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

Terra Nova any/any(/many?), chest measurements

[(Anonymous)]

It's chest measurement time and everyone's bodies are on show! Maybe someone smaller is getting affectionately(?) bullied for being scrawny and then events turn smutty? Just would be good to celebrate the inherent homoeroticism of knowing your buddies' stats.

Re: Terra Nova any/any(/many?), chest measurements

[(Anonymous)]

The inherent homoeroticism of checking for signs of TB

Scott/Amundsen, any

[(Anonymous)]

What if they’d had to team up? Who would they be in a modern AU? I have so many thoughts and 99% of them are about the inherent eroticism of besting your rival

Stenhouse/Worsley, victory sex after stealing the Aurora

[(Anonymous)]

AU where Wuzzles gets his way and he and Stenhouse steal the Aurora right out from under JK Davis’s nose! They celebrate their victory with some rowdy celebratory sex in the captain’s cabin.

Bonus points if they toss Evil Ninnis overboard

(This could also be a pirate au because pirate Wuzzles… hot)

Re: Stenhouse/Worsley, victory sex after stealing the Aurora

[(Anonymous)]

Dear OP, it has taken me a zillion years and I took the prompt in a bit of a whack direction but: voila :* https://archiveofourown.org/works/60692791

Gran/Deb, dubcon

[(Anonymous)]

After making other successful predictions, psychic (?) Gran uses his powers to convince Deb that they are destined to hook up

Scott/Wilson, sci-fi AU, android Bill

[(Anonymous)]

Con is lonely, Bill is a highly-rated Companion Bot™. Sparks fly - perhaps literally? Please make it sad :)))))))

Oates/Atch, boot blacking + service kink

[(Anonymous)]

The inherent eroticism of riding boots! The perfect activity for two guys to perform together in perfect silence! Author decides whether it ends up going in a more risqué direction…

FILL: L. E. G., Atch/Oates, M, boot polishing

[(Anonymous)]

A well-made riding boot is a thing of beauty. Atkinson makes a pleased humming sound as he admires Oates's pair from his kneeling position. His own pair are more than adequate to his needs but the Soldier's are simply splendid - a rich chestnut brown, and so close-fitted to the elegant shape of his legs.

He takes a stiff bristled brush, turning it over in his hands. A day's hard riding and camping out in the scrubland until morning, what could be better? The only difficulty is caring for their gear, not having anyone to polish their boots at the end of a dusty day in the wilderness. Then again, for Oates the management of all matters equestrian is no duty but the keenest pleasure. And as for Atkinson himself, he finds his own enjoyment in this brand of menial labour.

He takes one of Oates's feet, guiding it into his lap. He notes the good, solid weight of it admiringly, enjoys the way the heel digs into his thigh. With short, firm strokes he begins to remove the day's layers of caked-up dirt. It's satisfying, how easily the detritus of this dry terrain crumbles off the sole, the toe, the heel. It sloughs away in a fine dust onto surfaces of less value - the ground and Atkinson's trousers.

He sets one foot down, picks up the other. A pleasant calm takes over him when he applies himself to such tasks. The satisfaction of a task completed to perfection, a boot polished to a shine… these things cannot, in Atkinson's book, be overstated. Oates has lit a pipe, and while he is too close to the ground to enjoy the smoke properly, still the smell is in the air and the aroma a pleasant one.

Atkinson notes admiringly how this boot has been shaped differently to the other. The two from all conventional angles look quite alike. Only a close examination of the sole reveals that this one has been altered to fractionally raise the height. He traces the join of the grafted parts of the sole with an index finger.

His reverie is interrupted by the impatient tapping of Titus's other foot. He sighs. Daylight hours will fade shortly, more's the pity. He takes up his rag and polish.

As a boy he had always felt very keenly the strangeness of handing off his muddy boots to some other soul to clean and polish. An article that had been so close to his body in the care of another, and scarcely cold! He would try and watch the maid brush and buff from between the bannisters, her skirts tucked up about her waist. With a boy's sharp and oddly directed sense of justice he had felt that perhaps he should shine her old work boots in exchange for this intimate and peculiar labour. Besides, he would have liked to do it, especially if she was wearing them at the time. She had such wonderfully strong, stout calves.

He rubs the polish deep into the leather. The boots fit Oates beautifully, soft enough to move freely and yet snug enough to show off the study muscle of his calves. He can feel that same muscle under its the sheath of soft leather. Atkinson digs his fingers in, easing the knots of the day's ride out of the tense tissue. Oates exhales, tobacco smoke seeping lazily from his nostrils.

Atkinson massages the polish down the boot to a surprisingly slender ankle. Desire is coiling in his belly. He observes it as a phenomenon but takes no action either to encourage or discourage it. He needs his hands to buff the rich calf leather. Covering his hand with the rag he clamps his hand as far around Oates's lower leg as it will reach. He pumps it up and down, up and down, until the leather shines.

He carefully directs that leg from his custody. Oates preempts his picking up the other, choosing instead to shove it roughly into his lap, the sole pressing hard into his stiffening prick. Oates chuckles, evidently pleased with himself. Atkinson scoffs - albeit a little weakly - and manoeuvres the boot to a more congenial position.

It's interesting. One could never mention such a thing, of course, it wouldn't do. But while the Soldier hardly looks the part of the aristocrat as a rule, from this angle and position of relative subjection, there is something altogether lordly about him. It is as if his face was contrived to come alive when seen from below, as in sculpture one sees in museums or churches on the continent. Or perhaps it ks simply that he is allowing himself to revel in the attention. He is a Captain, and Atkinson now understands, in a detached way, what might lead one to follow such a man into battle.

He pulls back from his work. Atkinson raises an eyebrow and nods, signalling its completion.

Oates kicks his foot forward, pressing the sole into Atkinson's chest. He grins slyly.

