coldboys | Polar Explorer RPF

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:

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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AdG is haunted by Lecointe’s new friendship with cook and Amundsen and can’t sleep during their sledging trip due to being haunted by visions of all the sexy, cuddly fun those three are having without him

Cook has some peculiar beliefs about health. Amundsen obliges.

Some delicious ideas:
-Cook giving up/pleading to cum. Amundsen, of course, refuses (For his sake, of course <3 and not because he's incredibly hot while begging whatsoever.)
-Cook stringing Amundsen along in his new plan and them edging each other.
-Lots of toys!

Look. Charcot was BUILT. and he did not care who saw him naked. Gerlache should misread this as an indication that Charcot takes a liberal approach to seeking relief at sea and make a clumsy attempt at seduction only to be turned down because Charcot’s father basically invented French homophobia

i know there were no curtains and therefore 0 privacy but i need these guys to have their moment. they were pals and it was so cold and that hut was so close to falling down at all times. let them have a cuddle and a snuggle. can be more if so desired.

the only thing between cherry's bunk and the men's beds in the hut is a partition wall made of crates. sound has to carry in there, right? i want cherry to overhear taff + crean talking about the things they'd like to do to him through the wall and getting Flustered. bonus points if he has to look one or both of them in the eye the next day and do his best to act normal. double bonus points if they figure it out and take advantage <3

I don't know enough about chess to write this but. Deb being beaten at chess, sexily, by Marie; followed by Deb beating Titus at chess, also sexily.

sorry did I say cuck chair I meant fujoshi throne

Silas packs a lot of punch for a weedy guy and I want to see Deb feel some kind of way about it

“You wouldn’t expect it of him.”

“Pardon?” Deb said.

Titus gestured with his pipe down the slope, to where Silas was helping unpack a sledge just back from the ship. Up on his shoulder went a crate, easy as anything. Under the other arm, a heavy bag of fodder.

“Extraordinary strength, for an adolescent Yank. Wonder what they fed him on.”

“Pemmican from birth, I expect,” Atch put in. “Do you think I could convince him to take up boxing? I’m thinking of starting a club this winter, you know.”

“No,” Titus said matter-of-factly. “I fear his astonishing natural power will go to to waste as he dedicates himself to the life of the mind.”

“Pity. He’d make a tremendous sparring partner.”

“Mm. I’d like to see him knock Deb down, wouldn’t you?”

Deb had been glad then that his cheeks were already red from the stiff breeze outside. That image, of him being bested by Silas in a knock-down drag-out fight, stuck with him for a long time—outliving even the man who suggested it.

*

The Dry Valley stretched out into the distance, implacable and vast. Glaciers flowed into it along the sides like the tines of a silver comb, one after the other, and in between them two men wandered in search of ice and stone.

Earlier that day they had been crossing one of the numerous frozen ponds that dotted the dry landscape when Deb, his thoughts on an intriguing moraine in the distance, had stepped blindly into a weak spot in the ice.

Silas had been astonishingly fast, hearing the crack and whirling about. With one arm he had grabbed hold, hauled Deb out of the water and onto fast ice, then with both arms had helped him up to his feet. For a moment Deb, waterlogged up to his thighs but gratefully no further, had felt light as a snowflake and almost as delicate.

Now Silas was ahead of him again, silhouetted against the great white face of the nearest glacier, the sun beating down on his cornsilk hair and tanned face, and Deb was thinking not of moraine deposits but—in an abstract sense—of strong arms, a reliable safety net. Nothing bad could ever happen to one, he thought, while one was traveling with Charles Wright.

At last he gave into a persistent urge and called out, “Stop—don’t move.”

The sound echoed weirdly in the vast gravel glen and Silas looked back.

“What’s wrong?”

Deb struggled to access his camera from where it was being kept warm underneath his jacket. “Nothing. I’ve just—got to get a picture.”

“Of the glacier, or of me?”

“Both. I said, don’t move.”

Silas glowered charmingly at the camera while Deb framed it properly. He, Charley, rather disliked having his picture taken and had already proclaimed he’d be dodging Ponko at every opportunity. Deb hoped to be able to awaken some measure of vanity in him eventually, for he felt a strange anxiety that he himself would be overrepresented in the record of the expedition while Silas’s presence would be correspondingly lacking.

