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cherubispunk · 11 months ago

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BARK! BITE! BLEED! (PART I) - FWB!Frankie Morales x AFAB!Reader

summary: being without is always easier when you don't know what it is to be 'with'.

a note from Lucy: heyyyy! hows it going? yes...im back with another series. Those of you waiting for cherub, its coming. I promise. hand over my heart and the other on the bible. but words have a funny habit of not wording so...tale please take the humble peace offering of slutty fwb!frankie and please dont bite my fingers off.

playlist | moodboard

wc: 5742 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! no use of y/n, slight noncon voyeurism, thin appartment walls, mentions of cheating, obsessive behaviour, frankie is obsessed and it is very unhealthy, toxic relationships, heavy religious imagry (come on, is this even a surpise when it comes to my writing?), age gap but not bombastic sorry chloe (reader is 21, Frankie is 27) - though not mentioned in this part, graphic smut, could be considered dubcon, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (do i need to spell it out to you not to do this?), creampie, biting, its not vore!!!! but there is something inherrently sexual in the themes of metaphorical consumption, softdom!frankie, scratching, gore imagry in the sense of a hunter prey type of thing? More of lu being dell, batshit insane, blurting words onto a google doc and praying ot makes ense when being blasted out into the void.

series m.list | m.list

“At the end of the day, a dog that’s all bark and no bite is merely a bitch. True power lies in those who don't just bare their teeth, but make you bleed when they sink in.”

Frankie was a quiet man. He would always keep to himself. Never usually stuck his nose in anyone's business unless it was for their own good. Stayed in the four walls of his own apartment he rented close to the barracks. He’d made one friend in the entire complex. You. His next-door neighbour. The only thing he knew before prying was your last name on the buzzer out front. From there it was waiting. And watching. Frankie had an obsession with observing you from his kitchen window every time you came home from work at the bar. Stood in the shroud of shadow and sheer curtain. He dug his claws in and clung to each passing conversation in the hallway, or the laundromat down the street whenever coincidence let you pop up there too. Stored each part of you that you trusted him with in his mind for safekeeping. Often caught himself staring at a particular pair of red lace panties whenever you did your laundry.

There was one small, tiny little problem in all of this, however. Lisa. He supposed he should thank her really, because without her, he would have never moved out of the barracks in the hope of starting a life for them. He would have never met you. It was convenient, reasonably priced and he could excuse poor plumbing and heating for the fact it was close enough to his work that he didn't have to wake up any earlier than 5:30. But Lisa…oh, Lisa was Machiavelian. A conniving woman, with her heart set in thick ice, and a cold, unforgiving grip over what was hers. It made him wonder what he saw in her in the first place. Maybe he was blinded to everything but the curve of her face, or the pout of her mouth and the pant of his name as it passed her parted lips. Or there was some morbid fascination he had with her teeth as they bared to his skin and bit down. Tearing him to shreds. Either way, there was something to live for when being ripped apart by her. Something to distract from the sounds of pleasure that seeped through paper thin walls at night. Your pleasure. At the hands of a man he felt nothing compared to and knew nothing about. So he’d roll over and fuck out his frustration on the woman he hated but chose to stay with until she left him for another.

Another day, another ache. Another pain cramping in his lower back as Frankie inched closer to thirty and still no happier. Twenty-seven, a stable-ish job…and what else in life to show for it? He was bitter. In no place to want the company of another unless only for the night. Except tonight he was alone again, pressing his key into the lock, twisting it open, closing the door behind him. And then waiting…listening. Anticipating the drag of his hand south over the plane of his abdomen to under his boxers where he’d tease himself to the sound of you with another man. The pretty whimpers you’d let slip under the weight of another man's skin and bone, and the pleasure flooding the gaps of your synapses.

Only this time there were no cries for more. No whimpers, or moans. No. These sounds were shouts. And anger ignited you as you rampaged through your apartment on the other side of the wall, getting dressed as Mark, the man you’d wasted months on, chased after you in pursuit of your forgiveness.

“Who do you think I am?’ Frankie heard through the wall, pressing his ear to cold plaster with bated breath. Your voice was shrill, seething with the intent to carve into Mark’s skin with an onslaught of verbal mutilation. Have the words mark him with bleeding, weeping shame. “No, really? You think I’d never figure it out, Mark? Am I naïve to you?”

He slipped out of bed with careful stealth: Followed the sound of your voice through the wall, walking with his ear pressed to it before the sound of your front door opening made him jump, stepping back for a second. He blinked, once, twice…then raised his hands to plaster again and leaned closer, ears straining to hear what was now distance shrieking from the hallway outside. Which he followed to his front door. Listening intently behind the wood.

As he held his breath until his lungs burned in his chest, something flared up in Frankie. A desperate, wanting, starving need to swoop in. Be your knight in shining armour. The words were stuck in his throat, and if he wasn’t careful, they would choke him blue. But if he knew even a shred about you, it was that you’d hate that just as much as whatever it was Mark had done to you to have you tossing him out in the early evening. You were a private person. A woman who never appreciated prying ears or eyes. You avoided all his questions about your past whenever he asked. Swerved him off topic and into the hedgerow before he had a chance to blink and realise he had the backhand of whiplash. And if he let it slip once that the walls were thin, there was no telling where your quick mind would jump to next. Frankie never knew why or what made you so guarded. But he imagined one day you bit the hand of god and he stopped feeding you.

Frankie’s heart was thumping to the beat of his anxiety in his throat, making it harder to swallow the lump it formed, clammy palms pressed to the cool wood with the rest of him.

