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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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Gen, Tom Crean's afterlife pub
(Anonymous) 2022-12-31 07:10 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: I Am Alive (And How Much I Am Alive), McKinlay/Mamen, T, Re: Gen, Tom Crean's afterlife pub
(Anonymous) 2023-02-08 07:04 pm (UTC)(link)This is an amazing prompt and I would LOVE to see more people tackle it in completely different ways! I am begging for multiple fills, do not let this self indulgent thing stop you!
Title taken from a letter from McKinlay to his family after his rescue. Rated T, no CWs apply, I hope you enjoy!
***
On May 9th, 1983, William Laird McKinlay’s eyes close for the last time. When they open again, he is standing in front of a pub with the words SOUTH POLE INN emblazoned above the weather-beaten door. It is a fair spring day, and the breeze smells sweet, like clover and wildflowers. He glances around and discovers that the building stands alone at the base of a hill, looking incredibly out of place against this pastoral backdrop. He definitely isn't in Scotland anymore, but where is he? At least it isn't the Arctic— he shudders at the thought. In his darker moments, he used to worry that he would find himself in Hell after his death and that it would take the shape of Wrangel Island. In this, at least, God is merciful.
The sounds of music and laughter drifting out of the pub refocus his attention, and he walks toward the entrance. When he reaches for the door handle, he does not see the gnarled, wrinkled hands of an old man. Instead, they are pink and lightly callused— schoolteacher's hands. Strange, he thinks, my hands haven’t looked like this for at least 60 years…
He reaches up and touches his thick, full head of hair, and he pulls out a piece to examine. Bright red, just as he expected. Although he doesn't have a mirror, he is fairly certain that he is a young man again, in appearance at least. He looks down at his trim figure and his smart tweed suit. Whatever is happening here, at least he will look his best for it.
McKinlay takes a deep breath, pulls open the door, and is greeted with a chorus of cheers from men he does not recognize, although many of them seem familiar in a way he can’t quite articulate. Some are wearing furs or thick sweaters, while others look resplendent in their immaculate Royal Navy uniforms. Judging by what he knows of the uniforms, several of them have been here for a very long time. One man sits in the corner strumming his banjo, and a small group has gathered around him, singing along merrily. Each table has at least two or three men around it, conversing and laughing. There’s even a large tabby cat, stretched out in a beam of sunlight on the wooden floor. The scene is overwhelming, and McKinlay is immensely grateful when the man behind the bar gestures for him to approach.
“What’ll it be, lad?”
The barkeep is an enormous man with a broad face and large ears, his mouth rigid with concentration as he wipes down the bar. McKinlay vaguely remembers seeing this same face in the newspapers, although it feels like a century ago.
“Excuse me sir, are you Tom Crean?”
“Aye, the very same! What can I get you?”
McKinlay considers his answer carefully.
“Whiskey. And… can you possibly tell me what’s going on here?”
Crean looks at him with a twinkle in his eye. "Have you never been to a pub before?"
"I…of COURSE, but..."
"I'm only codding, lad," Crean chuckles. "I don't know all the details, but I’ll tell you what I know, all right?”
McKinlay nods, captivated.
“Everyone here is a polar explorer of some sort. When they die, they come here to complete their unfinished business, and then they pass on to the next life.”
“That sounds impossible,” McKinlay interjected. “How could they—”
“I don’t know whys or hows, just what I’ve seen with my own eyes. I’ve seen it go quickly, like when Fred Cook punched that gobshite with the mustache the minute he showed up and then they both passed on, but some of them have been here since long before I took over. Those boys in the fancy uniforms? Franklin's lads. They don’t want to pass on until their bodies are identified. And then there's the Boss—"
"Shackleton is here?" McKinlay asks in disbelief.
"Aye, he's just outside," Crean says, gesturing to the window. McKinlay sees the great explorer pacing nervously outside. "He's waiting for… someone very special to him who got lost along the way. He's out there because Mrs. Chippy won't allow him in here."
"Mrs. Ch—"
Crean points at the cat, who is now staring daggers at Shackleton through the window.
"Oh."
"He'll get past it someday, he just likes to keep the Boss on his toes. It's far worse for the ones who were intentionally cruel to their animals. Mackintosh was held hostage by a pack of mad huskies for decades. And sometimes the animals come back for a bit of fun. It's been a while since that bleedin' pony Christopher knocked over my tables and broke all my beer steins, as though I was the one who decided to drag his sorry carcass to Antarctica! A cursed beast if ever there was one."
