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rosesloveletters · 1 year ago

Text

lucky star.

Pairing: Dr. Frederick Frankenstein x Fem. Reader

Word Count: 6,645

Warnings: sexual content / smut

Summary: ‘Frederick, you are my lucky star,’ Your skin was burning hot and you thought you might spontaneously combust, ‘your radiance was too much and I couldn’t help myself…’ // You had been burned before, but never like this. // Frederick and Reader spend a loving, passionate night alone inside the castle.

Author's Note: Hopefully you all can forgive me for taking a small break from writing Wonka fics to write for another of Gene's roles. If you haven't seen Young Frankenstein, please go watch it. It's so damn funny and Gene is so attractive.

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

The cold air seeped down into your bones, penetrating your thin nightgown the same way the moonlight cut through the clouds and bathed the dank night in a milky haze. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground and the cold air bled through the castle walls. December was a brutal month to be up in the mountains; the winters here seemed to last a lifetime.

What little reprieve you had was the crackling fireplace in your quiet bedroom. You took up residency on the hearth, the stone-cold floors beneath your bare feet sending tremors through you, but it was nothing you wouldn’t suffer so long as you were able to stand before the fire.

This was how he found you most nights, your silhouette red-rimmed and glimmering from the firelight as each fragile little flame arched in a furious, swirling dance. Encased in stone, the flames could not travel, but you imagined them swallowing you whole.

Your body was a block of ice and you feared it would take a decade just to thaw your heart, but his presence melted the frost on your fingertips and got your blood pumping again. Such was your complicated relationship between this professor turned mad scientist.

The lick of the flame never heated you up like he did.

“Oh, you’re still there?” He asked in an amused tone as he entered your chambers, already shedding his coat to prepare for the long night ahead. He must’ve been exhausted, though you had no idea what he was working on down there in the laboratory. He abated your questions with affection, arms encircling your body like the flames you dreamed of and shielding you from the cold.

You turned just enough to glance at him over your shoulder, “every night,” you responded and turned back to the fire. The flames reflected in your dilated pupils danced in a blaze of infernal passion as though you were lit from within.

You heard him shuffling around behind you, but you paid him no mind. The flames enchanted you; you always dreamed in noire, but for the first time you could see in the color he had shown you.

Soft violin music permeated your senses and you suppressed a full-bodied shudder.

It was as if you had been summoned out of thin air, stagnant temptation veiled over you.

With your curves accentuated in firelight, you resembled the moon in all her shimmering, shivering opalescence. In her craters all alone, you were a woman scorned, a maiden murdered in cold blood, a ghost of herself digging her own grave to be buried alive, but inside of the castle you were unapologetically yourself. You belonged here as much as any of the other residents, a misfit to the rest of the world, a crisis of consequence, the quintessence of vice and virtue and all alone in every way except physical.

Your ears rang from the haunting harmony as you waited for warmth to come.

It finally did, in the form of your lover’s arms wrapped around you.

You saw less and less of him these days and you suspected a new achievement of his sometime soon, but he kept quiet about what it was. It was much easier to pretend he was falling out of love with you than to conjure any idea of what he had been doing for the last several days because in a state like this he was much more difficult to study than any lecture he might’ve once given. You would have gratefully taken down notes from him rather than pick apart his brain for the learning material.

If your love was ancient history, then why weren’t you hanging up in a museum yet?

As much time as he spent away from you it was imaginable that he forgot you existed, yet he always came back to you at night.

It was all just an idea, the seed of all science, which bore roots of hypotheses and germination in study and, if one were lucky, might someday bloom into spectacular results.

“I suppose you’ve still got no intention of letting me know what it is that you’re working on down there?”

The way in which his arms tightened around your body indicated the affirmative, but you were always going to be curious. Your tired game of pretending was no longer enough to satisfy your hunger for the truth and he knew it. His tender love would not sate you forever and if he didn’t swiftly act, you might begin to demand more. Not that he minded, really. Being wanted was pleasant and not something he was used to. His romantic relationships were stinted and tense, stifled and repressed. He succumbed to your advances and gave answers to your questions ultimately because you made him a priority.

He felt safe with you. No more longing glances at women who did not want him or elbow touches with the supposed “love of his life” because she didn’t want to mess up her outfit. He treated you with respect and with dignity because you offered him the same. He did not have to fit himself into a pre-cut spot in your life. You molded him into your heart, enveloping him in your love and holding him close to your chest because he meant that much to you. You wanted him there and he could feel it, all his nerve-endings alight with the sacred promise of love and mutual want and connection.

A gentle chuckle came from him and he leaned in close, lips by your ear, “I promise to tell you more about it soon, my dear. I feel that I am nearing a breakthrough.”

A breakthrough or a breakdown, you were uncertain which word best suited where he was headed. His wild curls appeared more and more disheveled each day because he couldn’t be bothered to style his hair when more important things weighed on his mind. His work consumed him to the point that when he dragged himself back to you at night, his mind was still buzzing with ideas and he seemed distant even though he did not mean to be.

Sometimes you caught him up reading long after you would have retired to bed for the night. When you thought he was sleeping beside you, he was poring over case studies and medical journals by candlelight. When your bed was cold and the spot beside you that he always occupied was empty, you would find him fast asleep at his desk, the rise and fall of his shoulders and gentle snores indicative of his peaceful slumber.

On nights like those would you guide him back to bed where he would curl in beside you and hold you close, sheltered through the night in his embrace until morning light touched your face.

Other nights were fitful and full of restlessness and nightmares. He would twitch and quiver, plagued by images no man was ever meant to see. He wouldn’t tell you what he dreamed of, even less about what frightened him, but you had reason to believe that his brain tormented him on occasion, such was the case of most, but with deep intellect came a price and he was much crueler to himself than any colleague of his might be.

He needed to unwind, to take comfort in closeness and sanctity from insanity.

He would work himself to death like this and you would be damned if you were to let that happen.

“That’s good news, darling,” your gentle response made him grin and you could feel the slight upturn of his lips against your cheek, “but do you think we might not speak about work tonight?”

“Well, if not that, then what shall we speak about?”

As he asked the question, he began to pull you in. Your bodies connected and with you flush against him you could feel his arousal, unabashedly betraying his aching need for you now more than he had felt in a lifetime for anyone else.

The pungent scent of frosted Frasier fir, candle smoke and scintillating wit clung to him, lingering like twilight hues on the longest day of the year. You inhaled, apt to lose yourself in him the same way he lost himself in his work, only now did you understand that there was much more to it than that. His work was important, but you were his love and that took up more space in him than the chunk of matter between his ears and the story of your lives filled more pages than any of the studies in his medical journals.

A night off would do him some good; for once, he could devote enough time to engage in a passionate, loving affair rather than a quick frolic and he would do well to remember how much he had always wanted something like this.

He wanted you now and would not wait. You made him forget who he was for a while and that was such a beautiful thing.

