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

hussey/wordie, fisting, light d/s

[(Anonymous)]

in his desperation hussey makes a joke about letting wordie put his whole hand inside him but the more he thinks about it the more he wants him to actually do it… thus fisting ensues

bonus points for hussey becoming completely incoherent with pleasure . maybe even crying . knock urself out

Re: hussey/wordie, fisting, light d/s

[(Anonymous)]

this is how muppet hussey can still happen

Con/Kathleen, more of Kathleen's strap

[(Anonymous)]

I think that Con should choke on Kathleen's strap, as a treat

Trials Three, Con/Kathleen, explicit, CWs discussion of pregnancy and mention of mpreg

[(Anonymous)]

[Alternate title: Whoops! Strap game so strong you've accidentally given your husband a terminal case of Bottom]

****

“Sit on me.”

“Con—”

“Please. With your dear rubber prick.”

“No.”

“I do not see why you should have all the joy of me inside you if I cannot have you inside me.”

“It will achieve nothing towards our aim. Perhaps it will even undermine it—”

“We’ll make a baby after.”

“Not if you waste yourself!”

“I will last.”

“Con…”

“Please, girl…”

And she cannot say no to his eyes. She has never been able to say no to his siren’s eyes. Just as he is called to sea, so too is she drowned, dragged under willingly to the womblike clutches of the deep with a great weight tied to her body.

Kathleen disentangles her naked limbs from his and from the quiet murmuration of their lie-in. Mounting her creation and securing the leather straps, she faces away from him, but she can feel those purple eyes watching, drinking in her form. When she turns, he says, “There’s my girl.” and she feels a flush of pride.

Gently, she places one knee on either side of his pink ears, settles her weight atop his broad chest. She feels a pectoral muscle flex beneath her buttocks. Eager hands slide round her hips as he half-guides and she half-feeds her rubber length into his waiting mouth. Con’s eyes flutter shut as his cheeks hollow, then fill. What is this doing for him? It seems the closer the Terra Nova gets to sailing, the more strange, outlandish, and scattered his requests. He sucks on her, not unlike Peter with a pacifier. He’s nearly as bald as Peter, too—she really must remind him to not wear so many hats, they’re only rubbing his remaining hair off faster!

Kathleen forgives herself if babies are quite all she’s thinking of. Her mind draws similar connections whenever Con’s mouth is on her nipple; given he is now the less frequent visitor to that region of her, she cannot help it. How curious that men and babes should have so much in common.

She gets comfortable, clamping her fleshy thighs round either side of his face, deafening him to the world. Can he breathe? Yes, through his nose. What a ducky darling, what a good feeder, what a—

An insistent push from behind tips her in deeper, and Con’s muffled moan tells her this was desired. Lightly, she gyrates her hips. This is pleasurable. Even if the rubber prick is not really hers, Con is treating it as if it is, showering it with adoration, and she so enjoys watching the effect. Her bush protrudes around the pommel, and when she slips a finger in-between she is pleased to find herself damp. Her breathing grows heavier until she is panting, edging closer to her precipice until she is jolted aware by Con’s gagging. She had not noticed how much she had sped up. She ebbs, but he only grips her tighter, so she continues. Kathleen does not yield until she comes.

Looking down triumphantly, she finds her husband’s eyes—just about all she can see of him—shining.

When she extricates herself, the first thing he says is “I told you I would last.”

“So you have.” She reaches back and grips his swollen yard in a way she is sure makes his eyes water. He stays deliberately, effortfully still. If he is aiming for spitefulness, he achieves obedience.

Upright on her knees, Kathleen is just beginning to divest herself of her prick when Con pipes up again.

“Come inside.”

“No, you!” She says in a frustrated huff.

“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it.”

“What is this, your trials three? Are you a witch in one of the Boodle Doo’s storybooks?”

“Come now, you’re hurting me, girl,” but his coy lippy smile suggests otherwise. “I’m no witch. But I’ll grant you another Boodle Doo if you only comply.”

And she melts down onto him, biting that pouty lip in a slow, burning kiss. “He’s perfect. I want ten more.”

“Ten?!”

“Yes. So hop to it. And you had better last.” She pinches his cheek.

“I will.”

And he does, as she works him open and slips inside, as she kisses the tops of his knobby little knees and as she rolls her belly over his suffering prick. It must be agony, but of course it is agony of the sort that transmutes itself to pure bliss. For that is what she sees on his face: bliss, clear and unclouded. He will hold fast because he loves her. Of this she is certain.

