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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: Sculpture, Kathleen/Con, E, pregnancy mention
(Anonymous) 2023-05-01 07:40 pm (UTC)(link)Kathleen leans by the window, examining the pictures in a book on skiing she cannot read due to its being printed in Norwegian. By now used to this song-and-dance, she responds by rote. “That young man will be swallowed up by a crevasse the second he and his two poles set foot on the southern continent. He hasn’t an ounce of your experience. And he hasn’t your motor sledges.”
Mentioning the sledges, the trials of which are the reason they have ventured to the mountains of Norway, is a mistake. The harried, dejected, frantic look in Scott’s eyes—that of a man flattened by a great weight of second-guessing and self-doubt—grows, if anything, stronger. He emits a whine that turns into a grumble. “The sledges. Nansen has little faith in them. If only Skelton-”
Snapping the book shut, Kathleen interrupts. “Nansen is of the old ways. You cannot expect him to keep up with the march of progress.” This is unfair to the doctor, but her patience is wearing thin. It always pains her when her husband gets like this, and today it annoys her. He talks himself in circles, and all it ever gets him is a troubled stomach.
“I thought you rather liked Nansen.” Scott sniffs.
“I fear he rather likes me.” Despite her efforts to the contrary, a wry grin smarts at the corner of her mouth as she suggestively emphasises her words. She is gratified that, though her body has grown and shrank and stretched and reshaped in childbirth in the past year, she is still alluring to men. She does so love playing the game—testing her strength, as it were, even though she would never avail herself of their desire.
Of course, this only sets a new dark shadow flitting over her husband’s face. The heap of papers in front of him is held precariously in limbo as he is distracted. He searches for words, sputters “Kath—you don’t—Nansen is—”
“Con.” Kathleen snaps; for he is being ridiculous, and she is in a mood, today, too. The transformative whirlwind of her post-partum body has caused her bouts of aggression, extreme happiness, and intense despair, and made her even worse at hiding these swings than she already was. Today she is feeling particularly prickly, and restless. Being away from home is terribly trying, and she does not wish to babysit her husband in Peter’s stead. When Scott is this worked up, and she lacks the energy and tact to rebuff his doubts with her usual words and candour, there is one other remedy that tends to help.
She crosses the room to where her husband sits, now silent, and perches herself in his lap, sidesaddle. He lets out an exhale as her weight settles atop his bunched-up, tense thigh muscles. His blue eyes, so ringed with worry, look up at her, the (ironic) ski jump of his nose angling up towards her stronger profile. “Don’t be a fool, darling.” Kathleen whispers, her breath barely voiced, as she leans forward and takes him in a kiss. When he seems about to speak, she thrusts out her tongue to quiet him, tracing it over his teeth. It works.
His hands have dropped the papers. Fingers now settle, at first jumpily, then steadily, at her hips. Scott’s hands, which hold the ghost of former callouses, are warm and possessive. They begin to work their way up Kathleen’s twisted torso to settle over her clothed bust, and she breaks the kiss with a discontented groan.
“What’s wrong?” Scott asks quickly.
Kathleen observes him from a remove she knows must be torturous, her hands clasped on his shoulders. She studies him as if he were one of her works in progress, waiting to be moulded and wrought by her hands. Her husband is sharply dressed (as always when he’s trying to make an impression) from speaking to Nansen earlier today, but everything else about him is dishevelled—perhaps not physically, but in all other manners. He is tired, he fidgets, his mind runs in a million directions at once. Despite this, she is having an effect. She feels a strain at the seat of his trousers, pushing against her hip, and his eyes are struck with a violet glint, a sign his wayward thoughts are narrowing to focus on her. She could fuck him the way they normally do. It would smooth away the knots in his body, cool her own agitation, but for a short spell, only. No. She is hungry. She wants more than that, wants control, and he needs to lose control. To lose himself to something. It would be good for them, both. Perhaps it’s time.
Kathleen stands, and draws the curtains over the window, plunging them into a darkness save for the orange glow of the crackling fireplace.