Dr. Frederick Frankenstein, a man whose names’ reputation preceded him, had learned that he could only put so much distance between himself and the truth. As absurd as it was to say, he had perhaps stumbled upon a secret that could not be contained, a truth so groundbreaking, a scientific discovery so unbelievable that it had to be believed to be seen…

Except, currently, the only thing he was seeing were blurred lines and the gothic undertones of lust which tinted his periphery. His lips slanted over yours and the modest friction from his wispy, sorrel mustache scraped deliciously against your cupid’s bow. The wet graze of your tongue sent a shiver through him and elicited a small grunt as his large hands swept down the length of your body and grabbed your hips.

Your pelvis ground deliciously against his and he groaned, “you’ll be the death of me, my love.”

Your closeness was the finger on the hairpin trigger of his desire. He felt like his aorta might burst at any moment and so, using every second he hoped he had left, he savored the warm press of your body on his and devoured every inch of your exposed neck. He was gentle at first, taking care not to mark your delicate flesh, but soon his intrinsic carnality corrupted him and he could not help himself from sinking his teeth into your skin.

You let out a breathy gasp and could feel him grinning against the column of your neck.

Your arms were around him, holding him to you mostly to steady yourself because if your hands had nothing to hold onto, you would have fallen to your knees for reasons beyond just lacking support in your current state. He would have approved of it now, although he was squeamish about it at any other time. He would have even encouraged you, with hands in your hair on the back of your head to guide you in pleasuring him, but no.

He wanted more. His body demanded more and he would have it so long as you were willing. He was tired of being asked to wait, his resolve worn down to nothing because he had gone without for far too long.

As a physician, he knew well the needs of the human body and the satisfaction that came from indulging one’s desires. He did not think on it all too much, but whenever he found himself alone and steeped in eroticism and longing, he had no choice. Everything you did turned him on and his cock throbbed at the thought of him burying it inside you.

It was inescapable. No matter how often he changed course or preoccupied his mind with other things, his thoughts always returned to you.

He moved you back towards the bed, the backs of your knees coming into contact with the edge of the mattress and you dropped down onto it, pulling him on top of you. He collided with your body, an animalistic growl clawing its way out of his throat as his hips grinded against yours.

This was unlike him, a version of himself that never saw the light of day – he kept it in a cage and fed it blood; only carnal desire was enough to sate its hunger.

He dragged his teeth along your neck as your fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons. He couldn’t take his lips off you, he had to kiss every inch of you. He needed it far more than he could communicate through words and luckily for him you did not ask him to. You were busy undressing him while he worshipped your body with his mouth, his tongue tasting your succulent flesh as he inhaled your heady scent. Your body was ripe for him to take a bite and he would devour every bit of you until there was nothing left to satisfy him.

He sat up enough to toss his jacket aside, undershirt now open to reveal the hint of bare skin and a dusting of hair several shades darker than the curls on his head. He looked ethereal in the low light, fire silhouetting him, and the edges of his body glistened as his dark pupils glittered and burned like glowing embers. A wildfire of its own raged within him as he was driven mad with lust. He kissed you feverishly, lips and teeth clashing with yours as he was anything but gentle with you in this moment.

His kisses were rough, but his delicate appearance contrasted his movements. His long, thick lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, accentuating his shimmeringly blue eyes that, even in such low light, glistened like gemstones. He had the softest features of any man you had ever seen and you would have paused to admire him if only he wasn’t so tempestuous in his urgency for you.

His hands slid up underneath your dress, fingers tantalizingly rubbing against the crotch of your panties and along your inner thighs. He unashamedly touched you and a smiled graced his lips as you moaned for him, arching your back as your hands splayed on his chest, scrabbling for purchase but you were hopelessly plummeting into the pit of your own desire with nothing to grab onto and no way to cushion your fall.

He rubbed you a little bit through your panties, but it was not enough.

He wanted to feel your wetness saturate the soft cotton, however, it would be much more appealing to him if his fingers were to glisten with your juices instead of allowing all your sweet honey to leak into your underwear. He ached to feel your tight heat clench around his long fingers as they curled inside you, delicately massaging your sweet spot as he guided you towards a climax. It was a boost to his ego, knowing he could pleasure you that way and with little to no difficulty. He was a physician, after all, and had had many lessons in human anatomy. He knew what he was doing and, though he would never say it, was prideful over the fact that he could bring you to orgasm with just his fingers and a few heated, teasing whispers.

Even if you were defiant and tried to hold out, those fingers of his were your weakness and he knew best how to use them. A stubborn girl presented a challenge and that interested him; Frederick wanted excitement and connection, not just clinical sex.

His fingers hooked under your panties and teased them down your legs, watching you squirm as you anticipated what might happen next. It was up to him to decide and the thought made him dizzy.

Your excitement was palpable. With sweating palms, you clutched onto the thin bedsheets and peered up at him, a halo of fire backlighting his frizz of curls. You were unable to keep still, thighs rubbing together in anticipation of his large, warm hands that would spread them apart. Your full-bodied blush was crushed into existence by rose petals and rouge and your exquisite form buzzed with giddiness and euphoria as he tenderly pulled your legs apart and nestled between them, shoulders against your thighs for support. You were hesitant to follow his lead, but you trusted him to care for you the same as he cared for his reputation.

He began almost immediately, wasting no time. Neck bent, head between your legs, he shamelessly suckled your clit and swilled your sweet nectar with instinctive, primordial hunger.

The doctor tasted you with insatiable vigor, his tongue lapping greedily at your glistening folds as you squirmed and writhed on the bed. You were grappling with yourself, attempting to stave off your own needs as your fingers splayed and flexed on the sheets as though you were imagining grasping onto him instead of the linens.

You wanted him, that much had been determined, however, you could see no end to his brutal self-satisfaction; he would take as much from you as you were willing to give, not because he had no thought of returning the favor, but because he had deemed himself a dying man long ago and you were his cure. This was what would set him free, seal his fate and claim his immortality, not whatever lined the pages of myriad medical journals he tutored himself with.

That did not matter. Perhaps this was all he had ever wanted: a beautiful love to have and to hold, who would, most importantly, meet and master his needs.

‘The needs of any man,’ he thought in defense of himself, ‘it isn’t just about love or sex…it’s science.’

That was what the young doctor told himself, especially during intimate moments such as these, when he found himself struggling to maintain consciousness as his tongue breached your center and delved into your core until your gentle moans crested into the shimmering, shivering crescendo of an orgasm.

You were on the cusp of one already.

You peered down at him and gasped; Frederick was a vision even when he wasn’t knelt between your legs, but such a position afforded you the best view of his facial features and he was a sight to behold.

His long lashes fluttered against his high cheekbones, the light from the fire defining the subtle curves and valleys of his face, the creases of concentration on his forehead and the swell of his parted lips as they suctioned around your clit. He pressed one finger inside of you, followed in quick succession by a second digit as he gently stretched you.