And she does get rather a lot out of this reversal. As she probes him, it is natural—if foolish—to imagine that she might be filling him with life. How would he bear it? The very thought might once have filled her with horror, but now—at least in the moment of the act—she lets fantasy transcend that practicality. Just for a moment.

He would bear it well. Of this she is certain.

For the second time that morning, Kathleen comes. She is gooey, giddy, released.

This time the straps come off quickly, and when Con pipes up a third time, Kathleen is ready to throw the entire contraption at her husband. But all he says is, “Girl, I’ll miss you” so she relents. Climbing back onto him, she cups his cheeks in her hands.

“You have me for a while yet. I’m going south with you.”

“Not all the way.”

“Do you wish I would go all the way?”

“I would not wish to deprive you of our son.”

“I’ll be lonely with just the one.”

“I’m ready.” And Con scoots himself under her, angling his prick suggestively toward her entrance.

Kathleen laughs, full-throated, and fervently flips them over. “No—won’t lose anything to gravity—you must do some of the work around here, you know—ohhhh—" She gasps in ecstasy as he finally, finally buries himself within her.

A quarter of an hour hence finds Kathleen lying on the floor, bum and legs propped up against the wall, precious spend dribbling down inside her towards her eggs as surely as the blood rushes down. She swears she can feel it, that spark of life within her. Her head is in Con’s lap, and his upside-down face grins down at her contentedly as he strokes her silky hair.

“If you can’t do a little thing like deliver me of my monthly pain, what’s the use of you?” She asks. Harsh words, but spoken tenderly.

He leans over, and kisses her.

Terra Nova any/any, dubcon & hypnosis

[(Anonymous)]

Turns out Silas' pendulum can be used to render certain members of the Expedition very... suggestible.

Maybe Griff uses hypnosis to get DebSilas together somehow? But anything goes!

Con/Kathleen/Nansen, threesome

[(Anonymous)]

Nansen saw then across the bar and loved their vibes. Pegging not required but very welcome.

Shackleton/Scott (or Wilson!), fourth man

[(Anonymous)]

A ghost accompanies Shackleton on the last desperate scramble of his journey for help. Is it real? Is it all in his sleep-deprived head? What does the ghost want?

Fill: let the river run you through, Shackleton & Scott, t, body horror, death, ghosts

[(Anonymous)]

I'm sorry if this isn't quite what you had in mind, op -- it wasn't quite what I imagined it would be either!

--

Say a man in the snow. Rock, ice, mountain, wind. Hope as yet a terrible word, help far down away. The faces of his two companions blurred through the gloom of a tent or the absence of one. You pick; this is a story with more than one ending.

The man outside looks at the man inside and starts, the gauze of canvas sharply suddenly see-through, the gauze of time lightswirled and still. At first he thinks it a mirror, but then that is a mistake made by all men from the edge of the world. Beard, eye, blood, lip. The man inside sees him and smiles.

No, he says.

You say or I say?

You pick.

He looks out where the sky is visiting silver upon the great dark crags. The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep moans round with many voices. Something in him would shout it down, but he is too tired for madness. His skin split like seams.

What do you want?

The same thing as you.

Gristle-grin, unreality untrue.

Hasn't it always been that way?

He twists his head no, the same moment Worsley shifts on the ground next to him eyes closed. So you've picked. Life, litter, footstep, name.

He judders a breath and turns back to the flap of tent, glint of tooth that isn't there. We've never been the same, he says. Wind shears his cheeks. He watches the chapped bleeding mouth as it curls.

We're the same age now, it says.

A lurch in his chest. It is so easy to be cruel. His foot rolls a rock over.

I'm alive.

For long?

There's a falsity of movement to it; he brittles himself, lays metal to spine.

If you've come to mock me, I'll tell you one thing: I haven't come all this way to lose them.

Body, rigor, song, flame. Its mirthless cornflower gaze settles on a shape by its side.

Who's that mocking who, then?

He tastes acid, his throat feathered. In the silence that follows he cannot afford a thought. No good would come of laying himself open now, too late, like a ribcage in autopsy.

Anyway it no longer matters, it sighs. Something sickly snapping as it nods towards Crean. I should have taken him instead, don't you think?

Heat lights him through, balls his fingers into fists; lethargia moves him with embarrassing slowness.