“You’re a sick man!” He heard, followed by a thumping of something being thrown, then a yelp out of Mark as Frankie guessed he was dodging whatever it was you threw his way. Shoes, maybe? Something else? “A coward! So get out. Don't call. Don’t come knocking. And tell your fucking wife!”

A shuffling of ashamed feet. A slam of your front door. Clattering around behind shared walls. Then silence.

It was five minutes of silence. But it felt like the seconds within those intervals were put on the rack and stretched in torture. Five minutes that he should have used to step back from his door but didn't. He just prayed there was more of you to have to himself for a second.

Then the descent of knuckles came beating down on his door. Causing his heart to jolt out in his chest then plummet into his stomach. Twisting his insides into knots that made him sick with intrigue. He took a step back. And a breath. Then waited a second before opening the door to find you stood there in a silly little lace hemmed tank top and sleep shorts. Your hair dishevelled and cheeks flushed. He opened his mouth to speak, but found the words stuck to the backs of his teeth and the roof of his mouth like soggy, claggy toffee. So he shut up, grateful you cut him off first.

“We’re having a bonfire. So whatever shit Lisa left here, bring it with you. My door will be open. I’ll be on my balcony.” And you left him with nothing but that. Stomping back down the hall in a flurry of your anger.

Frankie stood there, feet practically glued to the floor, fingers curling in on his palms as his blunt nails pressed into already calloused flesh. And an image of you, teeth bared to him like Lisa’s once were, appeared in his mind. An apparition of hurt, torment and his own vulnerability. But it was too late. His feet moved before his mind could and he was already collecting the things of his ex-girlfriend who had wronged him time and time again, stuffing them into his arms in a bundle of broken memory, anguish and lingering hurt.

He found you standing by a metal bin of a man's belongings. The odd t-shirt, pictures of your face next to his, smiles happy and bright with the joy of a relationship you never expected to cave in. In your hand was a packet of cigarettes you'd told him in the passing of a hallway’s conversation that you’d quit, but evidently not. And a crumpled, misshapen box of matches. In the other was a bottle of Whiskey. The brand Mark insisted on liking and you’d bought him for a birthday present. A present he’d never receive because he was as dead to you as the day was long.

“I thought you quit.” He said, trying to start a conversation that hit a dead end pitifully quickly.

“Toss it on.” You mumbled dismissively with a jerk of your head to the pile, eyes glued to Mark’s belongings, washing down your bitter words with an even more bitter swig of drink.

Frankie complied wordlessly from there, dumping the contents of his arms on top of the photos and clothes, stepping back while you poured a generous amount of the liquor on top. A seasoning of fuck you not farewell to the people you’d shared your life with and would thankfully never cross paths with again. He took the bottle from you when you pressed it into his chest, taking a drink and grimacing at the taste. It wasn't smooth. It was almost sour, with a kickback that burned too much to be pleasurable as it passed down the column of his throat in a thick swallow. His thoughts trickled in from there as he read the label and glanced at you. He wanted to get you drunk. Get you to slip up. Let yourself be taken for once.

You both watched, deadfaced, as you struck a match, used it to light a cigarette and then tossed it in the bin as memories curled up under heat. The alcohol setting the blaze up in a satisfying roar of good riddance.

He thought it was a little strange. How you’d come to him. Yes, you were friends. But the type of friend that only ever conversed between life events. In the empty limbo of hallways and laundromats. Not burning things on your balcony in the hope the heat will melt your heart back together, It was a little late for that. Stone doesn’t melt. And the two of you had hearts of set concrete from the turn of events you’d experienced. Encased in the cage of bone that would no longer open to another unless broken in two and forced apart. So you slid down the brick wall, knees bent to your chest while you smoked. The flame flickering a violent xanthous, ochre and scarlet.

He joined you on the floor, passing back the bottle. The two of you side by side, and it only just occurred to Frankie how lonely he was now. But how terrified of intimacy he was. Intimacy of a level deeper than skin/ The both of you wordless, silent as the decaying dead of night. Only the crackle of fire between you and a sniff for your nose as the evening air nipped it and made it run. So to distract yourself, you condemned your tongue to bad liquor, chasing it with a drag of your cigarette and a grimace,

“God, this is shit.” You scoffed.

“Not a hard liquor gal?” He chuckled, turning his head to glance at you out the corner of his eyes before the flame had his eyes attention again.

“More of a wine person, really. But even I can tell this is shit.” And you gestured to the bottle in your hand, reading over the label and sighing.

“Yeah,” he sighed, inflicting another taste upon himself when he took it out of your grasp. “It is.”

Silence again. Not awkward for you who preferred your own company to others, but for him, who had been watching you begging for an in, it was clawing at his insides like a starved animal would at the walls of its enclosure.

“So…” He drew out, and you had to bite back an amused smile.

“What?”

Frankie found himself staring in trance at your side profile, with the same fascination you honed in on the flickering flame. He thought in silence for a second. Asking himself the same question.

"How long did you date Mark for?" He asked. The name made him grimace as if it tasted sour in his mouth. Like he had to spit it out with disgust in every syllable for fear of it burning.

"Six months." Another awkward, off beat pause followed as he nodded. Then asked again.

“Did you love him?”

"No." You said flat out. But your words were honest and brutal to the man you let in then kicked out.

Frankie found himself suffocating a sigh of relief in his own ribs. They pinched slightly with an attempt of something profound to be felt. Like a child who had stumbled upon a strangely twisted shell at the beach. "Have you ever loved anyone?"

