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

debsilas/crean, pup play

[(Anonymous)]

put collars on those boys

Deb/anyone, Bipes POV

[(Anonymous)]

Continue Griff’s article the way he would have wanted you to by depicting in explicit detail the mating cycle of U. pulcherrima from the point of view of the Rabbit.

Cherry/Crean, hookups and secret discovery

[(Anonymous)]

Cherry and Crean are hooking up and Cherry discovers that Crean is trans. He's super into it and spends as much time as he can sucking Crean's t dick.

Scott/Shackleton, girlnavy

[(Anonymous)]

'Nuff sed.

Ellsworth/Amundsen, daddy kink

[(Anonymous)]

Amundsen finally gives Ellsworth a chance… and he ruins it by making things weird

any/any, American Civil War AU

[(Anonymous)]

(oh no, who could it be?)

Put the polar boys of your choice in blue uniforms and fancy hats, I beg you. Let them fight to preserve the union and end slavery and also maybe fall in love with each other. Feel free to make peary and stef confederates and if they die nothing of value will be lost.

Jimmy, makeover montage + reactions

[(Anonymous)]

Someone on Endurance decides it would be fun to give gawky James a makeover!! And then ideally Clark (or whoever) sees him and has feelings about it and maybe the situation escalates into something steamier you know how it is...

debsilas, Deb in a dress

[(Anonymous)]

well you heard me

Amundsen/Wisting

[(Anonymous)]

Wisting went on record saying that if food ever got low on an expedition, he would cheerily walk out into the snow and sacrifice himself so Amundsen could eat him.

Can we uh, take the other meaning of eat, please? He deserves a reward for his loyalty, surely. Please have fun with the cannibalistic implications.

pennell/atch/oates, double penetration

[(Anonymous)]

size queen atch and his well endowed boyfriends etc etc. ahaha.

Cherry/Wilson, genderswap

[(Anonymous)]

i need to see butch lesbian bilson. for my ailments.

Deb/Silas, adapting their sex life around Deb's knee injury

[(Anonymous)]

What it says on the tin! During the expedition or after, their first time or their fiftieth, angsty smut or just plain smut — wherever your heart (and knees) take you.

cherry, pissing his pants

[(Anonymous)]

fun watersports or nightmare trauma accidents? dont care just make it weird and give him a boner

FILL: Discretion, Cherry-Garrard (bg hints of unrelated/Bowers, /Wilson), piss

[(Anonymous)]

Heat breaks though the tumultuous desolation. Only in a nightmare could a blizzard be as cold as the open dark, but it was: the wind howling, tearing at his bare cheeks, swarming his blinded eyes with snow and black.

But heat. It feels like years since he felt it, but it’s only been two weeks. Cherry shivers, dragged out of the dream, into a different kind of disorientation. Urine, he realizes. Like a boy of five or six, he’s wet the bed.

It can hardly do more damage to the sleeping bag than has already been done, but shame burns up his flanks and prickles sweat under his arms nonetheless, a flash of heat to match that in his pants. Everything is already cooling, about to be one sodden mass, just as it is every morning, if such a word as morning has any meaning in this perpetual dark. Best as he can within the confines of a bag still stiff around his feet, hoping the others are as close as any of them can get to true sleep, he curls into it, hands between his legs, cradling the last of his body’s warmth.

At home, a hot water bottle. Here, in this frozen hell, the only thing to keep a man warm is himself. In the long hours of fruitless sledging, thought is all but impossible but it’s also the only thing left. Brief fantasies of home, the way the men talk of which dishes, which fresh foods they miss the most; wives, would-be-wives, mothers, many a man misses his mother. Sledging exhausts such specificities—the particular women, the particular dishes; his wants have grown simpler than that. He wants a hot water bottle. He wants just heat, and for a breath longer he almost has it. Against the press of his aching fingers, though clinging layers of wet cloth, his prick makes a valiant effort to stand, and he’s surprised to find it can.