"Now lick it."

"And catch my next specimen? No fear."

Oates pushes insistently. Atkinson sighs and takes the boot in hand once more. He leans in, pressing his cheek into the hollow above Oates's inside ankle. He inhales the scent of the leather - he's always found it an old, thick smell. Animal and yet metallic; metallic like the iron tang of blood. He angles his mouth to the boot and does not lick it but instead presses his lips to the supple surface. It is warmed from the body beneath it like a second skin. Oates grunts, apparently satisfied. He withdraws his leg, stands up.

"Your turn."

Pennell/Atch, there was only one bed

[(Anonymous)]

In New Zealand, after the Terra Nova has picked up the survivors. Jane needs to not think for a while and Penelope's just the chap to rail him within an inch of his life.

FILL: Sweet Relief, Pennell/Atch, there was only one bed (kinda), first time, E

[(Anonymous)]

They were both exhausted, but there was work yet to be done: telegraphs and letters to be drafted and corrected into fair copies, logs and diaries to catch up on. Outside their room, the summer evening was warm and inviting. The call of a lark blew in on a breeze through the window, and Pennell longed to be outdoors. But they would not finish their work until after the sun had set, and then he certainly would have to sleep, for he had had little enough rest last night, and tomorrow the ship came again and he would have to take up command again.

Jane had handled it all so wonderfully: the red-faced rudeness of the reporters on the train, Kinsey’s endless questioning, the awkward failure of the news getting to Mrs. Wilson before he could deliver it personally. All this he braved without complaint, while Pennell merely hung about, feeling at once admiring and anxious.

But through the afternoon and evening Pennell had watched Jane's face grow drawn, his shoulders hunched. His hand had begun to shake, now, as he wrote.

“Why don’t you lie down for a moment,” Pennell suggested gently. “I’ll carry on here.”

For a moment he thought Jane might take against the idea, and in his obstinate way redouble his efforts and thus exhaust himself. But instead he sighed, capped his pen and retreated. The bedsprings creaked behind him as Pennell resumed working, and he figured Jane had fallen asleep.

But a little while later he looked around and found him sitting at the edge of his bed, head in his hands.

“Jane—“

“Don’t quit on my account,” said Jane hoarsely. But Pennell did so. Sentence left unfinished, he quickly came to sit beside Jane.

“Listen to the birds,” Pennell said. “It’s almost as if we were back in England, isn’t it?”

“I felt like a brute, earlier, you know, explaining it to her,” said Jane. His mind was elsewhere: in Kinsey’s cluttered office, describing the final scene to poor Mrs. Wilson. “But afterwards, I was relieved, for as you said the worst is over. Then all at once I realized, it’s not, is it. It won’t ever be over. Back in England, everywhere I go: I’ll have to go on telling it over and over. The tent, and the bodies. The dogs and the fuel. The scurvy, for God’s sake, I’ll be blamed—“ He broke off, raising his eyes to the ceiling to blink back tears.

Earlier that day in Oamaru as they had lain in the field awaiting the express, Pennell had looked over to see the morning light settling into those lines on Jane's face which had not been there the last time Pennell had seen him.

He had wanted—he had thought he might like to hold him, then, but he had refrained.

To be entirely honest, he had wanted to hold Jane from the moment he came aboard at Cape Evans. On spotting Pennell he had flashed him a smile, that smile which he had missed so dearly, and despite the awful bleakness of the loss which hung about them and all the troubles he knew where yet to come Pennell had felt in that moment utterly, blindingly happy.

Now he put an arm tentatively around Jane. “It won’t always be this hard,” he said. “It will all be behind you one day.”


“Mmm.”

“And in the meantime, I’ll be here. I promise.”

“…Then perhaps I shall manage.”

Pennell offered an encouraging look. He squeezed Jane’s shoulder and tried to think of what he might possibly say next.

But in the moment before it came to him, Jane had leaned forward and kissed him.

It was a shock. But then, addled by grief and exhaustion, Jane may well not have been in his right mind.

He only needed to be cared for, that was all. Didn't he need to be assured that someone else had things in hand? Pennell was now over two years into his first command and he knew how to bring a ship about, how to anchor and how to dredge, how to make the men beneath him know their place when they had to be reminded. Who better for the job?

All of this passed through his mind in a flash; and by the time he had made a conscious resolution to carry on, his body had already well and decided for him. He was kissing Jane back, with a fierceness that seemed to surprise them both. It felt so utterly right, to be so close: shock and reasoning fell away as he embraced Jane, bringing their bodies fully together.

Jane’s hands were on his back, gentling at his nape, fingers slipping down inside his shirt collar to scratch his back. It felt wonderful. As did the feeling of Jane pressing him back onto the bed, putting all his weight atop him. Pennell was at once covetous and fearful. He didn’t want to hurt Jane, fragile and worn as he was, but it was as if a boiler he had not realized existed had been lit and stoked inside him, and he could not stop himself from clutching at every inch of Jane, his face, his back, his arse. Oh, God, he was here and he was alive. Pennell had not let himself think for a moment of what would have happened if Jane had died—for that would lead to gratitude that he had not and that someone else had in his stead, and that was sacrilege—but he was grateful, how could he not be? Jane smelled of pipe smoke and cedar and aftershave. His teeth were delightfully sharp as they tugged hungrily at Pennell’s lips. Pennell, arching up against him, could feel the compact heat of him, his heart racing—or maybe that was Pennell’s own.

“Do you want me to—?” Pennell began, before realizing he had no idea how to end that sentence. He was utterly unenlightened. He was supposed to be the one consoling Jane, the one taking charge, but here he was now at his command.

Jane swept a hand down to find where Pennell had all too quickly hardened in his trousers. “I could use a good buggering right now,” he said. “If you wouldn’t object too strongly.”

