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Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1
This is for prompts for all things general Polar Explorer RPF.
If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!
Under this umbrella you can prompt:
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:
Regular view: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html
Regular view, last page: https://coldboys.dreamwidth.org/925.html?page=999#comments
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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Robert Bartlett/Vilhjalmur Stefansson, enemies with benefits
(Anonymous) 2023-01-25 04:09 am (UTC)(link)FILL: You Come on Like a Drug, Bartlett/Stefansson, the explicit stuff happens off screen...for now
(Anonymous) 2023-09-25 12:47 am (UTC)(link)“Bartlett and Stefansson did encounter each other in 1922, at a Washington Club tea service following the unveiling of the Peary Monument at Arlington National Cemetery. Given Bartlett’s booze-fueled bravado, the meeting was surprisingly anticlimactic. According to Bartlett, out of respect for the decorum of the event, he intentionally avoided Stefansson, but afterward Stefansson approached him, saying, “Why, Bartlett, didn’t you see me?” Bartlett cut him off right there, barking under his breath, “No, nor do I want to see you,” and he abruptly took his leave.” Buddy Levy, Empire of Ice and Stone, p. 380
It had been a mistake to come.
Bartlett had known Stefansson would be here. The man was at every event remotely connected to Arctic exploration, always flitting around, promoting this and that scheme. Promoting himself. And even with the aid of his cocktail glass - kept always full, God help him - it was a tremendous strain for Captain Bob Bartlett to avoid the other man in the cramped confines of the Club’s reception room. The drinks took the edge off of his anxiety; gave him a shield for his face to avoid accidentally making eye contact and a reason to frequently head to the bar for a refill so as to avoid some well-meaning club member pulling him into a conversation Stefansson might also be tempted to join.
Bartlett felt as though his feelings were plastered all over his face, clear as new freshwater ice for all to see. The surge of anger he felt whenever he thought of the expedition leader willfully abandoning his doomed ship on that September morning a decade earlier, the other feelings that were very much not anger when he thought of the night before in Stefansson’s quarters…Bartlett took another swig from his glass before nodding politely at a group of wealthy patrons walking by. At least he could play off the flush on his face as a consequence of the stuffiness of the room.
None of the other guests, the well-heeled Washington socialites and government geographers, would know what it really was. None of them would even remotely suspect that there was a volatile mixture of anger, shame, and arousal that had churned in Bartlett’s gut for years whenever he thought of that last night on the Karluk with Stefansson, a substance as strong and as unpredictable as pack ice. At least pack ice stayed where it was cold. It didn’t travel, moving with Bartlett wherever he went and surfacing without warning. He should have never gone to confront Stefansson that night. Or rather he should have, but he should have shouted at the man and then immediately left, slamming the cabin door behind him. He shouldn’t have allowed the expedition leader space to mount a defense. He shouldn’t have stayed to entertain Stefansson’s justifications for the poor planning, the motley crew, the long list of bad decisions, the ludicrous plan to leave the Karluk with Jenness, McConnell, Wilkins, Jimmy and Jerry. The shouting that had followed was certainly justified, as was Bartlett’s fist connecting with Stefansson’s handsome face. Not handsome, just smug. A smug face that deserved a punch. But if Bartlett had only left after dressing Stefansson down, as he’d been planning to for days, he wouldn’t have been there for what came after the punch. When Stefansson had recoiled, then slapped Bartlett across the face. Then grabbed him by the chin and kissed him. When Bartlett, disgusted, had spat at Stefansson, but Stefansson had only reached up to grab him and kiss him again, and pulled Bartlett by his coat lapels towards the bunk. How Stefansson had leered smugly at Bartlett, even as Bartlett had grabbed Stefansson’s hair and shoved him to the cold wooden floor.
That leer was probably the worst part, the look that said You know you wanted this, even though you hate me. Because you hate me. This is my expedition. You know you never could have hidden anything from me on this ship. Even as Bartlett wrenched Stefansson’s mouth open with his free hand and shoved his cock inside - he was punishing the anthropologist, he told himself, this was humiliating punishment - Stefansson continued to leer up at him from his place on the floor. That gaze had honed in on the feelings buried deep inside Bartlett’s chest, those he refused to acknowledge to himself, and dragged them to the surface. How did the bastard manage to do it? Probably the same way he kept managing to convince donors to throw money at his expeditions even after all this time. Trust me. You know you want to.
