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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When Cook's NFT empire crumbles and the law is after him, he runs to the Norwegian wilderness and his former lover, survivalist expert Roald Amundsen.

omg somebody please. “cook’s nft empire” 😭😭😭

Fred awoke to the thin winter sun streaming in through the windows, just enough to make Roald’s fair hair and beard glint in the light. Gingerly, so as not to wake Roald, Fred propped himself up on an elbow so he could admire the Norwegian’s face, relaxed in sleep. Roald tended to sleep perfectly flat on his back with his hands folded over his stomach - orderly even while unconscious - giving Fred a lovely view. As he gazed down at Roald he still felt floaty and warm from last night, even more so when he realized that he had fallen asleep wearing the penguin socks Roald had kept for him all those years. Quickly, though, Fred decided to carefully strip them off. Roald warming his feet had been a thoughtful piece of aftercare at the end of a very pleasurable evening, but there was no way that Frederick Albert Cook was going to be caught in the light of day naked except for a pair of socks.

Reaching under the covers to remove the socks jostled the blankets, though, and by the time Fred was done pulling them off, Roald was stirring and blinking his eyes. He shifted so that he was sitting halfway up, propped on both elbows. “Good morning, Fred,” he said, with a mischievous little smile. “I take it you’ve made a full recovery after your ordeal on the mountain?” He leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved the cup of water from the night before, took a swig, and passed it to Fred.

Fred couldn’t help it, he felt giddy remembering the events of the previous night. He took a drink, placed the cup on the shelf above the bed, and immediately dove face-first onto his boyfriend, plastering himself across Roald’s torso and burying his face in the crook of Roald’s neck. “I owe it all to the search and rescue team. He did such a good job.” He placed one kiss, then another, then another, along Roald’s collarbone.

One of Roald’s arms came around Fred, his lips pressed into Fred’s hair. “Well, you make a very fetching rescue victim, Dr. Cook,” he murmured.

“Is that your professional opinion?” Fred mumbled against Roald’s skin. He let his free hand, the one not mashed up against Roald’s side, wander as he continued to kiss Roald’s neck and shoulder, letting his fingertips slide over Roald’s abs, the sides of his ribs, the subtle dip above his hips. “Fuck, Roald, why are you so hot? It ought to be illegal.”

Roald chuckled against Fred’s hair. “I’m glad I’m not illegal. I wouldn’t want to encourage you.”

Fred huffed a laugh. “It’s way too late for that.” It was the sort of joke that, when he’d first arrived on Roald’s doorstep, on the run from the FBI and afraid of being arrested, would have made Fred anxious. But now it only made him grin. New York and his NFT exchange and his legal troubles felt as if they were in another galaxy. He was safe here, safe with Roald, and happier than he’d been in three years. He really ought to do something to show his gratitude.

“Mmm,” Fred hummed, his face still pressed against Roald’s skin. “How am I going to pay you back? I know how expensive search and rescue services are.” He let his hand skim over the sensitive skin just above Roald’s hips. He felt Roald move in response, though he kept his voice level as he responded.

“No need to pay me back. Besides, I don’t take bitcoin or ethereal.”

Fred barked out another laugh. “It’s ethereum, you ridiculous man.” Two jokes in one morning - Roald must be in an exceptionally good mood. Well then.

Roald shifted on the mattress. “Besides, I was just helping a fellow climber. It’s what anyone should have done.”

“Hmmm, yes, well,” Fred continued, dipping his hand lower. “How about a gesture of thanks, then, for getting me off that mountain?” He brushed his fingertips ever so slightly over Roald’s cock. It was a brief movement, but enough to get Roald squirming, the arm he had wrapped over Fred’s back tightening.

“Fred,” he responded. “We really ought to get up.” He was trying valiantly to keep his voice steady, Fred could tell without even looking up, but his composure was starting to fray, just a little.

“What’s your rush, Roald?” Fred was gently stroking Roald’s stirring cock now with just the tips of his fingers. “We have enough wood for the stove, we have food in the cabin…” He pressed his lips to the base of Roald’s neck and gave him an ever-so-tiny bite, which made Roald jolt as though he’d had an electric shock. “Surely we can stay here for a few minutes so I can show my appreciation.”

“Fred,” Roald moaned softly. He made a half-hearted effort to sit up further, to somehow extricate himself from the bed, but he didn’t move his arm from Fred’s back. “Fred, we really ought to…”

Fred tsked at him in response, his fingers still running lightly over Roald’s cock. He lifted his eyes to Roald’s and grinned wickedly. “Always attending to the schedule. Always so disciplined, Roald…I think-” Fred cut off. He stopped and gazed intently at Roald. Always so disciplined.

This was the man who, despite Fred’s entreaties to relax, kept to his daily routine at the cabin like clockwork, even though he’d already made sure the homestead was amply provisioned for years. The one who’d skied across the Hardangervidda Plateau in the dead of winter as a young man, sleeping out in the open to prepare himself for future expeditions. The one who, even as a teenager, had slept with his bedroom windows open in all weather to toughen himself up for a life as an explorer. Roald was a natural leader, liked to be in command, of that there could be no doubt. But buried several layers deep was a sliver of Roald that craved a little denial, a little punishment, sometimes from the natural world, and sometimes self-imposed. It could be read as a desire for self-mastery, to demonstrate one’s fortitude, but Fred had known Roald for years, and knew that it was as simple as a need, now and then, for some pain. Of course, Fred had indulged him eagerly over the years, knowing the things a little hurt could do to him. It could be as straightforward as the birch switches they used in the sauna, or…

Fred had an idea.

He removed his hand from where it had been wandering under the blankets, scooted up on his knees, and arranged himself so that he was straddling Roald’s chest. The movement pushed the blankets back, and the cooler air of the cabin made Fred shiver, but he didn’t take his eyes away from Roald’s. He let his vision rake over Roald’s face, his neck, his chest. The Norwegian gazed back at him, eyes narrowed just a bit, knowing Fred well enough to know that something was afoot.

“Fred,” he began, voice low. “What are you doing?”

Roald might have been able to haul grown men off the side of a high mountain while suffering from hypoxia himself - Fred had seen him do it - but it was Fred who had the medical degree. He smirked as he wondered how his professors would have reacted if they knew how he was about to put their knowledge to use.

“Roald,” he began slowly, lowering his eyes just a little, letting his right hand stroke over Roald’s chest.

Roald sat up further, against the pillows, until his back was almost straight, and Fred was now straddling Roald’s lap. Roald’s cock was now tantalizingly right in front of Fred’s thigh. “Fred?,” he asked again. Roald continued to eye Fred quizzically, but didn’t make to move any further.

Fred flashed Roald a sly grin. His hand continued to stroke the smooth planes of Roald’s chest. “Roald, you know I’ve been impressed by your high altitude skills for years. You’re so strong, so brave, you’d rush to save anyone in trouble without a second thought. But I worry sometimes. Do you know exactly what you’re getting into? Things are dangerous in the death zone.”

Roald cocked his head a bit, as if he were about to reprimand Fred for throwing his survival skills into question, but then Fred brought his hand up from Roald’s chest to his neck. Slowly, he placed his palm over the side of Roald’s neck, so that his thumb landed an inch or so below Roald’s ear. He pressed ever so gently, letting the muscle memory guide his thumb and fingers to the places where the right artery ran under the skin. He could feel Roald’s pulse beating steadily. Under his hand, Roald swallowed.

“Roald,” he said. “Serious question now. Do you…”

“Yes,” came the immediate reply. Fred watched as Roald drew in a breath, his eyes already a little hazy, his chest beginning to rise and fall ever so slightly faster.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Green.” He swallowed again. “Please,” he added, a little desperate-sounding.

Fred nodded. “Yes. OK.” He took a steadying breath himself. They’d done this before, a handful of times, but it had been a while, and Fred needed to focus if he was going to get this right. Later, he’d have time to revel in this amazing show of trust, the heady feeling of Roald’s complete faith in him to do this right and make it good for both of them. But for now, he only took one more breath, before drawing his left hand up. He gently placed three fingertips against Roald’s lips.

“Everyone reacts to altitude differently. Some people can feel it at only ten thousand feet. But once you get really high, there’s no question you’ll be affected. It’s best to be prepared.” Roald understood and opened his mouth, drawing Fred’s left fingers in and sucking hard, his eyes falling shut. Fuck, Fred could feel his own body responding, his cock twitching and a delicious warmth curling through his limbs, but he forced himself to focus. Reluctantly, he drew his fingers out of Roald’s hot mouth and brought his hand down to wrap around Roald’s cock, stroking hard and slow. Roald moaned, his eyes drifting open again, and Fred continued.

“Do you know what happens above twenty thousand feet, Roald?” he purred. God, something about this man made it impossible for Fred to stop running his mouth, even if it was to deliver a medical lecture, albeit an extremely grimey one. With his left hand still gripping Roald’s cock, Fred began to pulse his right hand against Roald’s neck, not too hard, just pressing down a little for a few seconds, then releasing. “There’s not enough oxygen to breathe. If you don’t bring any bottled oxygen with you, then…” He trailed off, but gave a harder press to Roald’s neck at the same time that he tugged roughly on his cock. Roald let out a gasping breath, his ice-blue eyes watering a little. Fred couldn’t help but smile as he picked up his rhythm again, stroking with his left hand and squeezing and releasing with his right.

“Not getting enough oxygen is very serious. You know, the first Europeans who went climbing at high altitudes didn’t know what was happening to them. They knew something was happening to their minds, to their bodies, but they didn’t know what was causing it. They were…helpless.” Fred punctuated the last word with another hard press against Roald’s neck, another tug on his cock. Roald responded with a beautiful gasp, his back arching, eyes wide. “Fred,” he managed in a raspy whisper, and Fred couldn’t help but smirk. Roald was panting now, his hands tangling in the blankets.

“Of course, you can acclimatize. You can spend time at higher elevations, then go back down. Keep doing this for days, weeks, and your body might get used to thinner air. But there’s only so much it will help. Eventually, it will catch up with you.” He punctuated this point with another harder press against Roald’s neck, and was rewarded with another strangled gasp and the feeling of Roald’s cock dripping all over Fred’s left hand. He could feel Roald’s pulse speed up under his fingers.

“Once you’re in the death zone, that’s it. You start to move slowly. Your mind gets fuzzy. You do things, well, things that you might not normally do.” He leaned forward and, not breaking rhythm, gave Roald a biting kiss at the base of the other side of his neck, sucking hard until he was sure he’d left a bruise. Roald moaned, the sound coming out harshly through Fred’s grip on his throat, and Fred felt like he might explode. He inhaled, trying to keep himself together, just long enough to take Roald over the edge.

“It’s harder to catch your breath,” Fred ground out. Roald was panting hard now as Fred pressed more intently against his throat, letting his palm and fingers squeeze for longer before releasing them. “You feel dizzy, lightheaded. You can’t think, and you might make mistakes.” He leaned over and bit Roald again, this time on his shoulder, and Roald’s legs jerked as he let out another moan, the sound rocketing through Fred’s whole body. Roald’s eyes were truly running now, and his face was flushed pink from the effort of trying to breathe. His hands sputtered at his slides, scrabbling for purchase on Fred’s thighs and hips. He looked wrecked. He looked magnificent.

“But you love it, don’t you?,” Fred cooed. He brought his lips close to Roald’s ear, trying desperately not to break his rhythm when he could barely keep himself together, his own cock crying out for attention. “You love the feeling of being out of control,” he whispered against Roald’s ear. “You want it. Everyone thinks you want to be in charge. But I know you’re really just a slut for pain.” He nipped at Roald’s ear and was rewarded with another gasping moan.

Fred sped up his hand on Roald’s cock, gripping him hard. He pressed his fingers deeper into Roald’s neck, holding them there for longer, relishing the choked noises that escaped Roald’s mouth and the rapid fluttering of his pulse. Not long now, Fred knew. He wished somehow he had three hands, for what he wanted to do next, or even four, so he could keep stroking Roald and maybe finger his ass at the same time. Instead, Fred removed his left hand from Roald’s body and shifted forward so that he could grind his thigh and his own hard, leaking cock against Roald’s, trying to keep as much friction as possible. Then he placed his free hand on the left side of Roald’s neck, matching the placement of his other hand, and pressed down with both hands together. Hard.

Roald came with a loud, stuttering breath, as if he was truly scrambling for air like his life depended on it. Fred wanted to sear that noise into the bedrock of his brain. Roald’s eyes were wide, streaming tears down his cheeks, and his face and chest were a vivid pink as he shook and gasped. He spilled all over Fred’s cock and thighs and stomach, hot and fast. Fred released both hands from his neck, and immediately fisted his own hard, neglected cock. It took only three strokes and he was coming too, spending all over Roald as the Norwegian continued to pant, catching his breath. Fred barely had time to come back to earth, head spinning and his body tingling, before Roald grabbed him around the waist and pulled him close for a bruising, demanding kiss, tangling his fingers in Fred’s hair.

“Thank you,” Roald breathed out against Fred’s mouth, before diving back in for another kiss. A contented “mmm” escaped Fred’s mouth involuntarily, and he kissed Roald back fiercely.

Eventually, when they were starting to get too sticky for comfort, Fred pulled away, just long enough to reach up to the shelf above the bed and grab one of the cloths they’d started keeping there, and began attempting to clean them both up, though Roald made a tiny pout at the interruption and so Fred began kissing him again while trying to maneuver the cloth with one hand. It made things a lot less effective but much, much better.

“Now Roald,” Fred said between kisses, “I don’t want to hear any talk of getting up to start our chores or to wash up.” With his free hand he gently pushed Roald down against the mattress and the waylaid pillows, until he was almost flat on his back. “Stay right there.” He flung the cloth off of the bed and flopped down across Roald’s body, laying his head on Roald’s chest and settling in with a contented sigh. “You know the best way to combat altitude sickness is staying at a lower altitude. Trust me. I’m a doctor.”

ARRHEHERHRHEHRGGGGHHH thank you, truly.

also im dying at roald sleeping like a fucking vampire.

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...

Part 2!

They’d met on the set of National Geographic’s My Life as an Explorer with Roald Amundsen. The title had made Roald cringe, and he’d told Fred so, the day they’d met. Fred had always been interested in stories about explorers and mountaineers and the like, Scott and Shackleton and Mallory and all those folks, and he’d read through stacks and stacks of old expedition accounts as a way to de-stress during med school. So when he’d seen a notice on a mailing list he was on, looking for an on-set doctor for a new National Geographic Channel adventure show, he’d eagerly applied. That’s how he’d come face to face with the Internet famous Roald Amundsen.

Reluctantly famous was more accurate. Roald had a real taste for adventure, and unlike a lot of TV and YouTube survivalists, he knew what he was doing. He’d lived with Indigenous communities all over the world and learned different techniques for foraging, for making clothing, for starting fires with different materials and navigating by the stars and ocean waves. He didn’t do it in a weird, creepy, white-savior-on-Instagram kind of way, but because he was genuinely curious and admired people who could be adaptable and still knew important old traditions, even after centuries of colonialism. (“There was an anthropologist who called it ‘deep hanging out,’ he’d once told Fred, cracking a grin. “That’s what I like to do.”) He’d taught himself how to get around in the wilderness without GPS or a tent, how to snare small animals and find water. He loved travel, adventure, and doing whatever he wanted. But when he was younger his brother Leon, bless his heart, had convinced him that in the twenty-first century even someone who could live off the land still needed some cash, if only for gear and plane tickets and a place to keep all of his stuff when he wasn’t traveling - and no, Leon would not lend him any more money. So Leon had convinced him to start a YouTube channel (“If Andrew Skurka can make videos, why can’t you?”) which had blown up, which had led him to Gerald Christy and the National Geographic gig.