You turned to him, tilting your head. But Frankie couldn't tell if it was annoyance or respect for the bravery he had on asking you such personal questions. "What is this? Keeping Up With The Kardashians?"He held up his hands in quick defence, backing down.

“I’m just trying to get to know you.”

"There isn't anything to know except for the fact I'm pissed off." You muttered. “And I figured you would be too, considering the argument I heard a couple nights ago through the wall of my kitchen."

Frankie felt his face go pale, then heat up in the apples of his cheeks. "Oh. So you heard that?" The way your cigarette smouldered as you spoke was the only movement on the narrow balcony. So you did know the walls were thin. It made him wonder what else you knew. If you knew how he strained to listen through plaster and drywall each night.

"Oh, I heard it alright.” You smirked, finding sick pleasure in the way he seemed to squirm. “Something about Lisa finding you...'dull behind the eyes'." Frankie watched as you rolled your eyes and doubled back on your standing in the argument, "If you're going to insult someone, at least be creative about it. ``Give them a good reason to cut it loose." You were like a pendulum to him. But one that spun in clockwise, then anticlockwise circles, instead of oscillating back and forth. Unpredictable in a way that both horrified and intrigued him.

"Dull?" He had to laugh in disbelief, "I am not dull."

You smiled to yourself at that, leaning your head back against the brickwork. Ready to shatter his lie with a flick of your sharp tongue. "You are dull, Frankie. You get up. Go to work. Come back. You do your laundry every Sunday— and I know that because so do I. Your car is always in the exact same spot next to mine. Without fail. Now, you can put all down to ‘strict military regime’, but the bitter truth is," You looked him in the eye, your cig hanging from your lips as you showed him the satisfied grin pulling at your mouth, "you are dull. We all are. We work, we grind, we cry because we work. You ache to the marrow and you get stabbed in the back. And you're begging on your damn knees to bite the hand that feeds you. But if you do, then you starve.”

Frankie had never had his own fear served to him by such a beautiful devil before. And he wished, with all he had left in him that Lisa hadn’t taken or ruined, that you were wrong. It made him want to cave into himself to protect what little he had left. Snarl like a wounded bitch as he held back from others to lick his wounds. Maybe offer it to you and beg you to take it off his hands. But how could he argue when you were practically holding up a mirror to his own eyes? "I hate that you're right." He said in solemn downcast bereavement. And watched the cloud of smoke float silently in front of your face to obscure the very mouth that let him have it in such careful, exact slicing words. The blade of your knife was sharpened to a paper thin point. Now stained with his body’s red.

"There are very few things I'm wrong about. Regardless of that, it's a simple formula and easy to understand.”

“And what is it?” He asked, but regretted it for he knew his heart might not be able to take much more. Not that he showed it. This whole exchange his brow hadn’t folded into a single crease.

“Two things in life are certain: Death. And taxes. You work to pay your taxes, and you die from working."

"That's a pretty pessimistic way of looking at things."

"Life is pessimistic." You shot back with amusement, intently staring in a fixed trance at the pile of burning memories. The last warmth it offered was metaphorically and literally its own destruction. Irony, as Frankie pointed out to himself in his crawling mind. "It crucifies you, and burns you...until you curl in on yourself at the corners and turn to ash."

The conversation had reached a level of solemnity he hadn’t expected, but he’d be a liar if he didn't admit to sinking his claws in yet again. His teeth might come next if you gave him the sweet chance.

You were quiet after that. Both of you were. The remnants of a fire that symbolised how Mark was no longer relevant in your life, and neither Lisa in his. If he thought Lisa was machiavellian, the word had new meaning now. But like with her, it drew him in and snared him into blissful trance. It was the type of blind faith you pin to a deity in the sky. The type that you never see but are forced and gaslit into believing because it's shoved down your throat from a young age. You were not his savour. He knew that in the pit of his very existence, the eye of the storm in his gut.

He would be crucified by you.

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”

"Aw." You pouted in mock appreciation, pressing a hand to your chest. "Thank you."

Frankie afforded himself the pleasure of laughing at that. As cynical as it all was, it was real. You had just dared to say the quiet hushed parts out loud for him to digest. Though he felt like he was choking on it more than swallowing it. Regardless, he pushed it down to find confidence in himself and prod further.

“You keep doing that.”

“What?” “That.” Frankie pointed to all of you with a gesture absent of any direction, as if it was obvious. He watched as you tilted your head and scrunched your face a little. That crease in your brow…how it would haunt him in future. He felt like the prey. He was torn between wanting you to hunt him slowly so he could feel something at your hand, agony or not. Or asking you to do it quickly so he doesn't have to pursue through the bitter aftertaste.

“I’m not following.”

“You do this thing…where you turn conversations on their head. I feel like I'm getting whiplash.” He forced out a chuckle to make it seem like he was playing through with humour. But his words were genuine under the lace disguise of jest. You really did confuse him. You had his string of thought in knots. Complicated ones. “Why?”

Your eyes narrowed at the question. “You’re trying to figure me out.”

“Why shouldn’t i?”

"Because I'm not the distraction you need." You bit, almost like a warning. And Frankie would have listened if he wasn't so hellbent on breaking in. No matter how hostile, how feral, he'd take the time to tame the caged, battered, abused animal.

