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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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Seaman Evans/Scott/Lashly, Discovery-era ‘thank god we’re alive’ tent sex
(Anonymous) 2022-11-08 09:19 am (UTC)(link)take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2023-11-05 08:36 pm (UTC)(link)“My word, but it was a close call!” Evans repeats, over and over, eyes as wide as the crevasse we nearly perished in even as he pokes at the rent in my trousers with his needle. “When did this happen, sir??” He says it with some alarm, for the tear is large enough to fit his hand clean through, which he does as he holds them up to show me.
We are sat, the three of us, in our pleasurable tent after the most harrowing day imaginable. If Providence had chosen to throw us one final challenge at the close of our great venture onto the Polar Plateau, now Nature has declared our fight over as the weather has become as calm as the day was invigorating. Lashly tends the jolly primus as Evans, freshly changed into his nightclothes, addresses my battered kit with my trousers and the housewife spread over his ample lap. I sit half in the sleeping bag with my diary open atop my pyjama-clad knees, but I have abandoned it for the time being in favour of visually drinking in the company of these two marvellous sailors. I want this day to leave an impression on my memory.
Supper has been nothing but jokes and good humour, and not for the first time on this trek I can feel my guard easing, and the duties and expectations that separate my station from theirs if not disappearing, then decidedly slipping. Steam curls thinly up through the still, still air. It is so warm I have thrown open my jacket out of necessity.
Remembering my awful discovery of the split in my trouser seat, I laugh at my recent and ongoing tribulation.
“Do you know, I can’t remember a thing from the moment we stepped onto nothing until we were dangling in the traces?” Coming to, I had blinked out pain and found the blue ice walls of the crevasse yawning on either side. Above me, Evans hung rapturously and mutely until he responded in the affirmative when I asked after his wellbeing. Higher still, the broken sledge precariously bridged the trap we’d fallen into, and Lashly strained heroically with our weight. “They must have torn in the lurch of the fall. I only remember realising there was naught but my undergarments between me and the air. There was a moment I thought my tackle was so frostbit I’d never enjoy amorous congress again!”
But upon finding that neither of them join in my uproarious mirth, my cheeks quickly redden at the twin looks of concern on their grimy faces. Probably my blush is invisible beneath my sunburn.
“You’ll want to have children someday, won’t you, sir?” This quite seriously from Lashly after a pause. Six months my senior, he is a family man himself and the bearer of a precise and retiring temperament.
I could kick myself. Why did I make such an uncouth reference? What is wrong with me? Lashly certainly hasn’t put any brandy in the cocoa, but never have I felt drunker despite having imbibed nothing. I am a cadet on the Britannia again, reprimanded by the supervising officer, except I am supposed to be him. I shiver, feeling every bruise in my weary body. Nearly every bruise, rather—the nether regions of which I so callously spoke remain duller than they ought to be.
I had resolved to reawaken myself as quietly as I could that night in the sleeping bag, so as to little disturb the others. But the sway of the evening had gotten away from me—the heady yet impossible notion of the three of us somehow running the Navy as a team had somehow become more real than my current responsibility for their lives and duty to set an example. What a poor excuse for a Captain I was, so easily forgetting my place. I had to be harder than this. I had to. Once weakness is shown to a man, he will of course refuse to let it go.
“I hardly think that’s your concern, Lashly.” I snap, and it is too abrasive and comes out rather squeakier than intended.
“Does it hurt?” Lashly continues, not at all chagrined.
“No!” I say hotly, wishing to bury myself in the bag, or perhaps turn the clock back a minute.
“I remember what the doctors said about frostbite, sir.” Lashly is diplomatic as ever. “If it hurts, it’s alive. If it doesn’t…”
Evans rushes into the conversation headfirst and earnest, as he is wont. “You wouldn’t want your—” he does not change tack gracefully, but he censors his sailorish vocabulary regardless. “You wouldn’t want it looking like my poor nose, would you, sir?” His feature in question is mottled and swollen, frayed from the rubbings it endures each time it goes white.