Roald (“Yes, like Roald Dahl. No, it’s pronounced like Ru-ald, not rolled,” as he was always reminding the PAs) hadn’t liked vamping it up for the camera, but he’d gamely gone along since it allowed him to do the things he genuinely enjoyed and share his knowledge. He was always most comfortable if he could teach a genuinely interested pupil, and that’s where their relationship had blossomed. They talked for hours about wilderness medicine – Fred had made sure to get his NOLS certification before he started the job – and different diets and how to filter water without iodine or chlorine dioxide. Most of all they loved talking about the old polar explorers of the heroic age, nerding out for hours, Roald sharing all of his well-worn notebooks where he’d scribbled advice he’d picked up from reading about the men he so admired. They’d talked and they’d kissed and they’d fucked, and they’d improvised some questionable substitutes for lube from what nature and their provision sacks had to offer. In the Amazon they’d stopped mid-fuck so Roald could pull a tarantula off of his back, and in the Gobi desert Roald had blown him in the ruins of an ancient traders’ warehouse, and while filming that Svalbard episode Roald had defended him from that polar bear attack with such smooth and effortless poise that Fred had been half-hard even as he saw his life flash before his eyes. And through it all, they’d opened up to each other. But only halfway. It had been clear from the start that Fred wanted the limelight, enjoyed the energy of being part of a TV production, enjoyed the speculative conversations with the show’s director, Adrien, about maybe launching his own reality show. (“Maybe something medical. Or about food! You can eat penguins on screen!” he cried, twirling his mustache.) Roald just wanted to collect his paychecks and go back to planning his own adventures. Fred should have known it would be too good to last.

Fred paused to brush falling snow off of his face. Thank god he’d pilfered this jacket and waterproof pants (“Helly Hansen - one of the best!” Roald had said) from the set of the show. True to the driver’s instructions, there was a trailhead at the side of the road, though it had no blazes and was so narrow that it was near-impossible to pick out in places. The snow was deep and getting deeper, but underneath the freshly-fallen powder it was packed hard, and walking hadn’t been too bad, even with the heavy duffle worn like a backpack. Fred had walked on it until he came to a clearing, where, off in the distance, he did indeed see a group of three small mountains in a row. When he was descending the last one he came across an old man in a thick woolen coat with a gigantic unleashed dog, plodding through the snow without a care in the world. A place where no one would believe that someone could live, indeed. The man spoke no English, but when Fred had shown him the note, he nodded in understanding and pointed with one hand, off to the northwest.

Now Fred had been plodding through pine forest again, and twilight was definitely upon him. He had some old Clif bars and a headlamp in his pack – again, thanks to the good folks at National Geographic – but he only had a few matches with him and a bivy sack, but no tent. Well, it wasn’t too windy. He could find a hollow among some tree roots, maybe, and settle in. He’d be fine for at least one night. Thanks, Roald, for that.

He stopped and turned in a circle, trying to get a read on his surroundings. And then - no. But yes. He smelled it. It was definitely smoke. Woodsmoke. He inhaled a few times and kept walking, trying to follow the direction of the scent. He’d only walked for a few minutes when he saw it - a little log house, perched high on stilts. A food cache, protected from curious animals. And a few hundred yards beyond that, a gigantic woodshed, piled high with logs drying under a sloped roof. And then…

Blå. Blue. A small cabin, slats painted cobalt blue, smoke puffing steadily out of a metal chimney.

Found you, you sly dog. Fred hurried to the door and knocked. He heard shuffling inside, and then the door slowly creaked open. He stepped back, and for the first time all day, the first time since he’d left New York with the feds on his heels, he felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest.

Roald stood in the doorway, the light from inside the cabin silhouetting him in hard contrast to the gathering darkness outside. He wore a heavy black wool sweater and vintage-looking wool serge pants in dark green, and knit slippers on his feet. He leaned on one side of the doorframe, arms crossed, and eyed Fred appraisingly, as if somehow he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him. His mouth opened in a hint of a smile, and Fred caught a flash of his gold tooth. “Fred, my dear,” he drawled, totally unhurried. “Looks like you’ve had quite a journey.” God, why did that tooth do things to him? Roald looked as he always did, fit and strong and older than his years, but in that weathered, outdoorsy way that was unbelievably sexy. Christ, it was below freezing and Fred was getting hard, standing out here in front of his ex’s cabin in the freaking wilderness. Roald’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, his hand going towards Fred’s neck, and for a moment Fred thought he was going to kiss him. He breathed out, shallowly, and then Roald’s hand grazed his collar…

“Cotton?” Roald touched the collar of Fred’s henley where it peaked out from under the jacket. He recoiled as if disgusted. “What have I always told you about cotton? And where in god’s name is your midlayer?”

Fred groaned. Roald had not changed in the slightest. “Let me in, damnit,” he said, and pushed Roald inside.

To be continued…

And remember kids, cotton kills!

NONNY YOU ARE A GENIUS AND A SCHOLAR, I am unbelievably invested in this, all of the worldbuilding and backstory is utterly perfect and I'm so obsessed with them!!!!! Cannot WAIT for part 3!!!!!! <3_<3

Listen. Listen. I tried to get to the smutty part, I really did, but I can’t stop inventing backstory for these two and now it’s slowburn and there will be several more chapters. I hope OP is happy with themselves because they have unleashed a monster!! There will definitely be smut soon though.

Also, I spent a lot of time looking at cabin porn to find something that matched the inside of Roald’s cabin in my mind, and this was the closest I could find:

https://www.tinyhousetown.net/2017/01/norwegian-ski-cabin-118-sq-ft.html?m=1

Imagine this but painted blue on the outside, with a slightly bigger stove, and more lived-in: lots more books and gear and maps on the walls, but still neat.

Roald reached to close the door behind Fred. They were standing in some kind of vestibule, with boxes of gear and food stacked against one wall, and a place to remove outer layers on the other. Roald gestured to a row of coat pegs on the wall and a row of boots, all sized to fit Roald’s gigantic feet. “Please take your things off.” And then, as if there wasn’t an expedition’s worth of baggage between them, Roald stepped back through the inner door into the main room of the cabin. Fred could hear Roald start to putter around as Fred leaned on the wall for balance while he removed his own boots. He peeled his heavy outer gloves off and stuffed them into the pockets of the coat before hanging it up on the peg. “Coffee?” came the shout from inside.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Fred shouted back, his brow furrowing. At the very least he would have expected surprise, or anger, or annoyance. After three years… Christ, Roald always played his cards so close to his chest. Fred couldn’t help taking an angry little stomp over the threshold.

Inside, the cabin was small but cozy. The walls were made of plain wood, with rows of built-in shelves here and there, full of neatly-stacked books and boxes of tools. The centerpiece of the cabin was a sizable black cast iron stove with a glass front and a fire roaring inside. Near the stove was a small table, and on two sides around the table, built into the walls in an L-shape, were two wide benches, each covered in thick sheepskin rugs. A nook in one of the opposite corners held cooking implements, dried food staples in jars, a large plastic tub, and two hot plates. A map of Antarctica had been tacked up on one wall, and a map of Alaska and the Canadian Arctic with its patchwork of islands, slightly worn around the edges, graced another.

“I thought you’d come and visit eventually.” Smug bastard.

“Thought or hoped?”

Roald shrugged, his broad shoulders moving under the heavy wool sweater. “Coffee?” he asked again. He grabbed a dish towel and turned to retrieve a kettle sitting on top of the stove. Wrapping the towel around his hand, he lifted the kettle by the handle, then tipped it to pour hot water through the glass vessel on the table, topped with a filter.

“I never knew you were a pour-over kind of guy.”

Roald shrugged. “That’s because everytime we shared coffee we were in the middle of a jungle or the side of some mountain, and we were lucky to have packets of instant.” He shrugged again, but this time gave a tiny, close-mouthed smile. “Or we had Michotte’s terrible coffee from the catering trailer on-set.” He finished pouring out the hot water and stood back as he let the liquid run through the grounds. “Do you still take it black?”

“You’re really not surprised to see me after three years.”

Roald looked up then. “Should I be? I know I haven’t made myself easy to get in touch with, but I left you that note for a reason.” He seemed to realize something then. “Fred, has something happened?”

“I take it you’re not out here checking Twitter when you’re not busy hunting bears.”

“There are no bears around here, Fred. We have moose though.”

Ugh. There was silence for a few beats as Fred waffled on what to say next. Roald met his eyes, then took a few steps forward, brushing past Fred as he continued to stand near the door in his stocking feet, and Fred inhaled slightly despite himself. Roald’s shoulder brushed his ever so slightly as the taller man smoothly maneuvered into the tiny kitchen area and retrieved two mugs, then returned to the table to pour out the coffee.

“So you’re not here to take a break from gallivanting around with your tech friends, then? No unplugged retreat in the wilderness?” He reached out one long arm – Fred had almost forgotten how large his wingspan was – to hand Fred one of the mugs. Fred took it, warming his hands, still wrapped in the woolen fingerless mitts he’d worn under the heavy Gore-tex gloves. The mug bore the emblem of an Antarctic cruise company Roald had briefly worked for as a guide years ago, before the National Geographic show.

How to say this…

“And I suppose it’s too much to hope for that you came to apologize?”

“Christ, Roald.” Fred removed a hand from the mug to swipe it across his face in frustration, the stress of the last week crashing over him. “I’m on the run from the law. North Pole… North Pole blew up. I’m wanted by the FBI for wire fraud and racketeering. And I took money from…” News of FTX’s existence, let alone their demise, probably had not reached the backwoods of northern Norway. “I took money from some people I shouldn’t have, who are themselves under investigation by the FBI.”

“And is it true?”

Fred started. “What?”

“Is it true? You said the FBI was after you for fraud, and… and…”

“Racketeering.”

“Whatever that is. Did you really do it?”

Fred exhaled, slowly. “Some. Yes. But not all of it. I don’t know. I wasn’t able to keep a handle on everything going on all the time, and–” he broke off.

“Hey,” and Roald’s hand was on his shoulder. Fred looked up, meeting Roald’s pale blue eyes, the intense stare that had always thrilled him and terrified everyone else. He hadn’t realized until then he’d been staring at the floor, like an embarrassed teenager. “It’s alright.” He patted Fred’s shoulder once and pulled his hand away. “Drink your coffee.” He moved then, without a second thought, and bent down in front of the stove, pulling open the door and throwing in another log from the pile on the floor next to the stove.

Fred stood there, awkwardly, for another few minutes before Roald continued, almost jauntily. “So you came all the way out here to see me, then. To make me an accessory to your crimes.”

Christ, Fred was such an idiot. He hadn’t even thought of that in the panic of the past few days. “Jesus, Roald, I’m sorry. It’s just that I didn’t know where else to go.”

Roald chuckled, still focused on stoking the fire in the stove. “Don’t worry about that. They won’t find you out here.”

“They might. I bought my plane tickets with a false name and I.D., but they’ll figure it out eventually. We might have helicopters circling the cabin in a few hours.” He hadn’t had much of a head start. Fred’s heart was well and truly racing now. He squeezed his eyes shut. “They could chase us out into the forest and pin us down.”

“Hah.” The loud, sharp syllable was like a gunshot. Fred opened his eyes to find Roald still kneeling on the floor, looking halfway over his shoulder back at him, his unmistakable profile in sharp relief against the light coming from the stove. His gaze was hard and defiant and arrogant. Roald, in all his Roald-ness. “I’d like to see them try.”

Fred swallowed slowly. His heart hadn’t stopped hammering, but now it was motivated by something completely different. Roald rose from the floor and walked unhurriedly towards him.

“I don’t… Roald… I’m sorry…this was a mistake… if you…”

Roald shook his head, bemused. “Don’t stammer. New Yorkers always talk so much.” He continued past him to the kitchen nook. “Venison for dinner?”

Dinner was venison sausage (made from a deer Roald had shot himself of course) frozen in Roald’s food cache and brought into the cabin earlier in the day to thaw, with pickled red cabbage and sliced potatoes sprinkled with dried herbs. Roald cooked the sausage and potatoes in a cast iron skillet on top of the stove, and after Fred’s compliments on the food, they ate in silence. A thought came to Fred, that some of the New York VCs who’d backed North Pole and were no doubt now calling for his blood might be eating this very same meal tonight, only they would have spent a small fortune to buy the ingredients at Whole Foods and the Union Square farmer’s market. Only a month ago, before it all came crashing down, he might have been having dinner with them, asking about their recent trips to Jackson Hole and complimenting how the pinot noir went well with the venison, charming everyone around the table. They’d ask him questions about the TV show, and he’d reply that it was a shame it wasn’t picked up for a third season, but that he had been planning his own trip to the Pamirs for next year. Or maybe he’d go caving in Oaxaca, only things at North Pole were so busy these days and it was hard to get away.

It pained him to think about it now, not only because now he was a wanted criminal – although there was that – but because that was the one of the things that had driven a wedge between him and Roald. The show had indeed not been renewed, but not because National Geographic had pulled the plug. Roald had. He was tired of the cameras, tired of taking direction from Adrien, who was moody and indecisive and kept wanting Roald to have more close calls on camera, when Roald was very clear that he thought Adrien’s idea of adventure amounted to poor planning. As the on-set doctor, who had to tend to everyone’s frostbite and ropeburn and the occasional dislocated shoulder, Fred didn’t disagree, although he understood that safety made for bad television. Roald didn’t want to sign on for another season. He wanted to get back to planning his own expeditions, setting new goals for himself that had nothing to do with being famous. He wanted to get back to his little cabin above the Arctic Circle. And he’d wanted Fred to come with him. But Fred didn’t want to go. And he couldn’t make Roald stay in his world either.

They’d had some tremendous fights about it. Roald was stubborn and he could be angry when he wanted to be, but Fred could be stubborn too. They couldn’t compromise, and they couldn’t make it work, it was all so fucking clichéd. Although, given their predicament they had stuck it out a surprisingly long time, mostly because Fred found Roald’s anger to be very hot rather than frightening when it was turned on him. In the end Roald had gone back to Norway as Fred knew he would eventually, leaving Fred with nothing but that piece of paper. National Geographic had tried to make the show work for another season with a new host, some Harvard bro from North Dakota with an Icelandic name and a stupid haircut, but when that guy left some of the film crew behind at an old Soviet military base in the Arctic by accident (was it?), they’d scrapped the production. And when Fred had grown tired of his rotations and learned about an investment opportunity from one of the administrators at his hospital… well. Here they were.

Roald didn’t seem inclined to kick him out, though. Frustratingly, he didn’t seem inclined in any direction. Fred watched him eat, the sexy crows’ feet around his eyes moving as he chewed, his calloused hands wrapped around his knife and fork, methodically slicing his food.

“You’re staring, Fred.”

To be continued...

Part 4!

“You’re staring, Fred.”

Yikes, that wasn’t supposed to happen. “There’s not much in here to look at, Roald,” Fred bit back defensively.

“What about that map?” Roald gestured with his fork to the map of the Arctic tacked on the opposite wall.

“What about it?”

“That’s the one I told you about all those years ago. The one I had in my room as a boy. When I used to read about the Franklin expedition and dream of growing up to suffer and starve in the freezing cold. Do you remember?” He took another bite.

Fred felt himself soften, involuntarily. It was always such a rare delight when Roald shared a piece of his inner life with him. “Yes, I remember.” He sighed. “You didn’t achieve your goal then,” he said, his voice light. He swept his arm around the cabin. “It seems like you’re surviving just fine.”

It was true. It definitely wasn’t the life Fred would have chosen for himself. Roald’s cabin was nothing out of Tiny House, Big Living on HGTV. It was not fancy or kitted out with expensive accessories. But it was very Roald. Stripped down to the essentials. It felt like he belonged here. “Did you build it all yourself?”

“Of course.” He took another bite. “I had to borrow some carpentry equipment. I take it you met Jørgen?”

“Who?”

“The older man with the beard, the one with the big mutt.”

“Oh, yes. What was he doing all the way out here?”

Roald continued as if he hadn’t heard the question. “He leant me his tools. Other things I brought in from town. I go into one of the villages every once in a while, to buy flour and coffee and things. But not often.”

“So the people out here – they know who you are?”

“Oh yes. But we all respect each others’ privacy out here. I’m not worried they will tell anyone.”

Tell anyone Roald’s location, he meant. After he stopped filming the show, Roald had slowly faded out of the spotlight on purpose. Fred had tried to convince him to take gigs writing for Outside or leading weekend survival skills workshops, a selfish attempt to keep him in New York at least part of the time. It had worked for a while, sort of. Leon had been thrilled, of course, that his brother had a regular source of income and a cell phone. But eventually he’d had it.

Going totally off the grid hadn’t hurt his reputation at all, though. In fact it only seemed to heighten it. Every once in a while, when Fred was stressed and feeling particularly lonely, he’d Google Roald’s name and find dozens of threads on message boards from fans speculating on what had happened to him, outdoorspeople still obsessing over his old videos. The mystique around the great missing Roald Amundsen seemed to only increase with each passing year. Every once in a while someone would pop up claiming to have spotted him in Vanuatu or something, but Fred knew better. He was here, near the top of the world. And now Fred was too.

“I don’t suppose I can ask you for the wifi password?”

“No,” Roald replied, stretching out the syllable in a bemused way. “But please feel free to make any calls on my emergency satellite phone, if you wish to alert the authorities to your whereabouts.”

