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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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Emil Racovitza/Georges Lecointe, comedic misunderstanding
(Anonymous) 2022-09-29 11:11 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: The Most Dangerous Game, Emil Racovitza/Georges Lecointe, comedic misunderstanding, E, [1/2]
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 03:07 am (UTC)(link)Racovitza’s grin was altogether too blindingly bright for this time of morning; without a morsel of food in him yet Lecointe found it difficult to withstand the onslaught of easy charm. Far too damned early.
As Lecointe sat down at the wardroom table, Racovitza returned spooning mealy porridge into his mouth with one hand while scrawling in his diary in the other. “And as Lecointe enters the dining hall,” he narrated slowly as he wrote, “he resembles nothing so much as a toothbrush, hair sticking up at all angles, wiry bristles that would be fit to remove kelp from the baleen of a right whale, an experience extremely pleasurable for the both of them, I would imagine…”
“You slept well?” said Lecointe.
“I slept like a babe in a creche,” said Racovitza, setting down his pencil. “Surrounded by wails and shrieks and the smell of shit! Ha!”
As if on cue the rest of Racovitza’s roommates entered: Danco and Arctowski already deep in conversation; Cook greeting Lecointe and Racovitza with his usual drawl in English of “Good morning to you, gentlemen!”
Racovitza gestured at Lecointe and said in French to Cook, “I think he looks like a toothbrush, don’t you?” As he sat down, Cook made his frequent play of smiling and nodding despite clearly not understanding what Racovitza was saying. “The good doctor agrees!” crowed Racovitza. He reached over the table to run a hand through Lecointe’s hair and ruffle it, which Lecointe permitted with all the clenched patience of a bravely wounded soldier having a bullet removed from his sundered flesh.
Even as Raco pinched his cheek—the nerve!—Lecointe knew he must continue to endure, even as he was humiliated in plain sight of his fellow officers. This game was a familiar one to him, after all. In military training such sport was common.
When had it started? Lecointe couldn’t quite recall. Certainly it had not been an issue on the journey across the Atlantic. Lecointe remembered meeting the naturalist for the first time in Belgium and finding him wholly professional. Handsome and clean, with his waxed mustache and neatly combed hair. And then as Patagonia receded in their wake Racovitza, or “Raco” as everyone had taken to calling him nearly immediately, had let himself loosen and grow jocose, ever more daring with his pranks and puns. Yes, maybe it had begun when he rejoined them in Punta Arenas, quite wild-looking after his naturalizing expedition, practicing his bird-calls and telling each officer which creature of the jungle they resembled most.
Or—perhaps it had truly begun in earnest later, during one of the first truly cold nights as they navigated down the coast of the Antarctic Peninsula. Lecointe recalled how he had been visibly shivering as he sat reading in the wardroom, as the stove was not set up yet; Raco had bragged of his heat-emitting properties and invited Lecointe to lay beside him on the sofa. He hadn’t been lying: Lecointe, who lacked much in the way of body fat and always ran cold, was stunned at the heat which poured off of Racovitza, even through his layers of clothes.
“Good God, Raco,” said Lecointe. “I would install you in my cabin if I could!”
“Would you?” Raco asked. “Just for tonight? I could really use a break from my lot, you know. Artocho has been whimpering in his sleep again about broken thermometers.” Lecointe considered that there was hardly room for himself in his berth, let alone another man the size of Racovitza, but then he reflected on how lack of restful sleep did not a competent captain make, and another night of sleepless shivering like the last one might make him a liability to his crew should something occur.
So Raco had happily bedded down with Lecointe, not just that night but on many a night afterwards, perhaps once or twice a week… Such warm and peaceful rest he’d never had!
Yes, it all must have started after that…!
“Captain,” said Raco now, interrupting Lecointe’s reverie, “tell Emile what you were telling me last night about your regrets.”
Danco looked up expectantly, eager for a distraction from his disgusting repast of Michotte’s lead-bread and sour jam. “You have regrets, captain? Romantic ones?” The table was always eager for stories of girls.
“No,” said Lecointe with a wry grin, “nothing of that sort. Only, I admitted to Raco last night in a moment of weakness, how I regret promising to at least twenty different well-wishers the skin of the first bear I shot in the Antarctic!”
“But there are no bears in the Antarctic!” laughed Danco. “Not a single one!”
Raco tutted. “Not true.”
“But—that is true,” said Arctowski, a little confused.
“No!” Raco roared, slamming his hands down on the table and leaping to his feet. “The one and only bear below the Antarctic Circle is I, Racovitza! Tremble before me!”
Cook, who had not been following the conversation at all, laughed now at the physical display.
“Come here. Feel my great strength. You, sir!”
Lecointe hesitated. Raco beckoned, his eyes twinkling. Summoning all his discipline Lecointe rose from his seat and let Raco guide his hands to his chest, through which Lecointe could indeed feel a marvelous apparatus of flesh.