You moaned as his fingers scissored inside you and his tongue delicately teased and flicked your sensitive bundle of nerves. Tension coiled in your abdomen as you could feel the bud of an orgasm beginning to grow.

Despite his lust for your body, his mind was focused only on your pleasure. No paltry sum would be enough to make him use his advanced knowledge for just his benefit; he loved you and even though he could only stave off his most primal needs for so long, there would be no mistaking his devotion.

He pulled away and his parted lips glistened with saliva and your juices. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, savoring the essence of you left behind, “oh, my darling,” he crooned, hand reaching out and fingers burying into your soft hair, “oh, my only love…”

When he uttered those words to you, he meant them.

You would not dismiss him whenever he made such professions of love. His words resonated within you, cut through you like a sharp scalpel through soft skin, peeled back the muscle and tissue that clung to your ribcage to nestle deep within your chest cavity, taking up residency inside your beating heart. Everything that he said made sense, as though you had been the one his words were always meant for.

His outfit was disheveled to a state comparable to his wild mane which stuck out in curlicue flyaway strands going in all directions.

Your heart was beating rapidly, pumping blood through your veins and carrying his love for you outwards and to every part of your body. Your core ached and throbbed with need and your lower lip jutted in a pout of disappointment at being denied your first orgasm.

Frederick watched you squirm with a hooded gaze, taking in your exquisite beauty as you arched your back enticingly and rolled your hips despite the lack of friction, “May we continue, my dear? I’d say you’re as ready as ever…”

You felt far away from yourself as you nodded and nothing else was going through your mind other than connecting with your lover, physically, emotionally and mentally.

He had a pleased expression on his face when you consented and he stripped off his undershirt, exposing his bare chest. You sat up and reached for him, warm hands caressing his stomach, his sides, his broad chest. Every inch of him burned with intense passion and desire and his heart skipped a beat with every touch of your hands on his skin. He took a shaky breath, entranced by the way you held him close, needy for his affection and craving more of his love.

He bent his head and nipped at your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

His dominance pervaded your senses and hindered your ability to reciprocate in as many ways as you would have liked. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase on his lower back as he sat up a bit straighter and began unbuckling his belt. You were on your knees, the soft bed linens beneath your legs was comfortable as you nibbled and kissed his neck, drawing sweet, almost feminine moans from him. He could hardly focus on what he was doing because the touch of your lips was too intoxicating. He was drunk off your love and every bit of attention you afforded him stilled his fingers as he fumbled with the buttons on his trousers.

After a moment, you had to help him. You tenderly popped open each button for him before your hand slipped inside and cupped him through his underwear. The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a shrill whine; your lips turned upwards into a smirk and you leant over him, biting at his sensitive neck as your fingers danced over the length of his aching erection.

“Oh ho ho, darling…” he grasped your wrist, but did not try to stop you, “oh, how you tease me…”

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to tease him in this state, but he could stand to wait a bit longer for you. As maddening as it was, you were enjoying the foreplay far too much to let it end yet.

You quieted him with a kiss as sweet as the tulips in spring, stifling his moans of pleasure as your hand slid beneath the barrier of his underwear and held his rigid flesh in your hand. He mewled in ecstasy as you gave him a firm stroke.

Your lips broke apart and he pressed his forehead against yours, “darling, I can’t wait any longer…you’re killing me.”

An unsurprising choice of words, given the status of his most recent experiments, though you would be none the wiser.

If there were a way to achieve immortality and worldwide acclaim for his scientific achievements in the medical field, Dr. Frederick Frankenstein would find it; he would devote the rest of his life to such a cause if it meant he could spend an eternity in your loving embrace, to be brought to completion by your hands and your body.

“I’m all yours, Frederick,” you whispered to him and you could’ve sworn the flames inside of the fireplace leapt for joy at that statement, “I always have been.”

He groaned at your words and his manhood throbbed in your hand, aching to be inside you. He nosed along your jaw, snuffling and nuzzling your cheek as his lips pressed kisses onto your face. His body was filled with love and that was what kept him alive, not the heart that was beating inside his chest.

His head dropped down to your chest and his lips attached to the swell of your breasts that peeked out from the top of your dress. He murmured against your skin, fingers snagging on your dress as he fought to pull it off you, but your touch on his most sensitive area rendered him useless beyond simple measures of attention. For you to have isolated control over a mind as intelligent and focused as his was some feat and had you a mind to control him, it would have been easily done.

However, the only control you had was already slipping away now that the cloying desperation had begun to take hold of you.

You gave his manhood several more deliberate strokes, savoring the little noises he made as he tried not to lose control.

When you removed your hands, his cheeks were flushed and his chest heaved as he dragged air into his once-barren lungs which now bore flowers, petals of pining and passion blooming in this season of love and making it difficult for him to catch his breath.

He grinned as you and he made eye contact and you were submerged into those icy blue depths, treading water out there in the deepest, lapis lazuli pools.

“And I am yours, my dear,” he whispered as he cupped your face, thumbprints kissing the rosiness into your cheeks, “now and forever.”

His kiss seared through you, sweeping the love back into you that had spilled out through the cracks in your soul. You were mesmerized by the feel of his mouth hovering over yours, breaths mingling and lingering between the two of you like morning fog between fir trees.

You were one already, even without the connection between your two bodies, although that was to come as Frederick slipped away from you long enough to remove the rest of his clothing while you did the same.

Completely naked, you were warm clay to be molded by his steady, capable hands.

You hoped Frederick would shape you in the image of the love he had for you so that you could kiss his chiseled ivory cheeks, bringing your stone-cold lover to life.

He hesitantly touched your body, reverent in the way that he let his hands gently hold your hips and guide you beneath him on the bed.

However many times he had done this, when he was with you it always felt like the first time. In truth, his first time was not what he had imagined: awkward, halting and less than satisfying for both him and his partner, but more than likely it had been a deep disappointment to her rather than to him. He cringed at the thought whenever it surfaced unbidden and stowed it away with the rest of his deeply embarrassing faux pas.

The inexperience of his youth was not something he could fault himself for, as is the same for anyone, but now that he was older and wiser and had become a more experienced lover, he finally felt like he had earned the right to claim such a lovely woman as you. He had earned his right to be your lover, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, but in death he was determined that you should not have to part.

Frederick made a mental note to put everything he had into solving the mystery of life after death, to secure yours and his immortality so that neither of you might face such sadness as to outlive the other.

Nothing so melancholy would reach either of you tonight.

Frederick loomed over you, catching your gaze as you wriggled into position beneath him. Your legs wrapped snugly around his hips and he propped himself on his forearms so that he did not put his full weight on you.

He reached between your bodies, taking himself in hand as he guided himself to your entrance. He pushed into you, taking note of your slight wince and the way your body twitched as he entered you as gently as he could manage. Your wetness was the perfect natural lubricant and he had prepared you quite nicely to be able to accommodate him.