He took some snapshots of Silas against the glacier from afar, for perspective; and then approached to shoot him up close. He was gazing down through the viewfinder, trying to find the shot, when Silas said, “The hell are you smiling about? See something funny in there?”

Deb composed himself. “Sorry—“

“What have I said before, don’t get apologetic on me.”

“Fine, I’m not sorry. I was just… admiring the view, that’s all.”

Silas grinned. Deb took the picture.

*

How satisfying it was, each and every time he was able to distract Silas; to successfully cajole him away from his pendulum or his calculations for what he promised would only be a moment, only to end up kissing in the meteorological hut for some untold number of splendid warm minutes.

Deb didn’t really know how the awful winter could have been tolerated without this. He felt terribly guilty sometimes about it—which he hadn’t confessed, for Silas would’ve rolled his eyes and pointed out the flaws in his reasoning. But it was undeniable that they were the luckier members of a very unlucky set without really having any right to be.

The dark and cold outside the small hut seemed very far away, as Silas broke off to suck sharp bright circles into Deb’s neck. Deb leaned over to lick the outer shell of Silas’s ear—something he had an especial liking for. And he could have kept going just like this—he wanted to, really, but there was something else he wanted just a little bit more. He had for a while, but now he finally felt he had the guts to ask.

Into Silas’s ear he whispered, “Let’s fight.”

“Pardon?”

When he pulled away to look at Deb, Silas’s hair was marvelously mussed and his spectacles, which he always mulishly insisted on wearing so he could “see him properly,” were askew.

“Let’s fight,” repeated Deb, and in a smaller voice, “and you’ll win, and—and, you know.” He tried to get the meaning across with his eyebrows, but he knew very well that Silas simply no good at implications, so he eventually whispered, “…and you’ll take me as a prize.”

A familiar lopsided smile appeared. “Where on earth did you get an idea like that?”

Deb shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking about it.”

“I bet you have. Christ alive.” He kissed Deb some more and then said, “I never knew anyone could find so many different things to want from me. Well, why not.”

He hauled Deb to his feet—prematurely, Deb thought, he hadn’t truly meant now, surely they could have gone on kissing a little longer—and began stripping down to his suspenders.

No half measures for Charley, not ever; Deb hurried to follow his lead. Silas rolled up his shirtsleeves and then reached over to do the same for Deb, lingering over his wrists, brushing a thumb along the dark hair there.

They squared up. “Give it your best,” said Deb. “Don’t be afraid you’ll hurt me.”

Silas barked a laugh. “Are you kidding? I’m terrified. You’re like a china doll.”

“Now, that’s uncalled for!”

Deb went for him then, seized him by the shoulders and then they began. Immediately he felt that Silas was being gentle with him. He was too pliant, too careful—more of a friendly scrap than a real fight. They grappled playfully, for a while trading pushes and pulls back and forth across the felted floor of the hut. It was almost like dancing. Deb thought it was nice but not in the spirit of his idea.

“Come on,” he said. “Really, I can take it—“

Silas just rolled his eyes, which inspired Deb to force him up against the wall, one arm held across his chest. He leaned up to deliver a swift, provoking bite to Silas’s lips. Silas practically growled, and finally in a burst of real strength pushed his arm out, spinning Deb away until his back thumped the wall.

Now, their positions reversed, Silas had Deb against the wall, and he grabbed at Deb’s wrists and forced them up and over his head. A bony knee came up to dig hard into his upper thigh. He tried to wriggle free and failed—that grip, he thought, good Lord, and felt his heart begin to really pound.

Divested of their thicker layers and standing chest to chest, could Silas feel it? He was staring down at Deb, glassy-eyed, his mouth—reddened from their earlier exertions—hanging slightly open. “Is this,” he said, “what you want?”

“Yes,” Deb said, “yes.”

He kicked out at Silas’s ankle, not hard but hard enough to distract him, and was able to wriggle his way out of Silas’s hold—but only for a second. Silas let him get one step past him, and then grabbed him from behind. Deb strained hard but those wiry arms around him were locked tight. He reared back, trying to throw Silas off-balance—it was like trying to push against a glacier face. Silas, feeling his attempts to resist, hooked an arm around his neck, a genuinely uncomfortable headlock, and there they stood, swaying for a moment in matched exhilaration.