“I have a gift for you, Con.”
---
The sculpture is small, at least compared to Kathleen’s other works, but Scott regards it with a nervous apprehension when she explains to him the intended use. The bronze flashes deep and warm in the firelight, and makes his nether regions clench pre-emptively.
“Wherever did you get such an idea?”
His wife’s eyes sparkle, her head cocks to the side. “You know the circles I’ve spent time with in France are hardly…conventional.”
He did have some inkling of this, yes; though he has spent much of his life in a sterile officer’s uniform he is not completely ignorant of this world, which was the cause of such concern for him during their courtship. It is all rather foreign to him…French, he supposes. “But you never partook…?” He cannot stop the question leaking out, even for the thousandth time.
“No.” She reassures, also for the thousandth time, squeezing his forearm. He wants to embrace her, only stops himself because he is worried she will pull away again. “That does not mean I did not listen and learn.”
Scott regards her creation once more, considering it more objectively as the original shock fades. Kathleen is full of surprises, after all, and though that fact tries him sorely, it is also what he loves about her. “And how do you mean to control it? With your hands?”
Kathleen laughs, and deviously produces a sort of complicated leather belt. “I’ll attach it. Just here.” Her free hand trails down her front, pausing at a spot well below her waist.
“As a man.”
“As a man.” She sounds delighted, and is unable to hide the colour in her cheeks. “Oh, for once I might not be a silly woman! Imagine!”
He does. Since he was small, Scott has always put on a buttoned-up uniform, both literally and in personality. But he has always known he is so much more than that, and his unconventional marriage was one of the times he has let this side of him break free, even a little. Scott wants her; oh, he wants her, even as a man—maybe especially as a man—but hearing the joy bubbling in her voice, he is terribly conflicted. Quite frankly, he does not know if he is strong enough to bear her proposal. Clearing his throat, he begins “Kath, I don’t know if—it looks terribly hard, and cold, and I’m not sure…not sure if…” he trails off, feeling wretchedly exposed and insufficient.
“Hush, now, Con, oh, did you think we would use the bronze one?” Her hand is on his cheek, wiping away a tear. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ve only made that as an inspiration—here…” And to Scott’s immense relief, a similar object, made of rubber, emerges from her suitcase, the depths of which he is beginning to regard with some suspicion. “I don’t want to hurt you. If you want to try this, we can use this one. And plenty of this.” Now she holds up a tin of petroleum jelly. “What do you say?”
Husband and wife stand facing one another in the dimly lit hotel room, posed, Scott thinks, as at the alter, but for the crucial difference of the vulgar and titillating objects arrayed in Kathleen’s fine artist’s hands. It is almost ridiculous, this proposed reversal, so dependent on a strange set of tools he has no experience with. And yet, he realises, he has not dwelled on the minutiae of expedition logistics since he laid eyes on the bronze sculpture. No, that quite blew everything else out of the water.
And there is more. What might it feel like to be entered by Kathleen? It’s something he’s never considered, but now, first glimpsed, it has taken ahold of him. He knows what it is to be inside her, but now, for the first time, he feels strangely hollow to think that he has never experienced the opposite. He has always admired her tenacity, her certainty—surely, he can cede himself to her.
“Ready.” He says, simply.
Hands still full, she kisses him, nipping his lip. “Aye, ready?” Kathleen breathes. Full-voiced, she commands, “We’ll disrobe at once, and work you up to it. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop. You need only say. But otherwise, I’m in charge.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His pulse flutters in nearly-virginal anticipation.
Kathleen undresses rapidly, clinically, not taking her eyes off him as she undoes buttons and slips off stockings. Scott finds he is quite transfixed by the whole process, or perhaps frozen with the forethought of what they are about to do, and he only manages his way out of his jacket by the time she is naked before him. “Oh, Con,” she chides, walking forward and undoing his belt with a sharp tug, letting his trousers fall to the floor. “Unbutton your shirt.” He does so as she regards him coolly, running her hands over him testingly, again making him feel as if he is a sculpture himself. Somehow, the objectification makes him ever more eager to perform to his utmost, and he reaches down to remove his socks and undergarments without being asked. “Very good.” Kathleen’s voice is low.