“Well, no—” I start indelicately, “but I am hardly about to—about to—rub myself in front of you both.” It sounds ridiculous. This landscape surely does strip men to basics.
“Of course you don’t have to.” Lashly is as soft and low as I am loud and bothered. “Let us warm you up, sir.”
“We’ve all been celebrating being alive and here you are suffering right in front of us!” Evans adds vehemently, almost indignant. “Well, sir, it’s for us to look after you, you’ll find, and don’t say it isn’t! I’ve got three pair of socks on and all my toes thanks to you, sir!” I blanch, remembering having been rather harsh during the instance he referenced—it really wasn’t necessary to have questioned his ability to count after he got frostbit feet from wearing only two layers of socks instead of the ordered three—“We’re ready to do what needs doing, for you, sir!” He finishes.
This makes me squirm, but the resultant lack of sensation between my legs is enough for me to sigh out “What would you have me do?”
The two sailors exchange a glance. Evans and Lashly each have two stone on me, and between them, I feel small. I am not accustomed to feeling small, yet, it stirs something in me. The thought of them warming me…I would be lying to say I have not admired their strength through the traces, or worked all the harder to pull my own weight, or awoken to find that in the night I had wriggled my way even closer to their warm, comforting bulks in the three-man bag. I’ve felt wretched through this journey that such magnificent men must subsist on the same rations as me—and here they are wanting to give of themselves still more. I do not deserve it—and yet I want what they have to give. What’s more, I wanted it even before my present difficulty.
“Lie down, sir,” Lashly starts, “as deep as you can go in the bag, so you’ll be warm. We’ll have to disrobe you at least partially, see.” Efficient and careful as ever, he stows away the primus apparatus for the time being—it appears my predicament has trumped the completion of supper, which was to be a second pannikin of cocoa now we have reached our depot.
My skin is prickly all over with anticipation—aside from the obvious exception—as I sink into the reindeer fur bag. On a day as warm as today the bag is as dry and supple as we are likely to have it, and, not wanting to be coddled, I hook my thumb under the top of my pyjama bottoms, preparatory so that when the time comes I may disrobe myself. I face Lashly as I feel the weight of Evans settle into the bag behind me. My breath catches as he moulds his front to my backside, tucking his knees behind mine, his stomach to my back, sharing his warmth. Something instinctive takes over, for I find I press back into him before I quite know what I am doing. His hand, rough and callous and yet so deft with a needle, finds my hip and I feel his nose poke the back of my neck.
Lashly sits atop the sleeping bag flap, playing doctor. “I need to take a look, sir.” He lifts the bag open, and as clinically as I can manage, I push my pyjamas down, settling them around my mid-thighs. For all that sledging has bared our natures to each other, for all it has brought us to share hardships and the stark necessities of life, still this feels as if I am peeling myself open before them. I am as dreadfully sensitive about it as my member is not. I wish Bill were here.
The brightness outside throws light enough even through the tent fabric that Lashly need not squint. “You’re red, but turning paler, sir. It’s frostnip, not frostbite, though a bad nip if you’re going numb.” He confirms. “May I?”
Finding myself quite incapable of speech, I nod. When he touches me, I flinch, but this is entirely out of nervous anticipation, for I would in fact barely be aware he had done so if I could not see his hand on my sad prick with my own eyes. There is a slight pressure, but none of the responsiveness and reaction typical of me. The flinching, of course, makes the ever-attentive Lashly think he has hurt me.
“Apologies, sir. I’ll be more gentle.” His touch becomes feathery, and with the transition goes my ability to feel it at all.
“No,” I choke out. “It doesn’t hurt. I can’t—I can’t feel it.”
“Maybe try the balls, Lasho.” Evans suggests into my neck. I smell the hoosh on his breath. “Sorry, sir, for my language.”
Lashly slides his fingers under my limp member, rounding the balls, then tracing down my inner thigh. There is a gradient, a barrier, beyond which my sensation is full and sharp, and I cry out when he crosses it. “Very good, sir.” Lashly curls back up to gently cup my balls as a pair of dice. “I don’t think there’ll be permanent trouble. We need to get his blood moving, Taff.”
