coldboys | Polar Explorer RPF

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:

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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Discovery-era; Scott is having a hard time dealing with the pressures of his first command. Luckily, Dr. Wilson has an idea that might help and tenderly doms the hell out of his soft, weepy captain.

Please make Scott cry ❤️

frank worsley can’t help but shout “yoicks! tally ho!” at the moment of orgasm. his partner (your choice) finds this charming. perhaps enough to make it happen multiple times.

Madigan and Bickerton are stuck listening to Mertz and Ninnis quietly go at it all night on the top bunk, so they decide the only logical thing to do is have really loud sex to prove how the sound carries in the hut.

Bonus points if Hurley provides a running commentary but they’re kind of into it

Cherry's always volunteering for the worst jobs - well, someone's got to make sure morale doesn't slip during the long, dark winter! And how better than by providing a helping hand or a willing body on demand to anyone who asks.

At Hut Point, the Padre used to hold Sunday mass in the darkroom but it wasn’t very popular- usually only Mackintosh would show up.

So. Maybe “taking communion” in the darkroom became uh, a little unconventional. Perhaps Mackintosh didn’t leave with the taste of wine in his mouth but rather… something else?

It’s post-expedition and Cherry’s not doing great. He still blames himself for the death of his friends. Atch takes time away from his war duties to check up on Cherry, who begs him to “fuck him the way Wilson used to”

Hurt me, anon. Hurt me good.

Gilbert is welcome too

The fact that it hasn't already been prompted is sheer negligence. That man needs to get railed! Bonus points for praise kink and sex crying, thanks.

Angst is good

Fred is running himself ragged trying to keep all the men alive and healthy during the winter on the Belgica. Roald notices he's neglecting his own well-being in the process and decides, matter-of-factly, that something must be done about it. Cue massage, hair-washing, perhaps even some [gasp] cuddling???

McClure anthropomorphosised (idk... spelling) every animal he met. What if the Arctic was Wonderland and Alice was either a miserable 29-year-old or a miserable 41-year-old, depending on which expedition.

One should be inexperienced and/or a virgin and the other should be more experienced. It could be tender or filthy or both.

Raco loves to flirt and joke with his boyfriend over a plate of Australian rabbit with stewed prunes! Georges, meanwhile, thinks he's been engaged in the world's most high-stakes game of gay chicken for the entirety of the Antarctic winter. And he plays to win.

Lillie is the mystery girlfriend from the Cherry bio. Can be any mix of fluff/smut but let's face it, it's gonna be sad

You have absolute carte blanche to turn this sexy if you want. Or it can stay gen. It can be humorous. Or it can be dark (consider how de Gerlache’s instinctive reaction to direct challenges to his authority is… pretending he didn’t say no).

But no matter what, we need to get some scurvy-curing bird steak into that commandant!!

Lecointe or others being involved is welcome too.

Shackleton’s got three fingers in him, working in deeper with each squelching thrust and then stretching him open; a reprieve to give Worsley time to breathe.

“Come on, Skipper,” Shackleton murmurs. He presses his fingers back in and does something, and Worsley’s vision goes white. He bucks up, pushing his flushed, untouched cock into the air before grinding back down on the Boss’s fingers to chase his pleasure.

“Do it again, Boss,” Worsley chokes out, and Shackleton bends his fingers and rubs, moving with Worsley’s hips as he bucks and writhes on the small bed, Shackleton grinning from where he kneels between his legs.

“You like that, Skipper?” he asks.

“Boss, I’m—I need—“

Shackleton reaches for Worsley’s cock, gripping it tightly in his large, calloused hand. “Come on then,” he says.

“Oh—ah, Christ, I’m— Yoicks! Tally ho!“ he ejaculates, and then Worsley is ejaculating, spend spurting over Shackleton’s hand.

At some point Shackleton has withdrawn his hand. He watches as Worsley clears the stars from his vision, toweling the oil off his hand and looking incredibly smug.

“What on earth was that, Wuzzles?”

“What was what?”

“The ‘tally-ho’ thing.”

Worsley shrugs from where he lies on the bed. “Seemed appropriate.”

Shackleton glances out the open window. “Hopefully it was appropriate for the entire population of South Georgia.”

Worsley cringes. “Was I that loud?”

Shackleton pats his foot. “Think of it this way, Skipper. Frankie Wild and the rest of the men of Elephant Island now have confirmation we’ve made it.”