“Maybe not.” He agreed, twisting his upper body to face you. It’s important to understand that what Frankie felt wasn’t love. At least, not how he’d experienced it in the past. This was an infatuation birthed by the fruit of lust forbidden to act upon until now. “But you’re the one I want.” With those words came a darkness in his eyes. The kind that reminded you of floods and tempests in biblical art. You were that tempest, with swollen grey clouds and a hammering of thunder ringing in his ears. Laughing as you crashed him onto rocks while he swam helplessly with little energy to the shore. Only to be shoved back with another crushing wave that cut through flesh and met bone with a chill like ice. “Just because we’re sad and miserable, doesn’t mean we have to give up a good time.” His instincts were buried before. Rolling in their grave at the chance to touch you. So he pressed his palms to the lid of the coffin and pushed. Reaching out to trace a delicate line along the angle of your jaw. His eyes were drawn to the soft plush of your lips and how they parted ever so slightly. “I want a distraction, baby.”

He had you where he wanted you. And the liquor mixing thick with your blood had inhibition slipping through your fingers. His breath was hot on your lips. Needy to be paid attention to.

“Would it be worth my while?” You challenged, ignoring eye contact for now. Instead looking to his lips for the lies.

“You don’t think I could satisfy you?” He smirked, lifting your chin with a single thick finger curled underneath and the pad of his thumb swiping slowly over your bottom lip. “I’ll do better than anyone else could.”

“Sounds like an awful lot of confidence you have there. At the end of the day, a dog that’s all bark and no bite is just a bitch.”

Frankie chuckled at that. A deep rumble that rattled the bones that protect the hollow hole in his chest. “Come on…let me have a taste.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He took the silence and the glimmer of ‘i dare you’ in your eyes, pressing his lips to yours to consume you. Devour you whole. They took their time in sinking together and suctioning your lower lip into his mouth. Then his tongue dared to venture forward past parted lips to lick into your mouth and taste the backs of your teeth.

First, you let go of trepidation to take a hold of him. The roots of his hair and the back of his neck, fingers curled like talons. After, you let go of all else. The thoughts scratching the back of your skull, the headache that blistered before by the inferno calmed down and you were forced to focus on him alone as he took a handful of your hips and lifted you up to his lap to roll into him like a steady tide.

You pulled him by the collar of his shirt to your room, clothes left in a scattered flurry along the way. Breadcrumbs to pick up later and either regret or laugh at. He unhinged your jaw to let slip your airy moan as his hands travelled south to meet the seam of your cunt. All else fell into place when he circled your clit with two fingers to start the first loop of the knot in your belly. A warmup for the act of sin, and need, and wanting. Whatever god there was should have never been prayed to in the first place. And Frankie knew it now that he was damned to hell from the first parting of your thighs for his wandering hand. His teeth were ready for sinking as he gathered your legs and hooked them over his shoulders to walk open mouthed, spit decorated kisses down the trunk of your navel. Pressing his nose into your mound. The must of your cunt making his eyes light up as he stared at the bob of your throat when you swallowed sharply. Head rolled back to the pillow. His tongue glided into your folds for the first lick. Making a hot wet stripe of a path from your asshole to your clit. He used the tip of his tongue to circle it and glide lover to curl into your quivering hole. Drawing out the taste. The beckoning gesture of his tongue gathering your taste in his senses. A thumb following suit to roll the bud of your clit under it, his nose clumsy as it bumped into it too. Obsessing over the tang of your arousal, thick in shine over his lips the scruff of his chin.

Your thighs clamped over his ears that were red. The heat made your own skin burn. Dark curls of his hair whispering against their insides as he continued to devour you from the seam. And your orgasm– it burned bright after the first fizzle. Made your eyes scrunch closed as he pulled it from you with hand and tongue. What was used for his words had yours spilling from parted lips like a puppet. A vessel for him to carry pleasure through. It had you toppling over into oblivion. The abyss.

With bones brittle and hollowed like a bird you were fine to be dead weight as he ascended your body again. Folding you in half with your legs still bent over his shoulders. He traced the jut of your collarbone with the blunt edges of his teeth. How he wished they’d be sharp to sink deeper. But you were grateful as it would be easier for him to not draw blood and see the inside of you ran red like all the others. It was easy to not be human. It was easy to not show emotion and weakness.

“Feel that?’ he panted against your goosebump pebbled skin, and you nodded. You did. It was the promise to feel desired and not broken. And not maimed beyond repair by another person you let in. Another person you built yourself up to prepare to love, to only have the rug pulled from under your feet and the brickwork clatter to the ground. It was the same promise to him. And the desire that ran thick in his blood made his pulse thrum heavy under its weight. Its intrusion hot under his lust scorched skin.

“Yeah.”

“Imma make it go away for you, baby.” he promised with a kiss to the hollow of your throat below its column, between your clavicle. And it was anything but empty. It was full. And round, and swollen with something deeper in his ribs that ached to be let loose. Breathed to fill you too. “I’ll make it all go away.”

His hips pressed flush to yours and the drag of neatly groomed hair sent a shockwave through your clit and up your rattling spine. Vertebrae by vertebrae. Setting off blazing fireworks in your mind for just a second before he started a slow drag. It was a stretch that stung. But pain was comfort if it had pleasure hot on its heels like an obedient dog. Ironic how you feared men like him, who seemed so eager to please and let themselves in uninvited. But you took it willingly this time because you needed to forget for a single second about the heart that bled under flesh and bone in the cage of your ribs.

