![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
NavigationRegular view: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html
Regular view, last page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?page=999#comments
Flat view, first comment: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?style=site&view=flat#comments
Flat view, most recent: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?style=site&view=flat&page=999#comments
Top Level view, first page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?style=site&view=top-only#comments
Top Level view, last page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?style=site&view=top-only&page=999#comments
Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die: emphasis on the "or die"/handjob
(Anonymous) 2022-10-03 02:38 pm (UTC)(link)Fred looks at his journal, bottom lip pinned underneath his teeth, pen lingering above the paper like a predator. Beside him, curled up uncharacteristically small on the bed, Roald's breaths are coming and going in shudders, his head dipped low so his chin presses to his chest. Fred looks up at him, sweat golden in the wax-yellow lantern light, eyes screwed shut as his body goes through another spasm. Outside, through the ship's cracks, a brilliant aurora wavers and gives the rest of the room a sickly light.
—spasms, he writes. Not his first thought, which would have to be written for perpetuity, able to be read by scientists and medical professionals the world over once they return to Europe. He should be thorough and truthful, but part of him doesn't want the truth leaving this room.
To distract himself, he sets his pen down and looks back up at Roald. "Is it getting any better?"
Roald shakes his head, not bothering to open his eyes. "Worse," he croaks. Another shiver, then a short, cut-off phrase in Norwegian that Fred assumes is a curse. Then, quietly, "It's too hot."
Not a typical complaint at their latitude. Honestly, Fred could do with adding a few more layers, but he can see how uncomfortable Roald is. He tries to be clinical about this, even as his concern for his friend far outweighs his professionalism. "I don't want you to risk hypothermia," he starts. He should get the thermometer, his stethoscope——something. And he should definitely ignore the way Roald's hips are moving, rutting almost imperceptibly against his own hand, like he's trying to reach for an itch he can't scratch. Fred's mouth goes dry, and he has to try a few times for his words. "I could give you something to help you rest," he says, voice cracking.
Roald shakes his head again, more vigorously. "No, no, no no no," he moans. The last 'no' is drawn out, agonized. It makes Fred's heart sink in his chest.
"What can I do?" he finally asks, desperate.
At this, Roald's eyes snap open, pupils like massive ink spots in the flickering light. He turns his gaze to Fred, and for a moment, it's frightening, like regarding a shark scenting blood. His bottom lip glistens from where he's been biting it, and Fred can see his chest heaving, skin stained red from—— Oh, damn it all, Fred. Say it. Say he's aroused.
It was his arousal that alerted Roald that something was wrong to begin with, that his body was hosting some rebellion against its usual nature. He wasn't prone to feelings of that kind, not given to lusting after their usual gallery of photographs of lovely ladies with come-hither stares and blushes high in their cheeks. He's never had to beg off for time alone with the explicit but unsaid warning that anyone intruding would get an eyeful.
Yet here he is, feverish with it——and Fred can't understand why.
Roald tries his words again, but something in his head seems scrambled, a loose wire not quite connecting to its home. "I... I need——" he starts, then stutters, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip again, teeth shark-white against his red, red mouth.
He needs an outlet, is Fred's conclusion. Roald will never say it, but can sense it in his manner, in the way his body seems suddenly drawn to Fred through some strange Antarctic magnetism.
For science, old boy. For the good of it all.
Fred braces himself, then crosses their small shared space to place a hand against Roald's burning cheek. Roald closes his eyes and nuzzles against his hand like a great blonde cat, and there is the transient look of pure relief. He needs to be touched. He needs Fred to open that valve and let out whatever godforsaken miasma is infecting him.
Fred's voice is hoarse, shocking to his own ears when he speaks. "Tell me if I do something you don't like," he mutters.
Roald nods against his hand, but doesn't offer a word of protest.
Experimentally, Fred runs his opposite hand down the proud column of Roald's throat, where his pulse flutters at a damn near dangerous rate against Fred's palm. It's impossibly quick, like a clock ticking ever faster toward its final termination, reminding Fred of exactly what's at stake. Down, down further to his exposed clavicle, peeking up above the hem of his shirt. As Fred's fingers brush along its length, Roald shudders and moans.
"Vær så——" Roald starts, before the words catch in his throat, drowned out by another moan and shiver. His own hands go to the bottom hem, trying to pull his shirt up.
In the interest of good medical practice, Fred shouldn't help him. Truly, he doesn't want to risk hypothermia in this situation, but his hands work against that better sense, helping Roald pull the shirt up over his head. He can't ignore Roald's sigh of relief, or the way he turns his whole body toward Fred, exposing that long stretch of skin and muscle. Their rations haven't had much of an effect on him, which doesn't surprise Fred in the least. Roald's built for places like this, the finest specimen their line of work can produce.
Fred now runs both hands along Roald's abdomen, further and further down to his trousers, where his erection is an unavoidable sight.
Roald's fallen to pure gibberish now, a maddening mix of multiple languages even beyond their Belgica pidgin. Words rise in one language and fall in another, and he skips through syllables so even just one word is a patchwork form of multiple others. All Fred catches in his own tongue is, "Take it off, please."