Well you aren't having him.

A witherhand reaches out to press against the time-gauze. God help him, he can't not look. Blackened bitten skin falling away like dried flowers. Shadow clouds its rictus smile, broken-edged and lipless. It laughs like a saw.

Not even for an old friend?

Or not shadow, he realises. Fear. Trap, steel, blood, bullet. The not-quite-right coalescing into sense. He thinks of the slow sure shoulders he knew once, too proud, too sincere, an ache of responsibility and faraway love.

He wouldn't have asked, he says.

Now it drops its pretence. Regards him flatly, blurs in space. Something shivers him colder than the wind. Lord, to lie down.

Who are you?

No one you knew.

Is it still anything, he can't tell. Time-gauze ripples.

Why are you here?

Reward of priority.

He feels sleep drooping his eyes and tears vigil through his teeth.

What do you want?

You've asked that already.

I'll ask again.

The same thing as you, dear boy.

Its mouth is a drawer of knives.

I want to live, he says. Torpor slurs his speech; he knows it then, and swings his arm toward Worsley but it slugs through the air and never quite gets there. I want to live, he says again, but the words coming out of him are no longer words, only bruises. I want to live burning and its face now tilted to the sky like rapture tentless open its witherhand on his and once they had called to each other through the fog of furthest south Lord he is so tired and calling to the sky dark clouds dark clouds it laughs Lord its hands and it singing to the stillness come, Lord, shrive me



He shakes Worsley awake. Crean. You've had a good half-hour, he tells them, paternal. Ought to make for a fresh start.

Did you have a rest yourself, Boss? Worsley asks, shaking a yawn out.

Yes, he smiles, his cornflower gaze coming to rest on the riven dawn. I feel all new.



Say a man in the snow.

Bird, flint, twilight, bone.

Rock, rend, river, red.

Husswordie, guilt about topping/domming

[(Anonymous)]

Jock is alarmed by some of the things he wants to do to Hussey. Using his size against him, pinning him down, overstimulating him until he squeals etc etc, dealer's choice. Additionally, he fears he might not be physically strong enough to make the fantasy a reality. These are both equally important concerns weighing equally on his mind.

Cherry/Birdie, post-Winter Journey confession

[(Anonymous)]

Cherry has a realization of his feelings for Birdie at the lowest moment of the Winter Journey. When they get back he bravely confesses and they have an inspiring life-affirming first time.

Discovery era, seaman orgy

[(Anonymous)]

Joyce, Wild, Crean, Evans, & Lashly in a big sweaty sexy sailor pile at some point during the winter of 1902. That is all.

Griff/Silas, campus hookup

[(Anonymous)]

Just two colonials at Cambridge having a casual dalliance between science experiments and meetings of the hill-walking club.

Scott/Wilson, hornyghost possession

[(Anonymous)]

This requires suspension of disbelief that Bill’s spirit wouldn’t immediately fuck off the earthly plane, but let’s say it doesn’t or can’t, and he and Scott possess various couples during the second winter and get to access an intimacy they never had while alive. How much of the couples wanting to fuck is the ghosts’ fault in the first place is dealers choice-Sad Dubcon is very good.

clark/james , size kink

[(Anonymous)]

clark big james small . do with that what u will .

Simpson/Nelson, sapiosexuality

[(Anonymous)]

Simpson is attracted to intelligence; Nelson is described as being one of, if not the smartest of the scientific staff—although he hardly applies himself. Perhaps he just needs some gentle (or not so gentle) guiding touches, if you know what I mean.

Deb/any, assertiveness

[(Anonymous)]

Deb can be a bit of a pushover (perhaps a lot of a pushover) but I’m here to conjecture: when he’s comfortable enough with someone, they’ll hear him loud and clear - w/e that may look like. Deb can have little a just what he wants, as a treat. Would love Debsilas but open to anyone!

FILL: Yes And, Deb/Silas, E, mildly under-negotiated kink

[(Anonymous)]

"No," Deb said.

Charles paused his note-taking to grasp for the no's antecedent. "You won’t—“

"Switch lecture dates with you. No."

"It's only a week’s difference.“

"I don't want to." Deb's tone brought to mind the creeping alarm of a frog that, propelling itself laboriously out of the swamp, has found itself matching wits with an approaching locomotive.

"All right," said Charles.

"It's not unreasonable of you to ask," Deb allowed after a wary silence.

"Anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

That invited a scrutiny that crawled many-leggedly over Charles's consciousness. Finally Deb made a noncommittal sound. “You’ve got a bit of grooming to accomplish in the—” Deb’s hand described Charles’s head and made reserved but pointed implications about the rest of him.

"You’re one to talk.”

“Hm,“ Deb said primly, before he crossed one leg over the other, and went back to work.

“Look here,” Charles started, but when Deb looked there Charles discovered to his dismay that he had not prepared anything to look at. “It’s good of you not to make the apt comparison to one of those Scottish cows,” he said at last, because it would make Deb laugh and buy him a moment.

Deb squinted at a rock, which looked, to Charles’s eye, much like every other lump of earth Deb had cross-examined. He did not laugh.

Thus chastened, Charles turned to organizing his lecture into less of an insomnia cure. His eyes, which he had directed to remain on the slips of paper he had begun to sort, nevertheless mutinied Debwards. Deb, with great serenity belied only by a slight red bloom over his cheekbones, finished writing, set down his rock, turned the page, picked up his rock, and started writing again. “Stop staring at me,” he said.

“I am not staring at you.” Charles was, in the present tense, not staring, though the immediate past might have had some strong words for him.

“I can’t concentrate when you stare at me.”

“Christ alive, I am not staring—”

Deb swiveled his squinting from the rock to Charles, who found he liked the focus less than the rock did. “You can go back to your corner, then.”

“I’m happy here,” Charles said stubbornly. “I’ve got my notes out.”

“I’m reclaiming the seating.” Deb kicked the chair Charles was sitting on until it threatened to pitch Charles backwards. “This is geologist territory. And Gran’s.”

“Fine,” said Charles. He eased the chair sideways and knelt where he had been sitting, holding himself up with elbows on the table. Deb’s knuckles whitened around his pencil. He scratched out two words with uncharitable vehemence. Charles felt some uncharitable vehemence himself. He would have voiced it, he thought, were it not for—and here his thought, in a feat of selfless devotion, threw itself into the sea. What the hell got his goat, Charles thought instead, on safer shores.

“Charles,” Deb said.

“The fuck’s it now.”

“Charles.”

Charles stacked his notes in the order he’d put them. He had ten days. He could work on them in the physicist corner, where no one yanked chairs out from under him and where no one knocked knees against his and where no one smiled sideways with an expression like pure spilled alcohol: evaporating even as you watched. “I’m going, all right,” he said. “You don’t have to be a—”

“No, I’m sorry.” Deb’s face, from a starting line of pinched red over the cheeks, now looked like someone had slapped it, which—Charles’s train of thought, having hoisted itself sopping from the surf, gamely hurled itself back in. “Draw the curtain.”

Charles drew the curtain.

“Kneel again.”

Charles knelt.

“Here.” Deb pointed, and Charles shuffled forward until he was where Deb had pointed, his shoulder at the table, his knees at Deb’s toes. His breath caught on the inhale, like the fellow bellowsing his lungs had considered, for a moment, throwing it all in for a one-way ticket somewhere warm.

Deb looked down at him. In the semi-darkness behind the curtain, Charles watched the gleaming points of light in his eyes. Feeling an ancient sort of boldness, like that of the first creature that had stuck its head out of the ocean and thought it might like to try a beach holiday, he put a hand on Deb’s knee.

“Did I tell you to do that,” Deb said.

Charles swallowed, half choked on it, made a watery gasping croak, and shook his head. In a feat of great daring, he did not move the hand.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” Deb said, sounding a good three-quarters choked himself, and then he caught Charles by the collar and hauled him forward and said, “I’m going to kiss you now,” and did.

Charles’s hand, initially forgotten, reintroduced itself to the proceedings at Deb’s waist. “What’s next?”

“I don’t know.”

That was a lie. Charles grinned, lending some teeth to the next kiss. “Try again.”

“We’re behind a curtain.”

“We are.”

“Anyone might—”

“Better think fast.”

“Shut up. I can’t think when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that. Every day. You’re like a dog.”

“Then tell me what to do.”

“I thought,” said Deb, his mouth downturned in the way that meant he was fighting a smile, “I had told you to shut up.”