He might. He would. He presses his mouth against the coarse hair of the hood of the bag, muffling his own breath. Men give each other what little privacy they can: a deaf ear, a turned shoulder. If the others are awake, they won’t speak. They won’t admit to themselves what they can hear. Within the soggy, growing cold, his prick gives a desperate little throb, a last effort. He imagines a hand, large, warm, a firm grasp. Pleasantly dry—he misses that, too, dry hands—until it meets the fluids of his body, fresh urine camouflaging the private evidence of arousal. He imagines—

His tired mind drifts, Birdie gives a restless shiver of his own, and, as if released from a great strain, Cherry’s prick sags and falls back against his hip. The hot, wet flash of heat has long since passed; freezing sleep closes back in, his calves and lower back cramped with the same shiver that makes Birdie shift again, almost certainly awake and probably listening. He’d have liked to find a little pleasure in this godforsaken place, and now the cold has stolen that, too. Best to close his eyes and try for a little rest before the long trudge of the next day, and the next. And the next.

***

Discretion. And honesty, too, the manuscript demands that, in his own voice, with his own name attached, someone who was there, who walked beside doomed men. Still. Like the blind eye that the men gave each other’s nocturnal emissions, tears, dysentery, those crucial moments of privacy in a place where survival depended on a tight squeeze of men in sleeping bags in a tiny tent: he must leave parts of the story out.

It’s almost a pity, because some memories are absent blurs only barely demarcated by journal entries and calendar dates; he has to invent approximations of his own experiences, or allow the silent spaces where profundity should be to stand as they are, remarkable for their lack. In times of suffering, sometimes all there is is the desire for it to end. That must mean something. He hopes it will. Only the reactions of his eventual audience will tell.

But there are moments that remain in his memory with such visceral clarity that they make his prick jump to attention under the desk as he writes politely around them. Why this should be one of them is a question for better minds than his. Perhaps something to do with how tied up it was in the efforts at sleep, something about dreams and the unexplored wilderness of the human mind. Although nightmares were far from uncommon throughout the expedition, so that theory seems unlikely.

Still, this memory tugs. Or, rather, juts.

Foolish. Inconvenient. The work is going well, today, and he’d like to keep at it. His dirty, creased journal at his elbow, remarkably silent on the issue of the night in question; correspondence and an outline for the rest of the chapter spread in front of him. But his prick insists. The writing does this. It has a purgative quality, often clarifying but as often unpleasantly physical, sometimes in the stomach or bowels, sometimes in his aching gums, only occasionally in a way which, like this, feels like pleasure.

All for those three eggs. And little else. And Bill and Birdie both dead, and he can never bury the thought: if they had not exhausted themselves in the course of that brutal winter, could they have pushed though the last eleven miles come summer? It seems unlikely; still, the adventure with the eggs hardly helped.

And yet, for a fleeting moment, in truth so fleeting it hardly warrants memory or the insistence of his damned prick, in a place of utter misery, there was that burning vitality. The hoosh was never so good as after a long day of work—a familiar phenomenon, the way the body clings to simple pleasures when all else is gone. The blessed heat, the life of his tired, cold frame, the shock of wanting... No surprise, perhaps, that his mind would return to that moment.

And no real reason he shouldn’t have what he couldn’t manage, then.

With no little effort, Cherry stands and makes his way to the WC. The moment has almost passed by the time he has the door locked and his trousers off, but that helps. He sits, cups a hand around the decreased rise of his member, half aiming, half holding. Exhales. His mind wanders but he does not go back there—the fantasy is as inchoate as what he remembers imagining then: an impulse, a fractured longing, willing himself held, touched, warm. He thinks of warmth, letting go, and—

He didn’t smell or hear it then, but the hot spill of urine through his cupped fingers now is familiar nonetheless. Thin, dripping from his fingertips, plinking into the bowl, a brief stream, and his prick swells in his palm. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t cast Birdie’s hand or Bill’s clever fingers in that role, only adjusts his grip and moves his own familiar hand in the practiced, efficient strokes of the act. He likes it best when it feels wet and warm until the end, and manages with little effort. Giving in to the urge usually has that effect. A fine spray of piss flies from either his prick or his wet fingers, missing the bowl entirely and speckling the floor, and then he finds the second warm wash of his climax, a tightness in his bollocks, the hard porcelain seat cutting into the meat of his arse.

It’s a messy business. Worse when he does it without undressing, but nothing else so perfectly satisfies whatever urge it is that compels him to this vice.

After, he wipes his fingers on a flannel and sets about to wash his hands and wipe the seat and floor. He feels settled, sated, and a little sheepish, although no one else need know.

