope.

Crean turns around and grabs a top shelf bottle of whiskey, carefully pours two fingers into a glass, and slides it across the bar to McKinlay.

"Drink up, it'll do you good."

McKinlay finally sits down and sips the deliciously smooth whiskey, feels it burn all the way down.

"Do you know everyone here?" he asks hesitantly.

"Aye, more or less. There are a few who drift in and out, but I know everyone who's here for a reason. Is there someone you're looking for?"

"Captain Robert Bartlett. I want to thank him again for saving my life, and I want to tell him that I tried to restore his good name. I did—" he inhales sharply. "I did the best I could. I wrote the book. I hope it was enough."

McKinlay tries to choke back the tears, but they come anyway. Crean gently wipes his face with a clean bar rag. "There's no shame in it, lad," he says with a kind smile. "A man ought to cry when being reunited with his hero."

McKinlay looks quizzically at Crean, but then he hears a voice behind him.

"Wee Mac, you canny Scot!"

McKinlay would recognize that voice anywhere. He wheels around and sees the beaming face of Robert Bartlett, his mentor, his friend, and yes, his hero. They embrace, Bartlett pulling the smaller man to his chest.

"God, but I missed you. I'm so sorry," McKinlay stammers, "about the things they said about you. You saved us all. I owe you my life."

"You had a good life, and it's been an honor to watch over you from here. I would make the journey to Siberia a hundred times over again for you."

McKinlay begins to weep again, but this time they are happy tears. "I have so many things to tell you! Did you know that Stefansson di—"

"Mac."

McKinlay pulls out of the embrace and looks up at Bartlett, who also has tears in his eyes. "Of course I know that Stefansson died. I threw him through that plate glass window"—he gestures to a boarded up window near the back of the pub— "as soon as he arrived, and he hasn't been seen since!"

Both men laugh heartily through their tears at that story. An ignoble end for a ridiculous man.

"But Mac, that's not all. This is my unfinished business. I never spelled it out in our letters, but I need you to know that I'm proud of you, so very proud. You were the leader the men needed out on Wrangel, and you did so well.”

Not all the men, McKinlay thinks, not the one who mattered the most.

“I never had a son, but if I did, I hope he would have been just like you,” Bartlett continues warmly. “And now that I’ve said it, I think I’m ready to move on."

McKinlay offers a weak nod and a bittersweet smile.

Bartlett becomes less solid, his figure taking on an ethereal quality. McKinlay gives his hand one final squeeze before Bartlett evaporates into starlight. The men applaud and cheer vigorously, giving Bartlett an enthusiastic sendoff to the next realm of existence.

"Always a privilege to watch it happen," Crean muses. "He's readying himself for whatever comes next, now."

McKinlay turns around and faces Crean again, wiping his tear-streaked face with his sleeve.

"So why am I still here? Surely that was my unfinished business as well?"

"A piece of it, aye," Crean says, "but not the whole thing, and I think you know that. You'd better follow me to the back room."

His stomach flips as he follows Crean down a hallway to a cozy bedroom. In it, he sees two men playing chess at a small table set up in the middle of the room. The man closest to him is tall and blonde, with an angular face and a distinctive nose. And the other man?

It couldn’t be.

Bjarne Mamen leaps from his chair, clears the distance between himself and McKinlay in an instant, and crushes him to his chest. There are no words for this moment.

“I’ll leave you be,” Crean whispers, closing the door behind him.

They hold each other for what feels like an eternity, only breaking apart when they hear the third man in the room awkwardly clear his throat.

“Pen, I am sorry for not introducing you!” Mamen exclaims. “Harry Pennell, meet my dearest friend William McKinlay.”

Pennell shakes his hand vigorously. “A pleasure,” he exclaims. “I’ve heard so much about you, usually while Mamen here is destroying me at chess. Says you taught him everything he knows!”

McKinlay blushes at the compliment. “An exaggeration, I promise.”

He pauses for a moment, contemplating whether or not to ask the question that’s on his mind.

"Is it considered rude to ask someone why they’re here?”

Pennell smiles. “I suppose some are tighter lipped about it than others, but I’m glad to talk about it. Believe it or not, I’m happy here! Tom’s a fine chap, and I love watching people come and go. It’s like going to the theater every day! Why just the other day I saw the most remarkable—”

“He is also waiting for someone,” Mamen interjects, “but he can tell us more later.” He glares at Pennell, his intent unmistakeable.