“That’s it?”

“I’ve also got a radio.”

Fred realized, now that the sun had sunk fully outside the cabin windows, that they were eating by the light of the stove and several old-fashioned oil lamps Roald had going on the shelves. He looked around the cabin again. “Do you have electricity?”

“I have one solar panel on the south-facing side of the roof, and a battery. I bought them in Oslo when I was building the cabin. But I only use them to charge my headlamps and things like that, not for lighting.”

“Do you have indoor plumbing?”

He shook his head, scooping up the last of his potatoes on his fork. “When I first moved up here I had to haul water from a stream nearby. It was extremely tedious.” He smiled slightly at the memory. “Two years ago I dug a well near the house, so I can crank water up by hand. And I have a barrel out back for rain water. When I need some in the house I bring some in in a bucket.”

Fred involuntarily made a face. As much as he loved Roald’s ease with this kind of living, he had been removed from it, from Roald, for long enough that some aspects of it took him by surprise. Maybe that had always been the case and it was just easier to put those thoughts aside when they were still fucking. “So how do you keep yourself clean? Or do you just revel in being dirty all the time?”

Roald’s lips quirked. “If you behave yourself, you’ll find out.” He felt a slipper-covered foot nudge his leg under the table. Fuck. Well, he’d walked into that one and had only himself to blame.

After dinner, Roald poured some water from his bucket into a plastic tub in the kitchen nook, and scrubbed the plates and cutlery in it with some soap and a rag. Fred had pulled one of Roald’s books off of a shelf, a dogeared copy of Maurice Herzog’s Annapurna in English translation, but found he could scarcely keep his eyes open to read. He’d been running on adrenaline for more than 72 hours, but now that he was here, having spent hours trekking through the snow and flooded with relief that Roald wouldn’t turn him away, he was exhausted. Roald stepped closer to the chair just as Fred was seized by a truly spectacular yawn.

“Ah, yes, we should both turn in for the night.” He knelt and pulled out a wooden drawer under one of the wide benches, and retrieved a heavy wool blanket and several pillows. These he arranged on top of the sheepskin. He then patted the bench. “Off you go.” He turned to extinguish the oil lamps.

Fred began to unzip his Patagonia bag, then stopped halfway and frowned. He hadn’t thrown pajamas into his bag, in his haste to leave New York. Roald seemed to sense the issue without even turning around. “Just strip down to your base layers.”

Fred blushed, even though Roald had seen him many times in far less. Of course, back then they were an item. He attempted some levity. “You’re not going to chew me out for wearing cotton longjohns?”

Roald did turn around at that. “You know how I feel about cotton. You clearly haven’t learned a thing I’ve taught you,” he scolded. He placed his hands on his hips. “But I’ll let you get away with it, just this once, because I like you.” He smiled then, flashing his gold tooth. Fucking hell.

Fred turned around and began to disrobe, but Roald’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “I’m a terrible host. I forgot to offer you some dry socks. One must always sleep in dry socks. You can put these on.” Fred turned, and retrieved – no, not a pair of Smartwool high performance socks in some bland color. They were a regular synthetic blend pair, sky blue, with a repeating pattern of little emperor penguins. Why the hell did Roald have these? He turned to say something, but Roald had disappeared across the cabin again to finish putting out the last lamp. Fred sat on the bed and pulled them on. They fit his smallish feet perfectly. Somehow, out of all of the parts of being in his ex’s home that were giving him feelings, this one was the worst. He flushed and busied himself with tucking his outer clothes back into the duffle bag, then crawled onto the bench and spread the blanket out over his body. It was surprisingly comfortable; Roald must have added some kind of mattress pad to the bench, hidden under the sheepskins. He turned on his side, towards the wall, and curled his legs towards his chest. It was cozy with the skins and the blanket and the heat from the dying fire in the stove, and as the last lamp went out he felt his eyelids begin to slide shut…

He jolted as the bench creaked and Roald sat down. Fred’s eyes flew open and he turned his head over on the pillow. “What the hell, Roald?”

“I’m sleeping here. Move over.” In the dim remaining light from the stove, Fred could see that he was wearing his own set of base layers, including a black synthetic top that clung to his chest and arms. “A splendid set of muscles,” as one of the TV crew had called them once. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Why can’t you sleep on the other bench? Or I’ll sleep on it.”

“That bench is for sitting. This is the one with the mattress pad.” He huffed impatiently.

“Aren’t you the guy who used to, like, sleep on the tundra under a tarp for a living?”

“Move over.”

Well, it’s not like Fred had expected shacking up with his ex while on the run from the law to be easy. “Fine.” He turned his face back to face the wall. “But only if you tell me a bedtime story.”

Roald was not easily dissuaded. He lifted the edge of the blanket and slid in next to Fred. Fred felt as Roald settled on his side, resting his head on the other pillow, and then Roald’s arm came around Fred’s midsection. Christ almighty. What was Roald playing at? Roald slid close to him, and Fred could feel the solid muscle of his chest, rising and falling with each breath. He could feel Roald’s legs tucked up next to him. This close he could smell him with each of his own inhalations, slightly sweaty and musky and like woodsmoke and somehow a bit like the ocean, like the best “skin-scented” perfume ever made. Against his own better judgment, Fred sighed a little and leaned back. He liked being in Roald’s arms. So what? After the week he’d had, he deserved to feel nice and comfortable like this. He could have a little spooning from the ex he’d never gotten over, as a treat.

“What kind of bedtime story?” Roald’s breath ghosted over the back of Fred’s neck. “One about a band of explorers who starved to death, but not before getting frostbite and scurvy and killing and eating each other?”

“God, you’re such a romantic.”

“It’s why you like me, I’m sure.”

Fred was about to do something to seriously embarrass himself, if he wasn’t careful. Then again, Roald was the one who had apparently decided that there was only one bed in this cabin when there clearly were two.

“That’s not why,” he said petulantly, closing his eyes again.

Roald chuckled softly. “Fair enough. No romantic bedtime stories, then. But at least you can sleep easily tonight, hm? You’re safe here.”

Now Fred’s embarrassment really was imminent. He stiffened, about to protest, when Roald gave him a reassuring squeeze around his middle. “You should close your eyes. You’ve been traveling and there’s much to do tomorrow.”

“Are we going shopping? Taking the car for an oil change?”

“Yes, yes, we’ve established that you’re very funny.” Roald gave him another squeeze. “There are always chores to do, when you live like this and you have daylight. But first I’ll make you pancakes.” That seemed like a ruse. Fred had never ever seen Roald cook pancakes before. “And then we’ll wash up, like you asked about.”

Now Fred really regretted bringing that up. “Not if you usually wash up by dumping a bucket of snow over your head or something. I’ll take my chances and be gross.”

Roald chucked again. “No need.” He patted Fred’s stomach with the hand that was draped over his body. “I have a sauna.”

Fred’s eyes flew open. “You have a what?”

“Shhhh. New Yorkers!” Even in the dark, his head turned away, Fred could tell Roald was grinning and flashing that damn gold tooth. “No need to be so loud. I am right here.” Roald patted him again. “Good night, Fred. We can talk in the morning.”

To be continued…

Also I have decided that Fred Cook is a secret Phil Collins fan and “Something Happened on the Way to Heaven” always makes him sentimental about his past with Roald. This is canon now.

Hey friend I hope you're pleased with yourself I am OBSESSED with this story and seriously close to running away to live in a tiny remote Norwegian cabin, it sounds ideal. Their voices are perfect and I am wallowing in the delicious backstory. I would read approximately ten thousand more installments of this. It is also HILARIOUS:

Roald was very clear that he thought Adrien’s idea of adventure amounted to poor planning LOLOLOLOL

He could have a little spooning from the ex he’d never gotten over, as a treat.

Incredible.

I love this so much!!! <3

This is also a very particularly cozy read when I am wrapped up in blankets myself because of the horrendous weather. I am glad that lucky dog Fred managed to fly out of the frying pan into the sauna.

OK Roald’s sauna looks like this but let’s pretend he built it with his bare hands instead of ordering it online:

https://bzbcabinsandoutdoors.net/saunas/igloo40/

This is what the sauna stove looks like:

https://bzbcabinsandoutdoors.net/sauna-accessories/wood-burning-sauna-stove-stoveman13/

Fred blinked his eyes open slowly as the smell of coffee came wafting over him. He stretched his limbs, still warm and tucked under the heavy wool blanket, and began the tremendous effort of rolling over, his head still on the pillow.

Roald was gone from the bed, but Fred could hear him puttering around out of sight in the cabin. He must have lit some of the oil lamps, but a pale milky light also filtered in through the windows. At this time of year, at this latitude, that must mean that he’d slept in quite late. His brain was still muzzy from sleep, but as he stretched an arm experimentally to push himself up, he couldn’t deny that he’d slept better than he had in weeks, if not months. He was safe now, even if only temporarily. And the company had probably helped too.

Roald reappeared in his field of vision. “Ah, the great doctor is awake.” He passed Fred a fresh mug of coffee as he sat up in the bed, the scent unbelievably comforting. Fred took the mug and nodded gratefully, his fingertips brushing Roald’s and sending a little frisson of excitement up his spine. He took a gulp as Roald turned back to the kitchen nook. “The pancakes are ready.”

Fred swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached down to put the mug temporarily on the floor. This one bore the emblem of the Order of the Penguin, an environmental non-profit that Lecointe, one of the National Geographic show’s producers, had started. He looked down and saw the penguin socks on his feet, and smiled despite himself. Zipping open his duffle bag, Fred pulled out his Prana hiking pants and his ratty old NYU School of Medicine hoodie and shuffled into them, before retrieving his mug and padding over to the table, where Roald was laying out plates and a serving platter piled high with pancakes. Just because he and Roald had slept next to each other, snuggled under the same blanket in nothing but their base layers, didn’t mean he shouldn’t be presentable at mealtime.

“Ah, Prana,” Roald said as Fred sat down, staring appraisingly at his pants. “Very well made. Of course I prefer Norrønas myself. The best are the old wool army surplus, if you can find them, but…” He gave a shrug. “You know my feelings on these things already. No need to repeat myself.”

It was true. Fred had spent many hours, happily, listening to Roald talk about expedition supplies. It was one of the few subjects on which Roald was truly happy to talk out loud at great length, and he had such a laser-focused mind for gear and planning that it was hard not to be impressed. Of course, it had helped that Fred was already enthralled with the man.

He tried to keep the emotion off of his face as he heaped pancakes onto his plate. He noticed that these were not the thin, almost crepe-like pancakes he’d seen in the Oslo airport when he made his connecting flight, but thick, fluffy American-style pancakes. “I didn’t know you could make these,” he said to Roald with genuine surprise. “Why didn’t I know you were a pancake chef?”

Roald huffed a little laugh, his gold tooth glinting. “I learned after… well, after I left New York. I have an old friend, Adolf, who is a professional chef. He was the head chef on one of the Antarctic cruises that I guided and he could make all sorts of American dishes. He now lives up the coast in Hammerfest. I saw him when I went up there to buy some supplies and he taught me how to make them. Jam?” Roald slid over a glass jar of red jam, followed by a butter dish. “Lingonberries. I preserved them myself.”

Fred helped himself, then began slicing into the pancakes, lifting a jam-covered piece to his mouth. “These are delicious, Roald. You learned well. A pancake master,” he said, and warmed inside as Roald blushed almost imperceptibly. Fred took another bite. He’d never heard Roald mention this Adolf, and it occurred to him yet again how much of his past or his inner life Roald had been unwilling to share with him. Maybe it shouldn’t still bother him after all this time, but it did.

“And how about Jørgen? The man I met yesterday - is he a friend too?”

“Oh, I suppose so.” Roald didn’t look up from cutting his pancakes. “He has his own little cabin, about thirty kilometers from here. He’s a retired carpenter. He mostly keeps to himself, but we are on friendly terms.”

“And have you seen Oscar since you’ve been back in Norway?” Besides Leon, Oscar was one of the few people from Roald’s pre-National Geographic life that Fred had not only met, but had interacted with with any regularity. He was a former naval officer who had become a wilderness guide, and he and Roald had met taking some rich American on a private yacht cruise around Svalbard. He was like Roald - strong, taciturn, and totally at ease in the wilderness - and it was obvious that the two went back a long time together. They were really two of a kind in that way.

“Yes, he’s living in Oslo now. He still does guiding but he’s also working at the polar exploration museum. He’s come up to visit a few times.” Roald smiled as he lifted a piece of pancake to his mouth.

Fred nodded and couldn’t repress a little smile himself. After their first few meetings he’d been surprised to find that he was jealous of Oscar, whom he suspected Roald had shared thoughts and feelings with that he hadn’t with Fred. But eventually, that had changed. Oscar was clearly a loyal friend who cared deeply about Roald’s well-being. It was good to know that Roald had had someone like that in his life for a long time. The last time he’d seen him, Oscar had clapped Fred on the back and made him promise to make sure he looked after Roald. (“He doesn’t always do that himself, you know.”) Fred took another sip of coffee and thought that it wouldn’t be unpleasant to see the smiling, stocky man again, if he could honestly tell him he’d made good on that promise. They could have a very nice evening, teasing Roald together and then…

“Thinking of something, Fred?”

Fred startled, embarrassed at the direction his mind was wandering in. “Just wondering if Oscar would be upset that I’m here.”

“I don’t think so,” Roald said, as if that notion was mildly insulting to him. “And he wouldn’t turn you in if he knew, if that’s what you were worried about.” He paused. “He told me he may come up for a visit in the spring.”

“I’d be glad to see him again.”

“That’s good,” Roald said, rising from the table. He smiled just a touch. “Yes, that’s good. Jealousy would not become you, Fred.” He stepped into the kitchen nook and retrieved the coffee carafe. “More coffee?”

Fred nodded. “Thank you.” And then, because he couldn’t help pushing his luck, he said, “And what, pray tell, does become me?”

Roald didn’t even hesitate as he poured more coffee into Fred’s mug. “That sweatshirt. I always liked it.” He stepped away to return the carafe to its spot. “Finish your breakfast, Fred. Let’s get the sauna going.”

The sauna turned out to be different from what Fred had anticipated. Granted, what he envisioned when he heard “sauna” was the steamroom at the Equinox gym where he’d had a membership, always full of finance bros checking their phones while studiously attempting to avoid looking like they were checking each other out. This was a little wooden hut, shaped like an upside-down “U,” and painted a bright cheery red. It had a glass door that opened into a small vestibule with benches, where one could disrobe and leave one’s clothes and shoes. Another glass door opened to an inner room had one long bench on each side, long enough to lay down on. At the back of the room, flanked by two windows, was a black cast iron stove with its own glass window, but smaller than the one in the house. The stove appeared to be encased in a metal cage full of rocks.

Roald chuckled at what must have been the obvious look of puzzlement on Fred’s face. “You light the fire and let it burn for a while, so that the room really heats up. It takes about ninety minutes or so. Usually you need to refill the logs at least once halfway through that part. There’s a thermometer on the wall” - he pointed with one long, calloused finger - that will tell you how hot the room is. I tend to just enjoy the dry heat myself. But if you’re so inclined…” He reached for a wooden bucket and ladle perched on one of the benches. “You can fill this with water, and ladle a bit onto the rocks when the stove is really hot. That releases a nice cloud of steam.”

Fred nodded. He’d known many Scandinavians took their sauna time seriously, but the fact that Roald had dragged everything needed to build the structure to the middle of this clearing in the woods was still impressive. He’d never heard Roald mention wanting to go to a sauna when they’d been in New York, but perhaps he would have just scoffed at whatever passed for a sauna at Fred’s overpriced luxury gym.

“And so how do you use it to clean yourself? Seems like it just makes you more sweaty.”

Roald laughed, then, and clapped Fred’s shoulder. “That’s the idea, Fred! It’s relaxing and it’s good for the skin, and your health.” I’m the doctor here and I’ve never heard that, Fred wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut. “Traditionally, one showers before going into a sauna, so as not to bring dirt or skin oils into the space. And then afterwards to wash away all of the sweat. But I don’t have a shower, so I use this.” He stepped back into the vestibule, and held up another wooden bucket, larger than the first, plus some kind of loofah and a thick bar of soap from underneath one of the benches. He held them up so Fred could see. “The vestibule stays warm, although it’s not so hot as the inner room. I fill this bucket with warm water, then use it with the scrubber and maybe a cloth to clean myself up before and after. It’s alright if the water drips on the floor, it will just drain through the slats to the ground. I’ll fill both of the buckets with snow now, and they’ll be melted by the time the sauna is ready to go. I’ll let you have the first wash, since you’re the guest.”

