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Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1
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:
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:
Regular view: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html
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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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FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 1/2
(Anonymous) 2025-01-27 08:02 pm (UTC)(link)There are some polar explorers that I think might have interesting thoughts on the topic of gender versus assigned sex. None of these three dudes belong to that category, and this fic reflects that. I didn’t write with the intention of raising any Serious Questions about self or gender, I wrote with the intention of indulging in some smutty smut.
All to say: if that’s something that might set off alarm bells, it’s best to avoid this fic! Please don’t let yourself get triggered by something that is no more meaningful than simply no-thoughts-just-horny.
Anyways. Crying child holding a gun dot jpg as I depart from my deeply held headcanon/tinhat historical belief that Wuzzles was as bisexual as they come, all in the name of a reason to let James Archibald McIlroy hit. You’d better appreciate what I do for you, Mick.
--
After half an hour of getting no nearer to figuring out what had happened, never mind how to fix it, and all that had been accomplished was Macklin edging towards hysteria (which he would have laughed at had he been less preoccupied with – well – but there was a medical joke to be made there, about the womb), Worsley stood back and said in an uncharacteristically tentative tone, “I have something to say, and you’re not going to like it.”
“I don’t like any of this,” Macklin snapped, and winced at how high his voice was to his ears. “You can hardly make it worse.”
Worsley crossed his arms, uncrossed them, and then crossed them again. A sure sign that he was about to try for one of his rare arguments. “We need to tell Mick.”
Ah. That made it worse. Much worse. “Absolutely not.”
“Mack-”
“No, we can figure this out ourselves. I’m already a doctor, we don’t need another, and I’ve never known a problem at sea that you couldn’t solve-”
“As flattering as that is,” Worsley interrupted, and he didn’t even sound amused at the praise. Oh dear. “We need another opinion. Obviously it’s got to be one of the lads, I won’t have you paraded out in front of the new kids, and, well, I don’t like to bother Frankie at the moment.” For reasons which didn’t need to be said. “So that leaves Mick. That he’s also a doctor is almost irrelevant, I can’t imagine modern medicine’s got much to say on this subject.”
He had a point. Unfortunately. Not for the first time Macklin wished fervently for Hussey. Hussey would have found the whole situation hilarious, he was sure. He’d had laughed himself nearly sick, and then been comfortingly sympathetic while they tried to sort things out.
McIlroy would not be sympathetic. Oh, he’d probably laugh ‘til he was blue in the face, but compassion would be scant. Suggestive commentary, lewd remarks, and offensive jokes Macklin expected. Sympathy, not at all.
Worsley was watching him anxiously. “I know it’s not ideal. But at least he already knows about – us. So that’s one less thing to try and explain.” He fidgeted, and then darted forward to take Macklin’s hands in his own. “You know I just want to get this sorted. Particularly since, well, since I can’t help but feel that it’s all my damned fault.”
“It’s not,” said Macklin immediately. “Wuzz. How could it be? Don’t be silly.”
“It’s the only reasonable lead to go on,” Worsley argued. “I shouldn’t have made that idiot joke last night. About being glad there were no consequences, or what. Or I ought to have touched wood,” he amended, looking doleful.
That brought a sliver of a smile to Macklin’s face for the first time since waking. “I sometimes forget you’re so superstitious.”
“I sometimes forget that you’re not!”
They grinned at each other before reality returned. Macklin felt the furrow dig itself back into place on his brow. Worsley ducked in to kiss him sweetly. “I’m going to fetch Mick. We’ll sort it out, alright? Promise.”
“Alright.”
“Promise,” Worsley repeated, and slipped out of the cabin. The door closed, swinging the small mirror nailed to it into view. With Worsley no longer standing in between him and the glass, Macklin came once more face to face with – herself. He stared into the mirror. The reflection of a solemn, square-jawed woman stared back from behind round spectacles, her dark shoulder-length hair swept back. Had the glass been larger, it would also have reflected the full breasts and the curve of feminine hips. In short, the very womanly body which Doctor Macklin found himself occupying.
