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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
Regular view, last page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?page=999#comments
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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Cook and Amundsen force feed penguin to de Gerlache
(Anonymous) 2022-09-30 03:32 am (UTC)(link)But no matter what, we need to get some scurvy-curing bird steak into that commandant!!
Lecointe or others being involved is welcome too.
FILL: Cook/Amundsen/de Gerlache, E, dubcon & forcefeeding
(Anonymous) 2022-10-20 03:09 am (UTC)(link)"He's in a bad way," he says, turning to his co-conspirator. Amundsen keeps those piercing eyes fixed on him.
"I am not surprised." Finally, de Gerlache finds his voice.
"What—what is the meaning of this?" he demands. "You have intruded upon my private quarters." Both men act as if he had not spoken.
"You still refuse the fresh meat," Amundsen says. De Gerlache wishes he had made it a question.
"...I do," he says, attempting to wrest back some authority. "I—the provisions that our sponsors so generously sent with us are more than sufficient, scientifically speaking. Doctor Cook, your fanaticism for rawness and the company of the bonfire, while inspired—" Amundsen pins him with a look, some enigmatic emotion searing in his gaze—pity, perhaps, or shame? Disgust? A queer and complicated vindication? And then Cook nudges his shoulder with his own, a typically jocular gesture, and Amundsen blinks. The moment burns away, and when he looks at de Gerlache again, there remains only that cold and gymnastic analysis, the gaze with which Amundsen addresses doomed penguins and troublesome arrangements of ice. Despite the stuffiness of his cabin, the uncomfortable heat drawn even higher by two other men so close, he shivers.
"You knew he would," Cook says quietly to Amundsen, then, as if remembering their patient, louder, "Despite my repeated very strong medical suggestions and the obvious results in most of the crew," and his hand tightens on de Gerlache's jaw, as if to emphasize the distance between the men standing over the bed, strong and bright-eyed and hale, and their sagging, useless commandant. "What was the point of hiring a doctor if you won't listen to him?" There's the familiar note of chiding, the broad earnest concern of care so beloved by the men, but beneath that there is a—bitterness, a deeply personal frustration which something in de Gerlache thrills to hear.
"Yes," Amundsen says, blunt. "I knew. I only wanted to give him one last chance at protocol, out of respect." To that the doctor says something de Gerlache cannot catch—a dash of slang or English, perhaps, the tone intimate and wry. Amundsen does not smile, but it might be his equivalent, the way he tells Cook without looking "It is the time."
Amundsen's hand goes to de Gerlache's wrist. The smell of blood explodes from Cook, expanding to fill the whole of the cabin, which has never felt smaller, as he rummages in his bag. For a mad half-moment, he thinks deliriously that they want him dead so badly, so baldly, he can smell it. A bloodlust hanging obviously in the air.
"Is this a mutiny?" he snaps, voice pitching up with alarm. Cook laughs.
"It is almost the opposite," Amundsen tells him, voice cool with distaste. "You cannot lead, in this state. You cannot command. Were I to leave you so, it would be a dereliction of my duty for which I would most likely be promoted." Cook shows him his hand—a penguin steak, uncooked and bloody. The smell grows stronger, and de Gerlache feels dizzy. His mouth fills with saliva, not in the way of hunger but fighting nausea. He is suddenly very aware of all the blood in his body, pounding in his head and other, worse places—he ignores it—the weakness of his limbs.
"So this is a medical intervention," he reasons, betrayed. Cook shrugs gamely. Amundsen gives him a withering look.
"It does not surprise me that you take it as something so... personal," he says. De Gerlache's cheeks heat, and he does not dare to glance downward at himself. He doesn't want to know what they see, a man weak and ravished from sickness, and he feels transfixed by Amundsen's accusatory eyes.
"Lecointe," he says, quietly at first, then as loudly as he can muster. "Lecointe!"
"He will not come," Cook informs him, and de Gerlache is afraid to ask—have they arranged a distraction for him elsewhere, did he know of this plan... He relinquishes his hope quickly and quietly, as he has grown practiced at. Amundsen frowns.
"No one will come," Amundsen says. "This is for the expedition's good. You are going to eat." The next moment is somewhat of a blur. He ends up with Amundsen behind him, sitting on his bed and pinning him in his lap, de Gerlache's arms trapped in an iron bear hug. He tries to close his knees, but Cook stands between them, leaning close. He struggles.
"Stop it," Amundsen says directly in his ear. He has the natural ring of command, and an instinctive submission pours through de Gerlache's body a moment before the shame follows. He keeps his mouth shut, daring a small shake of his head, as Cook tentatively prods the steak against his lips. Cook prods more strongly. A part of de Gerlache wants very badly to lick his lips, his nose assaulted with the thick iron tang, but he resists. Cook gives a small, stifled sigh and reaches up with his other hand to pinch his nose shut.
