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Cold Boys Kink Meme ([personal profile] coldboys) wrote2026-09-28 01:56 pm
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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: 
  • 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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FILL: and back again, Macklin/Worsley, E 1/2

(Anonymous) 2023-01-01 06:06 pm (UTC)(link)
There is a moment, when Shackleton has his binoculars up and trained on the coast of Elephant Island, where Worsley allows himself to think the worst. That they are too late, that all is lost, that they were not fast enough in returning. Something hard and horribly cold, a tooth of ice, jams itself in his stomach, his chest. And when Shackleton says, voice low and tight, “I only see two,” it bites deeper. He keeps his eyes on the shoals, the reefs, knowing he cannot afford to look away, unsure if he would want to regardless.

But then— “No, four!” and the grip loosens, incrementally. And then, “Six, eight—” and Worsley is breathless, praying, God he is praying. Please, let there be more. Please, let one of them be him.

“They are all there,” Shackleton says, voice cracking only slightly. “They are all there, Skipper.”

Worsley wants to turn away, wants to take a moment to compose himself, want to rip the binoculars from Shackleton’s hands to look for himself, to be sure. But he is still a ship’s captain before anything, and he will take the Yelcho in safely, now more than ever. “All?” he manages to say, blinking rapidly against the biting wind, against hot tears of relief. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Shackleton says, and he looks a decade younger now, taking off his hat to pass a hand over his brow, smiling. “I’ve counted. Every one of them.”

Worsley swallows, swallows again, and casts one look to the shore ahead of them. He sees a bare flicker of movement against the rocks, and sends up the first grateful prayer of many. And then he focuses his attention on bringing the ship in.

*


He wants to be on the boat with Shackleton, going to shore, seeing the men they left behind. He wants it more than anything. But he knows his place is on the Yelcho, and he knows it won’t be long until he too is able to greet those left behind. Still, he stands by anxiously, waiting, praying. Watching the activity onshore, watching men climb into the boat with Shackleton to return. It’ll take several trips to ferry everyone back onboard, but Worsley is hopeful, prayerful, desperate. He lifts Shackleton’s binoculars and peers through them, biting his tongue.

He recognizes Macklin from the slope of his shoulders, the particular manner of his walk. His heart jams up in his throat. He watches, breathless, as that beloved figure clambers into Shackleton’s boat. He bites back a curse of impatience, a prayer of thanks. His heartbeat thrums.

Greenstreet is first off the boat when it pulls up alongside the Yelcho—he strides forward, clasps Worsley’s hand, grinning. Worsley is desperately glad to see him, alive and well, but he hardly remembers what either of them say to each other. His eyes are pulled to the other men coming aboard, one after the other. Hudson. Hurley. Wordie. And there—Macklin, his face soot-black, his spectacles crooked, his eyes searching. Their gazes meet with a frisson of crackling energy. Worsley’s tongue is thick in his mouth.

“Skipper,” Macklin says, and his face is so haggard, his complexion utterly filthy, but he is the loveliest thing Worsley has ever seen, and his voice the sweetest music. He steps forward, and Worsley does as well, drawn to him like a compass needle to north.

“Mack,” Worsley says, with some difficulty. He reaches out clumsily, and a hand clasps his forearm, solid and real. “I’ve—I’ve come to get you. As promised.”

Macklin laughs, sudden and bright, and Worsley thinks he could weep. He thinks he may weep. “We all knew you would,” he says. “I knew you would.”

Worsley wants to kiss him with a fierceness that nearly consumes him. He has to swallow it back with such enormous effort that it makes his temples pound. “I—” he says, and then words fail him.

“I know,” Macklin says, and the light in his eyes tells Worsley that he does.

*


It’s three long, excruciating hours before they’re able to fall together.

“Christ,” Macklin says, his back to the door of the cabin Worsley shares with Shackleton, arching against the leg between his thighs. “Oh, Christ, Frank.”

Worsley doesn’t respond, one hand fisted in Macklin’s threadbare sweater, the other on his freshly washed face, hauling him down to crush their mouths together, too hard, not hard enough. Their teeth clack, and Worsley swallows down Macklin’s groan, kissing him with a fervour that makes him feel wild, makes him feel like he’s on fire. And Macklin is stoking him, clutching at his shoulder, the back of his head, shuddering as he breathes desperate sounds into Worsley’s mouth.

“Please,” Macklin says, scrabbling at the hem of Worsley’s sweater, his shirt beneath it, his calloused fingertips seeking skin. “Oh, please, please—”

“I’ve got you,” Worsley says, dragging a hand down his throat, his broad chest, feeling the lovely, familiar shape of him. “You’re all right, I’ve got you, I have you now.”

“I missed you,” Macklin groans, like it pains him, spreading his warm hand at the small of Worsley’s back. “Christ, but I missed you. Every day.”

“I thought of little else,” Worsley says, wanting to push a hand up his shirt, to rub his thumb over his nipples, feel the way it makes his breath hitch and his chest jump. Instead, he kisses Macklin’s warm mouth, and says, “I’m so glad you’re here, I’m so glad to have you. If you’d been—” He doesn’t dare finish the thought.