“Right! Well, it was lovely to meet you, William.”

Mamen herds Pennell out the door, pulling it closed and locking it behind him. He turns to face McKinlay, who looks at him the way a starving man looks at a feast.

“I can’t believe you’re here, Bjarne,” he whispers. “And that you've forgiven me. After all this time…”

Mamen approaches him quickly, pinning him against the wall before he has a chance to object.

"Listen to me— there is nothing to forgive."

Mamen uses one finger to tilt his chin upward, then bends down for a breathless kiss. McKinlay arches into it, his fingers in Mamen’s soft hair and one hand on his broad, muscular back. They are so unlike the last time they saw each other on that terrible day in the tent, when McKinlay was forced to leave camp in search of food for Mamen and failed to return with it in time. Now they are both strong and vigorous and full of life, with Mamen looking every inch the skiing champion. This, too, is a miracle.

Mamen pulls away first, a contagious grin on his face.

“I have waited over a hundred years to do that. Do you know what that kind of waiting will do to a man?”

McKinlay, not to be outdone, grabs Mamen’s tie and pulls him back down to his eager mouth.

“No,” he mutters in between kisses, “but I would love to find out.”

***

They awaken in the small bed a few hours later, thoroughly debauched and blissfully content. Mamen lies behind McKinlay, and he uses his finger to trace lines between the freckles on his back. "Like constellations," he exclaims. "You are so beautiful. I want to kiss every constellation on your body."

McKinlay practically melts into the mattress, relishing Mamen's gentle touch, until he is awakened from his reverie by a disturbing thought.

"Was this our unfinished business? Are we going to disappear now? We were just getting started!"

"Shhhh," Mamen whispers, wrapping one strong arm around McKinlay's waist. "I believe this was our unfinished business, but we stay here until we are ready to move on. Every man has a choice. Tom will let us stay as long as we want, and all I want is to be with you in this bed."

McKinlay sighs with relief and rolls over to face Mamen, places a soft kiss on his lips and a hand on his chest. "Someday we'll be ready to move on together, but right now?"

He reaches his other hand down and brushes Mamen's stiffening cock with the tips of his fingers.

"Right now, the things I want to do to you require a physical body."

***

Life at the pub continues on just as it has for time immemorial. Crean serves drinks and lends a listening ear to new arrivals and old timers alike, breaking up the occasional fight in the process. Songs are sung, tears are shed, and bonds are forged. Shackleton peers in the windows, hoping that Mrs. Chippy will forgive him. Eventually he does, although he insists that Shackleton stay on the opposite side of the pub from him at all times.

Scientific advancements make it possible to identify the remains of some of Franklin's men, and those lucky few move on after nearly 200 years of waiting. The others stay, vowing to maintain their vigil until each set of bones has a name again.

In the not so distant future, Frank Wild and Edward Atkinson make their way back from the darkness and find themselves at the pub, but that is a story for another day.

In the more distant future, Mamen and McKinlay reach a decision. They approach the bar hand in hand and thank Crean for his hospitality. Then, they tell him they're ready.

Crean smiles bittersweetly.

"Gonna miss you lads. Fair winds and following seas to you. If you ever get the chance to stop by again…"

"We promise," they say together.

The pub erupts in cheers as the transformation begins. McKinlay and Mamen gaze into each other's eyes as they, too, become starlight.

Gen, lpoe piano twinks plan a murder

[(Anonymous)]

Clem's finally put them in his will, it's time for him to die

Re: Gen, lpoe piano twinks plan a murder

[(Anonymous)]

on ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/46782289

Gen(ish), the Belgica crew on a stag do

[(Anonymous)]

Help, they've lost Danco!

Birdie/Cherry(/Wilson?), wingfic

[(Anonymous)]

Antarctic magic makes Birdie grow wings. Bill and Cherry examine him for scientific purposes. The wings, they are sensitive.

Shackleton/Orde-Lees, misunderstandings (anything to shut Orde-Lees up)

[(Anonymous)]

Shackleton finally figures out the secret to getting Orde-Lees to stop being so annoying all the time: copious amounts of filthy sex. Things begin to backfire when Orde-Lees misinterprets these dalliances as Shackleton making romantic overtures, and he only gets more annoying in the long run once he gets it in his head that the Boss is trying to "court" him.