Fred released a tiny breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He wasn’t sure if Roald would propose they use it together - it was ridiculous, they had been naked together hundreds of times, and anyway he knew that Scandinavians often shvitzed naked with family and platonic friends anyway - but he had been dreading having to figure out the arrangements. Apparently Roald had decided to be proactive. But Fred felt a tiny prick of disappointment all the same that Roald hadn’t suggested they get naked and sweaty together at the same time. He decided not to examine that thought too closely for the time being.

“So that’s it?” Fred asked, switching the conversation slightly. “No electricity needed?”

“None at all. If it’s very dark outside, I bring a battery powered lamp. Oh, and one should have a water bottle. Staying hydrated is important. But not a metal one, because it will be too hot to hold.” He paused. “Oh, and one other thing. Many people find it very refreshing to heat themselves up, and when they are good and toasty, to run outside and roll in the snow. Maybe to jump into a nearby lake, if there is one.”

“No thank you, Roald. I’d like to live to see tomorrow, if that’s alright with you.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said his ex, grinning. “Gives you a nice shock. It’s good for the systems.”

“The systems,” Fred said, making air quotes with his fingers, “is not a recognized medical term.”

“Well, you would know. But it’s wonderful. We did a plunge off that boat in the North Sea when we filmed the Shetland episode, remember?”

Yes, he did remember, and just the memory of feeling his heart jolt as his body hit the ocean was enough to make him shake in his boots. He couldn’t believe that he’d let Roald talk him into doing that, after they’d wrapped filming, although to be fair Roald was very persuasive when he wanted to be and he’d convinced several other crew members to participate.

“Not today, Roald. I’m only just getting used to dining by lamplight again.”

“Suit yourself.” Roald opened the vestibule door to step outside. “Come outside with me. I’ll need to split some more logs for the stove.”

To be continued...

A few minutes later, Fred found himself standing, bundled up in his big puffer coat and his wool hat, watching Roald chop more wood for the sauna. He’d cut the firewood to fit the stove in his cabin, he explained, but the sauna’s stove was smaller, so periodically he’d chop shorter pieces to fit that stove. Fred had his fingerless mitts on and was holding a fresh mug of hot coffee, sipping from it as he watched Roald work. The man had stripped off his heavy jacket and pushed up the sleeves on his dark blue flannel shirt, and his cheeks were flushed with exertion despite the below-freezing temperatures. He set a log down on the flat tree stump he used for splitting, made a quick and silent visual calculation, then hefted the long ax above his shoulder and brought it down on the log in one swift, decisive motion, sending two smaller pieces flying. Place, line, lift, swing, clear. It was beautiful watching Roald work, how at ease he was, how strong, how confident. Fred could feel himself turning to mush. He had to be careful. Roald had been flirtatious, but maybe that was just because he hadn’t had much company out here over the last few years and it was novel for him. If Fred was going to stay here…

But there was also no reason why he couldn’t just stand and admire the view a little bit longer. Roald’s taut muscles as he gracefully swung the ax, the sunlight glinting off of his fair hair and beard, his strong nose, the faint line of sweat gathering at the hollow of his throat and sliding down his chest where the top two buttons of his flannel were undone. Fred had been wrong, earlier in the day, when he’d thought that Oscar and Roald were two of a kind. Roald Amundsen was totally singular. “You’re a walking, breathing competence kink, Roald, did I ever tell you that?”

Roald reached for another log and positioned it on the stump without breaking stride. “How’s that?”

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

He took another arcing swing. “Only a few things,” Roald said, and there was a ringing sound as the ax struck home. He moved to brush the split pieces off into the little pile that had formed next to the stump. He gave Fred a smile then, but it was rueful. “You said so yourself, if I recall.” Oh that. Roald’s unwillingness to open up to him, to tell him how he truly felt about him, whether he wanted a future together. “I’m sorry,” Fred said softly. “I… I didn’t have to… be like that.”

Roald said nothing, just bent to gather the wood for the sauna into one pile. Then he reached into his back pocket and produced a small plastic bottle of clear liquid. He snapped open the cap and tipped it over his ax, and a thick, syrupy substance began to drip over the wooden handle and metal blade.

“What’s that?”

“Mineral oil,” said Roald, not looking up from his task. “It‘s one of the few things that’s good for conditioning both metal and wood.” Fred watched the oil drizzle down over the handle slowly, and then Roald snapped the bottle shut and placed it back in his pocket. With his now-free hand he began to… oh fuck. “It’s important to do this regularly to keep the ax in good shape,” Roald was explaining, but Fred could only half hear him over the vibrations coursing up his body. Roald was languorously moving his hand up and down the ax handle, distributing the oil, and then carefully brushing it over the sharp blade with two fingers. “Actually it’s good we’re lighting up the sauna. I’ll put the ax inside, the heat will help the oil cure. Then I’ll start the fire. You go inside and warm up.” Roald lifted his eyes and momentarily paused from giving the ax an extremely slow and wet hand job. “Fred, are you alright?” His face was calm and impassive, as if he didn’t know exactly what he had just been doing. The great survivalist Roald Amundsen! He’s cool and collected in any situation!

“I’ll do it.” Fred said suddenly, his voice coming out slightly strangled. “I’ll light the fire. Do you have any matches? And kindling.” He held out his coffee mug, indicating that Roald should take it into the cabin.

Roald put the ax down and walked over slowly, retrieving a box of matches from his shirt pocket and passing them to Fred, fingertips brushing. “There’s a box of kindling next to the woodshed. And some pine sap starters I made. Are you sure?”

“Of course. I learned from the best.” He couldn’t help but add a wink.

“So you did. The kickoff party? For filming on Svalbard?”

“Mmm.” Fred replied. The whole crew had gathered on the rocky beach at the edge of Longyearbyen, and Roald had been in the middle of building a small bonfire when Adrien had introduced them. “You told me you were skeptical of doctors, but you’d be friendly if I learned some proper wilderness skills.”

Roald nodded. Fred bent to scoop up the logs, and over his shoulder, he heard Roald say, “You know Fred, you’re pretty competent yourself.” But by the time he turned around to look back at Roald, he was already halfway to the cabin.

Fred had built the fire in the sauna’s stove, then built it up again forty-five minutes later. Now it was roaring hot, but Roald insisted they needed to wait a little while longer for it to be properly ready. So Fred sat inside the cabin, peppering Roald with questions about Norwegian proclivities (Roald wasn’t a fan of karsk, but he had the ingredients should Fred want to try it again) and his life out here in the forest (it was often cloudy at night, but if they were lucky they might yet see the aurora tonight or the next night). They fell back to talking about old explorers, recounting their favorite stories of their heroes, and all of the new media that had come out in recent years. Roald hadn’t been able to see the traveling exhibit on Franklin, but he had managed to buy a copy of the book of all of the crew’s letters in Tromsø and had enjoyed it immensely. Now he was puttering around again, gathering supplies for the sauna. He handed Fred a large bath towel and a smaller washcloth, and a full water bottle. And then he stepped into the cabin vestibule and returned with an armful of something extremely fragrant.

“Dried birch twigs. I’ve bundled them and had them hanging from the roof to dry since the end of summer. It’s better when you can get them fresh off of the trees, when the leaves are still green, but dried works too.”

Fred wasn’t sure how’d he missed those when he’d arrived, except that he’d been very preoccupied at the time. “What on earth for?”

“It’s more of an Estonian thing, but very popular here too. You bring them into the sauna with you, and the scent is wonderful. And then…” He plucked one bundle and held it out in his right hand, then made a sweeping motion through the air, bringing the branch to land softly on his strong shoulder.

“You hit yourself with them?”

“Or a friend, yes.” Roald’s gold tooth flashed again.

Fred swallowed, then swallowed again. “Why on earth?”

“It feels good. And it promotes circulation. And it’s anti-inflammatory.”

“Roald, once again I must tell you, those claims are not supported by peer-reviewed studies.”

Roald tsked tsked at him. “You must be open to new ideas, Fred!” He moved to gather up Fred’s bathing supplies, such as they were, in one pile. “It must be hot enough by now. You take the first go.”

“Are you sure?” A tiny part of Fred hoped Roald had changed his mind.

“Of course,” Roald said. “You’re my guest.”

Fred sighed. Once again, the pleasant interlude was interrupted by the crushing reality of Fred’s situation. Which was now their situation.

Fred sighed again. He glanced down at the floor, at his feet still covered in the penguin socks. At some point they were going to have to talk about what would happen if the feds did manage to find him. He looked up, met Roald’s striking blue eyes. “Roald, I’m sorry. I’m probably going to be here longer than would qualify to be a ‘guest.’”

Roald looked at him sternly. “I know that, Fred. I know what ‘wanted by the FBI’ means.” He turned around to gather towels from a shelf for himself. “You know you can stay as long as you need to. I thought that went unsaid. I enjoy your company. You know that.”

The remark was meant generously but it hurt, somehow. Fred couldn’t help but be a little snappish. “If you enjoy my company, why didn’t you stay in Brooklyn?”

Roald stopped moving, then. His back was to Fred. Fred watched his shoulders rise and fall gently with an inhale, then an exhale. “You know why, Fred. I don’t belong in that world. I can’t be a part of your circles.” He turned around, and his face was a little sad, his crows’ feet and the tiny crevasses around his mouth more pronounced. “You’ve always been so charismatic. You belong in the spotlight, charming everyone, being, oh what’s the word… fêted in big cities. I can’t do that. You know I hate shaking hands and talking about money.” He put his bundle of towels down on a chair. “I can’t do that the way you can.”

Fred huffed an angry laugh then. “Being charming and shaking hands is part of what got me into this mess.”

Roald nodded, then nodded again. “I suppose. But really, you don’t need all of these get-rich-quick schemes, Fred. Honestly, I don’t know why you do it. You’re such a talented doctor, and you’re so quick to think of new ideas. Even when we were on set, you were always tinkering with things, always improvising. People will love you for that alone. You don’t need all of the other…” He waved his hand in the air in a wide arc.

“The NFT exchange was supposed to set me up for life. That was supposed to be the end of it.”

“But I’m sure you said the same thing about the call centers, and the phishing scams. You were sending Viagra emails, for god’s sake…”

Fred’s face flamed. “How did you know about that?”

Roald’s stance was composed, although Fred could sense his anger building. Perhaps Roald was about to tell Fred that he wasn’t the only one who could keep parts of himself hidden. He’d be correct. “You could have confided in me, Fred. We could have figured out a different path. We always figured things out together, like when we were filming.”

Fred rolled his eyes impatiently. He glanced up at the ceiling, hands on his hips, trying not to raise his voice any further. “Not everything is a problem you can solve with a pocketknife and some string and looking at the stars, Roald. And relationships don’t exist in vacuums. Not forever. It was good then, when we were on set” - it was fucking perfect, actually - “but we couldn’t stay in that bubble forever. I knew it and you knew it too.”

Roald crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’d only taken me into your confidence, Fred…”

Fred shot back an angry glare. “That’s rich, coming from you. You never opened up to me, not really.”

“Fred.” The syllables came out short and clipped. “We’ve had this conversation. You know that I…”

“I know that you’re laser-focused on living in the woods and going on your own expeditions. And that’s great! I really mean it! I always admired you for that.” His voice was strained, now. Christ, he should have never started this line of conversation. But somehow he couldn’t stop the avalanche of words that came pouring out, in one breath. “The great Roald Amundsen! Everyone knows how committed he is to his adventures, how single-minded, how focused. Fuck, I knew it when we met, and all it did was make me want to jump in bed with you! But I also knew that explorers are never happy living a normal life. They’re too selfish, they’re too obsessed, they’re all self-destructive. You know that. We’ve read the same books.” He gasped for air and forced himself to meet Roald’s eyes.

“I’d hardly call what you’ve had a normal life either, Fred,” he said coolly.

Fred threw up his hands in exasperation. Roald, improbably, kept talking. “Alright, we know that all I want is to plan expeditions and go away from everyone else. But I never felt that way about you. And I know I’m not able to navigate the world you’ve built for yourself. But at least, when it really mattered, I hoped you would let me try to protect you.”

Then the memory flashed in Fred’s mind like a movie, the gigantic white bear charging after him, its jaw open and its teeth bared. Roald calmly grabbing Fred with his right arm and sweeping him behind Roald’s imposing frame as he smoothly swung up his rifle with his left arm and brought it into position…Fred felt like he could cry.

“I didn’t want your protection, Roald! I didn’t even want you to stay in Brooklyn, if it made you miserable!” He sighed. “I mean, I wanted you to stay. But what I really wanted was for you to tell me how you really felt about me. I could have made it work if only I’d known… if only you’d said…”

“You think I didn’t care about you, Fred? Really? I thought it was clear every time…”

Fred shook his head. He was an idiot. Why was he here, at the end of the earth, antagonizing the one person who, despite everything, he felt closer to than anyone else in the world and the one person who was keeping him safe from arrest? Maybe it was the same streak that kept him going with all of his schemes over the years; he could never leave well enough alone. He sighed. He was going to stop before he put his foot even further into his mouth.

But then Roald spoke, his voice a touch softer. “Fred, if what you…”

Fred held up a hand to cut him off. “No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry. I…let’s just forget it for now. Thank you for having me here, Roald.” And then with his head ducked and his eyes lowered, he gathered up his pile of supplies and swept out the door headed for the sauna, his face flaming.

I don’t know how these feelings got in here, I swear.

And yes kids, Frederick Cook has been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty!

To be continued...

I wrote too much smut and I'm going to have to split it up because of the character count limit so...here goes!

Fucking hell. As the cold air outside slapped him in the face, Fred felt a rush of guilt. He couldn’t believe that he’d dragged up their past like that, out of nowhere. After Roald had taken him in, after three years of no contact, when no one else would. After Roald was prepared to shelter him from the feds (and probably at this point, Interpol too) and put himself at risk in the process. Why couldn’t he rewind to this morning, when they’d been spooned together on top of a bed of animal skins, and then Roald had slipped out to make him fucking pancakes? They could have talked calmly, and Fred could have explained why Roald’s characteristic tight-lipped-ness had hurt him so much. He could have said what he’d failed to say back in Brooklyn. And then maybe they could begin to figure things out. It wasn’t like they had a ton of more pressing things to do out here in the woods.

Fred angrily stomped through the outer door of the sauna and began to remove his boots and hang up his coat. Roald had been right, it was nice and warm even in this outer room, and having a sponge bath with a bucket suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad prospect. Especially now. Fred stripped and placed his clothes on one of the benches, then dunked the smaller towel into the bucket of melted snow, now pleasantly lukewarm, and began to clean himself with single-minded intensity. He lathered up with the bar of soap (pine and cedar scented, very nice), and then dunked the towel again and scrubbed away the soap, taking special care around his... oh, what was the point? Roald had made it very clear he was going to let him have his privacy in here, even before they fought. You’re the guest... He cupped his hands and scooped some water over his hair and onto his face, pouting a little as the droplets ran down his beard and neck and shoulders. Fred grabbed the larger towel and tied it around his waist – he could just as easily sit naked on the towel instead, he knew, but his American habits of propriety died hard, even when he was the only person around. He then took his bundles of birch twigs and his water bottle and opened the door to the main part of the sauna.

The most wonderful wall of dry heat greeted him, enveloping him. He breathed deeply, and instantly felt a bit better. So this is why Scandinavians are so into this. He closed the door behind him and sat on one of the benches, stretching his limbs. It was nothing like the steamroom at Equinox, with water pooling in weird places and people constantly banging the door open and closed, the threat of picking up some skin fungus ever present. It was just relaxing and nice. The scent of the birch leaves was already beginning to permeate the air. He glanced at the thermometer on the wall, which was in Celsius and so told him nothing, but it very hot. He took a swig from the water bottle. Experimentally, Fred then stretched his neck one way and then another, and let himself take another deep breath.

He glanced over to the opposite corner of the room and saw Roald’s ax, propped up under the bench and still covered with a layer of mineral oil, and thought back to the morning. When Fred was done, he should go back and apologize to Roald. Tell him he wanted to start over, that he cared for him and just wanted to hear Roald say he cared for him too. Roald who was not effusive with his words, but who had snuggled with him in tents in Patagonia and taught him how to use a sextant in the Pacific. Roald, who had let Fred stitch up his hands after cutting himself on a coral reef, even as Roald tried stoically to insist that he didn’t need stitches and the antiseptic solution definitely didn’t sting. Roald, who had saved his life from a polar bear. He wanted to go back to when it was just the two of them, cuddling and kissing and talking about explorers who fell down crevasses or ate their comrades or who died from snacking on husky livers. He glanced down at his lap, covered with the fluffy white towel, and saw that his body confirmed his thoughts. Yup, he wanted that alright. And everything else he and Roald had done after they’d had enough cannibal talk for one night.