Honest, stubborn, wonderful Jane. If this was what he needed now, Pennell would do it—he would do anything at all to stop him from drifting away, from going somewhere he could not follow.

And besides—he wanted it. So badly it hurt.

The room was warm and they were already down to their shirtsleeves. The light through the window behind Jane lit him up from behind as he clambered off of Pennell and began removing the rest of his clothes. Pennell gawked. Every inch of skin revealed was finer than the last.

“Will you need help undressing, then?” Jane remarked, which shocked Pennell out of his paralysis and had him scrambling for his fly.

He let down his suspenders to get his trousers and underwear off, but didn’t remove his shirt; he was embarrassed, of what he couldn’t quite say. Only maybe that he was not so delicately beautiful as Jane, that a certain ungainliness persisted in him on land, that he really was unworthy of anything as lovely as the man before him.

Then Jane climbed on top of him and kissed him again, deeply and with intent, and he forgot it all. He would give Jane anything he wanted: and what he wanted, it seemed, was Pennell’s cock. He had a hand around it, coated in his own hair oil, and worked its length through his fist a few times, thumbing at the slit and coaxing one whimper after another out of Pennell.

“I should have known,” he said, not bothering to explain further.

He lowered himself onto Pennell slowly and deliberately. Pennell gripped the mattress and tried not to think about who he might have done this with before—or at least promised himself he’d try, before such things ceased to matter entirely as he was overcome. A sound wrenched itself from him as he found himself—inside of Jane, held tightly there in a hot clench that was impossible to describe. If he were to try—right—it felt right.

Above him in the light, Jane swayed, mouth slightly open with his tongue swiping along his charming teeth. Brows knit together in an odd expression which Pennell worried was not pleasure. “Is it—am I—how does it feel?” he gasped.

Jane reached down and took his hand. Squeezed it once, twice; as his dark eyes bore into him with the weight of something wordless behind them.

Then he began to move, lean and well-exercised thighs propelling him up and down on Pennell’s cockstand, and Pennell must have done this in dreams—or a past life as per a certain biologist—for it was as if he knew exactly what to do, how to raise his hips in time to meet Jane coming down, so that with every thrust he felt Jane’s tight channel anew.

Rising and falling on a swell of overpowering sensation centered on his prick, he tried to keep his bearings. From his splayed position he could see Jane’s throat bob, and the sweat on his chest collecting amidst the sparse dark hair there, and the muscles flexing in his stomach. That wonderfully trim boxer’s body which had carried Jane through the worst of it, all the way back to him… But he could not quite see Jane’s face now, with his head thrown back as he delivered himself onto Pennell’s yard.

Jane’s palm, still clasped to his, was starting to grow sweaty and warm; he hauled on it, hard, and Jane slowed.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, no,” Pennell said. “Don’t. Just—please, come here. Come kiss me.”

“Oh. Alright.”

With a slick noise Jane climbed off Pennell’s cock, and came down to rest on top of him. Their noses touching, Jane stroked Pennell’s face, gentling at his ear, teasing him before at last kissing him again, urgent and rhythmic. Grinding against him, his stiff prick slipped against Pennell’s unexpectedly where they were caught between their stomachs, and made him shudder.

“I want to take you like this,” said Pennell, and Jane with one foot nudged him to spread his knees apart. When he guided Pennell back inside him again they came chest to chest. Now Pennell wished he had at least unbuttoned his shirt, but it was too late for that: they were moving again, and in any case this way was better. Pennell could hold Jane close. He could feel his breath on his cheek and hear the soft intimate sounds he was biting back as Pennell thrust up into him, again and again, with an increasing awareness of how close he was to his crisis, and how very much he did not want this to end.

He tried to slow, but Jane wouldn’t let him, digging his nails into his neck and saying in a desperate straining tone Pennell had never heard from him, “Come on. More, now. Yes, yes—“

“Whenever you need,” Pennell said, obeying, “whatever you need. Just like this. I will. I will—“

He crested, crying out, and spilled deep and long inside of Jane, which was somehow still not close enough.

Blinking back the bright blackness of his climax, he could feel what must have been Jane’s warm spend seeping into his shirtfront.

“You may want to let me go,” said Jane eventually, “so we can clean up.”

“Is that unusual?” Pennell asked. He could feel himself softening awkwardly but was reluctant to allow Jane to separate, even in the interests of hygiene. Buzzing all over, he was not really properly conscious again yet. Jane, heavy in his arms, was occluding out much thought. “The—at the same time, I mean.”

“Much of what we have undergone of late is without a great deal of precedent, Penelope dear,” sighed Jane. He went slack, tiredly starfishlike, burying his face in the crook of Pennell’s neck. Pennell could not help but giggle, squirming a bit to adjust Jane’s weight; Jane humphed a short laugh into Pennell’s skin, and then rolled off to the side, letting Pennell slip out from inside him with an accompanying outrush of spend.

After his breathing evened out, Pennell drew on his reserves of discipline to get up. Mind still mainly at Jane’s side, he floated across the room, hands and feet working in automatic concert to fetch a cloth, wet it in the basin, go about cleaning himself up before bringing it back over.

In his momentary absence, Jane had managed to drift off where he lay. When Pennell began to apply the cloth to his inner thighs and fundament he stirred, but did not wake. Pennell hesitated only a moment before conscientiously moving on to Jane’s prick, quiescent now amidst its own sticky remnants. It was a splendid little thing. Pennell could not honestly say he had considered it before; how it might look, or what he might like to do with it: but of course it was as dear to him as any part of Jane was; as all of them were. The dark mole on his clavicle—the frostbite scars on his knuckles—Pennell gently kissed each of these in turn.

When he had finished, the sheets were not quite clean to his satisfaction. They really had made a mess of it. But there was, in fact, another bed in the room—his own, or so had been intended.

