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Cold Boys Kink Meme ([personal profile] coldboys) wrote2026-09-28 01:56 pm
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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: 
  • 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: Terra Firma, Lashly/Teddy Evans, E (1/2)

(Anonymous) 2022-11-09 03:39 pm (UTC)(link)
The spoon hurts Mr. Evans’s teeth. That’s why he does it; there’s no other reason, and definitely not one that could be considered untoward.

Evans’s gums are bleeding freely now, his weak smile tinged with pink as he assures Lashly that he’s fine, that he doesn’t need help, to please leave him and let him die. The days pass as they wait for Crean, and Evans descends further into incoherence. Lashly doesn’t think for a moment that Tom might not have made it—he knows Tom and so he believes in Tom more than anyone else on the expedition—so he keeps a detailed record of Evans’s health and spends his hours caring for him as the man mumbles and moans in pain. He washes him, combs his hair, feeds him—but now the spoon hurts his teeth and Lashly has no other choice.

He scoops the warm hoosh onto his first two fingers, transporting it carefully over to where Evans lies helplessly in his sleeping bag. He rouses Evans, telling him he has to eat, and presses the food into his open mouth.
Evans’s mouth is hot and wet. His tongue seeks out the space between Lashly’s fingers, licking the taste of pemmican from his skin. When Lashly withdraws his fingers, they are slick with saliva and blood.

He does it again.

He feeds Evans this way, allowing him ample time to swallow around his fingers. Despite himself, he finds his fingers linger longer, brushing over the rough flatness of Evans’s tongue and stroking his swollen gums. When Lashly makes to remove his fingers, one of Evans’s hands claws its way out of his bag, grasping at Lashly’s wrist.

“Please,” he whimpers. His hold is weak but his need is strong, and Lashly lets him suck his fingers back into his mouth. Evans moans quietly around them. “Daddy,” he groans, words garbled around the intrusion of Lashly’s fingers but unmistakeable all the same. Evans’s tongue laps at the base of Lashly’s fingers, having taken them all the way into his mouth. He looks, for the first time in days, at peace. Lashly refuses to take this comfort away. He lets Evans suckle at his fingers until he finally releases them, head falling back as he slips, once again, into unconsciousness.

It’s lucky he’s half-dead, Lashly thinks before he turns on his side and takes himself in hand with his fingers still wet from Evans’s mouth and his ears still ringing with his broken mewl of Daddy .




Lashly arrives at Mr. Evans’s hotel in Cardiff uninvited and unannounced. It’s terribly rude of him; Lashly would never have considered such a thing if not at the urging of both Tom Crean and Mr. Cherry-Garrard. Mr. Evans’s situation must be dire if Mr. Garrard was concerned; his dislike of Commander Evans, while pale in comparison to certain other members of the Cambridge expedition veterans, was clear, even to the men of the lower decks.

Lashly is greeted warmly by one of the hotel maids.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, sir,” she says. Her square jaw and Welsh accent remind him too much of Taff and he feels, for a moment, like turning around and leaving. “He’s stopped eating, won’t leave his room. We just hear the typewriter going day and night. The other girls and me, we don’t know what to do.” She leads him through the hall passage to the carpeted stairs. “It’s sad news about his wife, sir,” she continues. “To be away for so long and then for her to pass so quickly afterwards, it must have broken his poor heart! It’s no wonder he’s locked himself away.”

“He’ll speak with me,” Lashly says, more confidently than he feels. Who is he, really, to Commander Evans? A companion by circumstance, a nurse by necessity. The man who fucked him in the captain’s berth on the Terra Nova on the journey back to Lyttleton. The man who said his firm goodbyes to Commander and Mrs. Evans, silently asking for forgiveness through the kiss pressed to the back of her hand while Evans watched him with something akin to sadness in the pout of his lips.

But here he is. The only one who could come; perhaps the only one who would come. He knocks on the door.

“Did you bring coffee this time?” Evans’s voice calls through the door. It sounds low, rough.

“I’ll ask for some later, Sir,” Lashly calls back. “It’s Lashly,” he adds after a moment’s pause. Another silent moment, and then the padding of slippers on the carpet and the jingle of the chain being unlatched.

“Lashly!” Evans throws open the door and announces his name with false cheer. “What a lovely surprise!” He smells like stale smoke and bitter coffee, both vices that he has obviously been using to stay awake: his bloodshot eyes are ringed with pink, flaking skin, the only colour on his pallid face. He runs a self-conscious hand over his unshaven face, aware for the first time in many days, it seems, of his unkempt appearance.

“May I come in?” Lashly asks. Another impolite thing, to invite oneself in, but he has saved Teddy Evans’s life once, and he is going to do it again.

“It’s lovely to see you, really, but I have so much to do—expedition papers, organizing—you know how it is! The whole narrative, minus the Owner’s diaries, of course—Mrs. Scott has control over those, but everything else is up to me, you see, and—“

Lashly takes drastic action and shoulders his way bodily past Evans and into the room. “Close the door, Sir,” he says. Evans shuts the door. “We’re worried about your health, Mr. Evans.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” he asks. He leans back against the door. “Certainly not Silas?”

Silas Wright’s addition to Mr. Cherry-Garrard’s letter read don’t bother—maybe he’ll do us all a favour and drown himself in the bay but Lashly figures Mr. Evans doesn’t need to know the particulars.

“Crean, Mr. Cherry, Doctor Atkinson. Me. We’ve all had a hard time, sir, but—“

“I have lots of work to keep me occupied! It’s helping, really. It’s best to hop back on the horse and ride forward, don’t you think?”

Lashly presses forward, closing Evans’s body in against the door. They’re standing toe-to-toe now, and when Lashly raises a hand Evans responds with a natural impulse Lashly has become privy to: he pushes his face into Lashly’s palm like a cat.

“Is this why you’re here?” Evans asks quietly. He looks so tired.

“I’m here to help.” Evans closes his eyes and rubs his stubbled cheek against the palm of Lashly’s hand.

“Take me to bed,” he whispers, deflated, and Lashly draws him closer before leading him towards the unmade bed in the centre of the room.

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