Worsley grins, sitting up and grasping Shackleton’s still-soiled hand. “He might’ve thought it was a new kind of sea bird,” he says. “We better do it again to make sure.”

Shackleton pushes him back down on the bed, and complies.

op here. this is perfect, thank u for my life.

Shackleton is frustrated and anxious while trying to arrange the rescue of the men left on Elephant Island. Good old Wuzzles is happy to help his captain let off some steam. Bonus points for background Shackles/Frank Wild

hot AND funny, excellent!

He’d brought her a posy of violets, which she’d crushed into a tumbler. But she must have liked them, a little, because she put them in the bedroom. Their scent turns the air lurid with sweetness.

She’s already under the covers. One graceful little white hand makes its languid way to the lamp.

“Leave it on,” he says quickly.

The hand halts in mid-air. ‘Graceful little white hand’ was an automatic gallantry. It’s how one is supposed to imagine one’s wife. Actually Mary has bony pianist’s fingers and knuckles so red they look as if they’ve been rapped with a cane. They excite him, the ever-beaten scarlet knuckles. He’s never told her this. He isn’t sure she’d be pleased.

He slides under the covers, his nightshirt tangling between his thighs. His haste is unseemly. It is a husband’s right to claim his wife. He cups the nearest part of her. Her shoulder, as it happens.

“Oh, Robert, your hands are cold!”

“They will warm up,” he mutters. She frowns at him. He tries kissing the furrowed brow, which does at least unknit. He tries her mouth. She turns her lips up like an umbrella but doesn’t kiss him back. No matter. Her lips are soft. They feel nice. He moves his hands and there’s more softness and niceness. Her nipples press through the chemise like the dot at the base of a question mark.

“Cold,” she says into his mouth, but it’s a whisper, and that’s a surrender.

He’s been hard since he walked in to the smell of violets, before they’d even undressed. When she puts things he gives her in their bedroom – a bouquet, a mirror, a pretty jug for the washstand – it’s like watching her put her fingers inside herself. When he makes her a present and it goes into the chamber where he fucks her, that is surely because she wants to think of him when she is in this bedroom by herself. She surely, surely imagines him.

He’s kneading at her breasts with both hands now. “That what Pussy does on the bedcovers in the mornings,” she whispers. “When she wants treats.”

In his head he says, ironically, Well, I want treats, or else he purrs into her ear that she’s his little pussycat, but what comes out is a strangled noise. He tries again, and gasps, “Well, I want pussycat.”

Disaster – but she laughs, she does laugh, and puts her arms around his neck. He has to flatten his hands on either side of her so as not to fall. It brings him naturally to a position where he is on top of her.

“Not yet,” says Mary, and pulls his hips down. The mound between her legs is very hot, even through their nightshirts. She starts to rub it against his yard. It feels so good it’s almost painful. They make a sticky coin of glue between them. He feels his nightshirt stick and unstick from the wetness.

Before their wedding night, she’d only ever felt him through his trowsers (though finding them fumbling in the study was enough for her father to march him, practically gun to head, up the church aisle). The first time she saw him naked, she’d said, alarmed, “Is it supposed to get that big? With -veins? Are you sure it’s normal?” In fact she’d technically remained a virgin for three weeks after their marriage; so terrified was she of letting him force this accidental weapon inside her that he didn’t penetrate far enough to breach her maidenhead, finishing with moans of mingled pleasure and frustration with her petals stretched to take a half-inch. Soaking the gates of Heaven, he’d called it, much to her disgust.

Now she’s beginning to slip and heat, breathing hard and staring at a point just beyond his head. Mary’s sex has a full, strong scent – stronger than violets and thick as mushrooms and mussels. He adores it. He used to lean his cheek against her inner thigh and take deep breaths of her. What are you doing? she asked, and when he’d explained, she’d burst into humiliated tears. But I like it, I like it, he’d protested. On the night she finally gave up her virtue, he dabbed a handkerchief into her shell when he’d finished. Blood, seed and woman’s wax soaked the linen. He keeps it folded like a love letter in his breast pocket. If she ever finds it, she’ll burn it.

She’s making a low groaning noise. She’s going to find her end before he’s even pulled her nightshirt up. What if she decides she doesn’t want him after that? Many’s been the night he’s had to tug himself to completion, while she lies with the pillow folded around her ears so she can sleep through the moment he cries out her name.