Scott/Shackleton/Wilson, recollections in the tent

[(Anonymous)]

Near the end, Scott and Wilson find themselves talking about Shackleton

Shackleton/Wild, Orde-Lees diary entries

[(Anonymous)]

You're Thomas Orde-Lees and you're oblivious to the very obvious fact that Frank and the Boss are fucking

Worsley/Macklin, massage

[(Anonymous)]

Worsley's back has been acting up and he goes to Mack for some pain relief but gets a massage instead... and something more

FILL: By Appointment Only, Worsley/Macklin, E

[(Anonymous)]

“I’m no masseur,” Macklin said by way of apology. Then he dug the heels of his hands in deep below the base of Worsley’s neck, and Worsley purred like a kitten.

“Mm. Could have fooled me.”

Worsley’s cabin had been chosen as the site of this haphazard arrangement, less for the privacy than for the available surface of Worsley’s bunk. Still he would readily admit to relishing the circumstances. There he was, lying in bed with Macklin looming above him, putting those strong, broad hands to work against his bare back.

“I really am sorry.”

“Hmm?”

“About the aspirin. Mick must’ve gone and squirrelled it away somewhere after Sir Ernest’s lecture on sledging stores. I thought this would be better than letting you stew in the pain waiting for him to return and put the dogs up. And I know we’ve plenty of liniment to spare.”

“I’m certainly not complaining.” Worsley sighed happily, lost in the sensation of Macklin’s oiled palms on his skin. A brilliant idea struck him. “You ought to set up a private practice in the lab, you know. Your talents are wasted on this life-saving business. We could pay you in tobacco!”

“You know I don’t smoke.”

“Then we’ll come up with a new currency. Something you couldn’t refuse. What do you want right now, more than anything else in this world?”

“There isn’t much I want here that I don’t already have,” Macklin said, inscrutably. Worsley waited for him to elaborate. “Are you cold?” he asked instead.

Worsley shook his head slowly. “Warm, if anything. Too bloody stuffy in here.”

Macklin murmured his agreement. He had already stripped down to his shirtsleeves. The air was thick with the heady, herbal smell of analgesic. It would have been almost suffocating under different circumstances; as it was, Worsley wondered if he’d ever felt truer bliss.

The steady knead of Macklin’s palms against his back drew him down into a haze of pleasure by degrees. He only realised he was drifting off once he roused himself again, blinking away the sleep. His limbs felt stuffed with cotton and the sharp pain in his back had been exchanged for a dispersed, pleasurable ache. He noticed, distantly at first, an irrepressible heat growing low in his belly. After a few more moments under Macklin’s attention, it was all he could do to keep quiet and still his twitching hips.

Then Macklin did something positively cruel with his hands, and Worsley moaned aloud.

“Don’t be crude.”

“I’m sorry, Mack,” Worsley laughed helplessly. “It isn’t exactly voluntary.” He shifted once, twice, in a futile effort for some relief.

Macklin huffed. “Would you quit squirming? Christ, I’ll hold you down if I have to—”

Hold you down if I have to. That image would be his undoing. The thin, straining threads of his composure were cut from him bodily. He rolled his hips into the mattress with a shudder, heart hammering in his chest. He might have whimpered; he could hardly hear for the roaring in his ears.

Immediately, Macklin’s hands stilled against his back.

“Ah,” he said.

“God, Mack, but I am sorry,” Worsley started, undone beyond any sense of embarrassment, unable to stifle the manic giggle that had forced its way up his throat. “I’ll be still, it’ll go away, just—keep going.”

“That’s alright,” Macklin said quietly.

Worsley pressed his burning face into the sheets and held very still. Was that unease he heard in the waver of Macklin’s voice? He opened his mouth to tell him never mind, to play it all off as an off-colour joke. Shameless and heedless as he was, the last thing in the world he wanted was to discomfit the man.

But Macklin went on. “It’s natural, really,” he said, to the bafflement of Worsley’s already addled mind. The words came out strong and steady. After faltering for just a moment, he had once again taken on the professional mien of the confident, assuring doctor. “After so many months without much real physical contact. Perfectly normal. The sign of a healthy body.”

“Oh, good,” Worsley laughed in disbelief. His voice was muffled by the sheets. “So long as it’s normal.”

“I assure you it is.” Macklin resumed the massage, working his hands down along either side of Worsley’s spine until they reached his lower back. Here he paused, tugging Worsley’s trousers down a few inches. He dug his knuckles into the newly exposed skin just above his buttocks. This simple act had the added consequence of pressing Worsley’s hips down against the mattress, and every little rotation of his hands sweetly offered a delicious bit of friction for Worsley’s aching cock.