He looked away, the queasy disbelief rising again in the pit of his stomach. At least he hoped to high heaven that that was all it was. I ought to have touched wood, Worsley had said. To be joking about this very thing scant hours before, and now to find it had happened? Macklin truly wasn’t superstitious. But he had to admit that Worsley had a point.
And he was going to have to explain it all to McIlroy. He winced and sat heavily on the bunk. The bunk which had been the site of a much more pleasant assignation – the assignation Worsley thought was the cause of the problem. Go on, Macklin had told him, breathlessly, I want you to. He’d asked for it. He’d even-
“I swear, Wuzzles, if this is one of your pranks.” The cabin door swung opened and McIlroy swept in imperiously. “What’s the trouble-” he stopped in the middle of the small space, eyebrows flying up heavenwards. Behind him, Worsley closed the door quickly, looking harried.
Macklin had half a second’s hope that McIlroy might actually have been shocked into silence, and that he might remain so stunned for long enough to Macklin to explain things while maintaining a modicum of dignity.
It was a hope which died instantly. McIlroy took him in with a quick appraising eye that might have been honed either in the operating theatre or the whorehouse, it was unclear which. Then he tipped his head back towards Worsley. “I say, Wuzz. I know we’ve been giving you chaff about making young Mack your little sea wife for the past few years, but there was no need to be so literal about it.”
Worsley, eternally unable to maintain a serious demeanour, actually laughed. Macklin buried his face in his hands. This was going to be terrible.
“Alright,” said McIlroy, “What the hell. I’m suspending my disbelief only because I can’t imagine Mack would have consented to you stuffing his bra just for a joke. What’s happened here? I assume this has a sordid origin.”
Worsley hesitated, and glanced at Macklin. Macklin sighed, bracing. “You might as well tell him.”
“Yes, please do,” McIlroy waggled his eyebrows. “You know I never pass up the chance to hear some gossip.”
Macklin muttered mutinously under his breath.
“Well,” Worsley started, “usually we, I mean…you know that we’ve got an arrangement.”
“If there’s a man aboard who doesn’t know, he ought to get his eyes and ears checked.”
“Yes, well. Usually we go one way. You probably can guess what I like.” Worsley winked. He was warming to the tale already, and Macklin had a brief, horrifying vision of it being told in a pub somewhere along the North Atlantic seaboard, to a laughing crowd of burly sailors who were all jostling for the privilege of buying Worsley his next drink. It was a jealous conjuration that had haunted him before, but never had the embroidered salacious story starred yours truly.
“I have an idea, yes,” said McIlroy dryly.
“But not always. We’re egalitarian, isn’t that right, Mack?”
Macklin fixed him with a look. Worsley took the hint and hurried on. “So last night we did things the other way ‘round and, to save you the details, I made a bit of a joke in poor taste, about Mack being my lovely lady and how it was alright to give him the business end as he’d not be suffering the consequences. As he would if he actually were a lady. And I suppose I took to the theme rather too well…it was the heat of the moment, you know how these things go. That was, let me think, right after I’d finished up the middle watch, ‘round half four in the morning. We were asleep by five, and then Mack woke up at half six to find…” He shrugged and gestured a bit helplessly towards Macklin in his current embarrassed state. “So.”
McIlroy was silent for a moment. Macklin suspected it was only due to the fact that he couldn’t decide which lascivious comment to make first. But all he said was, “And you think that – what? Some meddling little imp heard you panting about impregnating Mack and decided to grant your wish?”
“I don’t know! Yes? Yes!”
Macklin rubbed at his temple. What a shame that the female anatomy was no less susceptible to a headache than was the male. “It’s ridiculous. It’s utterly fantastic. But what other explanation could there even be?”
“You’re getting unscientific on me,” said McIlroy with vague disapproval. “And here I thought you were more of a sensible man than that.” He paused, thinking over his words. “Of course, I suppose you’re no longer a m-”
“Oh, shut up.”