He decided to try the steam thing Roald had mentioned. He took the ladle in the wooden bucket and scooped some water, then gingerly held it over the rocks and tipped it. As he did, the small room filled with a hissing noise and the air began to cloud with steam. Ah, this was nice too. He did it again, and then a third time, then leaned his head back against the wall of the sauna and closed his eyes, enjoying being cocooned in the birch-scented fog.

Something was making a creaking noise underneath the hissing of the water on the rocks. Was something wrong with the stove? He opened his eyes, and as the steam began to dissipate...

“Oh, Roald!” He started, sitting up straight. “Do you – I’m almost done – should I leave – do you want to...?”

Roald Engelbregt Gravning Amundsen stood in front of him, all broad shoulders and confident bearing and taut muscles, steam rising off of his fair skin. He was completely bare save his own towel tied around his waist. Sitting on the bench, Fred was roughly eye level with the trail of pale hair that that ran down Roald’s stomach and disappeared under the towel. Fred only barely resisted the urge to lick his lips. Then without saying a word, Roald bent at the waist, his tall frame filling Fred’s field of vision, took Fred’s jaw in his right hand, and kissed him so hard Fred felt his ears ring. For one brief moment, his mind went blank. Then he leaned into it, kissing Roald back, hard, and he was pushing off of the bench and grabbing Roald’s waist with one hand and the back of his neck with the other. Roald moaned and forced his tongue into Fred’s mouth and Fred was leaning up on his toes to meet Roald, and it was wet and sloppy and they were knocking teeth and bumping noses and it was perfect.

“Roald,” Fred breathed out between kisses.

“You said I could be selfish,” Roald hissed back, his hands pressing bruises into the tops of Fred’s hips. “You said I was single-minded.”

“Roald, I...”

“You’re right,” Roald said, between hard kiss after hard kiss. “I can be single-minded when it comes to you. I can be selfish. Maybe I should be even more selfish.”

Oh, Fred’s body could definitely get on board with that sentiment. Roald wasn’t much of a talker, but maybe that only meant he chose his words with extra care. Fred pressed himself hard against Roald, feeling the sweat beginning to form on Roald’s skin against his own, the lovely muscled planes of Roald’s chest and stomach and his sturdy arms. His own arm that was wrapped around Roald’s back and up to his neck was sticky, and he could feel that Roald was already half hard under his towel. Good, Fred thought as he grabbed Roald’s back even tighter and ground up against him as he kissed him again, forcing another moan out of Roald’s mouth. If I’m going to suffer here you have to too.

With one hand still on Fred’s hip, Roald used the other to reach for the edge of Fred’s towel, about to tug on it. “No,” Fred said sternly, and swatted Roald’s hand away. He pulled his body away by several inches. “Get your hands away. Not yet.” As long as he didn’t pass out from want and the heat, Fred wanted to draw this out.

“Not yet?” Roald huffed impatiently, reaching for the towel again. Fred smacked his hand away, harder this time.

“Not unless you’re, I don’t know, about to show me the proper survivalist’s technique for removing a towel, Roald Amundsen,” Fred ground out, teasing and enunciating each syllable in his name as if offering a challenge.

Roald’s eyes gleamed, sweat glistening on his high cheekbones and the sharp angles of his jaw, and then he surged forward until he had pushed Fred’s legs back against the edge of the bench, nudging him just enough that he fell backwards onto the seat. The hands that had been on Fred’s hip and at his waist now shot out to pin both of his wrists to the bench. Roald leaned over and began kissing Fred again, hard, and Fred could taste the salt of Roald’s skin, the sweat that trickled down his face. “Giving me directions,” Roald breathed out. “So mouthy.”

“You like it when I’m mouthy,” Fred bit back, and then captured Roald’s lower lip between his teeth, tugging just a bit. Roald actually growled, and Fred squirmed under the towel in spite of himself, trying to get some friction where he most wanted it.

“I like you all ways, Fred,” Roald panted out. He grinned then, baring that fucking gold tooth, and without breaking his grip on Fred’s wrists sunk. to. his. knees. in between Fred’s legs, using his own upper body to nudge them further apart. Roald’s shoulders were glistening now, and his skin was flushed pink everywhere from the heat and the lingering steam. His knees hit the floor, and then he positioned his mouth at the edge of the towel and began to tug. “Fuck,” Fred bit out as Roald attempted to pull it off of him. “I said not yet.” He struggled, fruitlessly (and only half-heartedly, really) against Roald’s grip.

“You said no hands.” His ex grinned up at him from the floor, flashing that damn tooth. He hadn’t managed to fully tug open the knot Fred had made at his waist, but he’d pulled on the towel enough that it fell looser, halfway open around Fred’s legs, parted enough to bare his cock to Roald, hard and flushed and leaking. Fred moved his thighs even further apart on instinct. If he had had a free hand, Fred would have leaned over to smack Roald’s smirking, arrogant face – Roald would have liked it too – but instead Fred said, “Your fucking gold tooth. It drives me crazy when you smile like that, did you know that? How come one of your teeth can make me hard?”

Roald shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “How would I know? You’re the doctor,” and then before Fred could offer some biting response, Roald was leaning forward and his hot mouth was on Fred’s cock. Fred felt his head hit the back wall of the sauna as his eyes slipped shut, feeling the heat of the room and Roald’s perfect wet mouth sliding down his length and his hands moving to press down on Fred’s sticky, sweat-covered thighs. Roald slid his mouth down slowly, taking almost all of Fred in before pulling back, his lips wrapped tight and the flat of his tongue pressed to the underside of Fred’s length. Fred groaned as his now-free hands gripped Roald’s shoulders and his nails dug into Roald’s skin, hard enough to leave marks. Through the delicious haze of his own pleasure Fred heard Roald let out a low moan at Fred’s bruising grip, and Fred felt himself, impossibly, grow even harder. It was so good, the heat of the sauna and the heat of Roald’s mouth on him and the obscene, wet sounds that mouth made as it sucked him. Fred allowed himself to lean into it, his hips rocking slightly to fuck back into Roald’s mouth. He opened his eyes halfway and immediately felt dizzy, gazing at Roald’s beautiful angular face, flushed and only partly visible between Fred’s thighs.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Fred sighed. He let one hand wander to stroke over Roald’s hair. “Just like that. You’re so good, Roald.” Roald made an “mmm” sound from the back of his throat that had Fred squirming, and then Fred’s hands were back on Roald’s shoulders, scratching deep marks into them. Roald lost his rhythm then, gasped and choked a little, and Fred couldn’t help but grin. “Ah, so you still like that?” He scratched again, his hands stretching further down Roald’s back. His beautiful, sensitive ex-boyfriend stopped and pulled off of him then, and Fred would have complained but he was enjoying this rediscovery too much. “Don’t make me pin your hands again, Fred,” Roald said, his eyes glinting, before wrapping his lips around Fred’s cock once more. Fred sighed and leaned back again, watching Roald suck him and listening to the little murmuring noises that escaped his mouth and feeling achingly tender towards him and turned on out of his mind. It was so good, and he’d missed this so much, that he almost didn’t want to ruin the moment by seeing if Roald was still sensitive in other places.

Almost.

Eyes still half closed in pleasure, Fred stuck his left thumb and forefinger in his mouth, just down to the first knuckles, and then reached forward and used them to rub one of Roald’s nipples. He immediately squirmed and sucked in a breath, stopping with his mouth halfway down Fred’s shaft. “Fred,” Roald gasped and pulled off of Fred’s cock. He squeezed his eyes shut as Fred continued to rub with both digits, and then switched to the other nipple. “Fred.”

“I love seeing you like this,” Fred breathed out. “You’re so sensitive.”

“Fred.”

Fuck, Fred could come just watching Roald like this and hearing him say his name like that. With his free hand he scrabbled at the knot holding the towel around his own waist and managed to unfasten it. He began to stroke himself, slowly, his cock still wet from Roald’s mouth.

“Fred,” Roald moaned softly, watching from his position on his knees. “Fred, get over here.” He hooked his hands behind Fred’s knees, pulling him forward, until he was halfway off of the bench. Fred’s hands slid away from his cock and Roald’s chest to brace himself. Roald pressed kisses to the inside of Fred’s thighs, first one and then the other, and then nuzzled his lovely nose to the spot where Fred’s right thigh met the base of his cock. “Darling Fred. I’m selfish and I want more of you.”

“Christ, fuck, yes,” Fred said, and before he had the words completely out Roald was mouthing at his balls. Fred groaned, grabbing the back of Roald’s neck, and Fred thought he might explode. Then Roald’s head was moving lower and oh fuck Roald was pulling Fred even closer and tipping his thighs up to hook over Roald’s shoulders, and then Roald’s clever mouth was on him again, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to his entrance.

Fred panted and swore and grabbed the edge of the bench, knuckles white, as Roald worked at him, alternating his lips with a few, tiny exploratory swipes of his tongue that had Fred feeling like he might faint. Maybe they shouldn’t be doing this in a room that was heated almost to the limit of human tolerance, but it was too late to switch tacks now. Roald placed one more wet kiss, then pulled back a few inches. From his perch on the floor he looked up then and raised one blonde eyebrow at Fred, the question genuine and sincere. “Yes,” Fred panted in response. “I want whatever you want.” And then, proud of himself for remembering the Norwegian word at this moment, he added “Grønn.”

Roald laughed a tiny bit at that and then dove back in, pressing his tongue insistently against Fred’s hole, teasing the tight furl of muscle and slipping his tongue inside, moving it back and forth. Fred swore and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and tried not to squirm, feeling his cock jerk and begin to leak. He could come just like this, he thought, he could stroke himself a few times and that would be all it would take, maybe not even that much...

“Roald,” he moaned. “Roald, if you don’t stop that I’m going to...”

Roald pulled his face back just a touch, his breath still hot on Fred’s skin. His pale blue eyes were dancing. “Don’t you want to?” he asked altogether too sweetly.

“God yes, you know I do. But I want you to fuck me.”

To be continued...

“God yes, you know I do. But I want you to fuck me.”

He thought that Roald would respond with some witty rejoinder, but all he did was rise to his feet and look down at Fred with a look that was somehow both soft and hungry. More hungry, maybe, especially since his cock was propping up his towel like a sail under a full wind. He reached out a hand to cup Fred’s jaw, just for a moment, and then Roald was reaching down to undo his towel, letting it drop to the floor without breaking eye contact with Fred.

“Damnit, Roald,” Fred breathed. All of Roald’s pale skin, pink from the heat and the steam, peppered with freckles and scars from a life lived outdoors and full of adventure. His broad chest and his strong arms and the sharp jut of his hipbones, and the trail of golden hair that led down his trim stomach to his flushed, hard cock. He practically glowed in the light from the sauna’s stove. All there for Fred to feast his eyes on, to enjoy with his own hands and mouth and cock. Maybe for good this time. “You’re so... so...”

Roald didn’t tease him for his inability to finish a sentence while ogling his naked body. He just gazed back at Fred and gave him a tiny playful smile. He really looks amazing in this light, Fred thought. He would have to come up with some excuse to just watch Roald stand naked in front of the stove. He’d tell him it was some homeopathic therapy that was all the rage in New York. Roald, meanwhile, turned his head, scanning the small space as if looking for something. His eyes lighted on something in the corner, and he turned his back to Fred. Fred’s enjoyment at being able to admire Roald’s tight ass came to a screeching halt as he watched Roald spot the ax that was on the floor, still curing in the mineral oil.

What?? They’d discussed limits back when they’d first started sleeping together, and Fred had told Roald then that anything remotely knife-related was a hard no for him. At the time Roald had blanched, like he’d never dream of it. Had he changed his mind in the last three years? Fred was about to say something when Roald reached down, grabbed the ax by the handle and

took two fingers and swiped them slowly across the flat side of the blade, coating his fingers with oil

Fred’s cock twitched at the sight. Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. This, in contrast, was a hard yes.

Roald replaced the ax and then looked over at Fred, and he had the audacity to wink at him, the bastard. “Still green?” he asked, holding up the slick fingers for Fred’s perusal, but instead of replying Fred simply rose to his feet, turned around, and bent over, his thighs open and his hands pressed into the bench. “Like this,” he said softly.

“Like this,” came Roald’s voice over his shoulder, and Fred felt Roald place one hand gently on Fred’s hip. He felt Roald’s breath at the back of his neck. “Just like this.”

Fred closed his eyes as Roald’s long, calloused fingers, coated in the slippery oil, landed gently around his entrance. They circled and teased without pressing, but even that was enough to drive Fred out of his mind. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to control himself so that he wouldn’t spill so soon. “Roald,” he panted. “Roald, that feels so good, you have no idea.”

“Good,” Roald said softly, not stopping his fingers. “You’re so lovely, Fred. I want to make you feel good.”

Fred couldn’t help the moan that escaped his lips. Roald had never been all that comfortable talking during sex (unless it was something joking or sarcastic), but Fred loved it, and loved it even more when he knew Roald was making the effort just for him. He tried to keep his breathing even. “M-more, Roald. Please.”

Roald pressed a long finger into him, achingly slowly, and Fred squeezed the edges of the bench. It had been so long even since he’d touched himself like this. Running a fraudulent company and being on the run from the law had a way of dampening one’s libido, it turned out. But now he forced himself to breathe deeply, to remember that it was Roald doing this to him, Roald’s finger in him and Roald’s hand on his hip and Roald’s breath on the back of his neck, Roald’s body curved over his. Fred could feel himself relax and Roald slid in to the last knuckle, crooking his finger and making Fred squirm. “More, Roald. More.”

“Are you sure?” came the soft reply. The hand that had been gripping his hip began moving in slow circles on his lower back.

“Fuck, yes. Please. Please.”

Fred felt the second finger at his entrance, and breathed as it snaked into him, stretching him and making him cry out as it slid all the way in. Roald slowly began to scissor his two fingers, and then, when Fred began panting and trembling, to rock the two fingers in and out. They brushed against a spot deep inside Fred and white light flashed behind his eyes and he gasped. It was all he could do not to collapse face-first on the bench. “Roald,” he ground out. “Fuck me.”

Roald kept rocking his fingers, but he brought his mouth next to Fred’s ear. “Yes? Green?” His voice was almost a whisper. Hearing Roald’s voice that soft and close sent a tremor through Fred’s whole body.

“Yes, yes, Roald, please. I need you.”

Fred heard Roald inhale, shakily, and then he felt Roald pull his fingers out and then the hard, blunt head of Roald’s thick cock was pressing up against him, easing into him achingly slowly, and Fred couldn’t help but drop to his elbows, letting his head fall onto his arms as the sensation overwhelmed him. Roald pressed on, one hand on Fred’s hip and the other on his opposite shoulder, and Fred thought he might just die from how good it felt. He moaned as Roald filled him, stretched him, the burning feeling sliding from pain to pleasure, and then Roald bottomed out in him and Fred cried out.

“Fuck, Roald!” He gasped. He felt so full he might break in two, and his lungs felt starved for air. It was heavenly. “Move.”

“Mmm,” came Roald’s voice, next to his ear, and Fred trembled. Roald pulled back a few inches and then pushed into him again, still so agonizingly slow. His hand on Fred’s hip was like a brand. “Do you like this, Fred?,” he purred. “Did you miss my cock?”

Now he really was going to die. What had Fred done well in a previous life to deserve the pleasure of Roald Amundsen’s rare and wonderful dirty talk? “Yes, god yes,” Fred bit out. “I fucking love it, Roald.”

“You’re so good, Fred. You take it so well.” Roald shifted his hips a little, changing his angle, and when he next slammed his hips back in Fred’s vision whited out. Tendrils of electricity began to curl in his gut and his limbs. “Yes, just like that, Roald, please. Don’t stop.” Roald was thrusting into him, harder and faster now, and Fred rocked back instinctively to meet him with each thrust. Roald’s breath was hot on his neck, fast and shallow, his hands were sticky on Fred’s slick skin, and the snap of his hips against Fred’s ass was perfect, and it was Roald taking care of him and Fred thought he might just dissolve into a puddle of want and pleasure and sweat. He wasn’t going to last much longer. “Roald,” he said shakily, “I’m going to...”