One of his hands took hold of yours and squeezed, grounding you as he finally claimed your body. You held fast to him, your lips parted in a silent expression of pleasure as you adjusted to the fullness of him being inside you.

Frederick eased into you slowly, taking care not to hurt you or cause you any unnecessary discomfort. If he could avoid it, Frederick would not ever bring you any pain. He wanted you to want this as much as he did and so he took his time with you, being as careful as he could be. Your pleasure meant as much to him as his own; he would have felt terrible if you got no enjoyment out of your shared intimacy.

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked breathily as he bit back a moan.

He stilled once he had slid in to the hilt, awaiting your approval and permission.

You let go of his hand and instead wrapped your arms around his body, clinging to him fully so that he felt the reciprocation of the love he was giving you, “I am, darling,” your whispered against his skin as you kissed his shoulder, making his eyelids flutter as his eyes rolled back.

He groaned, wanting to let instinct take over so that he could finally, finally have his way with you. His hips curved and bunched as he resisted the urged to let go and lose control of himself, but he did not allow himself to move until he sensed you were getting impatient. Slowly, carefully, he began to pull out, only to thrust back into you with a deliberate snap of his hips.

The initial force of his thrust forced the breath from your lungs and imparted to you the desperation behind his every move.

Frederick was a romantic at heart.

Even though he was still just a man, his craving for love rather than sex for the sake of having sex made moments like this feel even more potent with raw emotion and need he had for his partner. He had made mistake after mistake in his past relationships and he was determined not to make a mess of things like he once had done. There was a sense of predestination between you and Frederick, as if the two of you were meant to be together before either of you were aware. Your paths only crossed because you were brave enough to grasp the string of fate and follow it until you came face to face with him.

You believed it now to be the case because your soul had become magnetized, gravitating to him as he now became your orbital center.

It was as if the planets and the fates had aligned to bring you together; you did not like clichés except for ones which reminded you of Frederick because no matter how many times those words were spoken, they rang true for the two of you.

Frederick quickened his thrusts once you were properly adjusted to him.

He glided into you with ease, taking care to soak up all your moans and pleasurable sounds as your bodies moved in unison.

You clawed ferociously at his back, digging in your nails as his maddening pace awoke some deeply instilled, hidden carnality buried within your soul. Your kisses were reckless and rough, tying his tongue down with promises whispered in sloping cursive.

The sound of skin slapping skin echoed throughout the room as you made love, the gentle groans and moans he emitted bringing you closer and closer to your release. You caressed him, gentle with him now as you wanted to convey to him that he was special.

‘Frederick, you are my lucky star,’ Your skin was burning hot and you thought you might spontaneously combust, ‘your radiance was too much and I couldn’t help myself…’

The beauty of stars was meant to be admired from afar; inside of his eyes did they shimmer, but up close, they blazed.

You had been burned before, but never like this.

You gripped onto his hair, giving it a gentle tug, which made him groan even louder and his next thrust was perceptibly harder as he seemed to like when you pulled on his hair.

“I love you, Frederick…”

The confession spilled out of you in a flood as you anticipated the light in his eyes leaving him as all the color drained out once the weight of your words set in.

“I love you, too,” he panted, repeating those words back to you with no hesitation, as though he had been waiting to hear you say it.

It still felt like the first time, as you had often been told was the truth with true love. You had not believed in it until you met Frederick, though even now it seemed foreign to your system. Perhaps it was that you were still in shock after plunging deep into those electric pools of blue, but you shone just as bright as the galaxies in his eyes and if this was love then you would have looked for him in every lifetime, anticipating the feeling he evoked in you the first time you met.

He wanted you too, waded through tide pools and wept away the storm clouds in his eyes so he could see clear enough to find you.

He clutched you to him, his rhythm faltering as he crept closer and closer to release. His moans took on a higher pitch and you savored his whimpering as the heaviness of your own release had sworn you to silence.

At last, did he coax a moan from you and, once the dam had been broken, you were unable to silence the sounds which spilled tantalizingly from your lips like honey drizzle from spoon to teacup.

You and Frederick were finally one with each other, two halves of a whole like a split peach fitted back together, the fruit of your consummation leaking juices from your pierced flesh.

You devoured him, holding him close as your moans became louder and more drawn out until pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave and plunged you into euphoria.

Your orgasm spread outward throughout your body and your skin tingled, your core throbbing as he continued his thrusts until he released inside of you, announcing his climax with a soft cry of completion. Several short bursts of heat filled you, warming you from the inside as he came, his lips parted in sweet bliss and relief.

His wiry, tufts of fluffy curls framed his round face and you gazed at him in amazement, in awe over what you had just done as well as his beauty. Sweat clung to his brow and he took several shuddering breaths before he was able to move again and pull out of you, taking up the spot by your side as he reached over you with one arm and brought you in against his side.

You curled up against him, letting him place a lingering kiss on your shoulder as he held you in the dark room. Your sweaty bodies glistened, dewy, slick skin sticking to each other, a perfect testament to what had just taken place.

Frederick’s body was a galaxy and every freckle on his skin formed a different constellation.

You wondered idly which one were you a part of and how many ways there were to connect them.

The graze of his nose on your arm made you turn your head to look at him and he was smiling at you as he held you.

‘The human body is meant to hold another,’ he had told you once, ‘look at how perfectly our hands fit together…how easy it is for me to hold you in my arms.’

He was right, it seemed, for you fit perfectly against his body like you were made just for him, as though the universe crafted you as each other’s perfect lover.

There was no such thing as perfection, but what you shared was as close to that as a human being could ever get and, if Frederick had anything to do with it, he swore that he would find a way to share eternity with you even if it meant being buried with you till you were nothing more than two skeletons in each other’s arms.

An end which did not have to be so grim, yet Frederick accepted that as a mere part of who he was.

As he swept you into his arms now, pulled you on top of his chest as the two of you giggled and laughed like lovestruck teenagers, Frederick knew that he would do anything for you, even accept that he could not outrun his fate.

He was a Frankenstein and some things could not be helped, but with you by his side it all became worth it and suddenly he could not understand why he had fought it so hard, other than the fact that he had something else to prove rather than letting himself be defined by the past, his fate determined by those who lived before him.

His love for you cancelled out the afflictions to his spirit, the blows he had taken from turning a blind eye to what he only hoped now might be true.

In this place, he would find it.

He was on the cusp of making such a miraculous discovery, that much was he certain.

Perhaps it should have concerned him that he was chasing something so morbid, but this dream, once realized, could mean the difference between life and death, between her heart and his. He was not doing this for the wrong reasons now, and maybe that would be enough for it to work.

Perhaps that was the key to unlocking his grandfather’s scientific masterpiece.

Your gentle kisses on his cheek comforted him as he slipped even deeper into thought, contemplating what he had that his colleagues did not: love.

That was the difference.