His cock was thick, full and curved up into the part of you that you couldn't have reached even if you tried. He slotted into your heat like he was meant to stay there. And that alone made you want to scream for him to give in and not relent so you could be ignorant to the way it seemed divine. The roll of his hips kicked up in pace and soon he was hunched over you. Strong arms rippled with muscle from brutal training since the age of eighteen bracing himself on either side of your head. The feeling of him curling his hips into you made you burn. It sent a tumble of a moan from your lips through the breathless pant of his name. A name he never thought you'd call in the tangle of your sheets. But the burning need to give you what he had wanted all this time ate at him. It ripped the flesh fresh off his bone and left him bleeding into you.

Frankie’s eyes misted over when the chain that hung from his neck slipped over your chin and you bought the metal of his dog tags between your teeth. Biting down. It feels better biting down anyway. And the cool of the metal on your hot tongue made your head swim. Looking him in his eyes and daring him deeper. So his lips pressed into a firm line, and your nails raked down his back to leave raised red lines in their wake. Tracing new paths over the old map of scar tissue. Marking new land and territory. The air between you hung heavy with the heat of exhales. And blew with the shared moan you indulged in when it coiled in your belly. The cradle of your hips accommodated his cock as it stretched the tightness of your walls. Your slick arousal giving way to fluidity of otherwise rabid motion. Starving.

When on his tongue, you were alive. Inside you he breathed again with the clutch of your cunt around him. Warm and beating, and thrumming quickly like a hummingbird's wings. A squatter temporarily camped up in the crack between two ribs. Where thick muscle shuddered with breath. You believed something in you was worth loving. But you also knew for it to be found you'd have to be flayed alive.

The crash of his hips into yours aided in the symphony of sex, and filled the four walls painted but void of personal belongings. If he were on the other side of them he'd be jealous. But now he was here, he was alive. Beating hearted and thriving. And any god, saint, angel or divinity could watch and weep as he finally had what he wanted. What he might have needed in order to restore his humanity that lay dormant for so long. He was trying to crack you open so he could lick up what lay inside you. Gather it up in his arms like the greedy wolf, lambs gore, blood and flesh, between fangs of his lower jaw. Have the muscle pulsing between his teeth. But he wouldn't. So for now he'd settle for the flesh on show. The mound of your panting breast that he pressed into his open mouth. The flat of his tongue pressing greedily to your nipple. Before his lips pinched together and pulled the left pert. Switching to do the same for the right. Not leaving an inch of you untouched. Because he had his chance now. And who knew when he'd get another. So he relished in what he was spared and he would take it with him to the grave. Dream of it on his deathbed if this killed him. Or if something else did. Regardless. This would run through his mind until his last heavy and troubled breath.

“That's it.” he murmured into your breast. “Take it. Take it, baby. Take me..”

Your back arched, strung tight like a bow ready to fire. Spine curled up into the heat of his mouth and he bit down again on the swell of your breast. Wanting to take its entire weight into his mouth and have it rot and smear into his tongue. The fizzle of nerve endings reached the tips of your curling toes. The heels of your feet digging into the planes of his scapula to press him closer in the burning of your young orgasm.

“Come on. Let me see you come.” Frankie demanded in a breathless growl as he stared you down with his eyes. The hue of his irises almost devoured by black of pupil. Your jaw unhinged to let rip a silent scream. Feeling that sharp coil snap, and a numbness fill your aching core before your toes curl in pleasure. He helped you ride it out with his cock fucking into your tight weeping cunt while you sang out his name in a chorus of moans, whimpers and cries. Letting go utterly as a rush filled you, lighting you up like dry kindling under your skin. The pulsating of your walls around his length had his hips faltering for just a moment, twitching within your sopping cunt. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he let out a deep guttural groan, closing in on skin with teeth again. Spilling inside you, the mix of your slick with his cum painting you white like the searing heat of pleasure between you. He leaves the last of his load with you by fucking it deeper. Three, sharp, punctuated thrusts.

He lay flat above you while he awaited the comedown from his catharsis. The tingle down his spine sputtered out in a haze of slowburn afterglow. Eyes closed and face buried into the crook of your perspiring neck. Panting together. Hit tongue forgot for a second to shape your name the way it sounded, but with a sharp inhale, the air surged his mind.

“I suppose this is the part where I leave?” He mumbled, pulling back from your skin. His time had come and ended. The two of you now sat back to the world of hallway and laundromat limbo. He sighed through his nose when you nodded. And he did the same, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Frankie gathered his clothes up, putting them on slowly one by one. Drawing out the ache of being alone again by lingering in your presence.

“Come back tomorrow.” You said. Not asked. He nodded, still facing the door. Then twisted the handle and left an empty space in your apartment where he had once been.

#pedro pascal #triple frontier #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fic #frankie morales smut #frankie triple frontier #frankie morales fanfic #bark!bite!bleed!

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genderkoolaid · 1 year ago

Note

(different person than last anon) can you give us like actual scientific papers that "nonhumans" are real and not just ppl that need a lot of psychological help? bc like while gender + sex can be very diverse and change w the individual, species is extremely specific and thats why shit like making crossbreeds is so insanely hard and they usually end up infertile bc the genes arent meant to be combined. n also the only example i can think of of any other species having "i am not the species i was born as" thoughts is that one female monkey that was raised so close w people she thought she was a person and she would refuse to breed w any of her primate species bc of it. you would call that mental illness in that monkey because she cannot be a person in a monkey body, just like someone can't be a dog or angel or horse in a human body, so why do you not consider being "nonhuman" also a mental illness?

can you please explain about alterhumanity? I don’t mean to be negative, I don’t understand… “there are only two sexes” is wrong because biology knowledge we have today actually doesn’t support that. did modern taxonomy find out something similar about humans? that’s very interesting, I don’t know a lot about it! but if you do I’d love to read that research!