It is an eternity with his air growing thinner, their unyielding grip on him. He shakes. For a moment, he thinks that it feels like climbing a mountain, oxygen dwindling as a higher altitude is reached—his jaw pops open. Without missing a beat, Cook lets go and thrusts his fingers into de Gerlache's mouth, spreading it roughly open. De Gerlache gags around the hand and tells himself his reluctance to bite is for fear of disabling their only doctor, and nothing at all to do with the pleasant stretch of Cook, a faint metallic aftertaste reminiscent of the darkroom under his nails.
A mouthful of penguin is inserted, and Cook withdraws, folding his mouth shut around it and cupping his jaw too tight to open. De Gerlache glares at him, and would glare at Amundsen if he could turn round.
"Is he chewing?" Amundsen asks. "It doesn't feel like he's chewing."
"No," Cook drawls, a touch annoyed. The hand over his mouth is not nearly cruel enough, but the faltering of Cook's trademark bedside warmth is closer, to what he needs for this to nourish him, is getting there, so he writhes against Amundsen's grip again and feels it tighten. Cook squeezes his face. "I can feel the bulge in his cheek." (De Gerlache tries not to think about another way Cook might be moved to say as much, and fails. His cheeks must seem inflamed under his grasp.) Amundsen makes a thoughtful noise, and it vibrates through de Gerlache's spine where they touch.
"I could chew it for him," Amundsen volunteers doubtfully. De Gerlache barely has the chance to let the panic of that idea bowl him over, the thought of Amundsen leaning over him like a baby bird, those harrowing eyes unavoidably close to his own, forcing a disgusting lump of meat-stuff into his mouth with his plundering, muscled tongue—before Cook is shaking his head.
"He needs the blood, and the exercise of his jaw. Like leaving it uncooked. For the full benefits, one must come as close as possible to leaning over and taking a chunk out of the live penguin." His eyes dance with this macabre fancy. Amundsen says something else, and his moustache tickles de Gerlache's neck. Cook smirks. "Yes, but don't let him choke to death. Would be counterproductive."
"You are getting enough air, aren't you," Amundsen says to him, and de Gerlache really thinks that one ought to have been a question. When he's slow to answer, Amundsen gives him an impatient squeeze, as if forcing the last drop from a waterskin, and the surprised puff of air that squeaks out of him against Cook's hand seems to satisfy them.
"I only hope I won't have to move his jaw for him. Like a nutcracker, hah. Your jaw and teeth are not too weak, are they?" Cook gives him the slightest bit of slack. "You can shake your head or nod." Indignantly, de Gerlache shakes his head, and goaded, seeing no way through but capitulation, begins to chew. Cook watches him like a hawk, and though he cannot see Amundsen regarding him the same he surely feels it. The meat is an assault on his senses, bursting oily and metallic over his tongue. He swallows and swallows, gagging on blood and fat and feeling bowled over by the first fresh food he has had in ages. He would spit it out, throw it up and out, but he cannot. De Gerlache keeps his head down and chews. When he tries to swallow it, finally, the mass sticks in his throat. He coughs and stutters against Cook's hand. When it is withdrawn, he is still too breathless and penguin-mouthed to speak.
"Poor man," Cook says idly. "Can only get it down like this. I'll be careful," and he lifts a waterskin to his mouth. What pours forth is not enough, de Gerlache still feels dry and smothered with blubber, but Cook seems reluctant to give him more for fear of drowning him. "There you go."
"Perhaps—" and there is a word de Gerlache knows he doesn't know, Norwegian brusque in Amundsen's voice. "To help."
"Oh, good idea," Cook says, and he massages the lump down de Gerlache's struggling throat with attentive, merciless circles. They come to the end of the first steak like this, Cook and Amundsen un-talkative with their focus on refining a procedure, and de Gerlache unable to converse. He feels small and thwarted and confused and even sicker, possibly, penned in by men and swollen with penguin.
"No more," he begs, as Cook wipes his hand on de Gerlache's shirt and goes for the bag again. "Please, no more. I have—I have eaten, please..."
"That is nowhere near enough," Amundsen informs him. "We are balancing weeks of irresponsibility." De Gerlache whimpers, and it is a pitiful sound, meant to be entirely misery, but he is only a man, and they are being pragmatic and cruel to him, standing close... Cook looks down.