Through it all, Worsley kept still. But when he felt Macklin clamber into the bunk and straddle his legs, pressing down against his hips with all his weight, he lost his last shred of restraint.

“In fact,” Macklin said as Worsley squirmed and panted beneath him, “as your physician, I may even go so far as to encourage it.”

“Encourage it,” Worsley echoed dumbly, breathlessly, into the bedding. “As my physician.”

“See, some schools of thought within the field of reproductive health still hold that prolonged periods of abstinence from intercourse may be linked to impotence.”

“Can’t have that,” Worsley managed. Was he ill? Was he dreaming? He braced himself for the sudden judder of reality, to be shaken awake by Wild or the Boss with some new and inventive catastrophe to be narrowly escaped, but the moment never came. He hardly knew what to do past this point. It was always when he woke, on the precipice of something far too good to be true.

“We certainly can’t,” Macklin replied with solemnity. “I mean it’s all nonsense, of course, but you can never be too careful.”

“What is your—oh—your recommendation then, Dr Macklin?” Worsley buried his face further into the sheets, which did little to hide his delirious grin.

“In my professional opinion, manual stimulation of the affected organ ought to suffice. A prostate massage, just to be thorough. And if you find that treatment plan isn’t to your satisfaction, I’m certain we can come up with something together.”

“You know I love it when you talk doctor, Mack, but if you’re going to fuck me, you’d better come out and say it.”

“Is that what you want?” Macklin’s voice had gone unsteady again, and his touch gentled. He wasn’t teasing, either; he sounded ready to give Worsley the moon, had he asked for it. Worsley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to devour him, and be devoured in turn.

He settled on a firm nod, a muffled “please.”

Macklin huffed out a laugh. “Christ, Wuzzles. Glad to see you’re not above begging.”

Worsley raised himself onto his forearms. “I think you’ll find I am above very little, sir,” he said as airily as he could manage, nose stuck straight up. “And nothing at all when it comes to you.” These last words he murmured, so overcome with affection that he almost felt bashful for it.

Macklin had stopped his massaging in earnest now. Worsley twisted to catch a glimpse of him—met with only the faintest protest from his back—and Macklin returned his gaze without hesitancy. His smile was charming in its boyishness. His glasses were askew. A deep flush painted its way from his cheeks to his collarbone before disappearing beneath his shirt. Worsley wanted to follow it further, see if it went right down to the tips of his toes.

“I’ll—I’ll have to wash my hands, of course.” Macklin nodded to the bottle of liniment.

“Of course.”

He didn’t move an inch. “Right,” he said.

“Well go on! Or do you really want to see me beg?” Worsley gave him a playful kick in his side.

Macklin rose sheepishly and stumbled through the door with a last, lingering glance, and Worsley was left alone.

He rolled onto his back and squirmed around a bit, fighting off impatience. Then he decided that Macklin oughtn’t mind if he got an early start, so he kicked off his trousers and did just that. This was how Macklin found him, palming himself lazily, heels dug into the mattress. A perfect space to slide in between his drawn-up legs.

Macklin was there in an instant, kissing Worsley as he did anything: gently, firmly, with unrelenting resolve. He gripped him by the waist and pulled him in close, forcing a hand between them to wrap around Worsley’s own.

“Steady on, Mack,” He gasped, taking him by the back of his neck. “Or I’ll never last.”

Macklin pulled himself away as though it pained him. He took a deep breath, began to ask, “do you have anything—”

“Vaseline, up on the shelf there.”

He blinked down at Worsley. “Clearly I needn’t be so concerned for the state of your virility.”

“None of that now! I’ll have you know it’s the best thing for rope burns.”

Macklin hummed, unconvinced, and snatched the jar from overhead. He wasted no time in spreading the stuff across his fingers, warming it with his breath. Good, thought Worsley, who had never properly studied the art of waiting patiently.

“And,” he continued, with mock reluctance, “if a man gets lonely after so many months at sea, that’s his own business.”

“Tell me what you think about,” Macklin said. He pressed a quick kiss to Worsley’s bent knee before manoeuvring his leg to one side. “When you do this for yourself.”