Science was supposed to be unbiased and supported by fact rather than feeling, but an impossibility transcended bias and factual evidence; would it not make some sliver of sense that if all things possible were supported by scientific evidence, that all things impossible were only able to be maintained by those who were bold enough to challenge science itself?

Frederick’s peers were not led by love as he was, otherwise, it might not have been the name ‘Frankenstein’ that was known by many yet understood by few.

As you settled atop Frederick with the side of your face against his bare chest, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest lull you as your eyelids grew heavier and heavier, you were content to be one of those few.

Frederick held you to him, hands splayed lovingly on your back.

He had never felt more himself than in this moment; for once in his life, he was proud of who he was.

He did not think it would be the last time he felt that way, especially with you by his side.

As the two of you drifted off, snuggled in the embrace of one another, you slipped into what would be and let the rest crumble away.

You loved Frederick far too much to let yourself be consumed with worry for what was to come.

Whatever you faced, you would face it together.

With love guiding you, nothing could come in between you, not even death.

#gene wilder #young frankenstein #dr frederick frankenstein #frederick frankenstein #frederick frankenstein x reader #frederick frankenstein imagine #young frankenstein imagine #౨ৎ::biblio::౨ৎ #౨ৎ::spice::౨ৎ

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years ago

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A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 7 [NSFW]

<- Chapter 6 | Chapter 8 ->

Summary: The idiots have admitted they love each other, but are still figuring out how not to be assholes. Included in this chapter: a fancy dinner party that goes horribly, Chilton getting drunk, Frankenstein references, and a little smut

5,568 words

Trust was a difficult thing for Dr. Frederick Chilton. There were few people he had ever trusted, and one of them had been feeding him people at dinner parties.

Any show of weakness, he learned, would inevitably be turned against him, and clearly he could not count on himself to realize when he was being manipulated. Played. He had been played so many times.

When you said you loved him, how could he be certain?

The entire concept was abstract as it was. His parents had an icy relationship, and he had been raised more by nannies and boarding schools than them, so love was a thing he had observed hints of around him, and become aware of its existence through its absence in his own life. Love was a negative space drawing.

He distinctly remembered one of his childhood friends being picked up by his parents at the end of a school year, crying tears of joy as he leaped into the smiling couple’s arms. They held his hand, and asked about what friends he had made.

It made him feel so hollow.

Pity made sense. You had a basic empathy response to his woundedness, and it compelled you to nurture him to health. Pity he understood. But you said you loved him now.

Love was more. Love was many things, as he gathered it, defined in different ways. Neurologically, love was a release of chemicals such as oxytocin to form lasting bonds. Evolutionarily, it was a symbiotic partnership that benefited the survival of both parties and their children. Love was an intense feeling, and a deliberate commitment. It was mutual respect and care. It was more than he could imagine anyone feeling toward him.

Chilton eyed the Is Your Crush In Love With You? quiz advertised on the cover of a teen magazine at a newspaper stand and almost—almost!—considered buying it before his pride as a psychiatrist (and an adult man) stopped him.

It should be easy to diagnose love. Abnormal psychology was far more complex than this mundane tripe. He simply had to list out the evidence in a logical fashion. He scrawled down pro and con columns in a notebook.

Definitely Not Love:

1. Face too gross.

Before getting shot, he thought he had been reasonably handsome—not tall or athletic, but acceptable. Who would accept him now? Anyone in their right mind would be disgusted after seeing his face so mutilated. And yet…

Proof It’s Love:

1. Kisses my gross face.

You saw his face, and if you were disgusted, you hid it damned well. You had been alarmed, and worried… and then you kissed him. You kissed him on every horrible part as if you loved him even more for being broken—which, frankly, made you diagnosable, but reassured him that your bond was stronger than a mere act.

Or did it prove even more conclusively that it was an act? Anyone who wasn’t after something would have run away, but you didn’t care what he looked like, because it was all a performance!

Definitely Not Love:

2. Kisses my gross face. Fake.

It was as yet unclear what the something was that you were after, however. The more time that went by, the more it seemed you really didn’t care about his money. You tried to turn down a $900 Montblanc pen, proving yet again your utter lack of taste. Even when he was presumed deceased, you were so overwrought by his assassination that Jack Crawford insisted upon letting you in on it before you did something rash. You mourned him when there was nothing to gain.

Proof It’s Love:

2. Not in it for money

You were frequently rude to him. It was what he first loathed about you—that absolute disregard for manners and polite conversation. Maybe—maybe—he had done a few things which could be construed as dishonest or mishandled, but he was still an esteemed doctor. You would have shown the respect his station warranted if you desired him as a partner.

Definitely Not Love:

3. Calls me an idiot.

A poor strategy if you were pretending to love him, though. His most manipulative exes would certainly apply insults strategically to bend him to their will, but always started off with nothing but flattery and kindness in the wooing phase. Traps are usually baited with honey.

Your behavior was crass out of blunt honesty and an absence of diplomatic tact. You were rude when he was unethical or selfish, because he was those things. Hannibal was at his most friendly when he was at his worst, but you wanted him to be better. You wanted a partner.

If your relationship were an elaborate manipulation, you would have to be an intelligent psychopath, but that hypothesis simply did not hold up to scrutiny. Psychopaths chose their words carefully, and always maintained their cold, predatory calm. You once called him “ass-butt” when you were mad. No serial killer could be as clumsy and tactless.

You were the opposite of a psychopath: warm, nurturing, emotional, and an utter mess.

Proof It’s Love:

3. Calls me an idiot.

He leaned back in his office chair, staring down at the paper. There were dozens of things he could add to the love column, now that he thought about it. You laughed at his bad jokes. Listened to him talk about things that certainly bored you. Reminded him to take his medicine when he worked late and forgot. Spent time with him. Admired him. You never turned against him. Never tried to hurt him. He had to accept the evidence: you loved him. Entirely.

At the very least, he was certain he loved you. This novel rush of feelings that had been painting in the negative space of his soul since he first woke up to your smile could only be love. Your warmth radiated around him, enveloped him in its light, and he could no longer imagine how he’d lived without it. He was certain he loved you, because he had never cared about anyone more than himself before.

Love was an unusual thing for Dr. Frederick Chilton. It was weakness, and it was invulnerability. He was exposed. Raw. It made him feel safe with you, and more afraid than ever that you would be taken away.

It took four decades, but Frederick Chilton’s walls were coming down, and it opened up a Pandora’s box of feelings he was not equipped to cope with.

*****

He loved you! It swam around your head in a sing-song voice, distracting you and making you hum subconsciously and sway to a secret rhythm while you were at work. That wonderful pompous jerk loved you. You were in a dream.

It made you dizzy how tender and uncertain he could be. He was not particularly comfortable with public displays of affection—there was a vulnerability when he was with you that he could not tolerate anyone else seeing—but he still managed to have his hands on you at nearly every moment. A light touch on the small of your back: restrained, but possessive. His finger grazing across the back of your knuckles under the table. Leaning close to see something you were looking at and putting his hands on your shoulders. He hated being far from you for long.