“Please,” Deb gasped. Perhaps a plea for mercy, or for—something else. He could feel Silas growing hard, a trapped cockstand pressing against the curve of his backside. He wanted it, but he didn’t want to lose Silas’s arms around him.

Then Silas fought him down to the floor, and Deb still gave some genuine attempts to resist, all the while exulting in the feeling of finally being well and truly overpowered.

This was the berserker strength he’d found himself contemplating frequently of an evening, before even the first time he and Silas had kissed; the arms he was later hotly embarrassed sometimes to want, rather badly, carrying him across a threshold, throwing him down into a feather bed…

Presently Silas’s full weight was brought to bear; Deb was prone, one arm pinned behind his back as Silas kneeled firmly on the back of his legs.

“That was too easy,” Silas said, though he was audibly panting. “You’ve gone soft, old man.”

A part of Deb wanted to remonstrate with Silas about the extenuating circumstances: the cold weather and his injuries preventing exercise—the heavy mantle of the hut’s black mood keeping him in bed—perhaps also contributing to overindulgence at meal times—but he was almost beyond himself with need now. If he opened his mouth it could only to be to beg for Silas’s prick. He had his own unignorable cockstand now too, but when he moved himself minutely against the floor to relieve it, Silas bore down further.

“Don’t move.”

“Can’t,” said Deb truthfully.

“You were right, you know. That felt good. God damn.”

He groaned as Silas shifted on top of him, all knees and elbows as he fumbled in his pocket for the petroleum jelly.

“I just could have you anytime I want, couldn’t I,” mused Silas lightly. Deb said, a little dizzily, “Mm-hm.”

“Now’s as fine a time as ever, I suppose.” But he was taking his sweet time with the stuff and Deb couldn’t stand being teased.

“Charley…”

Silas tutted. “You’re my prize—didn’t you promise—and you’ll be seen to when I say.”

But he needed it badly too, quite obviously, and got to it quickly after that. Deb, as shy of making noise as ever, made faces into the floor as Silas breached him with a slick finger. His wrist, formerly pinned behind his back, was now being held to the floor by Silas’s free hand. He was still being weighed down bodily, and efforts to wriggle back onto Silas’s fingers were less than successful. He had to content himself with simply being handled; which was alright, as at this point in the winter Silas knew just how to do it. He was an industrious perfectionist in all things, including getting Deb gloriously open for him.

Now that Silas had him like this Deb wouldn’t have minded letting the whole thing last. It wasn’t as if he was uncomfortable—far from it. Making soft huffs with each stroke, he was clenching his fists and curling his toes in pleasure…

But Silas’s suppressed impatience inevitably asserted itself. “I’ve got to, Deb—I’ve got to, come on,” he muttered, pulling away.

“How do you want me?” Deb asked. He had his own preferences—he liked when Silas had him bent over the table, or against the wall—but he had been won outright tonight, and ought not to have much of a say in the matter.

“Oh—just let me keep a hold on you, won’t you.” He recaptured Deb’s wrist to help tug him up, and then grabbed him round the middle. Deb, pleasantly limp and doll-like, let himself be managed expertly and easily into position. On his back, he could feel a rather dopey expression forming at the sight of Silas above him, but wasn’t much in the mood to mind.

Silas minded. “Damn you,” he scowled, not unpleased, and practically flung himself down, wrestling Deb’s trousers down even as he attacked him with a kiss. “Do you know,” he said, cheek against Deb’s, “that you are infuriating, that you’re criminal, that you’re an instrument of torture, the way you look—“ and he was fumbling below, lining himself up— “the way you feel, oh fucking Christ—!”

“Keep going,” Deb gasped. Silas, quickly attaining momentum, kept up a steady stream of colorful language as he fucked him, fast and strong and with a hard-won confidence that Deb had, with pleasure, helped him cultivate these last few months.

Here they had enjoyed a rare luxury of time and space, infinite dark and dull and cold hours during which something had to be done to pass the time, to keep the blood from going sluggish and the mind from circling round a drain at bottom of which was a certain terrible truth.

Silas treated it like work: in the sense that he loved to work, was a perfectionist in all things and would not rest until the most ideal results possible had been achieved.
He was still holding Deb down, both of Deb’s wrists in his singular grip agin above Deb’s head. The muscles in his long pale neck were standing out and sweat was gathering on his upper lips. Each determined stroke came closer to making Deb let out the cry that had been building up behind his teeth—which is what Silas wanted, of course.