McKinlay chuckled. "Now THAT I would like to see!"
"Stick around long enough and you will!"
McKinlay grew quiet, and Crean's face softened.
"Do you know why you're here, lad?"
"I… have an idea."
One idea, one fantasy, he thinks. It is dangerous to hope.
Crean turns around and grabs a top shelf bottle of whiskey, carefully pours two fingers into a glass, and slides it across the bar to McKinlay.
"Drink up, it'll do you good."
McKinlay finally sits down and sips the deliciously smooth whiskey, feels it burn all the way down.
"Do you know everyone here?" he asks hesitantly.
"Aye, more or less. There are a few who drift in and out, but I know everyone who's here for a reason. Is there someone you're looking for?"
"Captain Robert Bartlett. I want to thank him again for saving my life, and I want to tell him that I tried to restore his good name. I did—" he inhales sharply. "I did the best I could. I wrote the book. I hope it was enough."
McKinlay tries to choke back the tears, but they come anyway. Crean gently wipes his face with a clean bar rag. "There's no shame in it, lad," he says with a kind smile. "A man ought to cry when being reunited with his hero."
McKinlay looks quizzically at Crean, but then he hears a voice behind him.
"Wee Mac, you canny Scot!"
McKinlay would recognize that voice anywhere. He wheels around and sees the beaming face of Robert Bartlett, his mentor, his friend, and yes, his hero. They embrace, Bartlett pulling the smaller man to his chest.
"God, but I missed you. I'm so sorry," McKinlay stammers, "about the things they said about you. You saved us all. I owe you my life."
"You had a good life, and it's been an honor to watch over you from here. I would make the journey to Siberia a hundred times over again for you."
McKinlay begins to weep again, but this time they are happy tears. "I have so many things to tell you! Did you know that Stefansson di—"
"Mac."
McKinlay pulls out of the embrace and looks up at Bartlett, who also has tears in his eyes. "Of course I know that Stefansson died. I threw him through that plate glass window"—he gestures to a boarded up window near the back of the pub— "as soon as he arrived, and he hasn't been seen since!"
Both men laugh heartily through their tears at that story. An ignoble end for a ridiculous man.
"But Mac, that's not all. This is my unfinished business. I never spelled it out in our letters, but I need you to know that I'm proud of you, so very proud. You were the leader the men needed out on Wrangel, and you did so well.”
Not all the men, McKinlay thinks, not the one who mattered the most.
“I never had a son, but if I did, I hope he would have been just like you,” Bartlett continues warmly. “And now that I’ve said it, I think I’m ready to move on."
McKinlay offers a weak nod and a bittersweet smile.
Bartlett becomes less solid, his figure taking on an ethereal quality. McKinlay gives his hand one final squeeze before Bartlett evaporates into starlight. The men applaud and cheer vigorously, giving Bartlett an enthusiastic sendoff to the next realm of existence.
"Always a privilege to watch it happen," Crean muses. "He's readying himself for whatever comes next, now."
McKinlay turns around and faces Crean again, wiping his tear-streaked face with his sleeve.
"So why am I still here? Surely that was my unfinished business as well?"
"A piece of it, aye," Crean says, "but not the whole thing, and I think you know that. You'd better follow me to the back room."
His stomach flips as he follows Crean down a hallway to a cozy bedroom. In it, he sees two men playing chess at a small table set up in the middle of the room. The man closest to him is tall and blonde, with an angular face and a distinctive nose. And the other man?
It couldn’t be.
Bjarne Mamen leaps from his chair, clears the distance between himself and McKinlay in an instant, and crushes him to his chest. There are no words for this moment.
“I’ll leave you be,” Crean whispers, closing the door behind him.
They hold each other for what feels like an eternity, only breaking apart when they hear the third man in the room awkwardly clear his throat.
“Pen, I am sorry for not introducing you!” Mamen exclaims. “Harry Pennell, meet my dearest friend William McKinlay.”
Pennell shakes his hand vigorously. “A pleasure,” he exclaims. “I’ve heard so much about you, usually while Mamen here is destroying me at chess. Says you taught him everything he knows!”
McKinlay blushes at the compliment. “An exaggeration, I promise.”