She walks him backwards to the bed, where they fall atop the wool runner. Kathleen straddles him, and they kiss, long and deep, as Scott runs his hands up and down her arcing spine. Her pert nipples press into his chest, and further down, his hard prick butts achingly against her thigh. She starts to kiss his neck, slow and sucking, trying to warm him up, but he is impatient. Automatically, he starts to turn her over, to reach down and feel if she is wet, if he can make her wetter, but—
“No.” She bites, fiercely, wrenching him gently but firmly back beneath her. She holds each bicep down with a hand, sits atop him just where his aching prick cannot reach what it wants. “Don’t you want this to work? You’ll feel ever so good if it does.”
“Yes…” he breathes.
“You won’t have a thought in your pretty little head. You’ll like that.”
He would. He really would. For even now, with a naked and flushed Kathleen atop him, his wayward mind is thinking of who he must speak to tomorrow, of what letters he must write, of what parts he must order—and then, when she is sure he will stay still, she starts to move south. Kathleen trails kisses down his chest, his stomach, lightly flicking at his nipple, twirling his chest hair. He cups her own head in his hands, encouraging her, down, down. But again she ignores his hard-on, working right past it and coming up for air.
“Kath-”
“Hush.” She says huskily. Kathleen scoops a finger’s worth of petroleum jelly. “Spread your legs, Con.”
He does.
“Lift your hips.”
He does, and she places a pillow beneath them, and waits.
“You can lower them now.”
He does so.
“Good boy.”
And before he can say anything at all, Scott feels the electrifying cold of the petroleum jelly as Kathleen circles the rim of his arsehole and slowly plunges a finger in.
“Oh!”
“Hm?”
“It’s cold.” He says, rather stupidly. Cold, and tight, and this pressure is strange, and he does not know if he likes it, and Kathleen’s mouth is so close to his prick, and won’t she just take that in instead of probing his hole, and if he cannot even handle this sort of exploration, how on earth does he think he is the right man to break new ground in a hostile continent? He feels his muscles clenching, exactly when they should be relaxing, and his toes grow cold, and oh, oh, this is never going to work, he’s going to bungle it—
“Con?” Kathleen’s gaze is cold, sharp, authoritative. “I need you to relax.”
“I don’t know if I can.” He says quite honestly. He feels the prick of tears threatening at the corners of his eyes.
“Of course you can.”
He is trying, really, he is trying, as she slides her slick finger in and out of him, but he remains as tight and cold as a crevasse, which incidentally is where his mind has sunken.
“Don’t you want to be mine, Con?”
“I do, but-”
“Listen, Con, there’s a spot, if I just-”
He’s trying and he’s trying desperately but he blurts “Kath, I really want to but I don’t think that I’m able to pl-OH.” For she has done something, twisted her finger some such way inside him, that sends a ripple of joy throughout his body. As if she has flipped a magic switch. She crooks the finger again. And again, deliciously thrusting it in and out of his now welcoming, pulsing hole. Scott’s breathing quickens.
“I daresay that’s the one. Let’s open you up.”
When he opens his eyes and looks down, she is knelt between his legs, her hair dishevelled, a sheen of sweat on her red face. Lubricating a second finger, she slides both in at once, and the effect knocks the breath out of him. His hips buck up as she teases the magic spot. He’s never felt something like this before—not while enveloped inside her, nor while spending. This is entirely new. When Kathleen plunges in a third wet finger, he is throbbing with need.
But instead of speeding up, she slows down. Heartbeat thudding in places he didn’t realise it reached, Scott looks up at her, alarmed. Bereft. He is so close to spending, and she stops now?
Kathleen’s fingers slide out, and the effect is as twisting a knife as it exits a wound. He is empty, wet, and gaping, blubbering questions which Kathleen answers with a cool “One moment. You’ll wait for me, won’t you? Of course you will.”