Charles shut up. Well. He put in his very best effort at it, and lasted twenty-eight seconds, during twenty-four of which his mouth was occupied by kissing. Then he said, “Deb, I want to—” and Deb said, “If your life depended on it you couldn’t, could you,” and Charles said, watching himself speak as if the puppet of his body had clipped its strings and waltzed offstage, “Well, you’ll have to find something better for me to do with my mouth, then,” and Deb whispered, “Charles!” with an exclamation point, like he’d just been clobbered over the head and thus relieved of his memory of the preceding two minutes. But he got over his virtue fast enough to help Charles with his trousers and to hiss, “We do not have time to mess around,” as Charles—thrilled in equal parts to have his mouth occupied and to sink into the warm, salty, sour work and to have Deb over him, hands in his hair, casting quiet sentences that never quite hooked their predicates—nodded and closed his eyes and concentrated.

The fingers in his hair tightened and then yanked, warningly, before Deb made a sound like a kicked turkey and came off all at once. “All right,” he said after a moment, in a satisfyingly spent voice. He jostled himself back into his clothing and reached for the chair as Charles rocked onto his heels and dragged a sleeve over his mouth. “You’ve earned it back.”

“I’ve earned—” Charles growled, but then the curtain was flung open and Griff descended to declare that light was the latest thing in scientific endeavor and had Deb’n’Silas considered inviting some into this den, while Charles sat gingerly and watched the flush crawl over Deb’s nose.

Ice structures, Charles thought. The cave. Extreme cold. Falling into a frozen ocean.

Underneath the table, Deb kicked his foot and muttered, “Sorry.”

“No trouble at all,” Griff said.

Charles knocked his knee into Deb’s. He pulled the next lecture point to the top of the pile. Deb didn't move away. Instead, he shifted in his seat, smiling privately, his shoulders loose, his nose flaming so red Charles knew it would be scalding to the touch.

Clark/James, James in Clark's cricket jumper

[(Anonymous)]

AND NOTHING ELSE ok bye 😘

Terra Nova, selfcest/clonefucking

[(Anonymous)]

Inspired by the "Would you fuck your clone?" meme, our good friend The Thing has rocked up to Cape Evans and taken the form of one of the expedition members, or perhaps a few of them in turn. Naturally it's time to immediately get down to some clonefucking, as a way to figure out which one is the real one. Or just for fun.

hussey/wordie, catboy hussey

[(Anonymous)]

i think i huave couvid

Clark/James, oversensitive James

[(Anonymous)]

James' inexperience and sensitivity to the smallest touches is becoming a problem.

Deb/Silas, roughing it

[(Anonymous)]

Both of them have extensive experience in camping and exploring - Deb in the Australian bush and Silas in northern Canada. Surely the Western Journey's inconveniences present little difficulty to them as far as hooking up goes. They'll do it on a glacier! They'll do it on some rocks! They're total pros!

DebSilas, pretend to fuck each other to fuck with Griff

[(Anonymous)]

It'll annoy him so much and be so funny! There's no way that being such compromising situations with one another will awaken anything!

Husswordie, rival cliques

[(Anonymous)]

Hussey and Wordie's particular friends don't understand their attraction to one another. Ach... nae...

Any/any, truth curse

[(Anonymous)]

There's NO way [your choice of repressed Edwardians] would ever actually confess their feelings, let alone act on them. But suddenly a magical Antarctic phenomena, courtesy of the aurora (or a weird fish), forces one or both of them to only speak the truth, and it all comes spilling out!

DebSilas, collaring

[(Anonymous)]

Apparently Silas is delightful when you can collar him for a weekend. Hey, Deb said it, not me.

Pennatch, spanking

[(Anonymous)]

Pennell's dreams about smacking Atkinson's bottom but IN REALITY.

deb/silas hot gay sex

[(Anonymous)]

theres not enough actual debsilas hot gay sex someone for the love of god write them having hot gay sex . theyre so obsessed with eachother

Re: deb/silas hot gay sex

[(Anonymous)]

i didnt realise when i wrote this that this entire page of prompts is 75% debsilas. anyway. take that as a hint.

Scott/Wilson and/or Scott/Shackleton, Con gets tits and a pussy

[(Anonymous)]

Discovery era, Scott wakes up with extremely sensitive tits and a pussy. He goes to Bill for help. Maybe Shackleton is there too? Maybe Bill wants to document it for scientific reasons and Shackleton assists. Is it actually necessary for Bill to draw what his abused pussy looks like leaking come? How many sketches does he really have to do to get the exact shade of his nipples after they've been bitten?