So I think "there are only two sexes" isn't the best example; the comparison is more like "people can't change their gender because gender is whats in your pants"

Yes, we can look at chromosomes and hormones and sexual organs, and that stuff is related to gender. But to say "gender/sex is a construct" does not mean "chromosomes/hormones/sex organs don't exist." Its pointing out that our relationship to those things is culturally dependent (I wouldn't say "unnatural" because humans making social constructs is natural).

Similarly, we do divide up species based on reproduction and common ancestors. But "humanity" is also a construct. What it means to be human & who is defined as human can and does change depending on our culture. Not only can some people be excluded from humanity (for example, people of color and neurodivergents), but some people believe they are spiritually nonhuman (whatever that means for them). Some people who have been rejected from humanity identify as alterhuman as a way of saying "you don't want me, then I don't want you" (voidpunk is related to this although not inherently alterhuman). Some people are delusional and identify with alterhumanity as a way of coping with their delusions (and also, yes, you can be self-aware about your delusions). Some people believe in reincarnation or alternate universes or have some other spiritual belief related to being nonhuman. Some people just feel like dogs and enjoy being a dog and it doesn't matter why because they just like it.

Honestly, the monkey does sound like a monkey-version of alterhuman, because (if I can get a little anthropomorphize-y on y'all), it sounds like she did not feel apart of "monkey culture." Obviously we can't know if monkeys have a concept of monkey-hood like we do with humanity, but if they did it would not be hard to imagine how a monkey raised with humans would feel more human than monkey. But regardless... we don't need other species to have alter-species-hood for the same reason we don't need snails to crossdress for trans people to exist. Other animals probably don't have the same complex. abstract social constructs we do.

Why can't someone be a horse in a human body? For the same reason someone can't be a man in a woman's body- because "science says"? Both trans-denial and alterhuman-denial emphasizes biology over sociological investigation, which leads people to just keep shouting "but science!!!!!!!!!!" at people who are more invested in questions of culture and constructs and what it means to be [man/woman/human] in society.

(Also, I'm kind of uncomfortable with how the first ask talks about mental illness. Specifically "person believes harmless weird thing, so they must need Psychological Help for their Wrong Thoughts")

#m.#ask box

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overleftdown · 11 months ago

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can u talk more abt his apparent affairs w teachers and relationship w sex in general? so many ppl gloss over that bit

of course! i'll link a couple posts for preface, although i'll probably paraphrase some stuff anyways.

[my commentary on sex and consent in saltburn.]

i received an ask regarding farleigh's queerness the other day, to which i tied in this little tidbit about farleigh's affirs with teachers. the explicitly male/male language that felix used when recounting farleigh's sexcapades with teachers was interesting to me. farleigh is pansexual (as stated in the screenplay), but felix uses male/male language exclusively. part of this could be the erasure of pansexual or bisexual reality. people either exclude the homosexual aspect of someone's identity, or the heterosexual aspect. but this could also mean that farleigh did only harbor affairs with male teachers.

that would be an interesting complex to think about. although women in positions of power are absolutely capable of abusing that power and asserting dominance over others, men have a different dynamic within that. the fact is, farleigh does things to gain the affections of other people, because he isn't automatically handed that affection. farleigh does play into teacher/student dynamics, whether it's overtly sexual or not. you can see this in the tutor scene and the brief montage moment where fareligh is sitting on the floor in front of the tutor, while they both ignore oliver. consider it an investment, of sorts. there's always a possibility that a white teacher will have academic bias against you, and the need to mitigate that is strangling sometimes. teachers are also just dicks. i find myself in "teacher's pet" positions for a number of reasons, a few of them are bias related.

where it gets complicated is the sex aspect specifically. if it is true that farleigh has been expelled from an absurd number of schools specifically for harboring teacher/student sexual affairs, then this is can really only be perceived as compulsive. also, can i just say, the fact that farleigh was expelled instead of the teacher being fired is disgusting. i kinda wanna call this evidence of discrimination, as well. queerness and perceived sexual deviancy, blackness and the constant inability to be seen as human and innocent. arghgh. i digress. the fact is, if farleigh truly was harboring sexual affairs with teachers for his own benefit and that alone, then he wouldn't have made the mistake so frequently. he would've recognized that the disadvantages outweighed the benefits and found other ways of playing teacher's pet. archie talked about the quickstart dynamic and said that although it was ambiguously consensual, farleigh is attracted to and aroused by power dynamics. many people are. where that compulsive need to buy into power dynamics comes from, i'm not sure. it could be a lot of things.

the neglectful nature of farleigh's upbringing could've resulted in a need for validation and attention from those who are in a position of authority. farleigh's queerness could've resulted in an internalized feeling of perversion that was then externalized through a desire to be taken advantage of. the nature of submission is also often linked to a need for control in other areas of life, and therefore relinquishing control in sexual dynamics. some marginalized people play into eroticization because it can be more validating than exclusion. many people learn to crave their own objectification, and it's often a manifestation of sexual trauma or other forms of trauma. if i get really convoluted and let my angst-fanfiction brain run wild, i start to imagine what environments farleigh was in throughout his childhood. as archie said, farleigh was involved in overly "mature" conversations and situations through his mother. what that could mean for farleigh's perception of sex, nobody knows. i can let my imagination go insane though. i can imagine a lot of weird scenarios. those are all conjecture, of course.

i'm just going to conclude that whatever sexual complexes farleigh has, they're not healthy. i don't think that they should be fetishized or ignored. i think that they're relevant to farleigh and oliver's on-screen dynamic, especially considering oliver was in a position of power over farleigh when they had sex.