“I’m so—” Macklin says, and then cuts off to kiss him again, messily, fervently, like he can’t stop to do it well. His teeth are sharp and clumsy, pressing into Worsley’s lip, and Worsley will have a hell of a time explaining it if he breaks skin but it’ll be worth it for this, a hundred times over. He hooks an arm around Macklin’s solid waist and uses the other hand to bring Macklin’s face down to his, his thumb pressing into the hinge of his jaw to urge it further open, licking into his mouth eagerly. Macklin moans softly, shuddering under his touch, so wonderfully responsive, so deliciously sensitive. He hasn’t been touched, Worsley knows, for months—and neither has he, but it makes him feel wildly hungry, to know it.

“We don’t have long,” Worsley tells him, and they never have, they have only ever had stolen moments, hurried encounters, breathless confessions before they are pulled apart again. But soon, soon they will be on land again, at last. Worsley is dreaming of the rooms he will have at the first hotel, he is dreaming of the bed he will have there, and the way he will lay Macklin down on it, spread him out like a six-course meal to feast upon. And they will take their time, away from the swell of the sea, and the prying eyes of the public.

But for now, time is limited, and Worsley is still desperately grateful to have any at all. To have this at all, when it was so nearly lost. “Mack,” he says, and bites at his mouth, pushes a hand down the back of his trousers. “Do you—”

“Please,” Macklin says, arching against him again, warm and eager and so very, very alive.

Worsley surges against him, pinning him roughly against the door, pushing his hand down into Macklin’s woolen underwear, down to where he’s even warmer, even more eager. He rubs hard against his rim, and Macklin makes a wounded noise against him mouth, hips jerking forwards, caught between Worsley’s rough fingers and his hip.

For some time, Worsley thinks it’s going to end like this—with their mouths pressed hard together and his hand down the back of Macklin’s trousers, rutting against each other desperately. He feels too frantic, too wild to do anything else, coaxing breathless sounds from Macklin’s throat, wanting more, needing every moment of this, every inch that they are touching, every exhale from his lover’s mouth that he breathes deep into his own lungs. He thinks they’ll finish like this, and he knows it will be so easy, so glorious. He can feel it building already, a wave rising within him, growing with every push of Macklin’s hips, every sound he wrings from his mouth.

But he can feel Macklin’s hard cock through their trousers, pushing insistently against his hip, and his deep, ravenous want of it is the only thing strong enough to rip him away from Macklin’s mouth. “Mack,” he says, voice rough with desire. “Come, I want you, won’t you let me—”

“Yes, yes, anything,” Macklin says, his hands on either side of Worsley’s face, trying to bring him back for another kiss.

“Let me,” Worsley says, opening up his trousers with a clumsy hand, still pressing against his rim with the other, making his hips jerk, feeling him spasm against his fingertips.

“I’d let you do anything,” Macklin says, breathless, perfect. “You’re mad if you think I wouldn’t. You came back for me.”

“Yes,” Worsley says, and he would have done it for anyone, would have come back for any man left behind, but sometimes he wonders if he would have managed it all if not for this one man waiting for him on Elephant Island. “God, Mack, but I would have done it all a hundred times over to get you back. Crossed a hundred seas.”

Macklin stares at him from mere inches away, glassy-eyed and panting, like he has never believed in anything like he believes Worsley. It makes Worsley want to dive into him, consume him from the inside out.

The best he can do is tug open Macklin’s trousers and fall to his knees.

“Oh, Christ,” Macklin says shakily, a hand falling immediately to cradle the back of Worsley’s skull.

“Let me take care of you,” Worsley says, pressing his mouth to the base of his cock, breathing him in.

“God,” Macklin groans. “God, Frank, you’re the one who’s saved me. It should be, oh, it should be me on my knees, I should be, should be worshipping you.”

And Worsley has much to say to that, has much to say on the topic of Macklin owing him nothing, on his being alive being repayment enough for the rest of their lives, but he is far too busy mouthing at the head of his cock, slipping his mouth around it, lapping at the fluid that beads at the slit and drips down his tongue. Macklin’s head knocks against the door, but Worsley isn’t concerned at the sound, well aware that those gathered in the wardroom are making more than enough noise to cover it, well aware that no one will hear the sounds he is wringing from his lover.

“Jesus Christ,” Macklin says brokenly, hips arching off the door, pushing his cock deeper into Worsley’s mouth. Worsley has a hand at his waist, holding firm, and the other is still up between his legs, kneading at his rim. The dual sensations have Macklin moaning pathetically, his cock leaking in Worsley’s mouth, and he swallows it down hungrily. He hasn’t the time for finesse, for tricks, and he wouldn’t have the patience for it right now either. Instead, he’s sloppy and eager, sucking down as much of Macklin’s cock as he can fit, pushing just the tip of one finger into him. He hears Macklin clap a hand over his mouth, and he casts his eyes up, drinking in the sight of him, revelling in the weight of him on his tongue, the taste of him, the sweat-sour smell of him.
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