McIlroy shut up, though his smirk spoke volumes. Macklin’s head pounded angrily. “Well,” said McIlroy, “the why isn’t the most pressing issue. What do you propose we do about it? I suppose he can still go on watch, but the lads will have something to say.”
“Absolutely not. I won’t stand him getting any ridicule, or being meddled with,” said Worsley, unusually sharply. “So it stays between us, hear?” He so rarely used his captain’s tone that it sometimes seemed he didn’t have one. But he did, and here it was. Macklin coloured, rather swept off his feet despite everything. He would be the first to protest that he didn’t need protecting, but that didn’t mean being protected didn’t feel nice.
Even McIlroy seemed to soften in the face of Worsley’s outburst of chivalry. “Alright, alright. I can’t disagree with you. It is damned amusing, though.”
“It is not,” Macklin growled.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Hell if I know,” said Worsley, glumly. He drifted closer to Macklin and rested his hand on his back. Macklin tried to find comfort in the familiar gesture, but it was rather difficult when Worsley’s touch mostly served to remind him of all the ways his body felt different, with its weight shifted around and…assets where they shouldn’t be.
Speaking of: McIlroy was looking him over. Macklin resisted the urge to cover himself despite his shirt. McIlroy had the sort of gaze that seemed to disregard layers. “What?”
“I was only looking. You’re quite a fetching girl, Mack.” McIlroy winked. “I’d step out with you.” He hummed, and considered. “Alright, you know what I think?”
“No,” said Macklin, sullenly.
“What then?” said Worsley, hopefully.
“There’s no delicate way to put it. You fucked him into this mess, perhaps you ought to try fucking him out of it?”
There was a telling silence.
“How,” said Macklin at last, painstakingly, “does that make any sense whatsoever.”
“I don’t know,” said McIlroy, an edge of frustration in his voice that belied his cool exterior, “how does any of this make sense! But you both seem to agree that the only sliver of a theory explaining this insanity is that Wuzzles expressed a desire to get Mack in the family way and voila, the opportunity was granted. So if he fulfils that wish, a nice pretty poke for Miss Macklin, and the- the spell is broken. True love’s first co-”
“Sure, sure,” Worsley interrupted as Macklin could feel the urge to punch McIlroy rising, “you make your point.”
Macklin had half-risen to his feet in irritation; now he let himself drop back onto the bunk in exasperation, only to frown in discomfort as his breasts fell heavily against his chest. He had not been conveniently transformed with the requisite female undergarments and it seemed that his rather full figure needed a bit more support than what was being provided by the loose shirt he had slept in.
Of course McIlroy’s gaze was on him again, appraising in a way that suddenly seemed not quite entirely curious for curiosity’s sake. Macklin’s hand went instinctively, protectively to his open collar.
McIlroy noticed and winked. “Just admiring the view.”
“Well, stop,” snapped Macklin, face flaming.
“Hard to ignore,” said McIlroy mildly. “Though of course, you’ve always had a fine pair regardless of sex.” He was infuriatingly serene in the face of the daggers Macklin was doing his best to fling from his eyes. “Perhaps you ought to just take the compliment, hmm? From where I’m sitting, you’re not so wildly unalike as a woman. Don’t you think?”
Reluctantly, Macklin had to admit that McIlroy was not entirely incorrect. He wasn’t, he supposed, too far removed from his usual incarnation. Asides from the obvious changes, of course. But he had at least been left with his sturdy upper body. He’d always been a bit spindly about the knees, there was nothing to do about that, but he hadn’t been entirely stripped of his strong shoulders. The full chest wasn’t – out of place. He had to begrudgingly admit. How often had Worsley lavished attention on him there? Frequently to an accompaniment of obscene patter.
“Um-” An awkward cough from Worsley dragged Macklin out of his internal wallowing. “Actually, on that note…there may be a bit of a hitch with Mick’s idea.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I would have been the first to protest that anyone can, you know, do anything, but the truth is I’ve never managed it with a woman.” He made a frustrated gesture towards his nether regions. “The old fellow simply doesn’t want to put in a day’s work when it comes to the ladies. So I’m not sure – I’m sorry, Mack. I wouldn’t want you to think it would be anything you’d done wrong.” He looked so genuinely upset that even had Macklin been of a mind to be offended, he could hardly have withstood the sad twist of Worsley’s mouth.