Pennell got his arms under Jane and lifted him, carrying him like a bride across to the other bed; he laid him down on a clean sheet and draped the unused blanket over him.

He was moved, and deeply relieved, to see that Jane looked peaceful for perhaps the first time since they had departed the Antarctic. And there would be room for Pennell to sleep at last beside him, when the night’s work was done.

Pennell/Atch, The Talk

[(Anonymous)]

you guys i'm SICK

FILL: talk the talk, pennell/atkinson, E

[(Anonymous)]

Posted on AO3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/44394169

Pennell isn’t sure what compels him to mention it to Jane. Maybe it’s the late hour, the low light in the library after the sun has long since set and everyone else has trickled out the doors and into the night, leaving just the two of them in hushed silence. Or maybe it’s the way he always ends up telling Jane things he hadn’t intended to, like saying everything else might stop him from saying too much.

Pennell/Atch, any

[(Anonymous)]

They, in any situation, just give me the goods pls

Asleep, Atkinson/Pennell, M, no cw

[(Anonymous)]

sorry i was overcome with feelings about them living together and this experimental nonsense poured out of me


You’re awakened sometime in the middle of the night by the opening of your bedroom door and a trail of soft, stocking-muffled steps across your floor. Half-asleep, you smile. Half-asleep, you have no worrisome thoughts, only love. “I missed you, that’s all,” Pennell says, and he accepts your invitation, you lifting the edge of your quilt, to slip into bed beside you. He’s warm, sleep-rumpled, and flannel-soft against you. He lets you snuggle into his arms and rest your cheek against his strong, broad sailor’s chest, and you love him.

You aren’t a man of many words. Your thoughts move at hundreds of rotations per minute, too fast to say the first thing that comes to mind. You choose your words thoughtfully and deliberately. Pennell says he loves that about you. You think it’s a strange trait to love, but then again, you don’t have many lovable things about you. You’re not particularly handsome, you don’t have an easy, outgoing sense of humour. You aren’t optimistic, or strong, or intelligent in a way that invites conversation. And yet, Pennell comes to you every night, even after spending days together, because he misses you when you’re apart. You hold each other and he calls you his Sweet Jane and blushes, still shy when you kiss him silent. He loves you for all the reasons you find yourself lacking, and you wonder if this is what love was always supposed to be.

It can’t last, this love. It’s too bright. It burns your heart from the inside out but all you can do is warm your hands by the fire and touch him. You love touching him. He’s strong and real and human and he loves you, and sometimes when he’s inside you, after keeping you on edge for hours, stretching you out and milking climax after climax out of you just to make sure you’re relaxed enough that the thick stretch of his cock won’t hurt you, it all catches up to you and you feel guilty. You feel guilty for feeling this happy. And Pennell sees it, or senses it, or tastes it through the tears on your cheeks and he holds you closer, grinding his cock into you, deep and close, just to keep your foreheads pressed together. Breathe, he says, and you breathe together, and there is only room for his face, his handsome, beloved face in your field of vision, and you let the pleasure and the joy overtake you.

You’re not a joyful person. You’re stubborn, and you’re a realist. Stubborn in your realism. And yet, when Pennell slips into your bed for the fifth night in a row, you can’t do anything but smile and kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his lips over and over again. He’s here, and he loves you, and you love him. And right now, half-asleep, with Pennell’s arms wrapped around you in a place that is safe and warm and home, you are in love, and that is all.

Pennell/Atch, fix it AU

[(Anonymous)]

Please give them a happy ending… please…

Gen(ish), fuckability poll shenanigans

[(Anonymous)]

Cook hacks the google form, Pennell creates múltiple email addresses so he can vote for Jane (and Bill just the once), Clem making the twinks vote for him and JFJ... the possibilities are endless

Wuzzles/Bilson fuck or die

[(Anonymous)]

if they don't, mack and con will die. how have they got themselves into this situation? maybe they need to generate enough collective body heat for the tent. maybe Someone won't let them back on the ship until they do. be creative.

Top!Cherry/any

[(Anonymous)]

I want terminal bottom Apsley Cherry-Garrard to top someone. If anyone can figure out how to make this happen, it is this group of distinguished scholars. Dealer's choice of partners and situations.

Re: Top!Cherry/any

[(Anonymous)]

i will hopefully be posting something for you soon… i will keep you updated anon. stay strong in these trying times

Stenhouse/Worsley/Jean, threesome

[(Anonymous)]

After months of carrying their kisses back and forth to each other, Wuzzles and Jean thank Stenhouse for his service by fucking his brains out

FILL: triple threat, Jean Worsley/Frank Worsley/Joseph Stenhouse, E [1/3]

[(Anonymous)]

It was simple enough when it started out. Their ship had come in, Worsley was still overseeing the unloading, and Stenhouse had jaunted up to the little hotel where Jean was staying to let her know that her husband would be a few more hours but certainly in time for dinner.

“If you say so,” Jean had said affably, more than familiar with the way things sometimes went and unbothered by it. “Give him my love and tell him not to dawdle. Here.” She had crossed over to Stenhouse and kissed each of his cheeks in turn before drawing back, beaming. “One for Wuzz, and one for you. I’ll see you both tonight.”

Stenhouse had returned to the harbour with a spring in his step and given Worsley his kiss on the cheek with exaggerated formality. “Calling card from a Miss Cumming, Captain Worsley.”

“So thoughtful.” Worsley had grinned happily, and Stenhouse had thought no more of it.

The next time it happened after another long and questionably successful journey, Worsley had given him a kiss to return to Jean, a little smack on the nose. “Precisely like that,” he’d said. “And you can tell her she’s a sweetheart too good for a washed-up old sailor like me, shamefully neglecting his wife for his ship.”

“I’ll tell her that much for free. Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around, give you an extra set of hands?”