“I know how to do that, if you’ll have me, sir!” Evans is already rubbing his hands up and down my back in preparation when the more cautious Lashly warns him.
“With your fingers, Taffy—we haven’t the room otherwise, if we’re all to be in the bag. And we don’t want to be too rough.” Lashly shuffles his legs between the reindeer fur and slides in himself, blessedly enclosing the flap over my nakedness and enveloping us all in warmth and darkness.
Taff Evans’ fingers—how many times have I watched him at work, cutting wood or stitching fabric or dipping a candle? How many times have my eyes lingered rather longer than was appropriate on his strong, manly hands? I imagine they are warm and coarse. It sounds as if needn’t imagine much longer.
“Will you let us take care of you, sir?” Evans grunts behind me as Lashly settles in front. Strangely his voice sounds tender to my ears, but my mouth fills with saliva.
“I’m sorry.” I whisper.
Lashly pauses, his hand wrapped around my prick—or at least, I think it is.
“Why are you sorry?” This from Evans.
“You have nothing to apologise for, sir.” Lashly adds.
“I’m not meant to—be like this.” I force out. I’m not meant to be weak, I’m meant to lead by example. I am not meant to need their help. Yet I do need it, and what’s more, I want it, and I do not know if I can go through this without that terrible fact becoming all too apparent. My brain is frantically trying to sort this scramble into words that will not debase me too dearly in their eyes when Evans’ strong arms wrap round my stomach and squeeze reassuringly.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Captain. Even while injured you climbed to get you and me out of that crevasse today, you did. I don’t think I could have done it myself. You saved us, sir! I’m not glad for your injury, but I’m glad there is something I can do to make you feel better.” And before I can retort, he adds “I take joy in it, sir, I do. Joy.”
He really is dear. The sheer force of his belief in me makes me desire to do something to earn it, but in the moment it is enough to know this—all this—is wanted. Rather overcome with this show of loyalty, I manage “Thank you, Evans.”
“And there is nothing wrong if you take joy in it, too.” Lashly confirms, peering through my paltry words in that perceptive way of his.
“Thank you.” I doubt if the darkness is hiding my tears at all.
“Alright, Lasho?”
“Ready, Taff.”
“What are you going to do?”
“If you get the Captain’s blood going, I’ll warm him up. If we were on the ship, we’d put frostnip in warm water, so I reckon my mouth will do.”
I hear Evans suck on his fingers, slathering them up with spit, as Lashly burrows further down into the now-cramped bag, stopping at my hips. Both Evans and Lashly are constrained against the sides and I am in the glorious middle, wrapped up in wonderful pressure. The strapping young sailor behind me slides a slick finger between my cheeks, and the pride of our engine room before me places my pitiable prick between his lips. What strikes me, more than anything, is how these forceful presences are not only capable of, but adept with the subtlety needed to avoid worsening my fragile condition. I could not have made a better choice from among my crew for this journey, and truly, there is no class of men better suited to the rigours and skill necessary for sledging than the British bluejacket. Surrounded by attention, there is nowhere to hide, so I close my eyes and allow myself to melt.
My body responds quickly to Evans’ touch, and I rut back against him as his thick finger plunges into me. It is indeed warm and coarse. “Aye, that’s it, sir, that’s it,” he can always be counted on for chatter, and this is no different. His voice is a delightful rumble, and guides my thoughts to fix on him, his hand, his finger curling inside me. For the first time in weeks I am really, truly, hot.
I grip Lashly’s shoulders for stability. The knots in his muscles, no doubt obtained from his effort with the sledge earlier, are apparent. While I retain my faculties, I try my best to smooth them. We are all of us a mess, physically, collectively covered in bruises and tensions and layered thick in the filth accumulated from weeks of sledging. Scents of sweat, body, and musty reindeer mingle with the new scent of lust in the choking air of the three-man bag. Ah, well. I feel lightheaded anyway. Gamely, Evans brings a second finger to join the first and my massage effort on Lashly must cease as I feel ripping, in both senses of the word. My heart races as the blood courses down to my very toes, until suddenly “Ow!” I cry out sharply as Lashly’s mouth becomes searingly painful on my prick.