He gave Worsley’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s alright, Wuzz. I’d be rather a hypocrite to be upset with you on that count.”
“Christ,” said McIlroy, and rolled his eyes. “You’re both useless, you know that?” He put his hands on his hips – or at least Macklin thought he did, but instead he was taking the hem of his jumper and pulling it over his head. Then he began to shrug off his suspenders.
Macklin frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I,” said McIlroy, painstakingly, “do not suffer from the affliction of fussiness that you two are labouring under. Seeing as the skipper can’t get it up, I’ll sacrifice myself and deflower the lovely Miss Macklin for him.”
There was an immediate outpouring of confused protest – or at least, it would have been confused if there had been two people talking over each other for a more than the first second. Macklin was barking something about presumption when he realised that he could only hear his own, altered voice, and that the only thing Worsley had said over him had been, “If Mack says yes, sure.”
He blinked in disbelief. “What, you just – that’s just alright?”
“Don’t give me that wounded look, it’s a decent idea!”
Macklin spluttered, feeling rather less lovestruck than he’d been at Worsley’s earlier protective declaration.
“Don’t act so scandalised. I figure Wuzz will have to do the ultimate deed himself,” said McIlroy, matter-of-factly. “I’ll just help the two of you along.” He reached out with a swift, unexpected movement and ran a gentle finger underneath Macklin’s chin, caressing the newly smooth, unstubbled skin and tipping his face up to meet McIlroy’s eye, suddenly dark and knowing in a way that made Macklin want to shift uncomfortably on the bunk. “After all, it’s rather important that the lady be given her pleasure just the same as the man, mm?”
“There’s not a chance in all hell that this is going to work,” said Macklin, but he sounded less convincing to his own ears than he’d hoped. He realised half a second too late that his words were also a capitulation, both to McIlroy’s solution and to the man’s sudden inclusion in its implementation.
McIlroy’s Cheshire grin belied no such delay in comprehension.
Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 2/3 (whoops)
(Anonymous) 2025-01-27 08:06 pm (UTC)(link)“Flatterer,” said Worsley easily, unselfconsciously. His cock was soft between his legs, but no less enticing for it. Macklin remembered, suddenly, seeing the skipper leaping joyfully into a snowbank, fully nude, back on the old Endurance. He’d had to quickly remove himself from the situation before he could embarrass himself.
It was gratifying to find that his new body was just as affected by the sight of Worsley as his old one had been. Differently, to be sure, but no less fervently. Perhaps it really was a trick of the mind, then, that determined attraction. And his mind was decidedly still his own. In any case, his mouth still watered at the sight of Worsley’s cock, and though he had no matching member of his own to rise to the occasion – so to speak – there was a distinct quickening of his heartbeat and he could feel an answering heat between his legs, and, as Worsley took himself in hand, a shivering of something within. A flicker of excitement. Interest. Eagerness.
It was an eagerness not lessened by the sight of McIlroy swaying forward against Worsley. Macklin might have expected a stab of jealousy or at least annoyance, but no. There was only anticipation as McIlroy ran his hands up under Worsley’s undershirt and back down to wrap around his cock.
“Best get to it.” McIlroy winked at Worsley, and gave him an almost coy stroke. “And you, Mack – take this off.” He reached over and tugged at the hem of Macklin’s shirt. “Let’s have a proper look at what’s happened to you, shall we?”
He was no less appreciative than he’d been of Worsley when Macklin brusquely, jerkily pulled off his shirt and drawers to bare himself beyond denial.
“I said it before and I’ll say it again. You’ve always had a good pair of tits,” murmured McIlroy, “and look at them now. Christ, you’re a gorgeous thing. Are you sure you don’t want to keep him like this, Wuzzles?”
“Fairly sure – oh, c’mon then-” Worsley bucked into McIlroy’s hand. “Don’t be a tease.”
