coldboys: (Default)
Cold Boys Kink Meme ([personal profile] coldboys) wrote2026-09-28 01:56 pm
  • Add Memory
  • Share This Entry

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.


Navigation
Regular view: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html
Regular view, last page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?page=999#comments

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

FILL: Discretion, Cherry-Garrard (bg hints of unrelated/Bowers, /Wilson), piss

(Anonymous) 2025-03-21 08:49 am (UTC)(link)
Heat breaks though the tumultuous desolation. Only in a nightmare could a blizzard be as cold as the open dark, but it was: the wind howling, tearing at his bare cheeks, swarming his blinded eyes with snow and black.

But heat. It feels like years since he felt it, but it’s only been two weeks. Cherry shivers, dragged out of the dream, into a different kind of disorientation. Urine, he realizes. Like a boy of five or six, he’s wet the bed.

It can hardly do more damage to the sleeping bag than has already been done, but shame burns up his flanks and prickles sweat under his arms nonetheless, a flash of heat to match that in his pants. Everything is already cooling, about to be one sodden mass, just as it is every morning, if such a word as morning has any meaning in this perpetual dark. Best as he can within the confines of a bag still stiff around his feet, hoping the others are as close as any of them can get to true sleep, he curls into it, hands between his legs, cradling the last of his body’s warmth.

At home, a hot water bottle. Here, in this frozen hell, the only thing to keep a man warm is himself. In the long hours of fruitless sledging, thought is all but impossible but it’s also the only thing left. Brief fantasies of home, the way the men talk of which dishes, which fresh foods they miss the most; wives, would-be-wives, mothers, many a man misses his mother. Sledging exhausts such specificities—the particular women, the particular dishes; his wants have grown simpler than that. He wants a hot water bottle. He wants just heat, and for a breath longer he almost has it. Against the press of his aching fingers, though clinging layers of wet cloth, his prick makes a valiant effort to stand, and he’s surprised to find it can.

He might. He would. He presses his mouth against the coarse hair of the hood of the bag, muffling his own breath. Men give each other what little privacy they can: a deaf ear, a turned shoulder. If the others are awake, they won’t speak. They won’t admit to themselves what they can hear. Within the soggy, growing cold, his prick gives a desperate little throb, a last effort. He imagines a hand, large, warm, a firm grasp. Pleasantly dry—he misses that, too, dry hands—until it meets the fluids of his body, fresh urine camouflaging the private evidence of arousal. He imagines—

His tired mind drifts, Birdie gives a restless shiver of his own, and, as if released from a great strain, Cherry’s prick sags and falls back against his hip. The hot, wet flash of heat has long since passed; freezing sleep closes back in, his calves and lower back cramped with the same shiver that makes Birdie shift again, almost certainly awake and probably listening. He’d have liked to find a little pleasure in this godforsaken place, and now the cold has stolen that, too. Best to close his eyes and try for a little rest before the long trudge of the next day, and the next. And the next.

***

Discretion. And honesty, too, the manuscript demands that, in his own voice, with his own name attached, someone who was there, who walked beside doomed men. Still. Like the blind eye that the men gave each other’s nocturnal emissions, tears, dysentery, those crucial moments of privacy in a place where survival depended on a tight squeeze of men in sleeping bags in a tiny tent: he must leave parts of the story out.

It’s almost a pity, because some memories are absent blurs only barely demarcated by journal entries and calendar dates; he has to invent approximations of his own experiences, or allow the silent spaces where profundity should be to stand as they are, remarkable for their lack. In times of suffering, sometimes all there is is the desire for it to end. That must mean something. He hopes it will. Only the reactions of his eventual audience will tell.

But there are moments that remain in his memory with such visceral clarity that they make his prick jump to attention under the desk as he writes politely around them. Why this should be one of them is a question for better minds than his. Perhaps something to do with how tied up it was in the efforts at sleep, something about dreams and the unexplored wilderness of the human mind. Although nightmares were far from uncommon throughout the expedition, so that theory seems unlikely.

Still, this memory tugs. Or, rather, juts.

Foolish. Inconvenient. The work is going well, today, and he’d like to keep at it. His dirty, creased journal at his elbow, remarkably silent on the issue of the night in question; correspondence and an outline for the rest of the chapter spread in front of him. But his prick insists. The writing does this. It has a purgative quality, often clarifying but as often unpleasantly physical, sometimes in the stomach or bowels, sometimes in his aching gums, only occasionally in a way which, like this, feels like pleasure.

All for those three eggs. And little else. And Bill and Birdie both dead, and he can never bury the thought: if they had not exhausted themselves in the course of that brutal winter, could they have pushed though the last eleven miles come summer? It seems unlikely; still, the adventure with the eggs hardly helped.

And yet, for a fleeting moment, in truth so fleeting it hardly warrants memory or the insistence of his damned prick, in a place of utter misery, there was that burning vitality. The hoosh was never so good as after a long day of work—a familiar phenomenon, the way the body clings to simple pleasures when all else is gone. The blessed heat, the life of his tired, cold frame, the shock of wanting... No surprise, perhaps, that his mind would return to that moment.

And no real reason he shouldn’t have what he couldn’t manage, then.

With no little effort, Cherry stands and makes his way to the WC. The moment has almost passed by the time he has the door locked and his trousers off, but that helps. He sits, cups a hand around the decreased rise of his member, half aiming, half holding. Exhales. His mind wanders but he does not go back there—the fantasy is as inchoate as what he remembers imagining then: an impulse, a fractured longing, willing himself held, touched, warm. He thinks of warmth, letting go, and—

He didn’t smell or hear it then, but the hot spill of urine through his cupped fingers now is familiar nonetheless. Thin, dripping from his fingertips, plinking into the bowl, a brief stream, and his prick swells in his palm. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t cast Birdie’s hand or Bill’s clever fingers in that role, only adjusts his grip and moves his own familiar hand in the practiced, efficient strokes of the act. He likes it best when it feels wet and warm until the end, and manages with little effort. Giving in to the urge usually has that effect. A fine spray of piss flies from either his prick or his wet fingers, missing the bowl entirely and speckling the floor, and then he finds the second warm wash of his climax, a tightness in his bollocks, the hard porcelain seat cutting into the meat of his arse.

It’s a messy business. Worse when he does it without undressing, but nothing else so perfectly satisfies whatever urge it is that compels him to this vice.

After, he wipes his fingers on a flannel and sets about to wash his hands and wipe the seat and floor. He feels settled, sated, and a little sheepish, although no one else need know.

Back to work. The manuscript waits. Birdie and Bill are still fighting the sledges though the dark and cold, and it does him more good than ill to rejoin them, most of the time.

^typo FILL: Discretion, Cherry-Garrard (bg hints of unrequited /Bowers, /Wilson), E, piss

(Anonymous) 2025-03-21 08:52 am (UTC)(link)
"post comment" jumped the gun

Re: FILL: Discretion, Cherry-Garrard (bg hints of unrelated/Bowers, /Wilson), piss

(Anonymous) 2025-03-23 09:31 pm (UTC)(link)
oh YES!!!!!! YYYEEASSSSS
Flat | Top-Level Comments Only