Worsley’d waved him off. “No, no need. I’ve slept more recently than you, go get yourself some shut-eye.”

“I’ll be coming back here for that anyways.”

Worsley blinked. “Absolutely not, you’ll be staying with us.” And when Stenhouse had protested weakly, citing marital privacy, he had only insisted. “We’ve never had any compunction about plaguing you and Gladys, please, Stennie. There’s a whole room waiting just for you at the hotel, go get yourself a bath and a snooze.”

They had been firm friends since they’d met and it was true that Frank and Jean, in their Bohemian state of roaming, were frequent and often extended visitors at the Stenhouses’ abode. But this constituted a sea change in their friendship that Stenhouse took shamefully long to recognise. It was embarrassing for a mariner to be caught out by a changing tide but that was what happened, and he didn’t notice it until he was very nearly beached.

The first sign that he missed, or perhaps wilfully ignored, was the kiss that Jean gave him to deliver to her husband when he met up with Worsley in Liverpool after the former had returned from their nightmare in Reykjavik. All previous missives had been sweet, teasing little things. A peck on the cheek, on the nose. Worsley liked to kiss Stenhouse’s hand in return. It made Stenhouse feel a bit fluttery inside: but the Worsleys were a handsome couple, and it would have taken a stronger man than he to be fully immune to being coddled and kissed by beautiful people of whom he was so fond.

But then there was Liverpool. Perhaps it was only because Worsley had been away for a while longer than usual, but Jean had given Stenhouse a more forceful token of affection to accompany the letter she had written, and now Stenhouse was stood in front of the intended recipient, somewhat uncertain how to begin.

Worsley was holding his letter and looking at him expectantly. “No kiss for me today? Should I be expecting this envelope to contain divorce papers?”

“There’s a kiss.”

“So? Are you trying to make me beg for it?”

Stenhouse strived bravely to ignore that. “It’s rather involved.”

“You’re killing me, here.”

“Well, I’ll just say that – I would assume she misses you. And she was quite firm on the details.”

Worsley’s eyes twinkled. In his case, it wasn’t only a turn of phrase, either. He actually twinkled, like a candle on a Christmas tree or a star on a cold night. “When Jeanie gives instructions, I find it’s best to follow them to the letter. Go on, then.”

Stenhouse sighed but obediently approached and, taking Worsley’s face between his hands, kissed him on the lips, deep, long, and rather passionate if he did say so himself. Jean had been very clear on that point. “No dry old lady kisses,” she had commanded. “You go in there and give Wuzz the hottest kiss of his life. Here, like this. Give him this one.”

She had proceeded to demonstrate with aplomb. Stenhouse had practically stumbled out of the house in a daze.

“Well!” said Worsley breathlessly when he finally pulled back. “Gosh.”

“Only passing it along,” said Stenhouse, feeling bashful and resorting to terseness. “So there you go. Don’t ask me to repeat the message, I don’t think my lungs can take it.”

“Jean usually gives me a slap on the bum after a kiss like that,” said Worsley helpfully.

In fact she had given Stenhouse a little smack on his way out the door. “Ah yes. I rather thought that had been just for me.”

“Oh, I’m sure she meant for you to enjoy it as well.” Worsley nudged his way in a little closer. Stenhouse had dropped his hands but they came back up again automatically to gather Worsley in as he pressed against Stenhouse’s chest, grinning up at him. “You are our favourite messenger, you know.”

“I should hope so.”

“Mhm. Come here. I’ll send my reply directly.”

Stenhouse wasn’t about to protest. Later he tried not to interrogate the event too much, even if Worsley had nipped his bottom lip after pulling back from the kiss he’d given him and Stenhouse had worried his tongue over it for an hour afterwards. But life went on. He sailed with Worsley to Portsmouth for refitting, and then saw him off to Canada. He didn’t mind playing postman from time to time. It wasn’t exactly a chore.

Then he accompanied Jean to Kiel, where she was to hop on Worsley’s ship. Worsley was broke, as usual, and Jean was cheerfully expecting to be berthing onboard directly. So they were both surprised when they were told upon arriving at the harbour that an address had been left behind for them.

It wasn’t the Ritz, but it wasn’t the cheapest hotel in town either. They practically crept into the lobby with a hesitance that nearly made Stenhouse laugh: he probably should see to making some real money soon, or Worsley should. From the sceptical look on Jean’s face when the neatly uniformed concierge directed them in accented English to the fourth floor, he wasn’t the only one unused to the swank.

When they arrived at the given room and Worsley flung open the door, it became apparent that they were in for an evening of the finer things. Stenhouse got a bear hug and Jean a kiss, and Worsley ushered them in to a beautiful, sun-drenched room with a balcony overlooking the water. A bottle of champagne stood sweating on the sideboard, which Worsley waggled triumphantly at them.

“Got an advance for my book!” He crowed. “So I thought to myself, I’d best celebrate in style with my best pal and my beautiful wife!”

“Oh, Wuzz, you shouldn’t have,” Jean scolded, but she was smiling and petting his arm lovingly. “You are spoiling us. And you’ve got us lovely glasses, too.”

“I asked for them at the front desk,” Worsley said, beaming at her eagerly. Sometimes Worsley reminded Stenhouse of nothing so much as a large, joyful dog looking for approval and praise from everyone about him, from Jean most of all. “Went down with my best German, dry glazer, bitta, all very impressive.”

“My clever, worldly husband,” said Jean, and only sounded as if she was teasing him a little bit.

Stenhouse, who remembered very well the man from whom Worsley had gotten his shreds of German and could still picture his despair at ever correcting the ear-splitting accent, hid a smile behind his hand.

Worsley poured them each a glass, bubbles fizzing and foam wobbling precariously over the flutes as he topped them all off. “Here you are – toasts! But quickly, I’m parched.” He raised his glass. “To fair winds across the Atlantic.”

