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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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FILL: By Appointment Only, Worsley/Macklin, E
(Anonymous) 2023-01-06 04:34 am (UTC)(link)“Mm. Could have fooled me.”
Worsley’s cabin had been chosen as the site of this haphazard arrangement, less for the privacy than for the available surface of Worsley’s bunk. Still he would readily admit to relishing the circumstances. There he was, lying in bed with Macklin looming above him, putting those strong, broad hands to work against his bare back.
“I really am sorry.”
“Hmm?”
“About the aspirin. Mick must’ve gone and squirrelled it away somewhere after Sir Ernest’s lecture on sledging stores. I thought this would be better than letting you stew in the pain waiting for him to return and put the dogs up. And I know we’ve plenty of liniment to spare.”
“I’m certainly not complaining.” Worsley sighed happily, lost in the sensation of Macklin’s oiled palms on his skin. A brilliant idea struck him. “You ought to set up a private practice in the lab, you know. Your talents are wasted on this life-saving business. We could pay you in tobacco!”
“You know I don’t smoke.”
“Then we’ll come up with a new currency. Something you couldn’t refuse. What do you want right now, more than anything else in this world?”
“There isn’t much I want here that I don’t already have,” Macklin said, inscrutably. Worsley waited for him to elaborate. “Are you cold?” he asked instead.
Worsley shook his head slowly. “Warm, if anything. Too bloody stuffy in here.”
Macklin murmured his agreement. He had already stripped down to his shirtsleeves. The air was thick with the heady, herbal smell of analgesic. It would have been almost suffocating under different circumstances; as it was, Worsley wondered if he’d ever felt truer bliss.
The steady knead of Macklin’s palms against his back drew him down into a haze of pleasure by degrees. He only realised he was drifting off once he roused himself again, blinking away the sleep. His limbs felt stuffed with cotton and the sharp pain in his back had been exchanged for a dispersed, pleasurable ache. He noticed, distantly at first, an irrepressible heat growing low in his belly. After a few more moments under Macklin’s attention, it was all he could do to keep quiet and still his twitching hips.
Then Macklin did something positively cruel with his hands, and Worsley moaned aloud.
“Don’t be crude.”
“I’m sorry, Mack,” Worsley laughed helplessly. “It isn’t exactly voluntary.” He shifted once, twice, in a futile effort for some relief.
Macklin huffed. “Would you quit squirming? Christ, I’ll hold you down if I have to—”
Hold you down if I have to. That image would be his undoing. The thin, straining threads of his composure were cut from him bodily. He rolled his hips into the mattress with a shudder, heart hammering in his chest. He might have whimpered; he could hardly hear for the roaring in his ears.
Immediately, Macklin’s hands stilled against his back.
“Ah,” he said.
“God, Mack, but I am sorry,” Worsley started, undone beyond any sense of embarrassment, unable to stifle the manic giggle that had forced its way up his throat. “I’ll be still, it’ll go away, just—keep going.”
“That’s alright,” Macklin said quietly.
Worsley pressed his burning face into the sheets and held very still. Was that unease he heard in the waver of Macklin’s voice? He opened his mouth to tell him never mind, to play it all off as an off-colour joke. Shameless and heedless as he was, the last thing in the world he wanted was to discomfit the man.
But Macklin went on. “It’s natural, really,” he said, to the bafflement of Worsley’s already addled mind. The words came out strong and steady. After faltering for just a moment, he had once again taken on the professional mien of the confident, assuring doctor. “After so many months without much real physical contact. Perfectly normal. The sign of a healthy body.”
“Oh, good,” Worsley laughed in disbelief. His voice was muffled by the sheets. “So long as it’s normal.”
“I assure you it is.” Macklin resumed the massage, working his hands down along either side of Worsley’s spine until they reached his lower back. Here he paused, tugging Worsley’s trousers down a few inches. He dug his knuckles into the newly exposed skin just above his buttocks. This simple act had the added consequence of pressing Worsley’s hips down against the mattress, and every little rotation of his hands sweetly offered a delicious bit of friction for Worsley’s aching cock.