Since showing you his face and finding that the world did not end, he had been downright clingy.

“You know I’m out of town on a case,” you explained for the thousandth time to an increasingly sulky doctor.

“I see,” he pouted, “Well, perhaps I will call Vanessa and see if she wants to have dinner tonight.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Excuse me?” he feigned offense very seriously, as if he didn’t know you knew he was being a dick on purpose.

Early in your relationship you had both been very clear that it was just sex, and not at all anything that involved a monogamous commitment or, god forbid, feelings. You’d never explicitly updated this agreement to better reflect the love you were in and he was provoking you with it.

“Who is ‘Vanessa,’ anyway? Your cousin?”

“Aunt,” he admitted tersely. “I demand you come to my house this evening!”

You laughed into the receiver, imagining the way his cheeks were puffing out. “I miss you too, babe. I’ll be back in Baltimore tomorrow.”

There was a quiet sigh. “Please be careful.”

He loved you, but was he your boyfriend? Were you exclusive now? These were questions you’d been having, and were too afraid to ask for fear that the answers would be no. Even though he was just being a manipulative little brat, his casual implication of dating other people still hung in your brain, interrupting the pleasant birdsong.

*****

“Are you embarrassed of me?”

Chilton paused mid-comparison of two ties from his closet and scoffed. One was blue and formal, while the other had splashes of bold purple, and he was trying to decide which gave off the better impression of staggering wealth and success.

“Yes,” he answered with impatience. “You do not know how to behave as a civilized adult.” He went back to sorting through his closet for an outfit.

Your impulse to punch him in the face was acutely returning. “Seriously? Because I didn’t know which fork was for the salad?”

“You have no etiquette, you dress like a tourist, your favorite wine comes from a box...” He would have continued but your cheeks were burning and you screamed with indignation.

“Wow, so I’m just your dirty secret then, is that it?”

“I thought you did not like ‘fancy’ occasions. This dinner party will be attended only by the foremost luminaries in the psychiatric field, and other professionals of note. You would find it tediously dull, I am sure.”

“You said it was an old friend. I don’t know any of your friends, and if we’re going to be together you can’t just… keep me in your closet for sex!”

“Do not be childish.”

That was the last straw. You stomped your foot (not necessarily disproving the ‘childish’ remark) and shouted, “You are unbelievable! You have no respect for me at all, do you? I thought that you—that we were… But really, I just let myself forget what a raging asshole you are!”

He called out your name from somewhere behind you as you stormed out, but you didn't listen, slamming the door.

*****

Were you being unfair? If he wasn’t ready to introduce you to an old colleague, could you fault him for wanting to take things slow? But no—he expressly admitted to being embarrassed of you. He didn’t think you would fit in with these people so he was hiding you in shame—and he was probably right.

How could you ever hope to really be with someone like him? You were kidding yourself.

You were crying and watching Aliens (you needed to watch people getting ripped apart and exploding to calm down) when there was a knock at your door. Chilton stood on the other side with a purple tie, and some flowers that were definitely yanked from your neighbor’s garden. He handed them to you indifferently.

“Come on, then,” he said.

You grunted in confusion.

“Come to dinner. Be my plus one.”

“Are you kidding?” you retracted the spoon of Chinese takeout from your mouth. “Why would I want to go anywhere with you and your snobby friends where I’ll just embarrass everybody by being a pleb?”

His shoulders sank and he looked like a man half his size—which was already fairly small. He looked like a folding chair you could tuck under your arm and carry away. You worried you might forgive him immediately.

“Because I want you to be there. Because I love you.”

Your arms crossed over your chest, unyielding.

An uncomfortable groan rumbled his throat, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling as they always did when he admitted to being wrong. “I apologize. For my rude behavior.”

Your arms considered the apology, and reluctantly uncrossed themselves.

“I am sorry. I love you.” He pouted, meeting your gaze with those irresistible puppy dog eyes, and took your hand. “Now just… come, we are going to be late.”

“Jerk.” You kissed him. His breath tasted like mint, and his spicy aftershave was fresh and strong.

“I know.”

“Big jerk.” You kissed him again, this time letting your lips linger at the edge of his when you pulled back, his nose brushing against yours.

“The worst,” he breathed.

“Poopyfacejerkbuttpants,” you declared.

“You are a child!” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Why do I love you?”

“I’m very sexy,” you grinned, wagging your eyebrows.

His chest puffed with a short laugh. “You are very sexy. And patient, and wise, and most likely smarter than me. Well,” he changed his mind on the last point, “close, anyway.” He looked down over the teriyaki-stained sweatpants you were wearing. “Now put on real clothing, and try not to appear homeless.”

*****

What he had described as an annual dinner party with an old friend from his Harvard years was actually a pissing contest carefully couched in the trappings of polite high society.

Nobody mocked Chilton’s dietary restrictions or recent arrest under suspicion of being the Chesapeake Ripper (that would be rude), but they did express their sincerest worry for him, observing how such trauma must have explained why it had been so long since he last published.

Everyone was dressed so elegantly you felt like a Good Will clearance sale rack, and they were so accomplished and interesting you felt like a Good Will clearance sale rack. A woman named Linnea was visiting from Norway with hair like the sun’s rays and eyeliner sharp enough to cut diamonds. She spoke five languages and had sequenced the genes of a plant that might one day cure cancer. When Chilton smiled his best used-car-salesman trying-to-impress-you smile at her, your skull nearly burst open.

Not that you were jealous, you just—OK! Of course you were jealous! She was a goddess who seemed more his type than you ever were, and he was being nice. He was never that nice!

The host, his “friend” Victor, had walked off the cover of a GQ magazine. Where Chilton always seemed to be trying too hard, Victor emanated confidence and power as naturally as breathing, a trait infused in his blood from generations of old money—though there was something unnaturally macabre in his sallow complexion.

He had four children stashed away somewhere with the au pair in one of the guest houses. You knew, because he brought it up, putting his hand around the shoulder of his equally magnificent golden-haired wife, as a point of pride. Emphasis on point. The purpose of dinner was clearly for them to take stock of each other’s lives and achievements and determine who was winning.

No wonder Chilton didn’t want you there.

It was the kind of environment that made you want to slam your fist down on the table, scream, “CUT THE CRAP!” and tell them to suck a bag of dicks. But Chilton clearly wanted to ingratiate himself with them, and you had promised not to be too embarrassing.

However out of place you felt at that stately solid oak table, it was thrilling to watch Chilton at the peak of his game.

“It’s always an honor to treat someone who has been in space, you know?” Victor humbly recounted working as a therapist for NASA. “What those men get to see up there among the stars is beyond anything I can understand as a mere doctor. You can imagine the challenge.”