“To your new book,” Stenhouse offered, lifting his own.

“And to Stenhouse for being a good chum and coming to see us off,” Jean completed. Glasses were clinked and they all drank. It was decent champagne.

“It really was good of you to come all this way with me.” Jean put her slim hand on Stenhouse’s arm and smiled at him sweetly. “Travelling by myself is never as fun.”

“Oh dear,” said Worsley. “Was she talking your ear off the entire journey?”

“He has been very long-suffering.” Jean’s smile curved up into a grin. “But he puts up with all my teasing beautifully.”

“Has she been torturing you?”

“A bit,” said Stenhouse, mildly.

“I can’t help it. Look at yourself, Stennie. All eight feet tall and built of red brick with that sweet face, I simply must tease you.”

Worsley reached over and grabbed at one of Stenhouse’s arms, squeezing appreciatively. “She has a point, you know. I see you and I either want to take a bite out of you or badger you until you take a bite out of me.”

“It’s not polite to goad your friends. Surely you were raised better than that.”

“Oh no, I was raised precisely as poorly as that.”

Finding himself suddenly sandwiched with a Worsley hanging off of each arm, Stenhouse took a fortifying sip of champagne.

Pennell/Atch, ghostfic

[(Anonymous)]

Pennell and Atch are reunited after their deaths, Pennell confesses his feelings, and they finally get to fuck about it.

Andrée/Fraenkel/Strindberg double penetration

[(Anonymous)]

WRECK NILS

Re: Andrée/Fraenkel/Strindberg double penetration

[(Anonymous)]

Not a fill (certainly not in the way op's blorbo wants in this scenario), but: DOUBLE ANILS

De Gerlache/many, dubcon/noncon Belgica trash party

[(Anonymous)]

It becomes decided that as the commandant got them stuck here, the commandant should do his part to keep up morale as communal fucktoy. He’s already always in his bed anyway.

De Gerlache wants to say no but he doesn’t because if he pretends he is technically permitting it or at least not not permitting it and having his authority overtly overridden by mutinous cock in every direction, then it won’t wreck the remnants of his pride. He can get shipwrecked and he can get his ass wrecked but not that! :(

Give him as good or bad a time as you like. DNW scat or serious injury but other kinks welcome, punish that commandant!

Shackleton/Wild, reunion sex

[(Anonymous)]

Post-Elephant Island rescue!! Shackles got his husband back!!! They should celebrate!!!!

Gen(ish...), polar fandom awakens the dead

[(Anonymous)]

As more and more people become obsessed with polar exploration, the spirits of the explorers awaken and become stronger. The more we love someone, the stronger they become. What does this look like? What are the implications for men that were hailed as heroes in their time but are now weakened by modern views of their exploits? What do the most popular explorers do with their newfound strength? Be as creative as you want, can be gen or shippy or whatever!

Robert Bartlett/Vilhjalmur Stefansson, enemies with benefits

[(Anonymous)]

Out on the ice when they're stuck and Bartlett is increasingly fed up with Stefansson's nonsense? After the rescue when Bartlett is still seething (and is mad at himself for enjoying the sex so much)?

FILL: You Come on Like a Drug, Bartlett/Stefansson, the explicit stuff happens off screen...for now

[(Anonymous)]

“Bartlett and Stefansson did encounter each other in 1922, at a Washington Club tea service following the unveiling of the Peary Monument at Arlington National Cemetery. Given Bartlett’s booze-fueled bravado, the meeting was surprisingly anticlimactic. According to Bartlett, out of respect for the decorum of the event, he intentionally avoided Stefansson, but afterward Stefansson approached him, saying, “Why, Bartlett, didn’t you see me?” Bartlett cut him off right there, barking under his breath, “No, nor do I want to see you,” and he abruptly took his leave.” Buddy Levy, Empire of Ice and Stone, p. 380

It had been a mistake to come.

Bartlett had known Stefansson would be here. The man was at every event remotely connected to Arctic exploration, always flitting around, promoting this and that scheme. Promoting himself. And even with the aid of his cocktail glass - kept always full, God help him - it was a tremendous strain for Captain Bob Bartlett to avoid the other man in the cramped confines of the Club’s reception room. The drinks took the edge off of his anxiety; gave him a shield for his face to avoid accidentally making eye contact and a reason to frequently head to the bar for a refill so as to avoid some well-meaning club member pulling him into a conversation Stefansson might also be tempted to join.

Bartlett felt as though his feelings were plastered all over his face, clear as new freshwater ice for all to see. The surge of anger he felt whenever he thought of the expedition leader willfully abandoning his doomed ship on that September morning a decade earlier, the other feelings that were very much not anger when he thought of the night before in Stefansson’s quarters…Bartlett took another swig from his glass before nodding politely at a group of wealthy patrons walking by. At least he could play off the flush on his face as a consequence of the stuffiness of the room.

None of the other guests, the well-heeled Washington socialites and government geographers, would know what it really was. None of them would even remotely suspect that there was a volatile mixture of anger, shame, and arousal that had churned in Bartlett’s gut for years whenever he thought of that last night on the Karluk with Stefansson, a substance as strong and as unpredictable as pack ice. At least pack ice stayed where it was cold. It didn’t travel, moving with Bartlett wherever he went and surfacing without warning. He should have never gone to confront Stefansson that night. Or rather he should have, but he should have shouted at the man and then immediately left, slamming the cabin door behind him. He shouldn’t have allowed the expedition leader space to mount a defense. He shouldn’t have stayed to entertain Stefansson’s justifications for the poor planning, the motley crew, the long list of bad decisions, the ludicrous plan to leave the Karluk with Jenness, McConnell, Wilkins, Jimmy and Jerry. The shouting that had followed was certainly justified, as was Bartlett’s fist connecting with Stefansson’s handsome face. Not handsome, just smug. A smug face that deserved a punch. But if Bartlett had only left after dressing Stefansson down, as he’d been planning to for days, he wouldn’t have been there for what came after the punch. When Stefansson had recoiled, then slapped Bartlett across the face. Then grabbed him by the chin and kissed him. When Bartlett, disgusted, had spat at Stefansson, but Stefansson had only reached up to grab him and kiss him again, and pulled Bartlett by his coat lapels towards the bunk. How Stefansson had leered smugly at Bartlett, even as Bartlett had grabbed Stefansson’s hair and shoved him to the cold wooden floor.

