Polar Explorer RPF - Prompt Post 1

[coldboys]

This is for prompts for all things general Polar Explorer RPF.

If you've filled (or started filling) a prompt, please make sure to link it in the comments of the Fills Post. And if you would like to cross-post your fills on AO3, here is the collection!

Under this umbrella you can prompt: 

• Historical versions of Franklin Expedition(-adjacent) guys (Rossier, Gore/McClure, etc)
• Madhouse at the End of the Earth/Belgica Expedition
• Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration - Shackleton, Scott, Amundsen, Mawson
• Andrée Expedition
  
• Karluk Expedition
• etc

Prompts in line with adaptations of Heroic Age stories can also fit here, for example if you want to specifically prompt Hugh Grant!Cherry from The Last Place On Earth getting wrecked (which someone really should). 

No blorbo too obscure for this post! EXCEPT: NO PEARY ALLOWED. God I hate that guy.



Rules: 

1. Be fucking nice. YKINMATO/KINKTOMATO at all times.

 

2. This meme is CNTW (Choose Not To Warn) but warnings are highly encouraged.

 

3. Prompts should use this format in the subject line: [SHIP], [DESCRIPTION]

e.g.

Mertz/Ninnis, sex crying

 

Solo gen can be prompted as well alongside (a) character name and description

e.g.

Gen, Emil Racovitza, discovering a crazy new fish

 

4. Fills should use this format in the subject line: FILL: [TITLE], [PAIRING], [RATING], [ANY WARNINGS]

e.g.

Fill: The Very Next Day, Cherry/Birdie, E, cw self-harm

 

5. One prompt per comment please. 

 

6. Multiple fills for each prompt are welcome! 

 

7. You don't have to be anon for your prompts or your fills but we do encourage it because of the vibe. You're also welcome to deanon your stuff by posting on AO3/Tumblr as you please! 

 

8. Feedback on prompts and fills is AWESOME; please take longer conversations to the discussion post.

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

[(Anonymous)]

“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.”