“What’s wrong?” He says, vigilantly releasing me. “Does it hurt?”
“Y-yes!”
“Good.” Lashly intones, “Does it feel hot?”
“Burning.”
“Then the blood is returning.”
Evans, concerned, ceases his work in my rear, but I cry out almost as loud as before to “Keep going, man!”
“Sir?”
“It takes—mmmph—takes the edge off the pain.” And I brazenly wriggle my bum back towards him, begging. Though I am accustomed to the stinging tingling of an extremity returning to life, this is leagues worse than any other frostnip I’ve faced—thus far, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid it in such precarious places.
“Yes, sir!” He fails to hide the distinct pleasure in his voice, which only goes to further flood me with want.
I almost faint from relief as his fingers re-enter me, and I re-orient myself, desperately trying to push him in deeper. Meanwhile Lashly, aware his saliva on my prick will feel cold now it is exposed to the air, massages me carefully—a true talent given how much I am moving. Each stroke burns, but also brings a rush of life closer and closer as feeling returns and my nerves scream with the stimulus. My balls, too, react as he lightly taps out a rhythm and begins to sing. It is his same old song about plucking a rose, the one I have not yet been able to parse. Its application to this scenario would make me laugh were I not so very occupied. This state of affairs carries on for several renditions of the song, as Evans encourages me all the way.
“Good, yes, sir, don’t stop now, sir—Lasho, how are we looking? Time to raise the flag?” Evans asks.
“Aye, Taffy, that’s it, our Captain is back in action.”
And I can feel the way my prick stands ready as the pain transitions from the awful burning to the more pleasurable strain, nay, need of intimacy. The seamen’s method is wildly effective—never have I felt so reinvigorated so quickly after the cold has had its way with a body part.
Re: take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2023-11-05 08:36 pm (UTC)(link)“Not much—“ I pant, rather desperately. “But I—I’m going to—”
Failing to heed my warning, Lashly once again parts his chapped lips for me, and this time I shudder in ecstasy as I experience him fully. In a day that has run the full range of human experience, this is too much for me. In an instant, warnings serve no more purpose as I spend into this good, good stoker’s throat.
“I’m sorry!—I said….” I trail off as he gently licks me dry and eases off me, leaving a final kiss on my aching tip. “Oh.”
Evans slows his tempo, removing his fingers as he laughs. “No, Captain, it’s no bother for old Lasho. If I may, I think you’re not the only one who’s been craving for Devonshire cream while marching hungry, sir.”
I know how smug his visage would be if it were in my field of vision, and I let out a chortle as I pull up my pyjama bottoms and lay there. The sailors snuggle on either side of me, evidently waiting for my say-so to open the sleeping-bag flap. But I am not ready. I need a moment to collect myself.
“I can—” I start, finally, unsure due to my tired-out state out the truth of what I am about to say but committing to it anyway—at least until Evans immediately interrupts.
“No, sir, don’t you do anything just now but rest up.” Apparently my imminent offer of return services was all too easy to see through. Chastised as a child, I acquiesce.
“How about that second cup of cocoa?” Lashly offers. “You ought to keep warm, sir.”
And I throw open the flap to the blinding, cheerful day, and smile at my two companions. Officers may pride themselves on their talk, I think, but sailors know how to live.
Re: take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2023-11-05 11:40 pm (UTC)(link)Re: take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2023-11-05 11:46 pm (UTC)(link)Re: take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2023-11-05 11:54 pm (UTC)(link)Re: take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2023-11-06 12:20 am (UTC)(link)Re: take joy in it, (Taff)Evans/Scott/Lashly, E, [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2023-11-06 10:55 am (UTC)(link)And man such perfect characterizations - "It really wasn't necessary to question his ability to count" is such a great nod to Scott's tendency to be scathing in the moment and regretful afterward. "A precise and retiring temperament" is such a great sketch of Lashly. And Taff's voice is irresistibly perfect in this.
Above all I adore how sweet and TENDER this is. Like. They just all really like each other!!!!