That leer was probably the worst part, the look that said You know you wanted this, even though you hate me. Because you hate me. This is my expedition. You know you never could have hidden anything from me on this ship. Even as Bartlett wrenched Stefansson’s mouth open with his free hand and shoved his cock inside - he was punishing the anthropologist, he told himself, this was humiliating punishment - Stefansson continued to leer up at him from his place on the floor. That gaze had honed in on the feelings buried deep inside Bartlett’s chest, those he refused to acknowledge to himself, and dragged them to the surface. How did the bastard manage to do it? Probably the same way he kept managing to convince donors to throw money at his expeditions even after all this time. Trust me. You know you want to.

Bartlett curled the fingers of his free hand into his palm so that his nails dug into the calloused skin, pain breaking him out of the memory. He shifted on his feet, turning his body away from the crowd. He had to get control of himself. He took a deep breath and headed back to the bar.

After what seemed like an eternity the party finally began to thin out, and Bartlett felt he could make his exit without seeming impolite. He’d thanked the hosts, made small talk with the guests propriety demanded he make small talk with, and had taken generous advantage of the refreshments, all while managing to avoid Stefansson. The evening could be resoundingly be called a success. Bartlett began pacing towards the coat check.

“Bob?”

There he was, standing directly in Bartlett’s path, an empty crystal tumbler in one hand and a shark’s deadly grin on his face. Christ, the evening was almost over. He’d almost gotten away without speaking to the hated man, but Stefansson was in his path now, unavoidable. If he tried to brush past him without acknowledging him it would cause a scene and that was the last thing he wanted, even worse than having to interact with Stefansson. Bartlett gritted his teeth. He’d survived far worse. He could push past the rising bile in his throat and the adrenaline in his veins long enough to give the man a cursory nod and take his leave. He’d incline his head, then walk out, head straight back to his hotel and a cold bath.

But he’d been ruminating on this too long, and Stefansson had already stepped closer to him, cutting off the easiest routes of escape. His eyes glittered, scheming as always. “Why, Bartlett, didn’t you see me?” he asked, raising his cocktail glass.

This again. “No,” Bartlett ground out. He took a step closer so that his next words would be heard by Stefansson alone. He bent his head slightly and half-whispered, “Nor do I want to see you.” He set his eyes on the door, then began to stride towards it, taking care to school his expression into something neutral.

He felt a hand, surprisingly strong, clasp onto his upper arm. “Leaving so soon? What’s the rush? Another engagement?” Bartlett turned his head around and tried to keep calm as the shorter man met his gaze. To anyone watching - assuming they were a Peary supporter but had somehow escaped hearing about the Karluk - it would look like two old chums, one who’d just remembered one last thing he wanted to tell the other.

“You know,” Stefansson dropped his voice into a conspiratorial tone, as if sharing a schoolboy’s secret. “There’s a cloakroom on the second floor that isn’t being used.”

Bartlett leaned in just an inch. He felt hot, the afterburn of the cocktail still flooding his veins. Voice barely above a whisper, he replied “I’ll see you in hell, Stef.”

Stefansson only grinned. “No, I think I’ll see you in the cloakroom.” He stepped back, smiling, and shook his empty glass back and forth. “Just as soon as I get myself another drink.”

---

Later that night, back at the hotel, as he sank into the tub, Bartlett would tell himself that what had happened was just the unfortunate consequence of a few too many cocktails, the sort of thing any man might do if he was drunk enough. Alcohol could excuse a multitude of follies, his included. It was nothing. He’d just been edgy about seeing Stefansson after all this time, too keyed up and too sloshed to fully be in command of his own actions. If he’d gone up to the cloakroom, pushed the door open and slammed Stefansson against the wall with a bruising kiss, so what? If he’d let the explorer go to his knees, the white teeth of his grin gleaming in the dark, and open Bartlett’s trousers, well, it had only been for a brief time, a few moments in a lifetime of moments, and nothing to dwell on. He had nothing but hatred for the man who’d left the members of his own expedition to die, he thought as he furiously scrubbed his skin in the scalding hot water. Hatred in abundance. So much so, that there was some left over for himself.

Kuraluk/"Auntie" Kiruk, competence kink

[(Anonymous)]

Power couple vibes. Kuraluk's hunting skills are keeping the Karluk crew alive. So are Kiruk's clothesmaking skills. They're exhausted taking care of two little kids. Yet they love each other and are calming, reliable, and chill in every sense of the world. Let them enjoy themselves!

William Laird McKinlay/Bjarne Mamen, jock/nerd OTP

[(Anonymous)]

Smol math teacher meets Norwegian skiier who needs to hold back and not win all the sports prizes. What's not to love. Feel free to break my heart, but also, maybe a fix-it?

(obvious Karluk prompter here just devoured "Empire of Ice and Snow," there are probably other references though!)

Re: William Laird McKinlay/Bjarne Mamen, jock/nerd OTP

[(Anonymous)]

Hello fellow Karluk enjoyer! I am working on something else right now but I'm rotating this heavily and we will see what happens 👀

Pennell/Atch/Oates, Jane sandwich

[(Anonymous)]

I just think that it would be nice. Fix-it, AU, or during the voyage down, I'm not picky!!!