As he unerringly hit that spot deep inside, Deb felt the pressure building… His own prick, unattended to, was dripping messily onto the hair of his lower belly. Silas had stopped talking now and his face was all screwed up in the way that meant he was very close, but he would not finish until Deb was done, he was keeping himself tightly controlled for the sake of Deb’s pleasure and his own satisfaction of a job well done.

“Let me hear you,” Silas demanded, or rather pleaded—this close to the edge he sounded very young, not all that authoritative, rather desperate. It was absurdly sweet.

Deb kicked out, shuddered, went over the edge and let himself go—loudly. When he opened his eyes again Silas was kneeling above him, having let go in order to finish himself off.

As if Deb would permit that—!

Mustering volition through his haze of pleasure he reached up and brought Silas down on him with a thump, and interposed a hand between them.

Silas was cursing again, fast and blue, right into Deb’s mouth—at least up until Deb felt warmth spurt over his hand below, and there was a choked groan, quickly swallowed up by a kiss.

*

“It was Titus’s idea.”

“What?!”

“That we fight,” Deb said, into Silas’s neck, as they continued to postpone getting back on their feet. “Ages ago. Years.”

Silas’s laugh was a low rumble. “Now, how’d I just know you’d never have come up with something like that on your own. There’s not a drop of violence in you.”

“I might have!” Deb tried, but Silas wasn’t having it. “Nuh-uh, no way. Corruption, plain and simple. What right did he have putting such ideas in your head?”

“You can’t say you didn’t like it.”

Silas rolled his eyes. “Course I liked it,” he admitted. “But now I’ve got to come up with something better.”

That, Deb soon made sure Silas knew, was something he was very much looking forward to.

Someone's idea of a funny prank (probably Griff) is to convince Marie he's been exposed to The Drug That Makes You Need To Suck Cock and is about to experience its inevitable effects. Shockingly, it works.

Wilson famously injected himself with a “mild sedative” before talking in front of big crowds. Now let’s consider the horny implications. Can he only perform slightly drugged? You decide

look how do you think Crean managed to beg his way onto the Caird. could be with his sensuous (unconfirmed) mouth, the world is your oyster.

There was a point where Atch asked Scott to replace Teddy with Pennell after Teddy returned from the Southern Journey and I can't stop thinking about an AU where Teddy didn't get nerfed by scurvy and ended up going back to NZ with the ship after all. So! Pennatch shore party time!! Are they already together and regularly sneak off to the dark room for a little private time? Are they still dancing around each other and drive the rest of the hut insane with their barely repressed flirting?? The world is your oyster ✨

Inspired by the current excavations: https://x.com/InspireExplore/status/1873081484501803042

What scraps might be lying under the rocks? Love letters? Bad poetry? Erotic sketches? Controversial SPT rejects?

The Evans v Evans showdown. Size difference is a given here, no? Bonus points if Taff gets fucked within an inch of his life.

deb finds out about wordie saying he's not physically fit enough to continue directing the spri and figures there's only one way to show him he's still got it :))

what was going ON on that honeymoon.

Paquita could not believe she was crying on her honeymoon, of all times.

"Oh, come now," her husband - Douglas, smart and strong and wonderful - soothed, perching next to her at the foot of their hotel bed. "Didn't you enjoy shopping with Davis earlier?"

She sobbed, and Davis, who had been hovering watchfully on the periphery of the situation, stepped over in one long stride, holding out his handkerchief toward her. She took it and blew her nose. Paquita had enjoyed it immensely - she'd had a wonderful time out shopping with Captain Davis. He'd helped her choose a selection of dresses and blouses that suited her quite well in cut and color, and he'd carried her bags and walked arm-in-arm with her, and she'd felt safe. It wasn't that she didn't feel safe with Douglas - she loved Douglas, but he was enigmatic and ambitious and always on the move. Sometimes, in secret, she feared he'd fly so high she'd never be able to reach him. Even now, in the same room, his arm around her shoulders, she missed his touch.

"Oh," she sniffled, "it's only just that. Well. I was hoping we could, er, consummate our marriage, while we're on honeymoon."

