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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: L. E. G., Atch/Oates, M, boot polishing

(Anonymous) 2023-06-22 10:36 pm (UTC)(link)
A well-made riding boot is a thing of beauty. Atkinson makes a pleased humming sound as he admires Oates's pair from his kneeling position. His own pair are more than adequate to his needs but the Soldier's are simply splendid - a rich chestnut brown, and so close-fitted to the elegant shape of his legs.

He takes a stiff bristled brush, turning it over in his hands. A day's hard riding and camping out in the scrubland until morning, what could be better? The only difficulty is caring for their gear, not having anyone to polish their boots at the end of a dusty day in the wilderness. Then again, for Oates the management of all matters equestrian is no duty but the keenest pleasure. And as for Atkinson himself, he finds his own enjoyment in this brand of menial labour.

He takes one of Oates's feet, guiding it into his lap. He notes the good, solid weight of it admiringly, enjoys the way the heel digs into his thigh. With short, firm strokes he begins to remove the day's layers of caked-up dirt. It's satisfying, how easily the detritus of this dry terrain crumbles off the sole, the toe, the heel. It sloughs away in a fine dust onto surfaces of less value - the ground and Atkinson's trousers.

He sets one foot down, picks up the other. A pleasant calm takes over him when he applies himself to such tasks. The satisfaction of a task completed to perfection, a boot polished to a shine… these things cannot, in Atkinson's book, be overstated. Oates has lit a pipe, and while he is too close to the ground to enjoy the smoke properly, still the smell is in the air and the aroma a pleasant one.

Atkinson notes admiringly how this boot has been shaped differently to the other. The two from all conventional angles look quite alike. Only a close examination of the sole reveals that this one has been altered to fractionally raise the height. He traces the join of the grafted parts of the sole with an index finger.

His reverie is interrupted by the impatient tapping of Titus's other foot. He sighs. Daylight hours will fade shortly, more's the pity. He takes up his rag and polish.

As a boy he had always felt very keenly the strangeness of handing off his muddy boots to some other soul to clean and polish. An article that had been so close to his body in the care of another, and scarcely cold! He would try and watch the maid brush and buff from between the bannisters, her skirts tucked up about her waist. With a boy's sharp and oddly directed sense of justice he had felt that perhaps he should shine her old work boots in exchange for this intimate and peculiar labour. Besides, he would have liked to do it, especially if she was wearing them at the time. She had such wonderfully strong, stout calves.

He rubs the polish deep into the leather. The boots fit Oates beautifully, soft enough to move freely and yet snug enough to show off the study muscle of his calves. He can feel that same muscle under its the sheath of soft leather. Atkinson digs his fingers in, easing the knots of the day's ride out of the tense tissue. Oates exhales, tobacco smoke seeping lazily from his nostrils.

Atkinson massages the polish down the boot to a surprisingly slender ankle. Desire is coiling in his belly. He observes it as a phenomenon but takes no action either to encourage or discourage it. He needs his hands to buff the rich calf leather. Covering his hand with the rag he clamps his hand as far around Oates's lower leg as it will reach. He pumps it up and down, up and down, until the leather shines.

He carefully directs that leg from his custody. Oates preempts his picking up the other, choosing instead to shove it roughly into his lap, the sole pressing hard into his stiffening prick. Oates chuckles, evidently pleased with himself. Atkinson scoffs - albeit a little weakly - and manoeuvres the boot to a more congenial position.

It's interesting. One could never mention such a thing, of course, it wouldn't do. But while the Soldier hardly looks the part of the aristocrat as a rule, from this angle and position of relative subjection, there is something altogether lordly about him. It is as if his face was contrived to come alive when seen from below, as in sculpture one sees in museums or churches on the continent. Or perhaps it ks simply that he is allowing himself to revel in the attention. He is a Captain, and Atkinson now understands, in a detached way, what might lead one to follow such a man into battle.

He pulls back from his work. Atkinson raises an eyebrow and nods, signalling its completion.

Oates kicks his foot forward, pressing the sole into Atkinson's chest. He grins slyly.

"Now lick it."

"And catch my next specimen? No fear."

Oates pushes insistently. Atkinson sighs and takes the boot in hand once more. He leans in, pressing his cheek into the hollow above Oates's inside ankle. He inhales the scent of the leather - he's always found it an old, thick smell. Animal and yet metallic; metallic like the iron tang of blood. He angles his mouth to the boot and does not lick it but instead presses his lips to the supple surface. It is warmed from the body beneath it like a second skin. Oates grunts, apparently satisfied. He withdraws his leg, stands up.

"Your turn."
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