FILL: Two Against One, Pennell/Atch/Oates, Jane sandwich

[(Anonymous)]

“Shall we?” Jane asked.

“We shall,” the Soldier agreed.

Out they crept from their berth; down the breadth of the wardroom on stocking-feet; then pausing for a moment at the fateful door to have a wholly silent conversation about strategy before crashing inside.

“Oh,” said Penelope, “hullo.”

“We thought you were in here with Bill,” Atch said, drawn up short. Indeed, the two old ladies gabbing as heard from across the way had been the cause of their resolution to strike out on a raid.

“I was,” conceded Pennell, putting down his diary and easing out of his bunk, “but a moment ago he was summoned on deck, to look at the whales. And I was just about to follow him—the zoological log, you know…”

Titus leaned against the door, assuming an intimidating attitude with his arms folded. “I’m afraid we can’t allow that.”

Pennell raised an eyebrow. “Am I a prisoner, then?”

Atch said, “Well, I don’t know. Are you?” He leveled his gaze at Pennell, who seemed for just a second to tremble under it.

Then Pennell made a feint for the door; Atch went for him, and he dodged, but Titus was quick. He got Pennell to the deck and wrestled with him there, losing his gansey in the process.

“Look, you won’t win up against us both,” Atch proclaimed, amidst the grunts and knocks. “Best to surrender now, eh?”

“Oh, just watch me!”

Pennell kicked a knee up and got Titus in the shin; he let out a comical holler and Pennell escaped from under him. With a glance Titus signaled to Atch to distract their quarry; Atch put up his fists near the door, and Pennell eagerly went forward, leaving Titus to spring back up and—after letting them box exuberantly for a few moments—join the fray again.

Without Bill or Campbell on side, one man against two was a lost cause, no matter how energetic the man in question. Pennell might at all times be as reliable and springy as a calibrated chronometer, but Titus and Atch were a battalion for the ages.

The melee thus eventually resolved into Titus holding Pennell tightly with his arms behind his back, open to all sorts of predation by Atch: mainly jabs and tickles and being relieved entirely of his outer layers. “Uncle Bill, can’t you hear I’m being savaged?” Pennell shouted up in the direction of the deck, but of course it was useless.

“Get him on the chin,” suggested Titus, and Atch delivered a few exuberant slaps, leaving Pennell smarting and bright-eyed but quite capable of taking more.

However Atch got too confident with his darting about, and Pennell cleverly caught him by the ankle, resulting in mass casualties as they all went tumbling down. Titus, landing at the top of the heap, was able to scramble off, leaving Atch now as the one pinned down.

“A little help here, Soldier?”

“Ah, only let me admire the scene for a moment. I find it picturesque.”

“Do you really now!” sighed Atch, exasperated. He squirmed under Pennell’s weight but soon relaxed into submission. At this point they were both without shirts, and Pennell additionally sans trousers, Titus having earlier tripped him out of them. Pennell was breathing heavily, gripping Atch’s wiry wrists, knees braced on the deck.

Titus took in the view from a nearby vantage, arranging himself on the lower bunk nearby. It was interesting to see Atch laid low, even though or perhaps because of how strongly Titus doubted that Pennell had really and truly overpowered him.

Having reached this point, he wondered now what else could now get past what was usually so well-defended by all of Jane’s compact, confident fitness. Hm.

“You look as if you’re about to kiss him, Penelope,” he said casually.

Pennell’s eyes shot over to him, shocked wide. Titus inclined his head and extended a hand permissively. He wanted to see what Pennell would do. But the fellow remained frozen, perhaps—rightfully—suspecting a trick. As if coaxing a fearful horse along Titus tried in a low and gentle voice, “Go on, then.”

But even that didn’t work. Had the chap not been loosened up enough yet?

“That’s an order, lieutenant!” shouted Titus, in his best drill bark.

Atch laughed out loud. Pennell could not help but grin too. He leaned down and delivered a kiss, swift and sweet, then quickly pulled away.

Titus snapped, “Surrendering so soon?” Swinging out a fist he thumped Pennell in the center of his broad handsome back and forced him down again.

“No sir!” Pennell went back at it, and this time with the sort of passion Titus felt that Jane properly deserved. Both of them quickly rather lost themselves in it.

Before things could devolve beyond what was quite proper at this early hour Titus said, “Enough of that now. Get him up, but don’t let him go.”

Atch, kissed into such a pretty daze he did not seem to realize he’d been betrayed, was hauled up into a sitting position against the bunk. It was only when Titus had him in a headlock that he exclaimed, “Oh—what is this, now?” and tried to reach back and claw off Titus’s ear. “Unhand me, blackguard!”

“Turnabout is fair play, eh?” Pennell said, to which Atch only offered an exaggerated scowl.

“Get his trousers off,” Titus commanded, and Pennell did as he was bid, delivering a few tasteful pinches to the thighs as Atch thrashed.

“What shall we do with him now, Soldier?”

The little surgeon was caught between them, stripped nearly bare, and Titus, feeling pleased he had recognized such a strategic opportunity when it chanced his way, had to put some thought towards that question.

“Let us see,” Titus proposed after a moment, “if he can take us both.”

Gen, ghost Oates watches over Cherry

[(Anonymous)]

What if both Bill and Birdie moved on right away and Oates was the only one who stayed behind as a ghost? He's going to have to look after their boy for them

Lecointe/any, petplay

[(Anonymous)]

As retribution for his crimes, Lecointe must fulfil some of the duties of ship's cat.

Re: Lecointe/any, petplay

[(Anonymous)]

+1

Oust the cook => become the cook

Oust the cat => become the… catboy?

Anyway I love and support this concept for Lecointe. I was so mad at him but now he is my little meow meow who has done something wrong aND MUST PAY 😿😾😼