“I’ll be what I like,” said McIlroy, giving Worsley a wink and a squeeze before turning back to Macklin. “How lovely to see that he blushes just as easily as a woman as he did as a man.”
“I do not,” objected Macklin with a huff, hunching his shoulders defensively. The early morning air was cool despite the closeness of the cabin and he could feel his nipples pebbling.
But Worsley laughed. “Show him a bit of attention then. Since you’re determined to be so slow with me.”
McIlroy didn’t need to be prompted twice, and it was hard to deny that the pleased sound he made when he cupped two heavy handfuls of Macklin’s breasts didn’t make Macklin shudder in a rather delicious way. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Kind of woman I’d hope to see swanning about the docks on a dark night.”
“Don’t make such improper suggestions about my fella, now,” said Worsley, unoffended. “You sailors.” He settled down behind where Macklin was sitting. He was still only half-hard, but he carried himself with his usual unbothered ease and certainly wasn’t avoiding touching Macklin’s body: they were pressed up against each other now, crammed in on the narrow bunk.
“Takes one to know one.” One of McIlroy’s hands was still appreciatively kneading and fondling at Macklin’s chest. The other had drifted as though set by some invisible current, stroking along the curve of Macklin’s hip, caressing his thigh and slipping inward towards his, his – the mind still protested at the incongruity of seeing it still, but there it was, plump and pink and protected by dark, wiry curls. Two steady fingers pressed against his entrance and Macklin realised to his mortification that quite without any conscious input, his new body had gone ahead and registered its interest in proceedings. McIlroy’s fingers slipped inside without the least resistance.
“You are eager, aren’t you. I wonder-” He glanced at Worsley. “Does he usually like for you to put your mouth on him?”
“That would be putting it mildly,” said Worsley, tangling his fingers through Macklin’s hair. His other hand had wandered between his legs and he was lazily stroking himself, watching the two of them with half-lidded eyes.
“I’m right here, you know,” said Macklin, although he didn’t quite manage to sound irritable. His whole body had begun now to feel wonderfully warm. Worsley’s familiar touch, his clear appreciation of Macklin’s newly long hair, was well-matched with McIlroy’s able attentions, and he was basking in the sensation of being caressed all over. A pang of guilt that he was enjoying himself so much – but only a brief pang. After all, Worsley was always trying to coax him into relaxing. You can afford a bit of indulgence, Mack, he would playfully scold whenever Macklin raised objections on basis of time, money, or decency.
“Oh, I know,” McIlroy said, and promptly dropped to his knees with a practiced motion. He wasted no time in leaning in to drag his tongue, broad and languid, up the length of Macklin’s entrance, and all possible objections flew away at once.
It was true that Macklin had always been embarrassingly prone to coming off immediately whenever Worsley took his tongue to his hole. So it was only to be expected that McIlroy’s mouth on him now would be no different: expected, but no less promptly overwhelming. McIlroy was slow and indulgent in his devouring. No playful licks but deep daubing strokes as if he were a dramatic artist with a brush. He pushed his tongue inside and savoured, moaned, and kissed until Macklin’s clit was throbbing and his thighs were trembling. He bucked against McIlroy’s tongue even as he bit his own to prevent himself from crying out. His glasses were slipping hopelessly crooked on his nose and he fumbled the frames with uncoordinated fingers until Worsley thankfully took them from him.
“That’s it, darling,” said McIlroy, encouraging and surprisingly sweet. “Doesn’t that feel right?”
It did feel right – it felt so terribly, completely right that Macklin could hardly speak. He was dripping in glistening strands against McIlroy’s red mouth, and when McIlroy suckled on Macklin’s little clit Macklin came almost unexpectedly with a jerk of his hips and a hot flood on that inexorable tongue. He was so surprised that he didn’t even make a sound beyond a sharp inhale and could only lie there, blinking dazedly at the cabin ceiling as pleasure rolled through him in erratic heartbeats.