“Am I not the closest thing to a furry beast for miles around?”
“Indeed you are,” Lecointe agreed, conscious of the amused gaze of his fellow-officers on him, willing his cheeks not to color.
“And here!” Raco took Lecointe’s hand and moved it from his chest to his arm, which he flexed ostentatiously. “Am I not imposing and fierce?”
Lecointe, relaxing a bit, cried, “Oh, very much! The penguins flee before you! The ice splits at your feet!”
It was true that Racovitza was the second-tallest of everyone on the ship, after Danco, who hardly counted, being such an outlier. And Racovitza was much wider than Danco, as well: thick and solid… Just then, Raco let out another throaty roar and, grasping Lecointe around the waist, lifted him up off the deck.
This got hollers of approbation from their messmates and a groan of “Mon dieu!” from the door to de Gerlache’s cabin, which had just opened up onto the odd scene.
Lecointe made a show of kicking uselessly, his feet far off the floor, as Raco gripped him; but it was just that, a show. Embarrassingly, he did not really wish to be released.
What would Cook say? In his combination of mangled pidgin, sign-language, and monotone translation courtesy of Melaerts he had made it known recently that should they allow arousal to proceed unchecked without release, they might face physical consequences, leaving them impotent as eunuchs!
“Better to give up thoughts of sex completely,” he’d said, “and save your bodies the stress.” This, with a pointed look at Lecointe, who in the interest of showing Racovitza that their game was simply that—a game, a challenge, one which he would win—had been speaking loudly of his betrothed and her many charms during mealtimes.
Lecointe planned to have many children, to carry on his family name! He could not allow any sort of—damage to occur. But he could also not, for reasons of honor, choose to forfeit the game Raco had roped him into, which was the cause of the continued carnal thoughts when Raco did—well, things like this.
Even as Raco let him go at last, and all of them laughed heartily and welcomed the extremely confused commandant to the table with an explanation of the joke (which was then passed on by him in English to Cook at last), Lecointe was thinking, What to do, what to do?
He could decide later: the game as it was played involved escalation on the part of both parties, so Lecointe was obligated to launch his volley in return later today, in response to the show Raco had just put on.
Lecointe had to bear whatever indignity he would bring upon himself. Should he show any weakness and forfeit, Racovitza would triumph over him. It would be an embarrassment not just for Lecointe but for the Belgian Navy and even the entire nation.
***
During work hours, in the quickly dwindling daylight, scientific labors were far too important to waste a single moment. But during the mornings and evenings, all were free to do what they chose. Lecointe was determined to give as good as he got as soon as his duties were ended.
In between tasks that day he searched his mind for what might make the fearless naturalist bow out first, short of—well. They would not come to that, surely.
Overcome with leg cramps and the need for a piss after sitting crouched at his instruments all morning long, Lecointe left his observatory. He was halted almost immediately by the sight of Racovitza hard at work butchering a seal. A blood-spattered apron and massive knife were not usually becoming accessories: except, somehow, on Raco, who looked very good in red.
Raco glanced up and spotted Lecointe; and blew him a kiss with one bloody hand. Lecointe was frozen for a moment, wondering if he should return the gesture; he settled on waving back before hurrying off to relieve himself.
That evening in the wardroom it was Arctowski’s turn on the coelophone. Consummate patriot that he was, he could always be counted on to play Chopin. While cranking it he always had such a beatific expression; tonight Racovitza was sitting backwards on a chair nearby, sketching the scene as the wheezing waltz filled the air.
“Monsieur,” said Lecointe, striding up and standing at attention in front of Racovitza. “May I be honored to have this dance?”
Raco’s brilliant grin appeared. Of all the emotions, delight flattered his features most. Grasping Lecointe’s outstretched hand he sprang up, curtseyed, and allowed himself to be whisked off into a dance around the room, dodging officers and chairs as Lecointe spun him round. “You lead well,” he laughed, to which Lecointe said, “And you follow very well indeed—I’m surprised.”
“How dare you insinuate Romanians don’t know how to dance.”
“Now, I didn’t even—Raco!” Raco, in revenge, had sped up the pace of their dance, and now they were both seriously in danger of tripping and falling.
“Ah, but will you be able to hold my weight for the dip at the end of the figure?”
“Most certainly! How dare you insinuate I won’t be!”
“I don’t believe you, monsieur…”
With that, Raco switched them round; now they began to whirl widdershins about the room, one of Raco’s large hands on the small of Lecointe’s back and the other in an expert leading grip around Lecointe’s fingers. The punch-card stack of the coelophone dwindled on one side and rose on the other, and as the waltz drew to a close, Raco dropped Lecointe to the deck, holding him steady with ease mere inches from the rug. Their faces were quite close together.
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Cook, leaping to his feet for a standing ovation.