Back to work. The manuscript waits. Birdie and Bill are still fighting the sledges though the dark and cold, and it does him more good than ill to rejoin them, most of the time.

debtaff + silas

[(Anonymous)]

taff has been seeing to deb and silas finds out. they invite him to join and silas has to deal with all that entails.

Silas/Lillie, manhandling

[(Anonymous)]

You know that one quote from Silas's diaries where he's describing the other men on the Terra Nova and he says "much fun can be got from [Lillie] if handled properly". What exactly does that entail Charles??

Deb/Silas, but it's Jessamine/Sally

[(Anonymous)]

or as I like to call it, yuri on ice

deb/any, deb with a pussy

[(Anonymous)]

aurora magic? trans and/or intersex deb? girlnavy? yes :))

joyce/smithy, confession

[(Anonymous)]

joyce tells smithy of his sinful thoughts. make it weird.

cherry, pillow humping

[(Anonymous)]

uh huh

mick/mack/wuzz, mack gets girlcursed

[(Anonymous)]

ermmmmmm oh nooo theyre gonna have to. fuck him back to normal. or something.

Re: mick/mack/wuzz, mack gets girlcursed

[(Anonymous)]

welp. I started idly writing this prompt as a fun warm-up and now I have nearly 3000 words so I guess I'm filling it. Watch this space, I guess!

Deb/Bill, wrestling gone sexual

[(Anonymous)]

Bill sure loves to scrap and grapple with his hutmates, but is he being a bit more touchy-feely than with Deb than the others, or is Deb imagining things…? (This can and perhaps should involve some dark fuck Bill/gaslighting/dubcon)

Cherry/Deb, competing for (Bill's? Titus's?) attention

[(Anonymous)]

THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGGGG

Deb/Silas, feeding

[(Anonymous)]

Silas is hungry and sad when he comes back from the Search Journey. Deb should feed him delicious treats and kisses...

Hurley/James, workplace harassment

[(Anonymous)]

Modern AU for any given value of modern but ideally 50s-80s, Hurley is Jimmy’s coworker who has some… interesting ideas about what constitutes appropriate office behavior. Maybe after weeks of this Hurley should corral Jimmy into an unused bathroom and try to have his way with him…

FILL: will you love me tomorrow, Hurley/James, E, sexual harassment, dubious consent 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

“Never had a bloke for a secretary before.”

Despite having spent the past six weeks insisting hotly to all and sundry that he is not being employed as Mr. Hurley’s secretary, they are simply sharing an office, in the presence of the man himself James finds himself tongue-tied. Hurley is smaller than him, but his personality fills up the room. James smiles weakly.

The main reason for his reallocation, so it has been explained to him, is that Hurley is an incredible ideas man, but needs a chap with a real grasp of the figures to make sure all his grand schemes will function on a large scale. He's also said to be a great favourite of Mr. Shackleton’s. This made accepting the position a sound career move, even though he was warned he might have to pitch in and do some secretarial work.

“Might take a while for me to adjust,” says Mr. Hurley with a wink. He walks past James, and as he does so, pats him on the bottom.

James is so surprised he doesn’t know what to do. Part of him doesn’t quite believe it happened. He shakes his head, and resolves to forget the whole thing.

If it had only been the one time James might have convinced himself it had been some sort of freak accident. But over the next few weeks it keeps happening - if James is standing up or worse, leaning over, and Hurley is around, he can be assured of receiving a neat smack of his arse.

James should probably try not to lean over, or stand up. He should probably stay seated the whole time he's in the office.

*
The pace of work with Mr. Hurley is very strange. In his old office, they had worked quite steadily for hours at a time, and although the work could be tedious he had never felt they lacked for fun. There was always some little joke that amused them, or an evening of drinks after work to look forward to.

Hurley’s office is evidently rather different. There are people bursting in unannounced at all hours, who will stand around laughing and drinking with Hurley before leaving to be replaced with the next crowd of noisy people, all while James fights to keep the latest set of figures straight in his head.

“Hurley, I see you’ve invented your most useful product yet.”

James turns in surprise from the filing cabinet to see one of Hurley’s rowdy guests looking right at him.

“What’s that then?” Hurley’s reply comes from the drinks cabinet.

“A secretary you can’t get pregnant.”

There is uproarious laughter from the crowd of men to whom James has yet to be introduced. He clutches the papers to his chest, conscious of how hot his face feels. Hurley turns back to the room, a wry smile on his face. Rather than going directly to his friends he goes to James’s side. James feels a swell of gratitude: they are facing the rabble together.