Chilton nodded amicably. “Not every psychiatrist is cut out to deal with the difficult cases. The psychopathic mind is dangerous territory, but I have always sought to delve into the most inaccessible parts of the human psyche, at the frontier of our understanding of the brain. That is where the greatest discoveries are to be made.”

He just made his job sound cooler than astronauts. Point, swish! You wished you had popcorn instead of whatever fermented mollusk nightmare was on your plate.

“I’m just sorry for the horror stories this one must have to endure when you get home!” Victor’s wife laughed a friendly, teasing high-pitched trill, gesturing to you sympathetically. Oh no, you thought. They hunt in packs.

Chilton’s amicable smile tightened. Besides the obvious snub toward the grim nature of his work, they knew the two of you weren’t married or even living together, and therefore his house was desolately empty when he got home. Point to Blondie.

Counteroffensive: You took Chilton’s hand and pet it in the most sickeningly saccharine gesture of affection you could think of, and swooned about how dearly you appreciated the wonderful, important work he did. The danger really spiced things up in bed, too!

He choked on his wine. So did Victor. You wondered if anyone had food in their mouths and how many points you’d win for fatalities.

A roaring laugh echoed through the dining room, shaking the table. A man who shared Victor’s features, but younger and with a bigger smile, air high-fived you from across the expanse. You ended up being surprisingly popular after that little ice-breaker, lightening the mood by telling hilarious crime scene stories about dumb criminals and weird accidents. They thought you were a breath of fresh air.

You and Ernest—the host’s younger brother—especially hit it off. He’d joined the military as soon as he turned 18 as a rebellion against all the “hoity-toity nonsense” in his family, and had some stories that made even your toes curl. After dinner you hung out in the garden looking for bugs while everyone inside chatted about opera, wine, and what important doctors they were. The Norwegian goddess joined you for awhile, too, rattling off plant species in the landscaping. She was actually pretty cool. If Frederick were going to cheat on you, she’d be your top choice for sure.

*****

Chilton stared sideways out the panoramic glass wall overlooking the gardens. There, under the faded yellow glow of string lights and cradled by a lush border of foliage, you were still talking with that meathead. He tried to use his peripheral vision so the others couldn’t see him staring after you like a lost, lovelorn fawn, but was not doing a good job.

You were going to leave him. He knew it would happen if he brought you (though he thought it would be Victor who seduced you away from him), and he couldn’t stand it. It burned like hot coals in his chest.

He drank.

He drank a lot.

He drank until he got up the courage to stagger outside on his cane to grab you and say, “We’re leaving!”

“Excuse me?” you said, startled by the abruptness of his demand. Pulling your wrist back out of his grasp you were surprised at how unbalanced he was. You had never seen him drunk, and a tiny voice tempted you to poke him in the chest and see how far he wobbled.

He hissed in your ear, “Do not talk with him, he is trying to steal you from me!” not as privately as he thought he was being.

“Hey. Watch it, pal,” said Ernest.

Chilton lurched and caught himself on you, wrapping his arms protectively around you until he was draped on your shoulders like a human Superman cape, dropping his cane on the floor. “Don’t... do not leave me,” he slurred. “I love you. I love you.”

Cool. He was a goofy drunk. A sad, goofy, koala drunk.

You spun in his arms to face him, and pressed your cool palms against the flushed sides of his red face. He was trying very hard to look serious, and you were certain he thought he was doing a great job at it, in much the same way a kindergartner thinks they are being very serious and grown-up demanding a second juice box. “Oh, honey… you really can’t drink like that with one kidney. It’s not good for you.”

“Please don’t leave?” he begged.

“Frederick...” So this was what being a parent to a toddler was like.

“I knew… you would...” His eyelids drooped, and more of his weight shifted onto you.

“OK, I think it is time to leave,” you strained to hold him up.

Ernest very kindly helped you get him and his cane to the front of the house and called for the valet to bring the car around. Judging eyes watched from inside while he vomited into a topiary. Eventually the hosts came to the door to inquire if everything was all right, and you politely apologized for Chilton being such a lightweight since his very tragic, very brave recovery from being maimed. Hopefully that would save him some face.

Thanking Ernest one last time, you grumbled as you slid behind the wheel. Chilton had, naturally, driven his impractical vintage penis-substitute car, and now you had to figure out how to drive the thing back.

*****

Chilton groaned, slowly rolled his shoulder, and woke up slumped and contorted into the passenger seat. He groaned louder.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like someone drove a brick through my skull. No—like I was shot in the head again.” He massaged his temples blearily as he recovered consciousness. His eyes flew open. “What happened? Why are we in the car?”

“Well, uh...” you adjusted your grip on the steering wheel. “Let’s just say one of us was embarrassing and leave it at that?”

“Merciful god.” He remembered the fourth glass of wine. And the scotch.

He remembered that guy you were talking to.

“You were flirting with another man,” he accused.

“I was not flirting. He was married. All he could talk about was getting back to his husband in Colorado Springs—he’s only visiting here for a week.”

Chilton paused. “That does not preclude flirting.”

“And what about you? I saw how you looked at Linnea. You were so nice to her—to all of them—like you were trying so hard to impress those people.”

“It is called having manners.”

“You never look at me like that. Why aren’t you ever that polite with me?”

You knew the answer—because you weren’t good enough. You weren’t some high-class snob he needed to impress, you were just a nobody. But he took a long time to reply, as if the question had come as a shock.

“I never thought you wanted that,” he finally said. He grew quiet and serious, talking in a soft voice. “We have always been forthright with each other. You detest false kindness, and that personality is a construction. You know me too well—you know I am a miserable, misanthropic, autocratic, petulant egoist… but you still want to be with me. The flawed fool. That is why I love you, why I could never bear to start over without you. You are the only one who sees me, and still wanted to...” He drifted off and lost his train of thought. “Perhaps I could be kinder. I do not want to lose you. I do not want to drive you away. Sometimes I forget… I forget how to be kind to one I care for most.” Words would not stop spilling from his mouth. He was being unusually candid, a sign that he was still very drunk. “I knew if you came, you would find someone better. You might leave. Maybe not tonight, but you would see what was out there, and eventually...”

“I thought you were embarrassed of me.”

“That too.”

”Ah.”

A sleepy, squinty-eyed smile lit his face as he thought he about it. “You are so very unrefined, and yet irresistibly appealing. Do you realize you could charm anyone? That you would choose to stay with me is...” He sighed and swung his head loosely until it came to rest against the side window with a dull thunk. He frowned. “Victor and I are the same age, and he has a wife, and children… he treats space men. I can never measure up to his accomplishments.”

“Well that’s a dumb way to look at life, you ding-dong.”

His hangover growled and glared at you through heavily squinted eyelids.

“Life isn’t measured in the number of achievements you’ve tallied up.” You risked taking your hand off the fiddly antique gearstick to reach for him, and he hummed with affection as your fingers interlocked. “I’m not going to trade you in for a better model. I love my misanthropic, petulant Frederick. I’ll take him as-is. I don’t know why you think I’m going to leave you, but I won’t. I love you.”