Through it all, Worsley kept still. But when he felt Macklin clamber into the bunk and straddle his legs, pressing down against his hips with all his weight, he lost his last shred of restraint.
“In fact,” Macklin said as Worsley squirmed and panted beneath him, “as your physician, I may even go so far as to encourage it.”
“Encourage it,” Worsley echoed dumbly, breathlessly, into the bedding. “As my physician.”
“See, some schools of thought within the field of reproductive health still hold that prolonged periods of abstinence from intercourse may be linked to impotence.”
“Can’t have that,” Worsley managed. Was he ill? Was he dreaming? He braced himself for the sudden judder of reality, to be shaken awake by Wild or the Boss with some new and inventive catastrophe to be narrowly escaped, but the moment never came. He hardly knew what to do past this point. It was always when he woke, on the precipice of something far too good to be true.
“We certainly can’t,” Macklin replied with solemnity. “I mean it’s all nonsense, of course, but you can never be too careful.”
“What is your—oh—your recommendation then, Dr Macklin?” Worsley buried his face further into the sheets, which did little to hide his delirious grin.
“In my professional opinion, manual stimulation of the affected organ ought to suffice. A prostate massage, just to be thorough. And if you find that treatment plan isn’t to your satisfaction, I’m certain we can come up with something together.”
“You know I love it when you talk doctor, Mack, but if you’re going to fuck me, you’d better come out and say it.”
“Is that what you want?” Macklin’s voice had gone unsteady again, and his touch gentled. He wasn’t teasing, either; he sounded ready to give Worsley the moon, had he asked for it. Worsley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to devour him, and be devoured in turn.
He settled on a firm nod, a muffled “please.”
Macklin huffed out a laugh. “Christ, Wuzzles. Glad to see you’re not above begging.”
Worsley raised himself onto his forearms. “I think you’ll find I am above very little, sir,” he said as airily as he could manage, nose stuck straight up. “And nothing at all when it comes to you.” These last words he murmured, so overcome with affection that he almost felt bashful for it.
Macklin had stopped his massaging in earnest now. Worsley twisted to catch a glimpse of him—met with only the faintest protest from his back—and Macklin returned his gaze without hesitancy. His smile was charming in its boyishness. His glasses were askew. A deep flush painted its way from his cheeks to his collarbone before disappearing beneath his shirt. Worsley wanted to follow it further, see if it went right down to the tips of his toes.
“I’ll—I’ll have to wash my hands, of course.” Macklin nodded to the bottle of liniment.
“Of course.”
He didn’t move an inch. “Right,” he said.
“Well go on! Or do you really want to see me beg?” Worsley gave him a playful kick in his side.
Macklin rose sheepishly and stumbled through the door with a last, lingering glance, and Worsley was left alone.
He rolled onto his back and squirmed around a bit, fighting off impatience. Then he decided that Macklin oughtn’t mind if he got an early start, so he kicked off his trousers and did just that. This was how Macklin found him, palming himself lazily, heels dug into the mattress. A perfect space to slide in between his drawn-up legs.
Macklin was there in an instant, kissing Worsley as he did anything: gently, firmly, with unrelenting resolve. He gripped him by the waist and pulled him in close, forcing a hand between them to wrap around Worsley’s own.
“Steady on, Mack,” He gasped, taking him by the back of his neck. “Or I’ll never last.”
Macklin pulled himself away as though it pained him. He took a deep breath, began to ask, “do you have anything—”
“Vaseline, up on the shelf there.”
He blinked down at Worsley. “Clearly I needn’t be so concerned for the state of your virility.”
“None of that now! I’ll have you know it’s the best thing for rope burns.”
Macklin hummed, unconvinced, and snatched the jar from overhead. He wasted no time in spreading the stuff across his fingers, warming it with his breath. Good, thought Worsley, who had never properly studied the art of waiting patiently.
“And,” he continued, with mock reluctance, “if a man gets lonely after so many months at sea, that’s his own business.”
“Tell me what you think about,” Macklin said. He pressed a quick kiss to Worsley’s bent knee before manoeuvring his leg to one side. “When you do this for yourself.”