“I know.” Another snap of his hips. “You’re so beautiful like this, Fred.” Another snap, more sparks in Fred’s vision. “Come for me.”

Fred shouted as he came, heat flooding every limb, and through his haze he felt Roald slam into him two more times before he came too, his own tremors rocketing through Fred’s body. He collapsed over the bench, breathing hard. He managed a contented sigh before his brain short-circuited completely, turned to mush by his post-orgasm haze and the wonderful feeling of Roald’s weight folded over him.

“You should do that ax lube thing again sometime,” Fred said. “I would never have guessed it but it was really fucking hot.”

They were stretched out on one of the benches, Roald sitting up against one of the short walls of the sauna with one leg on the bench, and Fred sitting up with his back against Roald’s chest like he was a very sexy deck chair. Together the two of them didn’t quite fit on the bench, width-wise: Roald had his other leg hanging off of the bench with his foot planted on the floor, and Fred had to cross his legs to keep both of them on the bench. The two of them were absolutely covered in sweat, and in spend, and where their bodies touched they practically stuck together. But it was warm and toasty and they were in a sauna in the woods and Fred had Roald’s arms around him, and he hadn’t been this happy in three years.

“Improvisation is the one of the keys to outdoor survival,” Roald replied drolly. He passed Fred the water bottle, and Fred took a long swig. The temperature had cooled off a bit in the tiny room, since they hadn’t tended the fire because of all the fucking, but it was still hot inside. “Next time, I want to see your face,” Roald continued.

“Hmmm, well I have several ideas about how to make that happen.” This time he’d let Roald take the lead but Fred had always prided himself on being switchy and his head began to swim with thoughts. Fred passed the water bottle back to Roald. “You know, I think you’re right. Maybe this sauna business is good for the systems.” He chuckled. “Although I’m not sure it’s a substitute for a real bath.”

He felt Roald drink from the water bottle, then nod behind him. “I have considered building a wood-fired hot tub.”

“Jesus, Roald, you’re going to give me a heart attack.” Roald just laughed. Then he sighed and shifted his weight. “I suppose we should clean up.” Fred pouted as he moved forward on the bench so that Roald could get up, even though Roald couldn’t see him. Roald stretched his limbs, put the water bottle on the floor, then looked around, clearly searching for their discarded towels. He bent down to pick them up from the floor, his firm ass bared to Fred...

THWACK. Roald spun around, one hand rubbing his cheek where the stinging blow had landed. “Fred?”

Fred smirked from his spot on the bench, waving one of the birch twig bundles lazily back and forth like a fan. He had almost forgotten about them. Almost.

Roald fixed him with a stony glare. “Come here,” he said, domineering, and Fred just about melted again as Roald hauled him up to his feet and pressed their lips together. Fred dropped the twigs and wrapped his arms around Roald’s neck as they kissed. When they pulled apart, Fred rubbed his nose against Roald’s and sighed contentedly. “I love your nose, Roald,” he said.

“So you’ve told me,” Roald replied fondly.

“Mmm. I think together we have the best noses.” Fred was melting again. He knew at some point they’d have to continue the painful conversation he’d begun this morning. They couldn’t just fuck their way past their shared history. Or maybe they could? Fred hadn’t really considered that that could be a possibility. After all, now they were here with plenty of time, cocooned away from the rest of the world. They could certainly try. Roald might even take it as a challenge, the way he did many things. For the moment, though, Fred was content to just wash up and fall asleep with Roald on the sleeping platform again. Maybe they could have some hot chocolate first.

“Hey Roald?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you have any hot chocolate?”

“I do.”

Fred looked up at Roald through his lashes. “Maybe we could have some? It would be a nice post-sauna treat, don’t you think?”

Roald nodded as if he was giving this notion deep thought. “Yes, it would,” he finally conceded. “But there is another ritual that we should complete first, since we’re now so hot and sweaty.”

Fred raised an eyebrow at him. Huh? “Yes,” Roald continued, his face grave. “A very important end to time in the sauna.” Without another word, he scooped Fred up in his arms in a princess carry. Oh, this was so nice. Fred leaned back against Roald’s broad chest, once again impressed with his strength and happy for whatever Roald intended for him. Was this the start of round two? But then Roald walked towards the door and began to maneuver one hand free to turn the handle. Fred’s eyes went wide as he realized what was about to happen.

Oh no no no no no no no no

“Roald Amundsen, put me down right now!” Fred shouted. He began fruitlessly squirming in Roald’s arms but the bigger man held him fast. Roald said nothing, only stepped over the threshold into the vestibule, opened the outer door to the freezing Arctic air, took about ten steps, and holding Fred tightly in his arms, hurled both of them together into a snowbank.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Roald!” Fred shouted as they hit the snow and he felt as though he was about to go into cardiac arrest. Roald pressed him onto his back and rolled on top of him. The powdery snow numbed the length of Fred’s body from his scalp to his toes, the suddenness of it shocking. Roald gazed down at him, grinning from ear to ear. “Didn’t I tell you this was refreshing?”

“Get up, get up! Let me go, you beast!”

Roald just laughed then, the kind of full-bellied laugh Fred heard so seldom and he found so endearing. “Oh Fred, you’ll be a real northerner yet.” His gold tooth glinted in the hazy afternoon light, and despite his incredible annoyance and worry that he was going to get frostbite on his dick, Fred knew he’d jump in a snowbank naked every day if he could make Roald laugh like that again. “Come on,” said Roald, still chuckling, as he got to his feet and then bent down to scoop Fred up in his arms again. “Let’s go inside and see about the cocoa.”

Will they manage to build a hot tub before Oscar visits? How will Roald react when he finds out about Fred's rebound fuck with Jon Krakauer? And what other outdoor gear items can be used as sex toys? Stay tuned for the next installments of Fred and Roald's cabincore life ahhhh this prompt has broken my brain

I am screaming and kicking my feet! They!

you have fulfilled my wildest dreams and for that I thank you.

I am enjoying this so much!! Absolutely incredible, I want it to go on forever!

Just wanted to add: "He would have to come up with some excuse to just watch Roald stand naked in front of the stove. He’d tell him it was some homeopathic therapy that was all the rage in New York."

YES I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE

Arrgh the character count strikes again, so I'm going to have to split this up in weird places. Ty for your patience

Cw: Brief mention of animal death (reference to hunting/trapping)

Here's the bivouac that I imagined Roald stayed in: https://goo.gl/maps/Bf8zR5uhKiESQXzW8

Look at that view! And it's really a mile high!

As much as he’d always considered himself to be a Brooklyn boy (at least once he’d left his home in upstate New York for college, but we don’t talk about that), Fred Cook had to admit that the #cabincore life suited him very well.

Of course it helped tremendously that he was sharing this particular cabin with the sexy, handsome, competent, and intelligent Roald Amundsen. But even accounting for that, he found he enjoyed the routine of life in their little off-the-grid abode far more than he was expecting to. In the beginning, it just seemed like the most ideal place for him to lay low (despite the potential awkwardness of crashing with his ex, awkwardness that had been quickly extinguished) until the FBI decided they had better things to do than pursue him, or until another tech world unicorn exploded and distracted from the debacle that had been North Pole. Now that Fred had been here for a few weeks, though, he found himself genuinely sinking into the little world that he and Roald were building for themselves.

Even in winter, with limited daylight, there were always chores to do. Every morning, after they’d disentangled themselves on the sleeping platform and maybe had a good-morning fuck, he and Roald would dress and have breakfast. Fred took it upon himself to keep the fire in the wood stove going and bring in logs from outside, as well as haul in water from the well. Roald kept an eye on the cabin and outer buildings for maintenance issues and periodically chopped down a nearby tree to make sure that their woodpile, ample as it was, stayed full. They cooked together and did laundry in a tub with water boiled on the stove, and worked together to shovel any heavy accumulated snow in the clearing around the cabin so that their way out to the surrounding forest was never blocked. Roald kept traps in a circuit several miles around the cabin, and every few days he would tramp out to check them to see if he’d snared a rabbit or fox, rifle slung across his back in case he encountered a larger animal. Fred usually accompanied him on these treks and on longer walks through the woods, enjoying Roald’s company and the quiet beauty of the boreal landscape. The more time he spent side-by-side with Roald, maintaining their livelihood in this isolated place, the more he slid back into some of the old habits he’d picked up while filming the show for National Geographic. He was nowhere near Roald’s confident abilities to live off of the land, but Fred found that he was enjoying having chances to tinker with things and make suggestions. He and Roald talked about how they might install a second cistern for rainwater and whether they could figure out a way to pipe the water directly into the cabin. Roald told him about his half-formed plans to eventually raise rabbits and chickens, and they discussed where to install a coop and a hutch and how they could keep the animals warm during the winter. They made plans for the wood-fired hot tub, but those plans hadn’t gotten very far because just thinking about it made Fred horny and he usually pulled Roald into his arms before the conversation could really progress.

In the evenings after dinner they’d play cards or sit in front of the fire, fixing gear and mending clothes while sipping hot chocolate. Or, best of all, they’d read aloud to each other from the expedition histories in Roald’s small library, and engage in passionate debates about which past explorers had been the most competent, the most successful, or the most fuckable. Fred loved chatting away with Roald, but he was finding too that Roald’s comfort with long silences now made Fred warm inside instead of kindling the flames of insecurity. It was all so cozy and domestic and Fred, who used to crave the limelight like a drug, could die a little from how perfect it was.

And of course, they used the sauna almost every day. They didn’t always fuck in it either - although they did most of the time - but even just relaxing in the hot, dry air or in the steam side-by-side with his favorite gold-toothed survivalist was wonderful. Sometimes they would just sit together in companionable silence, arms around each other until they became too sticky and overheated and Roald would lead Fred outside to stand at the entrance to the sauna, letting the chill Arctic air cool them down. (After the incident Fred liked to refer to as “snowbankgate,” he had expressly forbidden Roald from yanking him to the ground like that again, but he had promised his favorite Norwegian that eventually he would work his way up to jumping in the snow on his own. Roald had just chuckled at that and flashed his damn tooth.) Other times, they reminisced about about their time together filming and all of the places they’d been, and the motley crew that had made up the production team.

“Did you keep up with Raco over the last few years?,” Roald asked him idly one late afternoon. They were basking in the heat of the sauna as the sun crept below the horizon outside of the window. Fred had just had a very enjoyable time whacking Roald with one of the birch twig bundles across his incredible ass and the strong muscles of his back, before soothing the sting with kisses and praise and finishing Roald off with his hands. Now they were stretched out on one of the benches, leaning back against the wall of the sauna, Roald curled up to sit with his back to Fred’s chest.

“Oh yeah, I did. Didn’t see a whole lot of him after he went back to Bucharest, but every once in a while he’d have a conference in New York and we’d get dinner.” Fred felt his face crack into a smile at the mere mention of Dr. Emil Racoviță’s name. “He hasn’t changed much.”

Emil - Raco - was officially listed on the credits as the “scientific consultant” for My Life as an Explorer with Roald Amundsen. He popped on for a few minutes at the beginning of each episode to talk with Roald for the viewers’ benefit about the nearby flora and fauna in that episode’s location, and he was responsible for securing any necessary permits from the local government if they were shooting in an ecologically-sensitive area. He was also a passionate spelunker, and he and Roald had initially bonded by discussing techniques for cave navigation. But first and foremost he was a gigantic troublemaker, perv, and shitposter. He was always playing pranks on fellow crew members, or challenging Lecointe to naked wrestling matches during group dinners, or calling emergency production team meetings that turned out to be excuses to point out some gigantic pile of animal dung he’d found. And he delighted some of the team and horrified others with his frequent cartooning, including sketches of the crews’ butts. Roald and Fred were in the “delighted” category; those in the “horrified” category were usually those individuals like their chief cinematographer Danco who had totally flat asses, bless them.

“Do you remember…” Roald began, and then started chuckling.

“Of course I do,” Fred replied, before Roald could even finish the sentence. He snickered. “Who could forget an evening like that?”

While filming on Moloka’i Fred and Roald, feeling particularly mischievous, had hatched a plan to get Raco and his sexy mustache into their tent for the night. This was after Roald and Fred’s relationship had already become an open secret amongst the crew, and the two of them were shacking up together, in a manner of speaking (sometimes in an actual shack, depending on where they were filming that particular week). The plan had relied on luring Raco over to their tent after dinner one night with the promise of some very good European liqueurs and a request that Raco sketch Fred as a gift for Roald. Roald and Fred failed to specify that Fred intended to pose naked and would already be sans clothes when Raco arrived. However, the scientist - as they suspected he would - took it very much in stride.

Fred found that both he and Roald were now gasping laughing at the memory. “That was quite a night,” Fred said, wiping at his eyes. “I never knew amaro could be such an effective tool for seduction, but I’ve never been able to see it on a cocktail menu since without thinking about that.” He brushed away another laughter-induced tear. “How about you, Roald?”

“Mmm, I had a sense.”

“You what?” said Fred, still laughing and trying to get a hold of himself.

“I…had some experience with…drinking amaro with someone I was trying to get into bed with.”

“Oh really?” replied Fred, cocking an eyebrow. “I just meant that as a rhetorical question.” He tried to adjust his position on the bench to see Roald’s face.

Roald hurriedly took a swig from their shared water bottle. “It was when I was very young, it was a long time ago,” he said quickly, looking down at his legs.

“Oh, you don’t get off that easily,” Fred said. He tucked a finger under Roald’s chin, gently turning his head so they were halfway facing each other. He waggled his eyebrows. “Now you have to tell me.”

Roald frowned. “It was a very long time ago,” he repeated. “I was barely an adult.” He shifted his body so that he peeled away from Fred’s chest, to sit upright on the bench. Fred adjusted his legs so they were now sitting side by side, legs hanging off of the bench. He missed the solid weight of Roald’s body but he wasn’t going to let the man get away without telling him the story behind that tantalizing suggestion. He ran a finger slowly up and down Roald’s bare arm. “Roald, baby, you can’t just drop a hint like that and not tell me the full thing. C’mon.”

Roald shivered under his touch. He really was delightfully, surprisingly, sensitive, which never ceased to thrill Fred. But then Roald shifted as if genuinely uncomfortable. Fred considered this.

“Unless…it’s a bad memory? Then you absolutely don’t have to…”

“No, no,” Roald replied, shaking his head. “It’s fine. There’s just not much to tell.” He sighed a little. “This was ages ago. I was young, barely into my twenties. I was just traveling around Europe, here and there, and I thought I would try some winter climbing in Trentino, South Tyrol, thereabouts. I met…” He paused, then quickly continued. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone on the route, but I came upon an older man, and we climbed together for a while. We spent the night in a bivouac together. I happened to have a flask with me, and we shared it, and then we…” He cut off. “Well, that’s all there was to it.”

Fred was not going to be dissuaded. “Oh come on,” he said, leaning to the side and wrapping both arms around Roald’s waist. “Give me more details. Was he hot? Was he overcome with lust when he saw such a handsome, strong young climber?” He gave Roald’s middle a squeeze. “It must have been very cold up there. Did you huddle for warmth? Did you share a sleeping bag?” Fred knew that in the Alps, a bivouac usually meant not an uncovered emergency camp in the snow, but a small unheated hut where climbers could lay out their sleeping bags on bunks and spend the night (because for the true alpinist, the idea that you might get yourself so fucked in the mountains that you needed to dig a burrow in the snow for the night was absurd). “I can just picture it. You spread the bags out and…”

“It was cold. We shared a bunk.”

“But first you shared some liquor.” Fred’s eyes danced.

Roald huffed. “Yes, yes. I’d stayed in a hostel down the mountain the night before, and someone was passing around a bottle of amaro, so I filled up my flask. I would have preferred brandy, but…”

“Oh whatever. I want to know about this guy you slept with! You said he was older. Was he a silver fox?” Fred inhaled suddenly. “Did he take your v-card?”

“My what?”

“Was he your first?”

“Oh no,” Roald said, “but almost.” A teeny smile finally graced his lips. “I was very inexperienced in that way. I had no idea what I was doing when it came to… But this man was a very experienced climber, and when we were on the mountain together, he kept complimenting my climbing, saying I had very good technique for someone so young. When we got to the hut he complimented how light my kit was, saying I’d packed so well. It was all very flattering. And the hut was so small, there was no privacy, so we were going to sleep very close to each other regardless. We opened our food, and then I asked if he wanted to share the flask. He just kept complimenting my climbing, saying I must have trained very intensely.” In the light from the stove, Fred could see Roald blush at the memory. “I was young, and I was flattered, and I had some alcohol in me, and I suppose it made me bold. I told him that I was going to get ready for sleep, and I started taking my layers off. I told him that if he wanted to see the results of all of that training, he could come closer.”