Fred doesn't bother questioning his understanding of medicine any further. What Roald needs and what he should need are on two separate courses of thought. Instead, Fred undoes the button of his trousers, sliding them down Roald's hips, down to his knees. His long underwear next, the band catching for just a moment on Roald's cock before slipping lose and exposing the long red length of it, tip glistening with moisture.
If they were lovers, if this was any other situation, Fred would prolong this. He supposes he would tease Roald, drawing out the wait minute by agonizing minute. But their situation is at its direst, and Fred thinks that if he waits much longer, Roald's state will devolve into something dangerous. His heart, powerful as it is, could give out. So many things could go wrong.
So Fred doesn't think on it much longer. He does what feels right, what feels like the closest cure. His right hand goes to Roald's erection, fingers a tight ring around it, thumb going up under the head of his cock. This single touch is enough to send Roald into a mindless frenzy, his head falling back against the pillow, his moan a primal sound completely devoid of higher thought. Immediately, his back arches off the bed as Fred fists his cock.
He's being loud, and Fred can only hope either the constant buffeting wind or the creak of the ship is enough to drown out the noise. If not, he hopes the crew decides to be willfully ignorant of what's happening.
Roald's hips thrust up, setting a quick pace for Fred's hand to follow. He's panting, his noises animalistic, his eyes rolling back in his head as Fred's strokes quicken.
Fred retreats to his usual mental post of observation and study. If this keeps up, or if it happens again to another member of their crew, he wants to know what to do. For this to happen to Roald, of all people, is almost unthinkable. And if it's happening to him, what's to say it won't happen to someone like Lecointe, or Arctowski, or one of their ABs?
God forbid, Fred thinks. I don't think my wrists would hold up.
Best to solve it quickly, to come up with a cure no matter what he needs to do.
There's little ceremony and absolutely no warning when Roald comes. It's quick, brutal, and apparently surprising to Roald himself as he stares at his spend striping across his torso and Fred's hand as though he wasn't expecting to see it, either. His sounds are guttural, hands fisting Fred's sheets, knuckles bone-white. Fred strokes him through it, whispering encouragements even as his fingers slip and his rhythm wavers.
"Come on," he hears himself whisper. "That's it."
Roald's hips jerk once, twice more, before he finally settles back against the pillow. His breaths even out, eyelids drooping until they completely close. His cock twitches minutely, but not another drop issues forth. Fred waits just a moment, fingers still precariously locked around his shaft, before he thinks it safe to let go. Then, he reaches for a rag to wipe his hand, and then gently wipe away the rest from Roald's hips and stomach.
Pointedly ignoring that Roald's still erect.
"Did that help?" he asks. It obviously didn't get rid of the entire problem, but he can see that Roald's more relaxed, looking much less ill now than he did only minutes before. Already, Fred's mind is turning over ideas: do it again and again until Roald's completely exhausted, try new techniques (mouth, perhaps) to attempt to make his orgasm more powerful), possibly enlist one of the more sympathetic crew to help so that Roald has constant attention.
Roald nods mutely, but Fred can see a slight smile start to form.
"I think so," he says, and Fred notes with pleasure that he can enunciate again.
"Well, rest a moment, my friend. I'll get you some water. I certainly can't have you being dehydrated on my watch."
Roald nods again, breaths becoming yet more even, despite his erection failing to flag an single centimeter.
But he'll be fine. Fred's set on discovering the cause and the cure, no matter how he needs to go about it. Here, in the dark and isolation, he doesn't need to let the truth go out into the world just yet. He can write spasm and not sexual arousal, and he'll take no penalty for it. He needs to treat his friend first before self-interest butts in. Furthermore, he needs to start correlating causation. The aurora, perhaps, is a good place to start——
Two solid knocks on the door interrupt his thoughts, and then Racoviță's voice cutting right through the wood as though it isn't there. "Do you need help, Doctor? I heard a noise. Is it Roald? It sounded like Roald. Can I help?"
Fred didn't hear any footsteps leading up to this, and immediately wonders how long Racoviță's been standing there. Probably the whole time. Fred smiles, just as Roald does.
"Yes, Mister Racoviță," Fred says, reaching for the door. "I think you can."
Re: Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die: emphasis on the "or die"/handjob
(Anonymous) 2022-10-03 02:52 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die: emphasis on the "or die"/handjob
(Anonymous) 2022-10-03 04:08 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die: emphasis on the "or die"/handjob
(Anonymous) 2022-10-03 05:44 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die: emphasis on the "or die"/handjob
(Anonymous) 2022-10-03 09:22 pm (UTC)(link)God forbid, Fred thinks. I don't think my wrists would hold up.
😂 omg this is amazing, hilarious, fabulous—and very hot to boot!
Re: Cook/Amundsen, sex pollen/fuck or die: emphasis on the "or die"/handjob
(Anonymous) 2022-10-04 04:35 am (UTC)(link)