FILL: The Most Dangerous Game, Emil Racovitza/Georges Lecointe, comedic misunderstanding, E, [2/2]
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 03:11 am (UTC)(link)The stalemate could have persisted for even longer, with Lecointe’s original plan to win at all costs drifting away like snow in the wind as he settled into a sort of status quo.
But it was when Lecointe found himself in bed, recalling the memory of Racovitza’s kind words and tender care for him after Wiencke’s death, and becoming more than a little bit aroused, that he realized that things were not as they should be. Raco gently drying him with a towel, slipping his limbs into a clean clothes, gathering him into his arms and speaking softly into his ear… To be thinking of that moment in such a way! An insult to poor dead Wiencke, as well as to himself! Good God!
He would have to draw this whole affair to its conclusion posthaste. Surely Racovitza when faced with that final, terminal option would bow out at last, leaving Lecointe the victor. Surely…!
So that very night, when he and Racovitza were the only ones left in the wardroom, and de Gerlache was surely asleep behind his cabin door, Lecointe came to sit next to his friend on the sofa.
“Raco,” he said softly, and Racovitza looked over so kindly and eagerly, and it was quite easy to lean in with his mouth puckered up…
He expected—naturally, he had expected Raco to dodge the bullet, to give a good-natured shout of “You win!” and raise the white flag, so to speak. He did not expect Raco meet his lips in a passionate kiss that went on for a good while, Raco leaning back so that Lecointe’s weight fell atop him, groping at his behind. Raco’s warmth was so familiar, such a source of comfort, and he kissed so sweetly and excellently that it took a while for Lecointe’s conscious mind to catch up to what was happening…!
Eventually it did occur to him in a flash: and he leapt up from the sofa, nearly toppling over in the process, but he found Raco’s outstretched hand in time to prevent a fall.
Raco said, “Calm down! We have time. But I must know, what took you so long?”
“So—so long? I don’t understand!”
“We have been as good as married, my good captain.” Raco held his hand gently, massaging his palm. “For months now we’ve been spending nights together, and yet you dawdled on—I worried something was amiss, with my face or the smell of my breath, or perhaps you were just old fashioned—but at last, now we can get down to the business of consummation!” He stood up, looming over Lecointe; then reached around to place both hands around Lecointe’s waist and tug him forward until they were belly to belly.
Lecointe sqeaked, twisting out of Raco’s grip, and then spluttered, “Married?! But I—am already betrothed, you know this!”
“I mean for the purposes of the expedition!” Racovitza scoffed, as if it were obvious. “My good sir, you don’t think anyone other than Lieutenant Amundsen and perhaps our commandant is really capable of following Cook’s advice, do you? The seamen have long paired off for their own comfort in the Ladysless South! I believed we were following the enlightened lead of the lower classes.”
Why had he believed it would be possible for him to do as Cook said? It suddenly seemed quite idiotic in retrospect. He was a red-blooded man, after all, with physical needs like any other.
“Georges Lecointe,” said Raco now, his voice dropping, suddenly quite serious as he leaned in, “we might die out here. Yes?”
Lecointe, brow furrowed, nodded minutely. It was useless denying such a thing as they all knew too well.
“Precisely!” Raco wagged a finger. “And should you like to send me to my cold and watery grave having gone totally unsatisfied since May of 1893? Is that fair to such a majestic creature?”
“Over four years ago?!” yelped Lecointe, the calculation performing itself quite involuntarily. “But—but you’re so—That simply isn’t possible!”
“I know!” Raco broke into a sort of sensuous dance, with his hands running up and down his body, as if to demonstrate his own physical appeal, and the unfairness of it going unrecognized for so long. “But unfortunately, it’s true. I experienced heartbreak, and regret—and then buried myself in my studies. The result was, I didn’t have a single girl to share my room with in between then and leaving for the expedition. All that pent-up energy, well, it’s still pent up.” He crudely cupped himself at the front of his trousers to demonstrate, and immediately a desperate heat began to curl urgently at the base of Lecointe’s own cock. He had the impulse to cross himself and say a prayer. Who was the patron saint of buggery?
“Now, I figure… you are the type to go your whole life without exploring the coastline of your Antarctic regions, so to speak. Is that true?”
“I’ve never put anything up my ass, Raco! If that’s what you mean!” He could not help how high his voice went at the declaration.
“I see, just as I thought. Well, there is plenty of time for experimentation later. I suppose you could bugger me tonight, but…”
He tugged down his suspenders, underwear, and patched trousers, revealing the chestnut-furred regions of his upper legs; and the dark shape between, just hidden by the shadow of his shirt-hem, of what surely promised to be a handsome member. Another spasm of want bloomed inside Lecointe; he resisted with military strength the wildly foreign urge to drop to his knees. “How about my thighs? Or…” Raco stripped off his woollen jumper, unbuttoned the shirt beneath, and then gathered up the ample flesh there with his hands and pushed his nipples towards each other, creating—”how about my lovely breasts, eh?”