“How ridiculous,” says Hurley, sternly. But then: “Although you’re welcome to try.”

The laughter erupts once again, and Hurley swat James on the arse before grabbing him there firmly. James’s eyes widen - he worries tears might be welling in them. But there are more pressing concerns, and he hurries away from Hurley to sit back down at his desk before he can be embarrassingly, conspicuously erect.

The most frustrating thing, James reflects as he surreptitiously dabs his eyes with a handkerchief, is that somehow, improbably, Hurley seems still able to get all his work done, even with all this commotion. He will come up with some bright idea just as the third crowd of men leaves, and pass it on to James to test its practicality. It is something he has encountered only once before, seeing someone get by on fits of brilliance rather than steady progress, and while it is a little infuriating it is terribly impressive. He can’t help but marvel when he sees Hurley work like that, can’t help but feel he, by means of proximity, is somehow touched by the aura of his genius.

*

James is puzzling over a particularly thorny problem in the scaling up of one of Hurley’s devices when he looks up to see Hurley is turning up the air-conditioning for the sixth or seventh time that day. He shivers reflexively. Knowing Hurley was an Australian, he had initially feared they might suffer the opposite problem, as surely England would be awfully chilly in comparison to the deserts of the outback. But for some reason, Hurley is set on keeping the office as cold as a refrigerator. Could it be, James wonders, that the seasons being the other way round at home, Hurley is trying to recreate midwinter in July?

Hurley finishes his fussing over the air-conditioning unit, and instead wanders around the back of James’s chair, to look over his shoulder at the calculations. James begins to explain his work but trails off when he feels Hurley’s hands on his shoulders. He sweeps them from James’s neck out to his shoulders as if searching for something.

“No undershirt today, Jimmy?” he tuts.

James shifts in his chair, suddenly hot even in the chilly room. Hot from the nickname, the embarrassment at his forgetfulness, and from Hurley’s hands on his body, hands moving lower, roaming over his chest.

“Bit indecent, wouldn’t you say?” says Hurley.

He pinches one of James’s nipples, risen to peaks in the cold. James yelps in pain. Hurley grabs James’s chest in response, chuckling as he gropes the soft flesh there, of which James is more than a little ashamed. He can feel Hurley’s breath on the back of his neck, and wonders how long he will enjoy himself like this. James doesn’t know whether he wants it to be over or if he wants it to continue, if he wants there to be something… something more?

But then there is a buzz on the intercom, and Hurley springs away from James to attend to whatever business is afoot. James exhales shakily, and looks down at his hands, which are trembling.

*

Despite the humiliation of it, James finds himself daydreaming about that day. He imagines himself being bold enough to go to the office without an undershirt for a second time. Hurley might want to touch him again. Even though it is all a joke, it would feel nice to be touched. Perhaps this is how it feels to be desired, even if it’s just pretend.

It’s certainly the closest James has had to any kind of sexual experience, and so now, when he touches himself instead of a muddle of faces and bodies and an instinctive yearning for closeness he feels Hurley’s hands on his body, hears his mocking laughter, smells his cologne.

Sometimes, he convinces himself he will forego the undershirt tomorrow, just to see what happens. But every morning he thinks the better of it. The next time he actually does go in without one, it is pure scatter-brained accident. This time he realises his mistake on the bus into work, and spends a panicked fifteen minutes wondering if he should return home for one or not. He elects not to, and is both vindicated and disappointed when Hurley says nothing about it all day.

“I used to work this way with Miss Leighton,” says Hurley.

James looks up from his figures to nod. They are working late in Hurley's office, either side of the large meeting table. James doesn't like it when Hurley mentions his previous secretaries, because he isn't one, and because it annoys him to hear about them.

“The view's a little different,” observes Hurley, cocking his head to one side. “Although… Jimmy, take off your tie and undo your top button.”

James frowns, but pauses in his calculations to acquiesce. He usually tries to keep his ties in a knot and just loosens and slips them over his head, but in his nervousness around Hurley he unties it completely, making it unlikely he'll get it back on today. He looks expectantly at Hurley.

“Another button.”

James blinks, the familiar heat rushing to his cheeks. He undoes the button.

“Another. And another.”

