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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: Lough Swilly 1837, Graham Gore/Robert McClure, E, realistic tummy troubles
(Anonymous) 2022-10-06 11:04 pm (UTC)(link)Terror barely makes port at Lough Swilly. She’s in sinking condition long before land is in sight. Half the crew cries with relief the moment their chilblained feet touch solid ground. Robert scrubs his sleeve across his eyes and pretends his stifled sob is a sneeze-cough hybrid. The other wardroom officers kindly ignore him.
Lieutenant Smyth, who has spread twelve hours of sleep across sixty-five waking ones, sets to billeting the near-delirious ship’s company. The mates are put up in an inn near the harbour. There are only two rooms to four mates. They draw lots, because Fisher snores. Marcuad draws Fisher and groans. Gore grins at Robert and Robert stares hard at his cocoa.
It’s a small room. Robert has to sit on the bed while Gore performs his ablutions at the washstand, scrubbing so roughly at the back of his neck that his curls shake. Robert watches him. He reasons there are very few other places to put his gaze in this bare little chamber, so he might as well watch Gore, unselfconscious as a cat at his evening toilette.
“Cleaning the Arctic off?” asks Robert. His voice wobbles. He’s tired, that’s all. In the candlelight, Gore’s nightshirt goes gossamer. His body is visible as a silhouette through the linen, long and flexing like a whip.
“I’ll tell you what, McClure,” says Gore, “there’s no Babylon in this world that can compare to having enough hot water for a wash.”
There’s a gentle rap at the door. Before either man can protest they’re part-dressed, the door creaks open. The publican’s pretty niece wedges her face into the room.
“Will you be needing anything further, sirs?” she asks.
“No, thank you,” says Robert stiffly. He’s pulled the blanket up to his chest.
“We’ll be sure to let you know if we do,” says Gore, using his drawing-room voice in his drawers. “Thank you, Miss –?”
“Ryan, sir. Emelia Ryan.”
“Thank you, Miss Ryan,” says Robert. Miss Emelia Ryan does not unwedge her handsome head.
“Should you find yourselves in need, sir,” she says, “I’m just two doors down on the left.”
She is looking at Gore, who is glowing dewily from his wash-up. He smiles.
“Two doors down,” he repeats.
“Right so, sir. But if you find yourself needing something after eleven, do be quiet-like. My uncle is across the hall.”
“I see,” says Gore. “Light sleeper, is he?”
“He’ll sleep through a tempest, sir, but there’s a floorboard outside my chamber that cracks when it’s stepped on and wakes the whole house. You can’t miss it, sir. Middle of the passage with a big black knot.”
“That will be all, Miss Evans,” says Robert sharply. At last she bids them goodnight and withdraws.
Gore smiles sweetly at him. “Shuffle up, will you, McClure? I prefer to sleep on the outside.”
Robert feels something like nausea. All of his emotions register, initially, as nausea, so this will take some working out.
He blows out the candle – they don’t even have a lamp – and tries not to feel the way Gore’s body is warming the bed. Gore stretches to find a comfortable spot, edging his lean racehound flanks across the space between them.
“’Night, McClure,” he says, mock-sleepy.
“Goodnight.”
Robert lies back and panics.
His hands are clasped over his sternum, in what he thinks of as his come-to-Jesus position. His heart is skittering under his palm. Gore is still and quiet as the truly sleeping never are.
Five minutes past. Gore shifts. The bedframe snaps.
“Gore,” he murmurs.
“Sshh,” whispers Gore. “Sleep now.”
Robert’s stomach-ache has intensified. The mattress shifts in a much more definite way. Gore is sitting up on the edge of the bed.
“Gore,” he hisses.
Gore sighs. “Do sleep, McClure.”
“Are you planning – what I think you’re planning?”
“You shouldn’t be thinking about it at all,” says Gore. Robert can hear the smile. “Very naughty of you. Aren’t you a married man?”
Robert feels a horrid stab in his stomach. Acid reflux, maybe.
“You disgrace the name of the Service –”
“Oh, come now. I had an invitation. A gentleman disgraces himself when he turns down a lady’s invitation.”
Robert gives a little shriek of rage. The force of his anger throws him upright.
“Get back into bed!” he shouts.
Immediately he feels something hot hand heavy across his face. Gore’s palm. In the dark he was aiming to clap his hand over Robert’s mouth but he’s awkwardly grabbed the whole jaw.