The other leg he placed over his shoulder, running a steadying hand down Worsley’s thigh, and any discomfort in the position was far outweighed by the intoxicating sensation that followed. Macklin’s broad fingers circled his entrance, pressing once, firmly, teasingly, into the tight heat of him before withdrawing and starting again with a gentler touch.

“I’m beginning to suspect you know exactly what I think about.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“For a start, I think about these arms of yours. Stronger than they have any right to be. And this fine broad chest.” Worsley ran his hands up Macklin’s biceps, down his pectorals, pausing to worry a peaked nipple between finger and thumb. “And these beautiful hands, holding me down, opening me up, oh, just like this.”

Macklin smiled bashfully. He added a second finger, as if in reward for Worsley’s sweet talk.

For his next performance piece, Worsley closed his eyes and hummed, affecting thoughtfulness. “Sometimes,” he began, breath hitching, “I think about bending you over the nearest crate and fucking you silly while everyone goes about their duties around us. And the Boss is yelling for me, but I won’t let up. You just keep begging for it, such sweet sounds, and I find myself well and truly powerless to deny you.”

Macklin gave a ragged exhale. His hips stuttered in the empty air between them. “Are you always this chatty with two fingers in you?” Somehow he made the question sound fond.

Worsley grinned. “You always bring out my best.”

By the time Macklin got around to fucking him proper, it was bare minutes before Worsley was spilling over his hand with a gasp. This suited him just as well. He was perfectly pleased to lie there and act the pretty little thing, sated beyond belief, as Macklin fucked into him with all the scrupulous, thorough attention of a very fine physician.

He was quieter than Worsley had hoped. A grunt, a sigh, a rare curse muffled against the line of Worsley’s jaw when he clenched around him. He was conservative with lips and teeth, generous with touch. When his rhythm began to falter and his breaths came out short, he made to pull away, but Worsley drew him back in tight.

“Frank, I—”

He took Macklin’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. Even like this, he could never get close enough. “Please,” he urged against Macklin’s panting mouth.

“Oh, Christ,” Macklin choked out. He spent inside him with a last, desperate thrust and collapsed atop him in a trembling heap.

Worsley might have stayed like that for hours, days, a month, even; but no sooner had Macklin rolled aside than he was pushing himself up onto his elbows again. He eyed the door longingly, beyond which Worsley knew lay the holy grail of the thoroughly debauched: a good, clean wash.

“We ought to—”

“No, no.” Worsley pulled him back down. “You stay right where you are. I’ll run and fetch something to clean us up.” It was the least he could do, really.

With a parting kiss, he rose gracefully from the bunk, preening slightly at the obscene dribble of Macklin’s spend down his thighs. Then he straightened properly, and—oh, Christ. He went down on his knees, lowered himself flat against the deck, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Macklin peered over the edge. “All right down there?”

“No,” Worsley half-groaned, half-laughed. He sounded pitiful even to his own ears. “You’ve ruined my bloody back.”

“Oh God, Wuzzles, I’m sorry.” Macklin stepped down from the bunk to kneel at his side. “I didn’t think—”

“Don’t you dare apologise. I’ve never had half as much fun putting it out.”

“Here, I’ll—” He wormed his arms beneath Worsley and endeavoured to lift him.

“Ah—!” Worsley winced against the movement, and Macklin set him down again gently. “Just let me lie here a moment.”

“What can I do to help you?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just need a moment.” He paused. “Only—well, would you promise me something?”

Macklin frowned down at him, concerned. “What is it?”

“If we ever get me up off of this deck…” He could hardly bring himself to form the words. “Not another massage, please. As much as I’d enjoy it, you’re liable to break me in two this time.”

The ship creaked beneath them of a sudden, leaning to starboard, and the poor old bottle of liniment oil which had been abandoned so long ago proceeded to roll straight off Worsley’s bunk and strike him on the ankle in retribution.

Macklin sighed. “I’ll have another look for the aspirin.”

“Good lad.”

Orde-Lees, ghost sex

[(Anonymous)]

Orde-Lees is so annoying that none of the other Endurance lads want to get with him, but an unknown presence-- maybe the ghost of an unlucky polar explorer of years past?-- shows up and shows him a good time. Bonus points if he writes about it in his diary.

Teddy Evans/various, class kink fantasies

[(Anonymous)]

AU: Teddy's not in the RN.

Teddy's back home at his family's estate and he can't stop fantasising about getting ravaged by the help. Bonus for groundskeeper Lashly or Crean and verbal humiliation