#farleigh start #saltburn #meta #so much meta #i'm yapping and i love asks #thank you for the ask teehehehe #hope this was a good response <3 #oliver's absurd extrospective posts #just constantly yabbering away #you guys are validating me though ^-^

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ryuichirou · 1 year ago

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So I haven't seen Lilia/Malleus headcanons...?

Thank you for waiting, Anon! Today is your lucky day, because I’m finally posting these…

I was so surprised when we got your ask and the realisation that we haven’t posted any Lilia/Malleus headcanons hit me. This is simply unacceptable.

That being said, I want to leave a disclaimer that we haven’t watched ch7 yet, so I’m writing these prior to knowing full context about what’s going on in the Diasomnia part of the story. Please keep in mind that I could miss some key things because of that.

We would also appreciate if you keep any possible comments or asks related to this topic spoilers-free.

With that out of the way, let’s dive into these two and their complex relationship~

Starting by stating the obvious: Lilia was Malleus’ first everything. First kiss, first lover and, of course, first crush. He is still deeply and rather possessively in love with Lilia, even though these days he’s acting more mature than he used to. Well…

Despite not acting as desperate as he did when he was younger, Malleus is still quite protective of his love towards Lilia; he is even romantic enough to consider that Lilia is the love of his life. He still remembers the excitement and the butterflies he felt every time Lilia arrived to the castle after being away for way too long.

Lilia, however, thinks that this is just Malleus still being young, overly emotional and also rather sheltered. He also loves Malleus very much, but he doesn’t like it when he starts acting entitled to his attention. Instead, he wants Malleus to get more new meaningful connections, to fall in love with other people, to date other people. This is one of the things he had in mind when they enrolled in the NRC.

While Malleus really tries to get more sociable and approachable (when he isn’t hiding from everyone and pushing others away, of course), when he enrolled in the NRC, he had an idea of this whole thing really different from Lilia’s. He thought that this is finally his chance to spend more time with Lilia……... which isn’t what happened at all. It’s their 3rd year, so Malleus doesn’t agonize over it too much, but he was a bit depressed during their first year.

The only reason Malleus still regrets that he didn’t get to be a part of the Music Club, well, other than the fact that he really enjoys performing in front of the audience, is that he would really love to be in a club with Lilia.

It sounds like things between them are kind of sour, but this isn’t 100% the case. Like I’ve already said, Lilia does love Malleus, so he likes joining him during his evening stroll sometimes, likes to tease him, likes having long conversations with him. And boy oh boy how much he loves to prank others together with him… they’re dangerous when they’re having fun together.

When these two are alone, the mood can get spicy surprisingly quickly. It’s like they were just talking about something random, and then suddenly they’re giving each other bedroom eyes. They flirt a lot, and when Lilia is in a flirty mood, Malleus’s mind goes completely blank. Yep, that’s enough angst, we’re moving to spicier headcanons now lol

Of course, Lilia knows all the right spots on Malleus’ body. He knows how to hold his tail just right, how to pull on his horns and how to grab his throat. He nibs on Malleus’ horns, and Malleus either scoffs or groans at that, depending on his mood. Lilia is never really gentle with him, but Malleus is also kind of bratty, so this is pretty normal for them.

Out of any potential lovers, Lilia would be the only one who isn’t afraid of disciplining and taming Malleus during sex. He puts his fist in Malleus’ mouth when he starts biting too much, he controls his orgasm and almost manhandles him, which is insane, considering their height difference lol but this isn’t Lilia’s first rodeo with this horse.

It can get quite intense when they have sex, because Malleus gets literally dangerous when he is overly stimulated both sexually and emotionally. The guy is shooting lightnings left and right while Lilia is fucking him. Which is super amusing, but such a headache for Lilia, because he has to keep it in mind…..

#replies #headcanons #lilimal

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bisexual-horror-fan · 1 year ago

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Yo Bex I have a serious question for you since I was debating it with someone:

If someone has cheated on their partner in the past, can/should they be forgiven/trusted to be faithful in the future? Either by the partner they cheated on or a future partner?

I personally believe absolutely the fuck NOT. Cheating is one of those things that's just- you don't do it cause you didn't realize it was wrong. You do it KNOWING it's wrong. Its a decision, not a mistake. Now, I'll admit that I'm biased because one of my parents was a cheater who destroyed my childhood with their lies and secrets, but I think I have a point.

Most folks I've spoken to are like "oh you're too harsh maybe they've gotten better" but Idk. I still feel like cheaters shouldn't be trusted in a relationship. What's your opinion?

I personally think the issue is very nuanced. It isn't black and white to me because so many factors are at play, it really should be judged on a case by case basis as well as up to the people involved. If someone wants to take that chance and trust the person won't ever do that again and be faithful I can totally understand that, and if someone says no and that is a deal breaker than I fully get and respect that perspective too.

But to me, it's complicated. Cheating can mean a lot. Cheating can be fucking another person when you agreed to be mono, but I have seen some people insist that hanging out alone with a member of the opposite sex as cheating, because no one can hang out like that platonically right? Gotta love the people who assume men and women can never just be friends, sex always has to enter into it somehow. I've seen people who don't want their partner to have any friends of the opposite sex, which I personally, find insane. Also gross because the idea is that you can't hang with someone you have the potential to be attracted to without SoMetHiNg happening, (What does that mean for bi people like me? I just can't be friends with anyone?)