*****

You drove him back to your apartment at his request, because, quote: I love and respect the fuck out of you, baby. He would later vehemently deny phrasing it that way. Then he dropped off into sleep again with his head against the window for the remainder of the drive.

His car stuck out like a sore thumb in your neighborhood, as did he in his thousand-dollar suit, but it was sweet that he wanted to stay on your turf for a change.

He whined, stretching out cramped muscles as he settled into the pillows. You spread out on the blankets next to him, admiring his restraint in not complaining about the thread count. You had to confess, your own bed felt stiflingly small compared to what you were now used to.

Quiet, murmured conversation filled the dark long into the night, talking about your fears and jealousy. You confessed how inadequate you felt in his world, how it much stung when he smiled at that beautiful woman. He didn’t tease you like you thought he would, but comforted you honestly that you had nothing to fear—he would never.

“She seemed more your type than me,” you mumbled into a pillow, remembering the glamorous woman.

“Linnea? Don’t be ridiculous—you know my type. You.”

You emitted an incoherent trill of bird and chipmunk noises as your cheeks went red. He wrapped a strong arm around your waist and pulled you against him, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. A question had been nagging at your mind for weeks whose answer seemed obvious now, but you still had to ask it.

“Frederick… are we a couple?”

The gentle rise and fall of his chest stopped abruptly. “What would you like us to be?” he carefully asked after a few tense seconds.

You swallowed. He was putting it all on you, then. It would destroy you if he said you’re too demanding, clingy, or moving too fast, but it gave you encouragement that he was literally clinging to your body like a tipsy koala.

“I want you to be my boyfriend. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I don’t want you running off on random dates with random Vanessas to make me jealous.”

“How old-fashioned,” he quipped, trying to sound nonchalant while a wide smile beamed quietly across his face, cheeks red with an alcohol-assisted flush. “You want to be mine, then?” he nuzzled his nose against you.

“Yes, I do,” you breathed, fireworks going off in your stomach.

He melted at the confession, and spent the rest of the night curled around you possessively, dreaming of sweet visions that were, for once, uninterrupted by nightmares.

*****

His hips jerked rhythmically up into you as you rode him, his fingers searching, clawing up your back. His hungry mouth left dark bruises as he nipped and sucked his way up your throat, snarling against your skin. “Frederick!” You gasped and moaned with each bite. You knew he was leaving marks above your collar that you’d have to creatively hide, or make excuses for (or just deal with everyone at work knowing), and that he was doing it on purpose, but you didn’t care. It was exciting having him claim you.

As his nips and kisses crested the outline of your jaw, you dipped your chin down and took his mouth. His lips were soft and yielding to you, but burning with heat and hunger and already wet from the sloppy work he made of your neck, and he moaned your name with needy satisfaction as you kissed him, his eyes closing. His tongue slipped between your lips, tracing the inside flesh and the outline of your teeth without interrupting the rhythm of his thrusting hips that worked you open and built up a sensational throb.

Your breath and sweat mingled as you rocked together, intertwined. His helpless, pleading noises drove you crazy as he whined and growled, making you buck against him harder just to draw more sounds from him and watch his face as he lost himself completely. The throbbing between your legs roared to a frenzy as he arched beneath you and his pace became erratic, each thrust driving deeper, hips snapping against you roughly as his cock buried its full length deep inside.

The warmth of his seed flooded you, but he pulled out quickly before he was completely finished, flipped you onto your back and kneeled over you. His hand frenetically stroked his cock until long lines of hot cum drizzled your stomach.

He leaned over you and kissed you ferociously, a clashing of teeth and tongues, while you curled your fingers through his hair and continued rocking your hips against his leg chasing your unfulfilled release. “Mine,” he smiled against your lips.

He sat up, breathless and content.

You looked down at the sticky mess he made of your torso. “Marking your territory?”

“You make me sound like a dog lifting his leg.” He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Aren’t you, essentially...?” you began to tease, but gave up with a shake of your head. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, but you grabbed his arm before he could leave. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Work, my dear.”

“I don’t think so.” You pulled him back into bed, pressed him down on his back and climbed on top of him, angling your hips into his mouth. “You still have a job to do here.”

“You’re sticky!” he complained, squirming under you.

“I know. You made such a mess, doctor. Help me?”

He glared up petulantly between your thighs, but a coy pout spread over his lips, and one of his long fingers traced the length of your leg. He does ever so love it when you call him doctor.

“Very well,” he conceded as you grabbed the back of his head and rode his face into the pillow.

*****

Hannibal the Cannibal was finally captured, and Frederick Chilton wrote the definitive book on him. And by “definitive,” you meant full of lies, sleaze, and enough half-truths that nobody would know the difference.

How could you complain? It worked.

He got a bestseller, and the next three years were a whirlwind of book tours, press releases, panels, and all the fame and respect he ever wanted. It was a good thing you were there to make sure it didn’t go to his head! (In reality, the mild-but-constant aching of his left cheek was enough to keep him as humble as Chilton-ly possible—which was, admittedly, extremely arrogant.)

He stepped away from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, leaving it under the care of Dr. Alana Bloom. According to Dr. Chilton, it was to focus on writing and speaking engagements for which he was hotly in demand, however the decision came just weeks after you warned him to stay away from Hannibal Lecter.

“I am writing a book about him. Stay away?” he mocked. “Do you know how long I have waited to have him in captivity? In my facility?”

“Don’t be an idiot! Trying to get revenge by being his jailer is just poking the bear.”

“The ‘bear’ will be spending the rest of his days rotting behind bars,” he replied in a honeyed voice dripping with sarcasm. “You cannot deny me the pleasure of watching him grow old and infirm, slowly forgotten by the world as his teeth one by one fall out.”

“You always do this—you always think you’re above danger, and then it comes back to bite you! Hannibal will find a way to hurt you if you piss him off.”

“You give the man far too much credit,” he scoffed.

“Stop trying to get revenge.” You stepped close, tapping the chest of his tattersall dress shirt. “Focus on what you still have instead of everything you’ve lost.”

“You mean you?” he quirked a brow, scoffing. “I did not think you so trite.”

“I mean your other eye, asshole! I mean your life!”

Tempers flared as you snarled in each other’s faces, and twenty minutes and several broken pieces of office decor later, you rolled off of each other feeling much calmer.

“Stay away from him,” you started again, softer this time, your hand buried under the unbuttoned opening of his shirt. “I don’t want him in your head. Everyone changes when they’re around him for too long, and I don’t want you to turn into someone else. I don’t want to lose you. Just walk away this time. Please?”

And he did. And for three entire years, he wasn’t brutally maimed.

#Frederick Chilton x reader #Frederick Chilton #raul esparza #hannibal #my writing #of course I have to slip Frankenstein references into everything I write lmao

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