"I see." Douglas looked down at the carpet for a moment, thoughtful. "Darling, I would love nothing more. I just have to finish these next few chapters, then -"

Paquita wept, and Douglas looked guiltily up at Davis. Oh, Paquita knew that he was on a tight deadline with his book, and that he just had to finish it, that the royalties would provide for them for years so that he could stay and build a home with her... she knew all of it very well, and she forgave him for it. She didn't want to be so emotional about it, it was just...

"It's alright, love," Davis crouched down, laying a hand on Paquita's shoulder next to Douglas's. She felt her husband's fingers twitch as Davis's brushed against them. Davis clasped her hand where it had fallen into her lap, and she looked up. He was at eye level with her. His face was so concerned, and ever so kind. What a dear man the Captain was. "He'll finish up as quick as he can."

Douglas looked at Davis, quizzical. A thought was forming behind those blue eyes, Paquita could tell. "Perhaps... perhaps you could keep dear Paquita company? While I work on my manuscript?"

"I'm willing, but I don't know that I can provide the sort of company she's looking for right now. I think she needs... the sort of comfort a husband is more suited to providing."

The air between the three of them, huddled at the end of the bed, seemed charged now, as though lightning had struck nearby. Paquita swore her hairs were standing on end. After a long pause, Douglas continued: "I know you are more than capable of providing such comforts, John." His first name? Douglas never referred to the Captain so informally. Paquita felt her cheeks prickle, an odd warm feeling in her stomach.

"This is your wife, Doug. And besides, you know I've never..." Davis looked around, as if checking to see what sort of company might be within earshot before continuing, quieter, "...been with a woman like that. I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"Nonsense," Douglas said, then turned to Paquita. "Darling, do you trust our Captain to take care of you? Until I can have you properly?"

Perhaps she should have been nervous, or concerned as to how exactly her husband came to know their friend's intimate capabilities so well. But in the moment, Paquita was overtaken by an odd feeling. It was warm and definitely pleasant, the promise of an ecstatic calm the likes of which she'd never felt before flitting about the edges of her vision like a moth dancing in firelight. Was this want? Oh, how she hoped it was - that this was what a wife was meant to feel for her husband. She felt it for both of them - Douglas and Captain Davis. Did they feel it for each other, too?

Paquita blinked, allowing the feeling to settle in her lap like a purring cat, before responding. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I think I would rather like that."

"Wonderful!" Douglas exclaimed. "I will get back to my writing, then. John, I owe you a favor. Love you both." He kissed Paquita on the cheek, then stepped back over to the desk where his typewriter sat. "I'll just be over here if you need me."

Douglas started typing, eager to get lost in his work again. Davis sat down on the bed in his place, holding his hands in his lap awkwardly. "Paquita, dear, I fear I'm not sure where to begin. Do you have any... experience? With this sort of thing?"

"Well, no." She thought for a moment. Oh, to Hell with it! "Show me what you would do if I were Douglas."

Davis froze. He looked frightened, like a rabbit caught in a torch-beam, but his eyes darkened. Clearly he was not unaffected - she had hit a nerve. "I don't mind, you know," she tried to reassure him. "It's only natural to love him. I love him, too. There is enough to share." Davis blinked, relaxing his posture minutely. "Go on," Paquita reaffirmed. "Do for me what you do for him."

"Alright," Davis said after a moment, tentatively raising a hand to trace the curve of her cheek with shaking fingers. "Let me lay you down."

He lay Paquita out on her back, her head on a plush hotel pillow. She lifted her skirts, spreading her legs before he could arrange them himself. Davis smiled sheepishly, taking his place between them and leaning down to kiss Paquita tenderly on her open mouth. She gasped, and he gave an incredulous chuckle. "Eager, are you?"

"Oh," she answered, "oh, Captain, I'm desperate." She'd intended her tone to sound playful, but it betrayed the real need behind it. Davis kissed her neck, nipped her earlobe, and she whimpered. "Is this how you kiss him?"

"Sometimes," Davis whispered. "Other times, I kiss him like this."

He moved lower, one large, rough sailor's hand caressing each leg, insinuating himself amongst the layers of her skirts, alighting at the juncture of her thighs. She was dizzy with anticipation as well as curiosity - what could he - ?