“Shut up,” he mutters. “You’ll wake our hosts.”
“Get BACK into bbmmghhhffff.”
He lets Gore force him back into a horizontal position, then shoves his arms at Gore’s chest. Gore grunts with pain, but quietly. Robert feels several ribs under his knuckles. They’ve all got so thin on this dreadful voyage. He tries to force Gore down onto the bed but Gore digs his elbows in and bears his weight on top of him.
“Do you – have any – idea,” pants Gore, “how long – it’s been – since I last – had a woman?”
They wrestle in bitter near-silence, biting down on their tongues when one lands a blow.
“Disgusting – to talk – like that – an officer – of – the – Royal – Navy – out whoring –”
“That’s a – horrible way – to think – about that – poor girl – where’s your – sense of – romance –”
“Died – with my – marriage,” gasps Robert. Gore is straddling him now, trying to catch and pin his fists, but this makes him stop. He goes ‘oof’ very softly as Robert lamps him on the ear.
Robert drops his arms, exhausted. He is crying. He has been crying for some time, possibly since he realised Gore was sneaking off to make love to the redoubtable Miss Evans. The tears track down his temples and fall in his ears.
Gore is panting, but he’s still. He’s also on top of Robert. He’s sitting right on top of Robert. He’s plonked right on top of a vital and deeply personal part of Robert, which is reacting to this new situation by rising, as it were, to attention.
“Did you make a joke, McClure?” says Gore, uncertaintly.
Robert sniffs. “No.”
“Oh.”
Gore sits for a while longer, like a baffled chicken. He seems unaware of the stiffening effect this repose has on Robert.
“I’m very sorry,” Gore adds, awkwardly.
A deeply pleasurable sensation lances through Robert’s crotch. This is one of the things he despises most about himself: he has an instant physical reaction to penitence. Sometimes, he imagines being hurt – whipped by an admiral, tormented by a wife – and it’s interesting, but then he imagines, for example, Mary on her knees, weeping with remorse, begging for his forgiveness, and he feels not simply aroused but pleasured, as if the velvet seam at the head of his yard is being caressed. This will happen even if he has not laid hands upon himself. The intensity of the feeling is always astonishing, because it is as bluntly corporeal as a sprain or a cut. He feels sure such sensory reactions should be reserved for actual stimulation, or at the very least, naked bosoms.
Gore is leaning down now, his mouth closer to one of Robert’s tear-filled ears. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he mumbles, and it’s all Robert can do not to moan.
He is so distracted by the onslaught of this erotic apology that he doesn’t realise that Gore’s fingers have been creeping up his nightshirt. By the time he notices, Gore’s fingers are in his armpits, and it’s much too late.
“Oh nooo,” he squeaks, and bucks like a beached fish.
“Bit ticklish?” says Gore, delighted. He digs his fingers in. Robert spasms. He starts to wheeze with squalid, stupid hilarity.
Gore is laughing, not unkindly, in his ear. “You silly little man,” whispers Gore, and Robert shrieks.
They are thrashing about in the bed again – God knows what Miss Evans makes of the noise – but now Gore is trying to shush the wretchedly giggling McClure, who is crying again through the laughter because his stomach hurts and he has a cockstand and he wants to sleep and he wants a kiss and he wishes he was at the bottom of the Polar Sea. He’s making a noise that’s probably best written as a bloo bloo bloo.
Gore’s magnificent nose is pressed against Robert’s wet cheek. He’s still tickling with soldierly determination. Robert, rendered bonkers by the evening’s progress, turns his head and gives Gore a frantic kiss on the cheekbone.
If he could still register surprise, he would be surprised that Gore doesn’t turn away. Instead, he sinks his fingers into Robert’s ribs, and nuzzles him roughly, rasping stubble against Robert’s neck.
“If you won’t let me get away to Miss Evans,” Gore says hotly, “you’ll have to take me in hand yourself, Miss McClure.”
Robert sobs. He licks his own smeared tears off Gore’s chin.
In the course of all the tickling, Gore has rucked up Robert’s nightshirt, and now he sticks both hands unceremoniously under it. He pinches and squeezes like he’s taking snuff.
“You have puffy nipples,” he says affectionately.
“Yes,” Robert weeps.
“Whorish big buttons for such a chaste thing,” Gore says. Then he ducks his head and mumbles, “Is that alright? May I talk to you like that?”