Fred was about to explode from giddiness. “Roald!” He gave the Norwegian another squeeze. “Roald! You minx, you!,” he teased. In his mind’s eye, Fred could see a young Roald, tall and lean and muscular with a serious, unlined face, sitting on a bunk in a tiny hut high in the mountains, pulling a wool thermal layer slowly over his head under the hungry gaze of some anonymous veteran climber. Fred nuzzled his cheek against Roald’s shoulder. “You always did lap up praise, even though you’d never admit it.” He beamed up at Roald. “For the record, I love everything about this story.”

Roald nodded. “Yes, I might not have tried it otherwise, but I thought he’d be receptive. His praise did mean a lot to me.”

“Coming from an experienced climber?”

“Mmm.”

“And did you pick up anything from watching him climb?,” Fred asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, I know he was older, but how did you know that he was so good, when you were so young yourself?”

“Oh,” Roald said, reaching for the water bottle. His gaze was far-off, lost in the memory. “You could just see it in the way he moved.” He paused, and softly added, “And because I recognized him.” He took a quick swig of water as if that would be an effective way to redirect the conversation.

“You what?” Fred shot up.

“I recognized him when we met. That’s why his praise meant so much. Because I knew who he was.”

“And who was he?” Fred replied incredulously. “And don’t you dare try to dodge this question!”

Roald looked intently down at the water bottle, as if it was one of Raco’s isopods and he was studying it through a microscope. “It was Reinhold Messner.”

“WHAT,” Fred exclaimed, so loud that Roald jumped back a little on the bench. “You seduced Reinhold Messner? You shared a sleeping bag in the Alps with Reinhold freaking Messner? You joined the mile high club with - “

Roald put up a hand to cut him off. “Yes, yes, just as you said. But it was decades ago.”

Fred had to shake himself to set his jaw back in place. “Roald! Roald! I can’t believe you kept this story from me all these years! Reinhold Messner! The greatest mountaineer alive.” Fred swiped a hand across his face. “And what a babe, jeez. I mean, I definitely have a type, but I don’t know who wouldn’t want to sleep with that guy.”

Roald gave him a look then, not exactly sheepish - Roald Amundsen never looked sheepish - but a tiny bit unsure. “You’re…you really mean that?”

“Roald, how did you think I’d react, other than with complete and total awe?”

“I don’t know,” Roald said, looking down again. “I thought maybe you’d be, I don’t know, jealous?” He said the last word quickly, as if trying to get it away from his lips as fast as possible.

Fred’s heart fluttered a little. Roald so rarely talked about his feelings, kept all of his real emotions hidden away from view, and Fred felt warm from this show of trust. He wrapped his arms around Roald’s chest and gave him another squeeze. “I couldn’t be further from jealous, you ridiculous man.” He made a little tsk tsk noise. “Truly. First of all, that was a million years before we met, so who cares? And second, oh my God. My Roald is so hot and so competent and so irresistible, even at a tender young age, that he seduced Reinhold fucking Messner, living legend, god among men, on top of a mountain. And even though you probably hadn’t showered in five days, if I’m guessing correctly! And he was impressed by your climbing, although who wouldn’t be?” Fred was smiling so hard his face was starting to hurt. “And now that same man is here with me. Do you know what that does for my ego?” Fred’s eyes gleamed. “It’s, like, the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard, Roald.”

Roald placed a hand on Fred’s thigh. “You really think so?”

Fred leaned in, pressing his lips to Roald’s ear and dropping his voice. “Go grab the mineral oil and I’ll prove it.”

Later that evening, Fred and Roald lay facing each other side by side on the sleeping platform, snuggled between layers of fur and wool. Between Roald’s earlier bombshell and his own, erm, enthusiastic reaction, Fred was feeling rather tuckered out. They’d cleaned up, gone back into the cabin, had a quick dinner of leftovers, and crawled into bed. Fred knew he’d eventually make Roald get up and extinguish the lamps, but for now he just wanted a few minutes before he fell asleep to lie on his side and stare at Roald, to trace the lines on his face and the dips of his collarbones with his finger where they peeked out from the collar of Roald’s t-shirt.

“Are you still thinking about me and Messner?,” Roald asked with a teasing grin. His gold tooth flashed.

“Uh huh. I wish you had thought to film it. For posterity, you know.”

Roald chuckled. “So, mountaineers are your type?”

“Mm?” Fred asked.

“Earlier,” Roald replied. “You said you had a type. It included Messner. And me, I hope?” He was still grinning.

“Of course you,” Fred said, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I mean it’s obvious, right? I’ve always been into adventurous outdoor guys. Hence all the polar explorer books.”

Roald was properly smiling now. His eyes were almost cerulean in the lamplight. “And here I thought you admired their bravery and daring.”

“Nope,” Fred teased, “Just their fuckability.”

“But you have a soft spot for mountaineers?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s soft, Roald.” Roald gave him a look. Fred continued, “And yes, mountaineers. Mountaineers and rock climbers. I don’t know, something about a guy strutting around in a harness with a rack of carabiners just really does it for me.”

Fred had been obsessed with Hillary and Norgay and Mallory and Irvine ever since he was young, but he had never actually seen many climbers in action until he was a first-year med student at NYU, all of twenty-three and still a walking sack of hormones. There was a professor who organized weekend group trips for the students in rental cars to go upstate to New Paltz, where Fred was introduced to trad climbing in the Shawangunks - as his professor explained it, one of the cradles of American rock climbing. (Were academics even allowed to have hobbies other than running and rock climbing? Anyway.) Fred never progressed beyond the level of beginner, but the trips were fun, even more so because there were always plenty of experienced climbers to ogle: lean, sweaty folks with incredible upper body strength, who tossed around phrases like “slopers and jugs” and “spicy crux” and “spread your legs and trust the rubber” with half-straight faces. And once he’d gotten the National Geographic gig and started traveling with Roald, Fred had had chances to see real high altitude mountaineers in action. Especially…

“Mmm,” Roald nodded, contemplatively. “So the first time that we…?”

“Oooh yeah,” Fred responded, beaming at the memory. “I realize it was a highly inappropriate situation to be getting a boner from, but…”

“Don’t worry,” said Roald firmly. He snaked an arm around Fred’s waist and pulled him closer. “Everyone came out of it fine. Including us.”

“Especially us,” said Fred, leaning into Roald’s touch.

It was the fourth episode of the first season of My Life as an Explorer with Roald Amundsen. By this point the sexual tension between Fred and Roald had been sparking for weeks, much to the delight of their gossip-starved coworkers. But they had other things they needed to focus on for the moment. Adrien thought the show needed to include a high-altitude episode, but the Himalayas were out for logistical reasons, so he proposed Aconcagua in the Andes instead. Even so, the production schedule didn’t allow enough time for the crew to properly acclimatize. Fred and Roald had pleaded with Adrien to delay shooting until everyone had a chance to get used to the thin air, especially since most of the crew members had never been up that high before, but Adrien wouldn’t budge. Very soon, it was apparent that many of their colleagues were suffering from altitude sickness to one degree or another, but their director insisted that they needed to keep to schedule. He also stubbornly refused to let Danco deploy drones to capture the footage of Roald climbing the peak, saying they needed to send a camera crew up with him.

On the last day of shooting, disaster struck. While they were filming Roald high on the mountain, the three camera folks who’d been sent to film him from different positions on the route all quickly deteriorated. The two junior camera operators became dizzy and confused. To make matters worse, not having had enough time to practice, they hadn’t used their breathing equipment properly and were out of supplemental oxygen. And Danco, who was with them, was severely ill, wheezing and coughing up blood and turning blue. He could barely speak or move on his own two feet. Roald immediately recognized what was going on and roped all four of them together, and then brought them all down the slope together, leading the two junior camera operators who stumbled and fell repeatedly, and half-carrying/half-dragging Danco. Even with the fading light, the falling snow and dropping temperature, and his own need to move carefully in the thin atmosphere, Roald brought them all safely to base camp - still at over 14,000 feet - and into Fred’s medical tent. As Fred frantically triaged his three patients, Roald radioed for an emergency helicopter to pick up Danco, all while Adrien hid in his tent and acted like nothing was happening. Roald then rushed into the med tent, where Fred was hurriedly hooking up oxygen masks and giving Danco nifedipine. He suspected the cinematographer might even have HACE and was trying to maneuver him into a Gamow bag, a kind of portable chamber which would simulate the conditions of being at lower altitude. Without even taking off his heavy boots and down suit, Roald jumped in and helped Fred with whatever needed doing for the patients.

Even as he flitted about gathering his medical supplies, Fred couldn’t help but marvel at how competently and heroically Roald had managed a life-threatening situation, and how sexy he looked in his climbing gear, though he quickly squashed those feelings to focus on the three ill crew members. At the same time Fred was also extremely nervous, though he tried his damndest not to show it. Things were dire, and though he’d practiced for such an event during his wilderness medical training, he’d never treated severe altitude sickness for real. But Roald had simply laid a hand on his arm and said, “I know you’ll get them out of it. Just tell me how I can help.” His calm and confidence in Fred’s abilities was just what Fred had needed, and doctor and impromptu assistant worked side by side through the night.

By the time the helicopter picked Danco up and the other two camera operators had stabilized, Fred and Roald had been awake for almost thirty hours. Lecointe had offered to sit with the two patients so Fred and Roald could get some rest. They stumbled out of the med tent in a daze, both knowing they needed sleep and yet knowing it wouldn’t come quickly, both still coursing with adrenaline from the events of the last day and a half. Almost without conscious thought, Fred had guided Roald into his tent - it was right next to the med tent, so sue him - and with shaking hands, mixed a packet of rehydration salts into a gigantic Nalgene of water while Roald sat on Fred’s cot. “I wish I had a stiff drink to offer you,” he’d said, sitting down next to Roald, “but this is the responsible choice.” Fred took a swig and passed the bottle to Roald, who drank deeply. “What you did was amazing, Roald,” he said.

“You too,” came the reply. Roald placed the bottle on the ground and for a moment the two had just stared at each other, light-headed from the altitude and the adrenaline and the knowledge of how close they’d come to losing Danco and the energy fizzling between them. Then as if on cue, they surged towards each other and tumbled flat onto the cot, Roald still in his blue down climbing suit and Fred in his disheveled trekking clothes. When Lecointe came to check on them hours later, he found them both very much recovered from their earlier ordeal.

Now smiling from the memory, Roald ran a hand down Fred’s back. “Well, now that I’ve confirmed your very clear taste for mountaineers, should I ask if there’s a Messner in your past too?,” he teased.

Fred laughed. “I wish. No one of that high caliber. Only you can pull that off, Roald.” Fred wagged his eyebrows. “When North Pole was really big, I got invited to a charity event where I spent the whole night flirting with Jimmy Chin.”

“Oh?” Roald asked, his gold tooth flashing. “But you were not successful?”

“His wife eventually caught on and glued herself to his side. I’m surprised she didn’t throw her drink at me.” Fred chuckled - he could hardly be blamed for his actions, Chin was stupidly hot - but the memory was darkened by the reminder of his disastrous NFT empire. “But, uh,” Fred continued, “There was someone. A few years ago.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“It was Jon Krakauer.”

Roald’s face immediately took on a look that Fred had rarely seen, except for when Roald spotted one of the show’s crew members doing something dangerous so they could get a great shot for Instagram, or that time Adrien suggested Roald capitalize on his fame by writing a book called “The Roald Deal.” He sat up halfway, glowering down at Fred. “That man is not a mountaineer.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “I know he’s not elite, but he’s done some big climbs. He put up that new route on Devil’s Thumb.” This apparently was not enough to placate Roald, who continued to glare at him. “Come on. Besides, it was just a rebound fuck. It was only once.” He circled his thumb on the inside of Roald’s wrist, eyes cast down to where their skin met. “It was right after you left,” Fred said softly. And I missed you, he didn’t say.

He’d been miserable, in fact, although he had plastered on his best, most charismatic mask so that he could get back to the business of running North Pole and bury himself in work so that he could try to forget how spectacularly he’d fucked up. It was Fred’s first trip outside of New York after Roald’s departure. He was in San Francisco, hobnobbing with another clutch of VCs and Silicon Valley bigwigs, doing another round of fundraising for North Pole. It seemed that every rich bro in the Bay Area fancied themselves an outdoorsman, strutting around in barely-worn Patagonia, paying obscene amounts for guided climbs in the Himalayas or MBA “leadership training” trips to Antarctica that they didn’t even really appreciate. The extent to which these dudes could not walk the walk - they were in no way prepared to survive a night in Golden Gate Park, much less an actual wilderness - and the extent to which Fred had to humor them about this anyway only made him more morose. They kept asking him questions about the show, and about working with Roald, and how their own outdoor skills stacked up, and Fred had to continue to be the charming North Pole CEO even though every minute of this small talk made him want to strangle someone.

So yeah, he’d been lonely and horny when he heard at the last minute that Krakauer would be giving a talk about his career and signing books at a North Face store. It was a packed, after-hours event, and there was no open bar, but Fred had enjoyed the talk and Q&A. It wasn’t hard to push his way through the crowd afterwards and start chatting Krakauer up directly, or to invite him back to his hotel room for a drink once Fred surmised that the journalist was interested. The sex was good, and it distracted Fred for the night, although Krakauer then wanted to cuddle and rehash every single thing he and Fred had just done to each other, as though he was trying to get the details straight in order to write a story about it later. Weird, but yeah, no big deal.

He said as much to Roald. “Like I said, just a one-time thing. I told you, Roald, I have a type,” he added lightly.

Roald seemed genuinely insulted by this. He sat up fully in the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. “He and I are nothing alike.”

Fred immediately went into his “charming Fred Cook damage control” mode, like he’d done so many times at North Pole. “Of course not, babe. Not in a million years. I only meant that he also climbs, that’s all,” he said, running a hand up and down Roald’s thigh under the blanket in what he hoped was a sexy-yet-comforting gesture.

Roald huffed indignantly. “You’ve read "Into Thin Air." He should have never been on Everest with his lack of high altitude experience, even with a guide. He’s no better than those rich people who pay to have a guide and Sherpas drag them up to the summit so they can brag about having done it, even though they put other lives in jeopardy. And when he could have helped save lives during that storm, he stayed in his tent. He has blood on his hands,” Roald practically spat out. Fred understood, of course. To Roald, this was a cardinal sin. Roald lived by the maxim “Adventure is just poor planning,” and to him there was nothing worse than people who overestimated their skills, did not take the risks of being in the wilderness seriously, and put other people at risk because of their hubris. He had to figure out how to salvage this conversation before Roald had more time to stew in his anger. Fred tried humor first.

“So, you would have preferred that I slept with David Roberts?”

Roald just pursed his lips and glanced away, face still gloomy.

OK then, different tactic. “I completely agree with you, Roald. Truly. His actions caused a lot of pain and suffering at the very least, there’s no doubt about that,” Fred said, continuing to stroke Roald’s thigh. “But don’t you think he gets a little leeway given the circumstances? Even though he was in better shape than many of the people on that expedition, he was still suffering from hypoxia too. He was out of supplemental oxygen and exhausted and disoriented. And he was still a client, unfamiliar with the route.” Fred continued, “I mean, things are different in the death zone!”

Roald’s face was stony, his chin jutting out proudly. “Not for me.”

Fred continued, “I mean, things are different in the death zone!”

Roald’s face was stony, his chin jutting out proudly. “Not for me.”

Fred knew that, of course. He had always known. Roald would never, ever leave someone in danger on a mountain, or anywhere, not as long as he was still breathing. If he couldn’t walk he’d crawl to pull someone to safety, if that’s what he had to do. While others might excuse their own behavior in such life-threatening situations, saying there was nothing more they could have done, such justifications would be unacceptable to Roald. Fred shifted under the blanket. Just thinking about it was making him hard. Huh. Maybe there’s another way I can dig myself out of this hole. Roald had never been super into role-playing - part of his general discomfort with talking during sex, maybe - but maybe if Fred framed it as a challenge…

Fred scrambled out from under the covers and strode over to the door of the cabin. The stove was burning low and as he was only wearing his boxer-briefs, his skin prickled in the cooling air of the cabin after being in the toasty warmth of the blankets. But mind on his task, Fred cracked open the door and stepped into the vestibule, rummaging around on the shelves until he found what he was looking for.