He pauses for a moment, contemplating whether or not to ask the question that’s on his mind.
"Is it considered rude to ask someone why they’re here?”
Pennell smiles. “I suppose some are tighter lipped about it than others, but I’m glad to talk about it. Believe it or not, I’m happy here! Tom’s a fine chap, and I love watching people come and go. It’s like going to the theater every day! Why just the other day I saw the most remarkable—”
“He is also waiting for someone,” Mamen interjects, “but he can tell us more later.” He glares at Pennell, his intent unmistakeable.
“Right! Well, it was lovely to meet you, William.”
Mamen herds Pennell out the door, pulling it closed and locking it behind him. He turns to face McKinlay, who looks at him the way a starving man looks at a feast.
“I can’t believe you’re here, Bjarne,” he whispers. “And that you've forgiven me. After all this time…”
Mamen approaches him quickly, pinning him against the wall before he has a chance to object.
"Listen to me— there is nothing to forgive."
Mamen uses one finger to tilt his chin upward, then bends down for a breathless kiss. McKinlay arches into it, his fingers in Mamen’s soft hair and one hand on his broad, muscular back. They are so unlike the last time they saw each other on that terrible day in the tent, when McKinlay was forced to leave camp in search of food for Mamen and failed to return with it in time. Now they are both strong and vigorous and full of life, with Mamen looking every inch the skiing champion. This, too, is a miracle.
Mamen pulls away first, a contagious grin on his face.
“I have waited over a hundred years to do that. Do you know what that kind of waiting will do to a man?”
McKinlay, not to be outdone, grabs Mamen’s tie and pulls him back down to his eager mouth.
“No,” he mutters in between kisses, “but I would love to find out.”
***
They awaken in the small bed a few hours later, thoroughly debauched and blissfully content. Mamen lies behind McKinlay, and he uses his finger to trace lines between the freckles on his back. "Like constellations," he exclaims. "You are so beautiful. I want to kiss every constellation on your body."
McKinlay practically melts into the mattress, relishing Mamen's gentle touch, until he is awakened from his reverie by a disturbing thought.
"Was this our unfinished business? Are we going to disappear now? We were just getting started!"
"Shhhh," Mamen whispers, wrapping one strong arm around McKinlay's waist. "I believe this was our unfinished business, but we stay here until we are ready to move on. Every man has a choice. Tom will let us stay as long as we want, and all I want is to be with you in this bed."
McKinlay sighs with relief and rolls over to face Mamen, places a soft kiss on his lips and a hand on his chest. "Someday we'll be ready to move on together, but right now?"
He reaches his other hand down and brushes Mamen's stiffening cock with the tips of his fingers.
"Right now, the things I want to do to you require a physical body."
***
Life at the pub continues on just as it has for time immemorial. Crean serves drinks and lends a listening ear to new arrivals and old timers alike, breaking up the occasional fight in the process. Songs are sung, tears are shed, and bonds are forged. Shackleton peers in the windows, hoping that Mrs. Chippy will forgive him. Eventually he does, although he insists that Shackleton stay on the opposite side of the pub from him at all times.
Scientific advancements make it possible to identify the remains of some of Franklin's men, and those lucky few move on after nearly 200 years of waiting. The others stay, vowing to maintain their vigil until each set of bones has a name again.
In the not so distant future, Frank Wild and Edward Atkinson make their way back from the darkness and find themselves at the pub, but that is a story for another day.
In the more distant future, Mamen and McKinlay reach a decision. They approach the bar hand in hand and thank Crean for his hospitality. Then, they tell him they're ready.
Crean smiles bittersweetly.
"Gonna miss you lads. Fair winds and following seas to you. If you ever get the chance to stop by again…"
"We promise," they say together.
The pub erupts in cheers as the transformation begins. McKinlay and Mamen gaze into each other's eyes as they, too, become starlight.
Re: FILL: I Am Alive (And How Much I Am Alive), McKinlay/Mamen, T, Re: Gen, Tom Crean's afterlife pu
(Anonymous) 2023-02-09 01:50 am (UTC)(link)(And yes this is a great prompt for pretty much any characters, two cakes!)
Re: FILL: I Am Alive (And How Much I Am Alive), McKinlay/Mamen, T, Re: Gen, Tom Crean's afterlife pu
(Anonymous) 2023-02-09 03:05 am (UTC)(link)