“Look at you.” McIlroy’s breath was hot against Macklin’s inner thigh. “Look at this gorgeous, wet cunt. Small wonder the skipper wants to put a baby in your belly. I want to do it myself. I’d keep you in bed all day, ‘til you were too round and full to do anything but lie there and beg for more.”
Macklin twitched involuntarily, words jumbling about in his reeling head. Some of them were half-hearted protests; most of them were just I want and yes.
“The mouth on you,” said Worsley from where he was curled around Macklin’s back. His eyes were dark and warm and he was hard between his legs now, his cock arching from the dark thatch of hair at his groin. “No one could say you two don’t make a pretty picture, hell.”
“And there you were, saying you wouldn’t have managed it with a woman,” said McIlroy, teasingly.
“Didn’t say I was blind. It’s a very pretty picture.” Worsley propped himself up to give Macklin a kiss, and then leaned precariously over the edge of the bunk to kiss McIlroy right on his narrow, wicked smirk before sitting up. “Now. Come make that mouth of yours useful over here.”
“Aye aye,” said McIlroy with a sardonic little salute, and he went. It seemed he hadn’t been overexaggerating his interest in men just for a chance at Macklin’s freshly feminine assets: he pushed up the twice-repaired hem of Worsley’s shirt and took his thick cock into his mouth without hesitation. Judging from the way Worsley cursed and squirmed happily against the bunk, he wasn’t only guessing either.
Worsley was a treat to watch when being pleasured. He could never keep still, never keep his mouth shut. When McIlroy pulled off of Worsley’s cock with a last lazy lick to the tip, Worsley was fully erect and Macklin’s heart was fluttering. The new equipment between his legs fluttered as well. No question about it: Miss Macklin was certainly just as affected by Worsley’s sturdy, well-formed body as was her male counterpart. Words seemed unnecessary. Macklin let his legs part, knees quivering.
“She’s wet and waiting for you,” said McIlroy, almost a purr. His lips were flushed. glistening. “Go on. Take her.”
“Are you ready?” Worsley asked, soft and gentle, rubbing a rough thumb down the curve of Macklin’s thigh. He was always conscientious, but this was so slow it was almost torture.
“Please,” said Macklin before he could feel ashamed of his eagerness. His pulse was fluttering, drumming itself through his fingertips. Deep in his core, a slower, rolling beat throbbed in waves.
“If you’re sure-”
“Of course she is.” McIlroy’s were surgeon’s hands, steady and efficient. They were precisely so as he guided Worsley solicitously between Macklin’s legs, two fingers parting the dusky, swollen labia and a third managing a last cheeky swipe before Worsley finally pressed inside.
Distantly, the remaining sliver of his brain capable of detached observation noted with interest how effective his body’s natural lubrication really was. Macklin had never actually had the opportunity or rather the inclination to experience firsthand the female anatomy in this way, and it would have been a prime opportunity for study had the far greater part of his mind not been sunk deeply into a haze of desire.
The stretch of Worsley’s cock was obscene within him. It always felt overwhelming in the best way but his altered anatomy was delivering a different sensation, new and equally wonderful, and Macklin felt his toes curl with anticipation as he trembled, desperately wanting. “Yes, oh – Wuzz, Frank, Frank-”
“There you are,” Worsley murmured, stroking the side of Macklin’s face. He slipped his thumb between his lips and Macklin opened his mouth to take it immediately, eagerly. Worsley rolled his hips, building into a rhythm. “That’s good, you feel just as good-”
McIlroy’s slender hand insinuated its way between them. “Don’t neglect her, now,” he said silkily as his fingers pushed through coarse hair and found the sensitive nub of Macklin’s clitoris. “Perhaps you can get what you need simply from a good ramming but ladies are more refined than all that.” He pressed down and Macklin gasped, automatically arching his hips into McIlroy’s touch and making Worsley groan in turn.
“Oh, damn- Mick-“
“Is she tight?” McIlroy asked, his hand working faster. “She’s technically a virgin. This way, at least.”
“Hah, definitely not the – other way – yes, yes he’s tight, Mack, is it alright?”