“Fred?,” he heard Roald call from inside. “What are you doing?”

Fred didn’t answer, only reemerged a few moments later to stand in front of the bed with the item in question: a coil of three-strand jute rope, soft yet sturdy. He held out his quarry in front of him, eye-level with Roald.

“You said you’d never leave someone in the death zone, under any circumstances.”

“Yes,” Roald said slowly, a bit of a questioning tone in his voice.

Fred thrust the rope out even closer to Roald. “So,” he said calmly, “Show me. If I was stuck high on a mountain, out of oxygen, unable to get down on my own…” He grinned. “How would you get me down?”

Roald gazed at him impassively, and even though Fred continued to hold his gaze, as the silence stretched on Fred began to worry that maybe this had been the totally wrong approach. But then, slowly, Roald turned his body and slid his legs out from under the blankets. He rose to stand in front of Fred, drawn up to his full, imposing height, looking down at Fred from eyes that seemed suddenly to narrow, to darken. Without a word, Roald reached down and took the rope from Fred’s hand. Fred swallowed audibly. He could feel his cock starting to twitch.

“Fred,” Roald said evenly, but with a no-nonsense tone that made Fred want to melt into the floor, “You’re in a very serious situation here. But I will get you down safely. What I need you to do is not to panic, and to follow my instructions. Can you do that? Can you stay calm?”

Fred definitely couldn’t, but he nodded anyway. “Good,” came Roald’s reply. “You’ve been out here for many hours, and I think you may have hypothermia. Often when that happens, people feel hot, even though their body temperature is dropping, and they start undressing. That must be why you’re missing some of your clothes, mm?”

Without waiting a beat, Roald hooked his fingers into the waistband of Fred’s underwear, tugging it down over his hips and ass and down his legs, where it pooled at his feet. Fred stepped out of it, now completely naked, and wondered how Roald could make a lecture on a life-threatening ailment sound so hot. He felt his cock harden but dared not break eye contact with Roald.

Roald looked at him appraisingly. “And of course, after being up here for so long without your goggles you must be going snowblind. That’s why you haven’t been able to follow the route down? Because it’s hard to see?”

“Yes,” Fred breathed out. Even though he was not actually hypothermic, though the air in the room was cool against his bare skin, he did feel feverish under Roald’s intense gaze at the same time. Roald gave him one last look, then turned his back and reached for something on one of the shelves above the bed. He turned around, twisting the object between his long fingers. A buff neck warmer, opaque and black. Fuck. Roald held up the buff and asked softly, “Green?” Fred nodded, maybe too enthusiastically, and then tried to steady his breathing as Roald folded the buff in on itself several times, then slid it over Fred’s head to form a perfectly-sized blindfold. Now deprived of his sight, Fred could feel himself hyper attuned to every other sensation: the chill air in the room on his body, the sound of Roald’s footfalls on the floor as he paced in a circle around Fred’s body, the warmth of Roald’s breath on his cheek as he whispered into Fred’s ear, “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. It’s a good thing you still have your climbing harness on. I’m going to check it for you.”

Fred felt as though his knees might give out at any moment - it would certainly add some realism to the scene - but he forced himself to stay still as possible as he felt the touch of the rope to the back of his left thigh just under his ass, then Roald’s capable hands looping the rope around his thigh several times, then up and around his lower abdomen, just above his hips, and back down around his right thigh. Roald moved smoothly in a circle around his body, adding more loops to connect the rope around his waist to the rope coiled around his thighs, tugging and tying knots as he went to keep the whole harness snug. He moved slowly, deliberately, letting his hands linger and letting the rope brush languorously over Fred’s skin. The rope itself was soft, not scratchy, and it dug into Fred’s skin just the right amount. Roald’s hands brushed over Fred’s body as he worked, sending sparks of pleasure rippling through him. At last, Roald tied a knot at the lower part of Fred’s stomach, and with the remaining loose rope in his hands, gave a little tug. Fred stumbled forward a bit but didn’t lose his footing. “There,” came Roald’s voice, low and smooth, “you’re secure.” Fred really did feel secure somehow, but that he could still move his legs if he wanted to, like a real climbing harness. He sighed, beginning to relax into the wonderful headspace of being completely at Roald’s mercy.

“Now,” Roald continued, “before we start moving. I’m going to check you all over. I need to make sure you don’t have any other injuries. But don’t move while I do this. That’s very important.” Fred heard and felt Roald step around to stand behind him, and then he knelt behind Fred’s legs. His long, calloused fingertips reached out just to light on the skin behind Fred’s ankles, and Fred’s whole body trembled at the touch. Roald began, achingly slowly, to trace his fingers up the back of Fred’s legs, feather-light. His fingers grazed the back of Fred’s knees, then his thighs, then his ass, and the slightly ticklish skin at his lower back and hips, then his back and shoulders. Fred couldn’t stop the gasps and sighs that escaped his lips. He felt like he might actually pass out from pleasure and then Roald really would have an invalid on his hands. Roald’s fingers were now sweeping up the back of Fred’s neck, and then over his hair, coming to rest and rub gentle circles into his scalp, and Fred practically purred at how good it felt.

Roald lingered there, before walking slowly to stand in front of Fred. This close, Fred could hear Roald’s breath in the silence of the room, smell the clean, slightly smoky scent of his skin, and Fred’s every nerve was on fire. Roald reached out to touch Fred’s face, sending a wave of electricity through Fred’s every bone and sinew. Fred leaned into Roald’s butterfly-light touch, as his fingers swept over Fred’s forehead, his nose, his cheekbones, his lips, his beard, still achingly slowly. He trembled as Roald moved his hands down Fred’s neck, across his collarbones, and then danced them across his chest and his stomach. “Roald,” Fred practically moaned.

“Shhh,” Roald replied, moving over Fred’s hips. “Stay still. Let me finish checking you.” Fred obeyed, but only with tremendous difficulty, as Roald’s hands moved torturously close to Fred’s cock, but backed off just shy of touching him there. He repeated the motion several times as Fred hissed through his teeth, before moving down to caress the front of Fred’s legs.

By the time Roald had finished “checking” him, Fred was a quivering mess. Roald stepped back from him, then spoke again. “Normally, I would now clip your harness into the line of fixed ropes, and begin guiding you down. But ah, I see that the fixed ropes were not set up at this height as they were supposed to be. No wonder you got into trouble up here. Do not worry, you did nothing wrong.” Fred swallowed again, fizzing with anticipation at what Roald had planned for him next. “I’m going to have to find a different way to lead you down. Here, hold out your hands in front of you.”

Fred did as he was told, stretching his arms out, his palms up. Gently, Roald pressed Fred’s arms together so that his palms touched, and began wrapping the rope loosely around Fred’s joined wrists. He made several circuits before passing the rope through the previous loops and pulling it firmly, knotting it so that Fred’s wrists were tied together securely but not uncomfortably. As he had before, Roald took his time looping and tying, deliberately letting his fingers linger on the sensitive skin on the undersides of Fred’s wrists. Roald tugged a few times to check his work, before leaning next to Fred’s ear and speaking softly yet firmly. “I’m going to lead you down by pulling on the rope. Just step forward as I pull. I won’t let you fall.”

Fred sighed deeply. He had that lovely, floating, vulnerable but safe feeling that came from being in subspace, and as Roald pulled him forward, he walked unhesitatingly. Roald led him on what must have been three circuits around the tiny cabin, but in his headspace, and with the blindfold, every creak of the wooden floorboards and sensation as he brushed against a table leg felt unfamiliar. True to his word, Roald didn’t let him trip or bump into anything painful. Finally, Roald let him back to the bed, and using his hands on Fred’s waist, gently guided him to sit down.

“Now we’re back at base. You’re safe, and I’m going to warm you up,” Roald told him firmly. “But I’m going to need to secure you, because it’s very important that you don’t move around during this process.” Fred nodded, too blissed out to verbally agree, and Roald looped the remaining rope that he still held into the harness around Fred’s hips, pulled it tight, and made a knot, so that Fred’s bound wrists were now tied to the harness and he was unable to move his arms. Gently, Roald guided him to lie flat on his stomach, arms secured beneath him, head resting on the pillows but turned to the side so that he could still breathe. Roald leaned over him, his mouth next to Fred’s ear and his beard tickling Fred’s skin, and whispered “Still green?”

“God yes,” Fred moaned.

Fred heard muffled noises that he recognized as Roald reaching up to one of the shelves above the bed and retrieving the little tin of waxy salve they kept there. He felt the mattress shift and the rustling sounds as Roald removed his t-shirt, and then his own briefs, and then moved to straddle him, hovering just over Fred’s lower back. But Roald didn’t rush into opening Fred up. Instead, he ran his hands over Fred’s back and shoulders again, leaning over to plant kisses on the back of Fred’s neck, over and over again until Fred was completely boneless, whimpering in pleasure. Roald’s skin was warm against his, the weight of his body solid and comforting and driving him absolutely mad at the same time. Fred wanted to beg Roald to take him but found he couldn’t form the words. Finally, after an agonizing eternity, Roald pushed Fred’s thighs apart and Fred almost sobbed with relief. He listened as Roald slicked up his fingers with the salve, and then gasped as Roald’s two fingers began to circle his entrance.

Fred almost couldn’t recognize the breathy, whimpering noises that escaped his mouth as Roald began teasing around his hole, just pressing gently, then withdrawing to stroke the cleft of his ass. Deprived of sight, feeling warm and limp from all of the buildup and anticipation, his every nerve felt alight as Roald began to slide one finger, then two into him with excruciating slowness, sliding back and forth as he stretched Fred open. Fred rutted against the blankets, trying to find some relief for his hard and leaking cock, but Roald’s other hand pressed firmly on the back of his thigh to stop him. “Stay still, Fred,” he instructed. “You have to do as I say.” Fred let out a little whine at that, but it was no use, Roald was holding him down and fucking him with his fingers, just barely teasing the sensitive spot inside him, and Fred couldn’t do anything but lie there and let it happen, letting himself go and just feeling.

When Roald finally removed his fingers and lined up his cock at Fred’s entrance, Fred was close to tears from how good it felt, how boneless and floaty he’d become. Roald slid into him with almost no resistance, Fred was so turned on, and any lingering stinging quickly melted into pure pleasure. Roald had shifted so that he was stretched out over Fred’s back, propped up just enough to be able to thrust deeply into him, but close enough that Fred could feel Roald’s solid weight on top of him, his breath on his skin. Fred lay there, his body all sensation, as Roald fucked him into the mattress, his cock filling him completely, pressing so deep into Fred that he thought he might be able to feel Roald in his throat. Fred moaned with each thrust, noise escaping him without conscious thought, unable to move, aware only of the rhythm of Roald’s body on top of and inside of his. When Fred came, it was less a sudden burst and more like a strong, warm wave washing over him. He panted, gasping for breath, unable to make his mouth or his lungs or his brains work properly as Roald thrust into him two, three more times and then came inside of him.

sweet jesus christ this is amazing.

Oh my god, I love them so much! <3 <3 <3

(Aftercare!)

When Fred finally began to drift back to earth, he was only dimly aware of noises somewhere in the cabin. He didn’t know if he’d actually passed out from his orgasm or if it had only felt that way because of how deep into subspace he’d been. Either way, he continued to lay there, still blindfolded, feeling himself return to his body. After a few minutes he felt the mattress dip as Roald sat down, and then his beloved survivalist was gently rolling Fred over onto his back and carefully peeling the blindfold over his head. Fred blinked, eyes getting used to the low lamplight, and continued to lay limp and pliant as Roald slowly, carefully, untied the knots and unwound the rope from Fred’s body. Fred felt something warm and soft on his middle, and realized Roald was cleaning him off gently with a cloth. Then Fred’s brain registered the sound of another tin opening, and suddenly Roald was rubbing some kind of herbal-scented cream into the skin of Fred’s wrists, his hips, and his thighs where the rope had pressed against his body; caressing him and soothing any rope burn and restoring sensation to his limbs. He tried weakly to sit up but Roald placed a hand on his chest, gentle yet firm, and pressed Fred back down. “Don’t move yet, Fred. I’ve got you,” Roald said in a tone that made no room for argument, and so Fred just sighed and luxuriated in the feeling of being so cared for.

When he was finished with the cream Roald gently lifted Fred enough to slide the blanket out from under him - the one Fred had ruined by coming all over it, he dimly realized - and slide another clean one across the bed. And then Fred felt Roald’s hands around his ankles, and… he lifted his head a few inches, enough to see Roald maneuvering Fred’s feet into the blue penguin socks. Fred made some kind of confused noise, but Roald didn’t look up, only said “Shh, Fred. Lay back. When I touched your feet earlier they really were cold.”

Always such attention to detail, Fred thought through his haze, and then Roald was shifting him again, moving him with care, and sliding Fred under the pile of blankets. Roald crawled in next to him, his body solid and warm. He tucked one arm around Fred, and pulled him gently, so that Fred was bundled against Roald’s chest and they were both halfway sitting up, and then Roald tipped the lip of a metal cup to Fred’s mouth. “Drink,” came the soft command.

Fred swallowed, the water having a mineral taste that meant that Roald had added rehydration salts to it. When Fred had drained the cup, Roald took it from his hands and placed it on the floor, and then retrieved a small package of…something? Oh, Fred recognized the red, yellow, and green packaging of a Kivkk Lunsj. With one arm still around Fred, Roald brought his hands together and ripped open the wrapping, then broke one of the chocolate-covered wafers in two and pressed a piece gently to Fred’s lips.

Fred hummed with pleasure, and with the feeling of being so well looked-after, and from the knowledge of how very deeply Roald this aftercare session was. He turned his head slowly. “Is this part of high altitude medicine?”

Roald nodded, not missing a beat. “Chocolate has always been essential for exploring of any kind, including mountains.”

Fred smiled. “And your knots? Are those essential mountaineers’ knots?”

Roald didn’t even crack. “Of course they are. Why would you think otherwise?”

Fred huffed a weak laugh. “You’re really something else, Roald. I told you you were single-minded.”

Roald fed him another piece of the candy. “Well, Fred, I have always admired your creativity. You were the one who grabbed the rope, after all.” Fred hummed in agreement. A brilliant move indeed, if he did say so himself. Under the covers, Fred pressed himself closer to his favorite Norwegian’s body, feeling his feet rub together in the socks.

“Roald, why do you even have these socks?”

“Hmm?”

“The penguin socks. Why did you have these? They’re not wool. They’re not even your size.”

Roald looked down at him, giving him a tiny smile. In the light of the cabin his eyes were bright, sparkling even, the lines on his face soft. “I bought them for you.”

Fred suddenly felt a hot flush down his body. “For me?”

“For you.” Roald shifted on the mattress, one hand dropping the Kvikk Lunsj onto the blankets and coming up to pet Fred’s hair. “I bought them in New York. I thought you would like them. I never got a chance to give them to you so I…I just kept them when I went back to Norway. I thought you might visit one day.” He smoothed his fingers over Fred’s scalp. “And then you did.”

Fred could not take this, he really couldn’t. “Roald,” Fred groaned, but it came out like a sad whine. He hid his head in the crook of Roald’s neck. Internally, he berated himself for ever being mad that Roald wasn’t emotive with his words, when he was plenty capable of gestures like this. “You can’t just say things like that to me. My poor heart can’t take it. You’ll destroy me.”

“Nonsense,” Roald chuckled. He tapped a finger under Fred’s chin, gently tipping Fred’s head back so their eyes met. Fred thought Roald might say something more, but he only gazed down at Fred warmly for a beat, two beats, and then pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Now,” Roald said, retrieving the package of Kvikk Lunsj from the blanket and removing one of the bars, “have some more chocolate.”

More to come eventually! I am having too much fun with these boys!

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Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1

Cook/Amundsen, exes to lovers

Re: Cook/Amundsen, exes to lovers

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 13/? choking/bites

Re: FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 13/? choking/b

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

Fill: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E eventually, Part 2/3

Re: Fill: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E eventually, Part 2/3

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

"Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E eventually, slowburn, Part 4/?

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

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

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 5/?

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 6/?

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 7/?

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 8/?

Re: FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 8/?

Re: FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 8/?

Re: FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 8/?

Re: FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, slowburn, Part 8/?

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 9/? slice of life

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 10/? slice of life

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 11/? ropes, d/s

Re: FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 11/? ropes, d/

Re: FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 11/? ropes, d/

FILL: "Where No One Would Believe that Someone Could F..." Cook/Amundsen, E, Part 12/? post-scene