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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: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E eventually, Part 1/3

(Anonymous) 2023-01-06 04:39 am (UTC)(link)

Well, uh, I thought I would just bang out 2k words of smut but we're almost at 3k and the smut hasn't started yet because it turns out I'm obsessed with outdoor gear and Norwegian culture, and now I'm over the character limit, so here's part 1 and Part 2. Part 3 to follow soon.

Fred Cook gingerly pressed his lips to the metal edge of the thermos and took a tentative sip. Still scalding hot, but no longer so hot as to burn the roof of his mouth. He tipped the thermos back and swallowed — black coffee, slightly sweetened and spiked with something that stung the back of his throat and made him wince. Vodka? Aquavit? He sputtered a little. What was up with Norwegians and their taste buds?

“Do you like it?” His companion asked, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove.

“It’s very, uh, strong.”

“We call it karsk. But sometimes we call it kaffedoktor. Because it fixes whatever is the matter with you.” The driver laughed, as if this was extremely funny somehow, then quieted again as he turned the truck around a sharp bend.

Fred shook his head and tried to manage another sip. Coffee doctor. If only that were so. If only this vile-tasting beverage could fix everything that was wrong with him, like giving vitamin C to a man ridden with scurvy. Never in a million years did he think he’d be here, bumming some kind of cocktail that tasted like battery acid in the passenger seat of a gigantic truck careening through the countryside south of Tromsø in the dead of winter. Never in a million years did he think he’d be running back to… but, well, here he was.

Fred glanced through the window at the snow falling gently, distant mountains and large swathes of conifers already covered in thick drifts. Every once in a while, a tiny speck of bright red or blue announced itself against the white landscape, a little wooden box with smoke rising from a tiny chimney, usually peeking out from behind a hill. “Cottages?” he asked the driver.

“Oh yes,” said his traveling companion. “For the weekend. Or for summers. For people in the villages up here. We like to get away from everything, have some peace and quiet.”

Fred involuntarily made a face. “Get away from everything?” Tromsø only had 65,000 people, if he remembered the Wikipedia entry correctly. The surrounding villages were much smaller. To a Brooklynite this was insane. “They really come all the way out here by themselves, just for the weekend?”

“Oh yes,” the man repeated. “We have a saying - Der ingen skulle tru at nokon kunne bru. A place where no one would believe that someone could live. You go all the way out here, you think - ah, it’s so remote! So far from everything! How could anyone possibly live out here? But then you see - ah, there’s a little cottage up there in the mountains! And then, ah, another one!” He chuckled again. “You know about Svalbard?”

“Yes, I do.” Fred said. He debated whether or not he should tell the man that in fact he’d been there once on a very memorable trip - scrambling after Roald with the film crew over the rocky terrain, sleeping in moldy old trappers’ shacks, his old lover hurling him out of harm’s way while he aimed a rifle at a polar bear - but promptly shut that thought down.

“Well even up there, the folks who live in the town, in Longyearbyen, they like to have little cottages out in the wilderness. So few people up there, but they still get sick of each other.” He was grinning from ear to ear. “Norwegians, we like to keep to ourselves much of the time. Like your friend, eh?”

“Yes.” Yes, just like Fred’s… friend, if that’s even what they were now. That had always been part of the problem, hadn’t it? He and Roald had been friends instantly, were supposed to be friends if nothing else, but Roald had never truly let him in, never really bared himself to Fred. In retrospect, Fred couldn’t remember why he’d thought that was such a bad thing at the time. People were allowed to keep some thoughts to themselves. They were allowed to keep secrets.

Perhaps, though, that was part of the problem too. Perhaps if it had been Fred who’d confided in Roald, Roald – who’d always had an eye for planning things to the last detail – could have talked him out of it while it was still nothing more than some ideas scribbled on the back of a post-it pad Fred had gotten once from a pharma salesman. Instead, he’d kept the whole scheme to himself, and when Roald had left, there had been no one he could truly confide in. But for a time that hadn’t mattered anyway. North Pole had been the most heavily-trafficked NFT site for more than a year, and Fred had been riding high as a new Silicon Valley tastemaker. It had been so easy to raise money from all of those San Francisco libertarian/rationalist/alt-right crypto bros and their hangers-on, who all thought they were being so edgy and anti-establishment by buying links in Google docs to pixelated images instead of actual art. He’d gotten Harry Whitney to incorporate the business in Grand Cayman, and even bought the domain name to McKinley.mt and was planning to use it for a business that would do blockchain Chinese firewall encryption blah blah blah. And he would have gotten away with it too, if fucking Peary hadn’t cozied up to Whitney and then leaked all of their emails to Hacker News. The story had sat on the front page of that site for two whole fucking days. Now Ahwelah and Etukishook were cooperating with the feds, Harry had dumped all of their records and was probably halfway to Bali by now, and here he was. Catching a budget flight to Tromsø with only a Patagonia Black Hole duffle, his last remaining cash, and all of the winter clothes he’d swiped years ago from the coffers of National Geographic’s My Life as an Explorer with Roald Amundsen. Hitching a ride on a rural snow plow and rescue vehicle with a driver who’d shared his vile coffee concoction but not his name, typical Norwegian. Here he was, headed towards the one person who could help him hide. The one person he thought he’d never want to lay eyes on again.

Fred fiddled his gloved hand in his coat pocket to make sure the note was still there. The last time they’d seen each other, in Fred’s Bushwick apartment, Roald had slipped him a piece of paper, a piece of letterhead from his former agent Gerald Christy. “When you get tired of being famous,” he’d said in that measured way of his, when he was trying not to be angry, “when you get tired of chasing the limelight come to Tromsø.” Then he was gone, like morning fog clearing. Fred had glanced at the paper once, made a face, then put it in the top drawer of his standing desk and out of his mind. Until last week, when he’d frantically cleared out of his apartment and booked it to JFK.

Slutten av stien. Over tre fjell. Blå. Fred still chuckled at the first word, though he knew it didn’t have the same meaning in English. When he’d put it through Google translate, it came out as something like “End of the path. Over three mountains. Blue.” Typical terse, inscrutable Roald. Fortunately the truck driver he’d flagged down outside of Tromsø seemed to have a sense of what that meant and had just nodded. They’d been driving for hours and hours, stopping now and then so the driver could help a stranded motorist jumpstart their car or attach chains for driving on icy roads, his companion chatting from time to time with other truckers over the radio, but Fred had resisted the urge to ask him how much further they had to go. Now, as the sun ever so slightly began to dip in the sky, and the snow began to fall harder, the man pulled the truck slowly to a stop.

“There,” he pointed into the trees. “That’s the trail.”

“Huh?” Fred pressed his face to the glass. It didn’t look like there was a trail there at all.

“That’s it. Through the trees. You’ll see.”

Sure he would. Or he wouldn’t, and he’d freeze to death in the woods. Or he’d find the trail, keep walking until it led him nowhere, and then freeze to death in the woods. It couldn’t be worse than going to federal prison.

“Thank you for the ride. I appreciate it,” he said, handing the thermos back to the driver and reaching for the pack at his feet. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “I only have American cash, but can I…”

The driver waved a hand. “No need. I was already going this way, and I am glad for the company.” He grinned. “I hope you have a nice evening with your friend. Maybe he will even make you some more kaffedoktor, huh?” He laughed and laughed.

“Maybe he will,” Fred said, waving goodbye as he hopped down from the cab. Come to think of it, that was the sort of thing Roald would do.

To be continued...

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