Bartlett curled the fingers of his free hand into his palm so that his nails dug into the calloused skin, pain breaking him out of the memory. He shifted on his feet, turning his body away from the crowd. He had to get control of himself. He took a deep breath and headed back to the bar.
After what seemed like an eternity the party finally began to thin out, and Bartlett felt he could make his exit without seeming impolite. He’d thanked the hosts, made small talk with the guests propriety demanded he make small talk with, and had taken generous advantage of the refreshments, all while managing to avoid Stefansson. The evening could be resoundingly be called a success. Bartlett began pacing towards the coat check.
“Bob?”
There he was, standing directly in Bartlett’s path, an empty crystal tumbler in one hand and a shark’s deadly grin on his face. Christ, the evening was almost over. He’d almost gotten away without speaking to the hated man, but Stefansson was in his path now, unavoidable. If he tried to brush past him without acknowledging him it would cause a scene and that was the last thing he wanted, even worse than having to interact with Stefansson. Bartlett gritted his teeth. He’d survived far worse. He could push past the rising bile in his throat and the adrenaline in his veins long enough to give the man a cursory nod and take his leave. He’d incline his head, then walk out, head straight back to his hotel and a cold bath.
But he’d been ruminating on this too long, and Stefansson had already stepped closer to him, cutting off the easiest routes of escape. His eyes glittered, scheming as always. “Why, Bartlett, didn’t you see me?” he asked, raising his cocktail glass.
This again. “No,” Bartlett ground out. He took a step closer so that his next words would be heard by Stefansson alone. He bent his head slightly and half-whispered, “Nor do I want to see you.” He set his eyes on the door, then began to stride towards it, taking care to school his expression into something neutral.
He felt a hand, surprisingly strong, clasp onto his upper arm. “Leaving so soon? What’s the rush? Another engagement?” Bartlett turned his head around and tried to keep calm as the shorter man met his gaze. To anyone watching - assuming they were a Peary supporter but had somehow escaped hearing about the Karluk - it would look like two old chums, one who’d just remembered one last thing he wanted to tell the other.
“You know,” Stefansson dropped his voice into a conspiratorial tone, as if sharing a schoolboy’s secret. “There’s a cloakroom on the second floor that isn’t being used.”
Bartlett leaned in just an inch. He felt hot, the afterburn of the cocktail still flooding his veins. Voice barely above a whisper, he replied “I’ll see you in hell, Stef.”
Stefansson only grinned. “No, I think I’ll see you in the cloakroom.” He stepped back, smiling, and shook his empty glass back and forth. “Just as soon as I get myself another drink.”
Later that night, back at the hotel, as he sank into the tub, Bartlett would tell himself that what had happened was just the unfortunate consequence of a few too many cocktails, the sort of thing any man might do if he was drunk enough. Alcohol could excuse a multitude of follies, his included. It was nothing. He’d just been edgy about seeing Stefansson after all this time, too keyed up and too sloshed to fully be in command of his own actions. If he’d gone up to the cloakroom, pushed the door open and slammed Stefansson against the wall with a bruising kiss, so what? If he’d let the explorer go to his knees, the white teeth of his grin gleaming in the dark, and open Bartlett’s trousers, well, it had only been for a brief time, a few moments in a lifetime of moments, and nothing to dwell on. He had nothing but hatred for the man who’d left the members of his own expedition to die, he thought as he furiously scrubbed his skin in the scalding hot water. Hatred in abundance. So much so, that there was some left over for himself.
Re: FILL: You Come on Like a Drug, Bartlett/Stefansson, the explicit stuff happens off screen...for
(Anonymous) 2023-09-25 05:47 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: You Come on Like a Drug, Bartlett/Stefansson, the explicit stuff happens off screen...for
(Anonymous) 2024-11-20 04:11 am (UTC)(link)