It most certainly was. The familiar, much-appreciated feeling of Worsley’s weight pressed against him and of Worsley’s hands in his hair were matched by new sensations, new sparks in places hitherto unknown and unavailable. McIlroy’s fingers on him; Worsley’s hips bruisingly hard at an unaccustomed angle. Typically Worsley knew just the right place to meet inside him when they were fucking. Now Macklin found himself shifting, trying to chase the fizzing sparks that he could feel hovering at the edges of his body, somewhere not quite – there – yet – his entire body quivered with every thrust, thighs flexing and flushed nipples aching and Macklin raised a shaking hand to cup at himself, desperate to urge himself forward to some kind of release.
Of course McIlroy noticed. “What brutes we are. Breasts like yours need attending to.” His hands were back, fondling and squeezing with an assertion that made Macklin writhe. “They’ll grow larger once we’ve put a baby inside you, don’t you know? You’ll try and be modest, of course, a good girl like you, but it’s no use. Everyone will see these gorgeous tits straining to spill out of your dress, begging to be touched. Just like you’ll be begging to be fucked.”
“Christ, you – don’t say that-” Too late; the vivid picture pouring from McIlroy’s tongue had already taken hold. And surely neither Worsley nor McIlroy would let him go wanting, if he increased – no, they would keep him well provided for in all ways.
There were fingers rubbing his clit, massaging at his breasts– whose, Macklin could no longer tell. He was floating, conscious only of how stretched open he felt and of the all-encompassing desire to be fucked and filled to the brim. The thick girth of Worsley’s cock was rubbing up inside him, seeking something not quite found – and then suddenly he came again with a shout, his legs seizing up around Worsley’s torso before falling limp. The throbbing in his lower belly intensified, and Worsley groaned and matched him by increasing the force of his movement.
“Can I – Mack, I’m going to, can I-”
“Please,” Macklin managed, unsure if he had enjoyed his climax or not but wanting more of whatever it had been.
“But you’re – what if-” The rhythm of his thrusts was stuttering, close to breaking down altogether. “Haaah, Mack, if you get in trouble-”
“You’ve already gotten her in trouble.” McIlroy, sounding nearly as breathless. Macklin blinked, trying to focus his dazed vision on his face where it was pressed into the sweaty hook of Worsley’s shoulder. “Do what you promised, Skipper.”
What he’d promised- “Yes,” Macklin gasped, “do it. I asked you. Please-”
Face flaming, shame boiling together with arousal in the pit of his stomach – but it was the truth. That had been what had really happened, hadn’t it? Worsley had made a breathless joke about Macklin not being in any danger and Macklin, feverish with need and for once unguarded, had groaned out that he almost wished he was. Oh, but you can try, Frank, please, I wish you could, I want you, want you to come inside-
Worsley had. He had spilled inside and fucked it deep into him, whispering loving, joyfully possessive filth in his ear. Later Macklin had murmured something noncommittal about good grief, how embarrassing and Worsley had laughed it off, kissed him, and they had fallen asleep in good humour. It hadn’t been Worsley who’d asked for this, it had been Macklin. Fucked into the mattress, ankles locked around Worsley’s waist, needy and desperate.
“Do it,” Macklin tried again, barely coherent. McIlroy’s fingers on him were both too much and not enough all at once. His aching vulva was unbearably sensitive, he seemed to have lost all sensation in his knees, he needed McIlroy to keep stroking him and Worsley to keep fucking him, possibly forever.
“Make her – make him come,” McIlroy urged in a low, rough voice. “Make him feel what he was asking you for.”
Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 3/3
(Anonymous) 2025-01-27 08:06 pm (UTC)(link)“Mack, Mack-” Worsley was babbling, the same loving nonsense he always repeated whenever they lay together. “You’re so good for me, my gorgeous man – and you are mine, come here, darling, kiss me-”
Eager mouths. Worsley’s hand tender at the back of his head, cradling him, fingers combing through cropped hair-
Macklin blinked. Tentatively, he took one hand from where he’d been clutching at Worsley’s shoulder and cautiously, almost frightened, reached between them to feel at himself.