Presented with such options, Lecointe was quite overwhelmed. This was not how he expected his evening to go. They had not even been frozen in for three months and here he was, about to have congress with by far the most appealing man onboard the ship—
Ah, but it was not so strange for him to be excelling in a chosen field, was it, after all?
He cleared his throat. “Your thighs will do. I suppose.”
“Yes, Captain!” A rakish salute, and then Raco flung his unbuttoned shirt to the ground, leaving him more or less naked, excepting his trousers puddled around his his shoes and socks. Lecointe was fairly arrested in contemplation of the grand image before him; so in a happier mirror image of that earlier time, Raco busied himself with getting Lecointe’s clothes off, although he left the shirt on, in apparent kindness to Lecointe’s tendency towards gooseflesh.
Before Lecointe had time to feel utterly, sadly scrawny and hairless compared to Raco’s decorated bulk, the naturalist produced some sort of scientific ointment from a nearby shelf. He warmed it up with a few rubs of his palms, and then raised an eyebrow as he brought a hand close to Lecointe’s cock, hesitating.
“I won’t go off in your fist,” Lecointe said, impatiently. “I’m not a boy.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were.”
God, but he was very hard already, and the half-dozen tugs Raco gave his prick to ready it were very nearly enough, despite his promise. Raco’s tongue flicked out from between his teeth, as it did when he concentrated, and Lecointe had to look away.
“Go to the table,” he ordered eventually. Raco gave another parodic salute and did as he was told; during which Lecointe made direct eye contact with the man’s cock in the process of engorgement, and—well, he had the thought that they might trade places, like they did while waltzing, and Raco could slip in between his thighs, and what a sensation that might be, and perhaps then he might not go off within the next half-minute.
Then he considered the relative pleasure his own stringy hams would give, compared to what Raco had on offer, and thought better of it.
In any case all questions of alternatives were erased by the time he was pressing into the slick channel of Raco’s legs from the back. Nearly immediately the sensation had him letting out a bitten-off moan. He raked a hand up and down Raco’s back, digging his nails in, and was rewarded with a grateful noise from beneath him, and muscles flexing and tightening around his cock.
He slowed his thrusts, savoring the close heat, that sheer radiance of not just temperature but of character which emanated from somewhere deep inside the man before him, which Lecointe did not know if he or really anyone on the Belgica could survive without. When the sun finally departed for good, Lecointe knew he would need him even more than he did now…
“It feels good for me too, by the way,” Raco said, sounding muffled against the table.
“I assumed so,” panted Lecointe.
“Ah, you should never assume, sir! Some men are downright numb in between the legs! It must be a biological property of the epidermis!”
So before his drought, he must have been a whore indeed, came the thought unbidden, to know the typical states of other men’s thighs.
Oh, and that had done it—that filthy image—and he was able to give Raco just a few second’s warning before tipping into his crisis, expelling a long stream of ungentlemanly expletives as he did so. Raco said something in Romanian which Lecointe couldn’t quite parse, but even assuming it was a slur on his prematurity, he found he was too full of pleasure to mind. He stumbled to sit stickily on the rug; when he looked up through a haze he saw Raco industriously working at his own cock, the gleaming broad head poking through the top of his fist in a steady rhythm.
“Let me,” said Lecointe, making dazed overtures to assist, but Raco waved him down.
“Just watch,” he said, and Lecointe did watch, as within a minute Raco spilled in healthy spurts over his hand, streaks of pearl running down his hairy knuckles. Somehow he managed to get a sock off, which he used to clean up, and then flung generously at Lecointe.
“Close your mouth or the flies will get in,” Raco said, sitting down beside Lecointe on the rug, and then sprawling onto his back, supine and content, like a housecat purring in front of a fire. His bared chest looked invitingly pillowlike; but Lecointe refrained, frowning.
“You thought we were—’good as married’—this entire time?” he said.
Raco waved a hand. “It seemed clear to me.”
Lecointe thought for a moment. And then another moment.
“If you thought so,” he said slowly, “what must the other officers think? And the men! The way we have been going about! Oh, God!”
Raco stared at him, and then burst into laughter. “Oh, you are a very silly man,” he said, and then pulled Lecointe down on top of him, putting the issue off for at least a little while longer.
Re: FILL: The Most Dangerous Game, Emil Racovitza/Georges Lecointe, comedic misunderstanding, E, [2/
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 03:31 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The Most Dangerous Game, Emil Racovitza/Georges Lecointe, comedic misunderstanding, E, [2/
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 03:45 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: The Most Dangerous Game, Emil Racovitza/Georges Lecointe, comedic misunderstanding, E, [2/
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 09:50 pm (UTC)(link)