"Ah," he says. "Hmm... Would that help you, do you think?" He has not seized de Gerlache's face again, and he takes the opportunity to look down and notice that beneath Cook's rough, patched trousers there is evidence of a parallel enjoyment. He nods, humiliated. And yet there is no corresponding sign from Amundsen. Cook looks past him openly. "If it is in the service of getting down his portion of meat," he argues. "...Which is to say, for the whole of the expedition." Amundsen grunts, and with de Gerlache's next squirm, he feels Amundsen's cock begin to stiffen against his ass. De Gerlache has the sudden, mad urge to laugh. For that—an aim too far dissociated from the ultimate goal of polar exploration—to be the shame that stayed one's hand, oceans and ice-fields away from female companionship! Only Amundsen, he thinks, not without bitterness for the man's preternatural self-restraint. Singularity of desire. Only Amundsen, explorer extraordinaire more rarefied than them all. This is a mutiny, in its way, no matter what they professed.
This time, de Gerlache does not resist when Cook begins to feed him the second steak. The fingers ram open his mouth anyway, but he laps at them pathetically, like an underfed hound—even the slightly unbathed and workaday savour of Cook's hands are delicious against the cold, greasy penguin. Cook chuckles indulgently.
"There we are," he says. "Hungry, were you? You don't have to deny it anymore. We'll make sure you get what you need."
"What we all need," Amundsen says somewhat pointedly, and is ignored. He grinds against de Gerlache, who feels himself beginning to truly melt into the hold. The second and third steaks go by easily. When he gags, Cook pets his hair and shushes, or gives a casual squeeze to his erection. Each touch leaves him dazed and quiescent for more. They surprised him in his nightshirt, and the fabric offers almost no protection. A wet spot grows, marring the white. Amundsen, for his part, gives the occasional nip, almost surgical in its harsh exactitude, to his shoulder and the base of his throat. De Gerlache cannot recall—it seems foolish, to be so shaken by a love-bite or two, the revelation that Amundsen, too, desires, but their methods are effective. He feels bloated and sated already, and yet every chew and swallow is less effortful. His awareness of his recoiling tongue shrinks to an acute wish that someone would kiss him.
"That's the last of it," Cook says, and de Gerlache hates the taste of blood, and penguin especially, a curdled, oily salt-fish quality to it, but he cannot stop his head from bending forward and carefully licking the remainder of the blood from between Cook's thick fingers, the folds of his knuckles. He makes a surprised, pleased sound, and de Gerlache feels aglow. He swallows, and swallows again. His throat feels creaky.
"Please," he says, again. He motions jerkily with his head to Cook's erection, now straining against his pants. He would not hope for—still more, normally, except for the fact that. Well. Amundsen has not released his arms. "I can—in my—?"
"Well, if you feel you're up to swallowing," Cook says magnanimously, and fishes it out. "You seemed to be having trouble with the penguin." De Gerlache chooses to ignore that bit of indignity, and surges forward as Amundsen shoves him, landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor by the bed, at Cook's feet, still walled in beneath and between the two of them. Amundsen's hands have returned to his wrists, pulling him back like manacles, but de Gerlache does not need the use of his hands to do this. He swallows Cook to the root and enjoys the yelp of surprise. He licks enthusiastically, ignoring the tears that spring to his eyes. They were already welling up. De Gerlache shall replace the horrid fishy, sanguine penguin flavour, he thinks with some satisfaction, and Cook pulls back to come on his face with a shout.
By pure luck he's avoided his eyes, but the rest must be dealt with. Apparently lacking a handkerchief, Cook runs his fingers through the drips on his cheeks and temples, feeding them back into his mouth. He receives his spend hungrily. De Gerlache feels too awkward to make mention of Amundsen, but neither of them seem concerned, making motions to depart.
He wipes a hand across his mouth, and stands. He draws himself up as if his much-abused nightshirt is full dress uniform and his claustrophobic, lonely cabin is his wardroom.
"I thank you, doctor, officer," de Gerlache says. Make this not a mutiny, he thinks. He dares them to remember how he had said no. There is no threat to his authority if it was all something he allowed. "For showing me the importance of an anti-scorbutic diet. Your loyal concern is appreciated." He trails off, unable to say more, but it seems neither are they, and they depart without much further comment or visible emotion. The back of his throat tastes of Cook's hands and cock, and his ribs feel packed with penguin. A part of de Gerlache still feels starved and lightless and unwell. Another part, though, he thinks is stronger, more certain and awake, than he has been in months. His stomach growls.
Re: FILL: Cook/Amundsen/de Gerlache, E, dubcon & forcefeeding
(Anonymous) 2022-10-20 05:40 am (UTC)(link)His awareness of his recoiling tongue shrinks to an acute wish that someone would kiss him.
OH ADRIEN.... You utter forlorn wretch, I adore you
Re: FILL: Cook/Amundsen/de Gerlache, E, dubcon & forcefeeding
(Anonymous) 2023-01-23 12:24 pm (UTC)(link)