The other leg he placed over his shoulder, running a steadying hand down Worsley’s thigh, and any discomfort in the position was far outweighed by the intoxicating sensation that followed. Macklin’s broad fingers circled his entrance, pressing once, firmly, teasingly, into the tight heat of him before withdrawing and starting again with a gentler touch.
“I’m beginning to suspect you know exactly what I think about.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“For a start, I think about these arms of yours. Stronger than they have any right to be. And this fine broad chest.” Worsley ran his hands up Macklin’s biceps, down his pectorals, pausing to worry a peaked nipple between finger and thumb. “And these beautiful hands, holding me down, opening me up, oh, just like this.”
Macklin smiled bashfully. He added a second finger, as if in reward for Worsley’s sweet talk.
For his next performance piece, Worsley closed his eyes and hummed, affecting thoughtfulness. “Sometimes,” he began, breath hitching, “I think about bending you over the nearest crate and fucking you silly while everyone goes about their duties around us. And the Boss is yelling for me, but I won’t let up. You just keep begging for it, such sweet sounds, and I find myself well and truly powerless to deny you.”
Macklin gave a ragged exhale. His hips stuttered in the empty air between them. “Are you always this chatty with two fingers in you?” Somehow he made the question sound fond.
Worsley grinned. “You always bring out my best.”
By the time Macklin got around to fucking him proper, it was bare minutes before Worsley was spilling over his hand with a gasp. This suited him just as well. He was perfectly pleased to lie there and act the pretty little thing, sated beyond belief, as Macklin fucked into him with all the scrupulous, thorough attention of a very fine physician.
He was quieter than Worsley had hoped. A grunt, a sigh, a rare curse muffled against the line of Worsley’s jaw when he clenched around him. He was conservative with lips and teeth, generous with touch. When his rhythm began to falter and his breaths came out short, he made to pull away, but Worsley drew him back in tight.
“Frank, I—”
He took Macklin’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together. Even like this, he could never get close enough. “Please,” he urged against Macklin’s panting mouth.
“Oh, Christ,” Macklin choked out. He spent inside him with a last, desperate thrust and collapsed atop him in a trembling heap.
Worsley might have stayed like that for hours, days, a month, even; but no sooner had Macklin rolled aside than he was pushing himself up onto his elbows again. He eyed the door longingly, beyond which Worsley knew lay the holy grail of the thoroughly debauched: a good, clean wash.
“We ought to—”
“No, no.” Worsley pulled him back down. “You stay right where you are. I’ll run and fetch something to clean us up.” It was the least he could do, really.
With a parting kiss, he rose gracefully from the bunk, preening slightly at the obscene dribble of Macklin’s spend down his thighs. Then he straightened properly, and—oh, Christ. He went down on his knees, lowered himself flat against the deck, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Macklin peered over the edge. “All right down there?”
“No,” Worsley half-groaned, half-laughed. He sounded pitiful even to his own ears. “You’ve ruined my bloody back.”
“Oh God, Wuzzles, I’m sorry.” Macklin stepped down from the bunk to kneel at his side. “I didn’t think—”
“Don’t you dare apologise. I’ve never had half as much fun putting it out.”
“Here, I’ll—” He wormed his arms beneath Worsley and endeavoured to lift him.
“Ah—!” Worsley winced against the movement, and Macklin set him down again gently. “Just let me lie here a moment.”
“What can I do to help you?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just need a moment.” He paused. “Only—well, would you promise me something?”
Macklin frowned down at him, concerned. “What is it?”
“If we ever get me up off of this deck…” He could hardly bring himself to form the words. “Not another massage, please. As much as I’d enjoy it, you’re liable to break me in two this time.”
The ship creaked beneath them of a sudden, leaning to starboard, and the poor old bottle of liniment oil which had been abandoned so long ago proceeded to roll straight off Worsley’s bunk and strike him on the ankle in retribution.
Macklin sighed. “I’ll have another look for the aspirin.”
“Good lad.”
Re: FILL: By Appointment Only, Worsley/Macklin, E
(Anonymous) 2023-01-06 06:14 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: By Appointment Only, Worsley/Macklin, E
(Anonymous) 2023-01-11 01:23 pm (UTC)(link)