His shirt is open down to his chest, showing an embarrassing amount of pudgy freckled skin. James’ pocket protector weighs the fabric down, making it gape further.

“Now cross your arms tightly. Ah yes,” Hurley leans back, folds his arms behind his head. “Perfect.”

James looks down. His arms now push both sides of his chest together like a ladies’ cleavage. He averts his eyes from the sight as if to protect his own modesty. Hurley laughs, but then seems to return to his work.

He doesn't quite know what to do with himself now. Hurley might tease him for being shy if he gets dressed again, but he really does need to get his work done. He settles for simply uncrossing his arms and getting back to crunching numbers. But James keeps his arms close to his sides, and if he occasionally leans forward over his work, and tightens his arms by his chest enough to make it do the thing, well then… he's only playing along with the joke.

*

“Ta-rah, darling.”

Hurley hurries past Clark and James, giving James a hearty smack on the bottom as he does so. Then he's off - holding his trenchcoat to shield him from the rain as he hurries from the office building into a waiting cab. James pauses under the roof. Clark stops too. He fixes James with a very serious look, which is ironically the one which usually means he's joking.

“You all right with him, Jimmy?”

James makes a vague, wavering noise. Clark turns, taking James by his shoulders and spinning him so they're face to face.

“I'm serious. You shouldn't let him treat you like that.”

“Oh… Well, it's a joke, so…”

Clark looks at him for a moment. His hands are still on James's shoulders. His gaze is very fierce and James finds it even harder than usually to meet his eye.

“Look, if you change your mind, or - well, just so you know, me and the lads from the office we'll…”

He takes his hands from James's shoulders and punches a fist into an open palm.

“Pow.”

James laughs at Clark's solemn expression.

“All right, although I promise it's-”

“Robert Clark!”

They both turn to see the smart figure of Clark's fiancée Christine heading down the rain-soaked pavement towards them, holding an umbrella. Her bright blue Mac is open, showing the tartan lining inside.

“Chrissie,” says Clark. His voice is soft, and a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you know,” says Christine, “that Robbie here is a terror for forgetting an umbrella?”

James tries to sound surprised, but worries his wobbly “ohhh?” may be less than convincing. He is certain that for at least some of those times the missing umbrella had in fact been leant out to him.

“Hush,” says Clark fondly. He reaches up to brush a stray strand of Christine's dark bob out of her eyes.

“Less of that,” says Christine, primly. “I just don't want you dripping all over the cinema.”

James has observed this before: Clark and his fiancée play a sort of game together where they put on a performance of disliking each other, and yet are, in secret, absolutely besotted with one another.

“God forbid anything come betwixt Chrissie and the pictures,” says Clark, clutching a hand to his heart and putting on a tragic expression.

Christine's stern expression keeps twitching into a smile as she takes Clark's arm.

“Better shake a leg,” she observes, with a glance to her wristwatch.

Clark presses his own umbrella into James's hands. When he tries to protest, Clark smiles and winks at him. James isn't sure how to interpret that gesture, but the uncertainty takes him just long enough that Clark is already on his way, safely under the umbrella Christine holds between them.

James sighs, and turns from them. The prospect of even the ten minutes to the bus stop in this weather is too miserable to contemplate. He looks back, considering taking shelter in the office, but his friend hasn't made it far enough from the building for James to avoid spying on the couple as Clark is taking the umbrella from Christine. As he does so she smiles, takes his face in her hands and pulls it down into a kiss.

After watching them for a stupefied moment, James turns back around, and walks swiftly and red-faced to the bus stop. He shouldn't have seen that, probably. But then they were kissing in the street. He can't help but fixate on the way Clark's hand had slipped under Christine's raincoat to caress her waist. He waits for the bus, watching the rush of people slide past him without so much as a second glance. He knows very well what he looks like, and he knows he hasn't the personal charm to make up for it, romantically speaking. His expectations in that area are limited to say the least. So why does he feel this ugly, gnawing sensation in his stomach?

The fact is, James muses as he fumbles handing the correct change to the conductor, that there are nice things he can't have, not properly. But perhaps, if Mr. Hurley will pet him and compliment him and make him blush - even if it is all just a big joke - then isn't that the next best thing?

any/any, Night at the Museum au

[(Anonymous)]

Because of *handwave* the mannequins at your polar exploration site of choice have come to life! What will they do? How will they react to all this? Make it wholesome or rancid or weird!