Oh thank goodness.
He glanced quickly to the side to see McIlroy grinning at him, so smug and self-satisfied that Macklin almost got annoyed again just on principle. But the onset sensation of being settled back in his own familiar, comfortable body was so relieving that he couldn’t manage it.
“Frank,” he managed to get out against Worsley’s kisses, “Frank-”
Well Worsley was hardly one not to notice a male form pressed so closely against his own, and for once he didn’t waste his breath on words. Macklin felt his hips stutter, met Worsley’s delighted gaze, and was promptly smothered with kisses even more fervent than before.
“I’ll miss your feminine wiles,” said McIlroy, regretfully.
“Ah, but where would we be without his masculine charms?” Worsley turned and gave McIlroy a kiss on the mouth as well. “Can I do for you, too? Just say the word.”
“If you’re offering.” He cast a sideways glance at Macklin.
Macklin hardly would have refused. Even if McIlroy hadn’t landed on the solution and lent his aid, he and Worsley were an admittedly handsome pair. A very pretty picture, thought Macklin, only somewhat begrudgingly. He was, after all, very recently and very entirely satisfied.
“Wouldn’t leave a fellow hanging out to dry like that,” said Worsley cheerily, and unbuttoned McIlroy’s trousers which were straining rather tellingly. “Especially not after he’s done us such a good turn.”
“Not good form.” McIlroy sighed, pleased, and settled against the cabin wall. In his dual pleasures of being restored to his usual anatomical configuration and having been thoroughly, rigorously fucked, Macklin felt only hazy contentment at watching Worsley playfully bring McIlroy off, with enthusiastic mouth and thick-fingered hands. Macklin was intimately familiar with Worsley’s hands after the past half decade of acquaintance, the rough calluses on his fingertips and palms, and he could appreciate the sight of McIlroy’s face going slack with pleasure as Worsley touched him. It was a testament to how entirely fulfilled he was that when McIlroy came and immediately grabbed at Worsley to kiss him hungrily, Macklin only pressed himself closer and enjoyed a pleasurable shiver. The two of them, with their matching lascivious grins and even worse wit. Macklin had acknowledged his predilections before. He had a resigned suspicion that after this little encounter, so might McIlroy.
It probably would have been better for his reputation had he insisted they promptly try and make themselves respectable after all was said and done. But he was feeling warmly drowsy and even to Macklin it seemed rather hard-hearted to turn McIlroy out of bed after he’d really done such as admirable job. Worsley was hardly the sort to decline a post-coital cuddle, and McIlroy was clearly basking in his victory.
“That was a fine medical emergency,” he said, sleepily. “You can drag me away for something along those lines at any hour, Wuzzles. And who knows, maybe you’ll be more inclined to women after all that.”
“I think Mack’s still the only lady for me,” said Worsley, so guileless and adoring that Macklin couldn’t even bring himself to take it as anything but a compliment.
Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 3/3
(Anonymous) 2025-01-28 03:32 am (UTC)(link)my god, this was so fucking hot. I loved mick’s thesis statement: You fucked him into this mess, perhaps you ought to try fucking him out of it?
and I cheered out loud when I saw that 2/3 like for real out loud. Hot damn
Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 3/3
(Anonymous) 2025-01-29 12:07 pm (UTC)(link)hahah maaan when I realised the fic had somehow gotten almost to 6k. How did it come to this fr
Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 3/3
(Anonymous) 2025-01-28 03:36 am (UTC)(link)another ICONIC entry into the growing girlcurse canon. thank you so much and also. holy shit 😮💨🥵😵💫
Of course McIlroy noticed. “What brutes we are. Breasts like yours need attending to.” His hands were back, fondling and squeezing with an assertion that made Macklin writhe.
my favorite part tbqh
Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 3/3
(Anonymous) 2025-01-29 12:09 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 3/3
(Anonymous) 2025-01-28 08:45 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Boy problems, who's got 'em - McIlroy/Macklin/Worsley, Explicit 3/3
(Anonymous) 2025-01-29 12:12 pm (UTC)(link)