It’s almost an apology. Robert groans and feels his yard begin to leak.
“You’re pretty,” says Gore. “I’ve always thought so. You should be painted while you’ve still got the hairline.”
“Oh,” whimpers Robert, “you rascal, you –”
“Sshh. I’m teasing. Where do you want me?”
What Robert wants is for Gore to take charge – take possession like a husband, take command like a captain – but he emits a nervous whinny when Gore cups his buttock, one finger questing for the secret valley between the folds. Robert does crave it – that gruesome splitting on the pole of a prick – but he’s also acutely aware of his stomach. It’s humiliating, but what’s holding him back from all-out buggery is not a hatred of sin, but a desire not to have digestive repercussions.
“Graham. Could you,” he croaks, “maybe – in my mouth?”
“Oh!” says Gore. It’s a fresh little noise – the ‘oh!’ of a young man still capable of boyish astonishment. “Oh, well!” says Gore, and he’s scrambling to pull off his drawers and position himself over Robert’s head with deliciously unseemly haste. His knees press into Robert’s temples. The gorse of his stones brush Robert’s mouth. His musk is ripe and leafy, faintly bitter like crushed berries. Robert takes a deep huff in.
“You are quite the tart,” says Gore, guiding his cock down.
A bead of something wet and salty seeps through Robert’s lips. “You’re being so despicable to me,” he says.
“Oh Robbie,” says Gore. “I am sorry. I’m just excited to discover there’s so much jade behind that prissy little frown.”
Robert sighs happily. ‘Robbie’, ‘sorry’, together they’re as sweet as a cunt around his cock, and feel just as wanton. He lifts up his head and swallows as much of Gore as he can reach.
“Impressive,” says Gore, through his teeth, “that’s very impressive, now lie back and let me –”
He lowers his hips with practised care. Robert can feel Gore’s thighs shaking with the effort to hold himself back. He presses his tongue as low as it will go and takes Gore’s yard down to the root. The tip of his nose is buried in Gore’s pillow of black hair.
“Your nose,” says Gore, lovingly, “is cold.”
“Gggkkkk.”
“Shocking language,” says Gore, then abruptly pulls back and thrusts back in so hard that Robert gags.
They pick up a rhythm. Gore presses down on the top of his head with one hand, feeding his cock in like a man forcefeeding a pet. By some miracle of Gore’s deft handling and natural balance, the other hand is twisted back to tug playfully at Robert’s cockstand. Robert makes disgusting noises – choking and gagging, drooling and burping – and grunts continuously, uhh, uhh, uhh, around the rod of flesh down his throat.
Gore lets out a shaking breath. “I don’t think I’ll last very long,” he says, in an urgent whisper. “I think – Robbie – I’m really – quite close – it’s been – too long – since I – had a woman –”
Robert makes a gross carnal sound around Gore’s cock and this proves the tipping point. Gore – who has been so voluble – finishes in silence, robbed of sound and speech by the sheer thunder of his climax.
There’s a lot of it, and Robert can’t swallow it all. He splutters that gluey cream, feels it leak down his face into his whiskers. It has a distinct scent, somewhere between decay and cologne. He wishes he could bottle it.
After a few breathless moment, Gore whispers, “Did I hurt you, McClure? I hope not. Shall I get you a washcloth?”
Robert’s cock twitches hopefully. He coughs. There’s jism on his nose.
“You poor pummelled wretch,” says Gore, who sounds guilt-stricken. “I should have given you more warning. I’m sorry. Can I help you sit up? Oh, poor fellow. What have I done to you?”
It’s too much. It’s all his fantasies all at once. He gives a yelp and hunches over an orgasm as abrupt as a fist to the face. Gore’s hand is still resting on his thigh; he grabs it and pumps six hot sticky spurts all over Gore’s fist.
He lets out a ragged breath and slumps against Gore’s shoulder. For a moment he rests there, letting his blush cool.
Gore says, in a very different, ironic voice, “Thought so.”
Robert, startled, sits up.
“What?”
In the darkness, he can hear, once again, the smile in Gore’s voice. “Jesus loves a sinner, doesn’t he, McClure? Particularly when he atones on his knees. Now, shove over. A man needs his beauty sleep after a little instructive sin.”
Re: FILL: Lough Swilly 1837, Graham Gore/Robert McClure, E, realistic tummy troubles