She stands aside the bed, towering over his helpless form, which lies ready and wanting. But he bites his tongue and trusts in her, however awful his need. Scott watches as his wife steps into the leather harness, as he has done so many times into sledging traces, and tightens them around her thighs and waist. Her rubber cock, ever perky, bobs in front of her. It strikes a handsome silhouette, he thinks, somewhere deep and base in the part of his mind that still has the capacity for anything other than raw desire at this moment.
“Lift up your legs again, dear sweet boy.” She orders, and he gulps, and does so at once, and spreads them as wide as he can, making his wet opening as inviting as possible. “Good.” She coos. “You’re doing ever so well.” And he gulps, and nods. He yearns for her to hit that marvellous place deep inside him again. She pushes his knees up to his chest and wraps his calves around her hips, inserting herself between his thighs.
She kneels, fully upright, and slathers her cock with the jelly, stroking it as if deciding in her studio what it is to become. Its base pushes against her mound, he notices, exactly where he would press his fingers if he were working her up to a frenzy. It’s a clever design. He fights the desire to hurry her in.
Re: FILL: Sculpture, Kathleen/Con, E, pregnancy mention
(Anonymous) 2023-05-01 07:40 pm (UTC)(link)“What’s that?”
“Ngh…”
“What’s that?”
“I…please-”
“Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes!”
Experimentally, she rocks against him. He short-circuits.
“What’s that, Con?”
“Fuck me, dear girl!” He finally wrenches out in a sob.
Kathleen narrows her eyes at him and grins. She quickens her pace, slams into him hard. Oh! There is a flash of that raw buzz again, that crackle, that sweet nothingness washing over him as her prick shoves up against that new discovery they’ve made. This is Kathleen, familiar Kathleen made unfamiliar, and she is in control, grinding in and out of him, and he does not have to worry about a single thing, for she is all there is, and she is inside him. He spasms and he shudders and he does not care what his body does, as it releases what it needs to release. Kathleen is searing, blinding, white-hot, but she is not painful. His body is dissolved and surrendered and made anew as he experiences a satisfaction he never knew it capable of.
There are tears rolling down his face and snot coming out of his nose and now there is spend erupting from his untouched prick, and he does not care, he does not care, for once in his bloody life he does not care about appearances. He is Kathleen’s, and all he must do is please her, and in so doing please himself. He cares only about Kathleen, and this new world she has presented him. This gift she has given him.
Kathleen grunts, her own crisis nearing as his passes. Helping her, Scott grips her thighs, then her buttocks, aiding her in railing in and out of him, keeping up the tempo. Her leg muscles are working powerfully, her breasts jiggle up and down with each hard thrust. Finally, she climaxes, quivering paroxsymally as she pleasures herself with him. He so enjoys this peculiar feeling of being used. Of being useful. Of being certain of his purpose.
When she pulls out, Scott cannot believe he was ever scared of the device strapped to her groin.
Kathleen lays atop and slightly to the side of him, cleaning him up with a cloth. Her prick, ever-hard as it is, presses needily at his hip. His own is flaccid, and it is his hole that feels the after-effects of the pleasure, still feels Kathleen there. He looks forward to feeling her there for days to come. Slowly, the rest of the world returns to his senses. Wood pops in the fire, which Scott really should get up to add another log to, as it’s getting low. He sees some of his papers have fluttered off his desk. He should collect them, he should—
No. He is here with Kathleen, now. And she has just fucked him out of his mind. She is dead pleased with herself, he can tell.
“How was it, Con? Did you like it?” She draws out shapes on his chest softly, with her bare finger, still wet with petroleum jelly.
Scott kisses the top of her head, and snuggles her closer. “I think we ought to consider France for our next holiday, don’t you?”
Re: FILL: Sculpture, Kathleen/Con, E, pregnancy mention
(Anonymous) 2023-05-02 02:21 pm (UTC)(link)