He parted her lips with his thumbs then, lowering his head to drag his tongue over her little... button? She'd known about the spot, had touched it before - only occasionally, but enough to understand that it could bring her pleasure. It had never felt like this, though: no one had ever taken their mouth to it. And what a talented mouth their Captain had. The friction of his tongue had been wonderful, but then he had begun to suck - as though it were - oh -

Paquita ran a hand through Davis's hair as he began to bob his head just slightly, lips wrapped around her... cock, she thought. Yes, my own little prick. The thought did something to her, made her more bold. She gripped the ginger locks in her hand tighter, thrusting up into his mouth. "Oh, John," she began to babble, "that's it - suck me - that's perfect - take it - "

Davis opened his mouth wider, adjusting his angle and letting Paquita push forward until her prick rested against the back of his tongue, his nose nestled into the soft hair above it. He grabbed her by the hips, urging her forward to rut into his mouth. Paquita distantly wondered if Douglas had looked up from his work - if he had seen the sight the two must have made, his wife fucking his best friend's face, his cheeks redder than his hair, her hard little cock twitching in his throat...

She tipped over the edge, warmth rushing out of her, spilling out onto Davis's tongue. He pulled back, swallowing all of it, gasping for air. Douglas had apparently noticed - when Paquita finally opened the eyes she hadn't realized she'd been squeezing tightly shut, she saw that he had come back over, sitting on the edge of the bed. She smiled at him, grateful; he smiled back proud before pulling Davis in to thank him by kissing the taste of her out of his mouth. She sighed contentedly, relaxing back into the pillow, watching her husband kiss the man they both loved. It was all for the best, she reckoned. She found she could be very happy with this arrangement, after all.

worst threesome of the karluk

The ever-inventive long dark Day has come up with a new machine (patent-pending) to help pleasurably pass the time during the winter, and he recruits the ever-eager Hooper to put the prototype through its paces.

please. he wants to make A Father really really proud

bonus points if titus calls deb his prize broodmare

They hate each other so much. I want them to kiss about it.

“One morning Amundsen said to me, a little maliciously, I thought, ‘Ellsworth, what makes you sigh so much in your sleep? You are always heaving these great big sighs. They keep me awake.’ I was struck with astonishment and shame.”

what *was* making Ellsworth sigh so much in his sleep? could Amundsen have been beaming sexy sexy images into his mind through the power of his Amundsen Sex Telepathy? I think so. I hope so

I know it was small in there but that’s the point. Make it work

I just wanna know what he thought was going on.

is there a specific event or era you'd like to see, op?

Re: Macklin/Worsley, Marr outsider POV

(Anonymous) - 2025-01-08 15:36 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Macklin/Worsley, Marr outsider POV

(Anonymous) - 2025-01-08 22:37 (UTC) - Expand

these two were straight up stealing entire bottles of brandy from the stores on the way down... i think they should have a SLOPPY DRUNK HOOKUP!!

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Page 33 of 37

Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1

Adrien de Gerlache/order of the penguin nightmares

Cook/Amundsen, Nofap/Semen Retention, Edging

Charcot/Gerlache, misunderstandings

abbott/dickason/browning, cuddling and snuggling in that terrible rickety hut

taff/crean/cherry, eavesdropping

Deb/Nelson, Deb/Oates - chess as a sex metaphor

Scott/Teddy + Kathleen in the cuck chair

Deb/Silas, strength kink

FILL: waiting on your muscle, Deb/Silas, strength kink, E

Nelson/Simpson (or anyone), placebo sex pollen

Wilson/any, mild sedative use

Crean/Shacketon, Begging

Pennell/Atkinson, shore party AU

Any/any, fragments discovered at Cape Evans

Taff/Teddy, Hate Sex

Deb/Wordie, hatesex

Paquita/JKD + Doug, Cuckolding

darling, i love you as you are when you're alone; doug/paquita/jkd, E

Clam/Hadley/Williamson, aftercare (patient care)

Day/Hooper, Day's marvelous sex device

Belgrave Ninnis/anyone, daddy kink

Oates/Deb, breeding kink

Mackay/Bartlett, making out

Amundsen/Ellsworth, somno/telepathic sex dreams

Amundsen/Ellsworth cockpit sex

Macklin/Worsley, Marr outsider POV

Re: Macklin/Worsley, Marr outsider POV

Re: Macklin/Worsley, Marr outsider POV

Re: Macklin/Worsley, Marr outsider POV

Mackay/Murray, drunk on Nimrod