“No, Robbie, stay!” she gasps as he pulls back.

“Let me,” he says hurriedly. “Mary, you must. Your duty.”

He almost feels her skin cool. But she goes still, and he yanks her chemise up. His nails catches her thigh and she winces.

Her belly is white and yielding, her breasts are shaped like tear-drops. He wants to lay his head down and have her stroke his hair and call him tender things, but if he stops even for a moment she might change her mind. He presses into her and knows in an instant that he is almost done for.

“Oh Mary,” he says. He’s thrust up to the hilt. “Oh God.”

For a moment, she’s still as a gravestone. Then she says, “Don’t blaspheme.”

She sounds amused, and that’s as good as affection, so starved is he of affection. He wants her to stroke his face, so he grabs her wrist and sticks her raw red knuckles in her mouth. He wants to hear her say his name, so he whimpers hers. “Please, Mary, please,” he groans as he pumps.

“You have me,” she says, a touch crossly, as she’s pounded into the mattress.

“Please, oh,” he says. He thinks he is about to cry, or else he’s about to climax. It’s not always easy for him to tell the difference. The truth is, he hates her duty. He wants her welcome. Why doesn’t she enjoy him? What’s wrong with him? Didn’t he bring her flowers?

He finishes with the noisy flamboyance of a man being stabbed. She actually recoils. She’s remarked before on the loudness of his pleasure and pain; for that matter, she’s not the first person to express surprise that he groans so loudly when he hurts, that his rages are so absolute when he’s angry. All his life he’s been begging people to notice him. See him, care for him, don’t abandon him. What does he have to do to attain visibility? Discover the North-West Passage?

“Off,” she says briskly, and he rolls off her with a grunt of defeat. He hears a faint sloppy sound as Mary curls her fingers into the place where he’s left the cream of his pleasure. He reaches for her.

“Don’t,” she barks. He flinches back. He lies curled on the bed, his yard stickily deflating, as his wife turns her head away and begins to fuck herself. They are as good as strangers. The bedframe sighs.

James decides to take the new middie under his wing, show him the ropes, make him feel welcome, have him suck dick, &c &c

Botverse JFJ is crazed with unrequited lust over Botverse Gore. The more demented a form this takes the better. Bonus points if you can work in Gore's fursona Reginald Balltorture.

Thank you so so much, strange anon I’ve never met before. Every word of this is so precise and so exquisitely awkward and painful. I am wincing and gasping and I am terribly sad for them.

Dundy is desperate to be punished, Hettie wants to be told she's sweet and good, they both have to grapple with these Confusing New Urges in a mutually pleasurable way.

I'm screaming, this is perfect! Delighted by your use of the word 'ejaculates'.

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Page 1 of 67

Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1

Scott/Wilson, Gentle Dom/sub

worsley/anyone, embarrassing ejaculations

Madigan/Bickerton, loud sex

Cherry/various, public use/availability

Aeneas Mackintosh/Reverend Spencer-Smith, “communion” in the darkroom

Atkinson/Cherry, comfort sex

Nils Strindberg/ Anna Charlier, sad ghost sex

Kathleen/Con, pegging

Robert McClure/ Mary McClure, unsatisfying sex

Cook/Amundsen, hurt/comfort and grooming

Gen, Robert McClure, haunted fairytale nonsense

Apsley Cherry-Garrard/Lawrence Oates - Virginity/inexperience

Emil Racovitza/Georges Lecointe, comedic misunderstanding

Cherry/Lillie, post-expedition romance

Cook and Amundsen force feed penguin to de Gerlache

FILL: Arrival, Shackleton/Worsley, E, no cw

Re: FILL: Arrival, Shackleton/Worsley, E, no cw

Shackleton/Worsley, stress relief (spanking?)

Re: FILL: Arrival, Shackleton/Worsley, E, no cw

FILL: untitled, Robert McClure/Mary McClure, E, cw probably a bit dubcon

Rossier, power play

Botverse Fitzjames/Botverse Gore, unrequited desire

Re: FILL: untitled, Robert McClure/Mary McClure, E, cw probably a bit dubcon

Henry Le Vesconte/Henrietta Le Feuvre, punishment kink/praise kink

Re: FILL: Arrival, Shackleton/Worsley, E, no cw