I'm not the best person to ask as to what should be considered cheating because I am polyam, extremely sexual, and open. I know the difference is my husband and I agree to all our boundaries and someone who cheats is disrespecting those boundaries but on the real dude I have watched and gotten off on another woman riding my husband right in front of me, as well as have extremely emotionally deep and intimate relationships with just friends.

My opinion is the spectrum is broad, humans aren't so easy to place in boxes, it depends on the severity of the cheating, how often it has happened, the age of those involved. I don't think someone who cheated on their first gf/bf in high school when they were like 15 should still be judged for that shit at 20 or 30. I don't think someone who cheats emotionally via getting support from someone who helps them deal with the fact they are trapped in a situation with a shitty abusive partner should be judged harshly either. A serial cheater is one thing, a person who made a mistake they have clearly changed and grown from is another.

I agree. Cheating sucks, willfully stomping on the boundaries and trust of another person in a relationship is terrible and I don't abide by it, anyone who has been cheated on that fucking blows and I am truly sorry. But I think people make mistakes, people are capable of change and growth, always.

I consulted one of my besties who had their own home life destroyed via cheating, causing a divorce and blow up and the rest and they agree with what I said above. That it is complex and nuanced, just so you know that someone in a similar situation to yours has a stance matching mine. My life wasn't destroyed by cheating, or at least I didn't know it till this year that my birth mother cheated on my dad multiple times when I was as young as six months old before they divorced, and I still hold my stance.

My opinion is, If someone can trust that person, then why not? And if someone can't, that's fine and not a failing on anyone's part. That is my opinion Anon.

#WOOF #ANYWAY #Here's this #BHF asks #BHF advice #People are people and people are complex #Hope this helps you Anon

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mewtonian-physics · 2 years ago

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@hylasregilla sounds like a deal to me! the whole character ask with raikov... let's go

1. My first impression of them

'oh god, why? i hate this. why does this have to be a thing'

2. When I think I truly started to like them (or dislike them, if you've sent me a character I don't like)

suckered myself into liking him april 1 2022. the real april fool was me

3. A song that reminds me of them

hmm. last time i got this particular question i said bubblegum bitch. this time i'll give you the first song on the raikov playlist

youtube

4. How many people I ship them with

just ooooooone

5. My favorite ship of them

raikov/the guy @setphies and i made up just so he could finally have a good relationship 2kforever

6. My least favorite ship of them

[points at volgin]

7. A quote of them that you remember

from mgs3? i think about 'do your job' a lot. from other metal gear content? 'regretful'. and if it's about lines i wrote myself, i'm quite fond of 'eat from the tree of knowledge, and pay better attention next time'.

8. Your favorite outfit of them

well in canon he only has two outfits, so... uniform, duh

9. Your least favorite outfit of them

that'd be the non-outfit [grimaces]

10. Describe the character in one sentence

'a lot more complex than official canon would have you think.'

11. What’s the first thing you think about when thinking about the character?

eva theory of course!

12. Sexuality hc!

highkey fucking gay of course. but also ace. he likes men but sex itself isn't something he's really interested in. (he's also sex-repulsed due to trauma but without that it'd just be 'whatever' to him.)

13. Your favorite friendship they have

him and ocelot naturally

14. Best storyline they had

the one i came up with myself

15. Worst storyline they had

official canon

16. A childhood headcanon

he doesn't actually know his own real name. he picked out 'ivan' himself as a child because he hoped it would bring him luck

17. What do you think their first word was?

'cold'

18. How do you think they were as a kid? (Like, were they shy, noisy, wild, etc)

as said previously, he was very survival-oriented and had very few limitations on what he'd do to stay alive. would as soon steal from you as talk to you. still pretty manipulative and he had fun doing it. who'd have thought someone who looked so innocent would rob you blind in a heartbeat? well. he would

19. The most random ship you've seen people have with them

i try not to pay attention to ships with him <3 but i've seen him and ocelot which just feels weird to me

20. A weird headcanon

i think a lot of people in this fandom would consider all of my headcanons about him weird. especially the one where i think he hates volgin with a burning passion. sucks to be them and not get it.

21. When do you think they were at their happiest?

not at any point during canon, that's for sure

22. When do you think they were at their lowest?

that'd be immediately post-mgsv ('but he wasn't in mgsv' shut up i don't care)

23. Future headcanon

that man is going to settle down and find a very normal and average and kind person who treats him like he deserves. and they will have a cat. and he will be genuinely happy for the first time in longer than he can remember

24. What do you think is a secret they have that they never told anyone?

he's a spy lol the amount of secrets he has are insane. but i think he's always going to be very secretive about the exact details of his work. he really doesn't want to talk about them.

25. When do you think they acted the most ooc

when kojima writes him

26. When do you think they were being "themselves" the most?

when i write him

27. If they could meet a character from another show/movie/etc, who would be the most fun for them to meet?

mello deathnote i think he should meet mello deathnote

28. The most unnecessary thing they ever did?

all the self-destructive shit he did because he had serious mental health issues and didn't realize it was okay for him to just not do that

29. How do you think they would be as a parent? (and if they are a parent, how do you think they would be if they weren't?)

spy x family but worse

30. The funniest scene they had?

nothing i didn't write myself

#team mimikyu

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leatherbookmark · 1 year ago

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i feel so fucking bad for op of that one post and the insane anons/replies they've been getting

"we just don't know! maybe the term fujoshi came to be because men didn't want to marry women who fetishized homosexual relationships" i'm going to throw something against the wall. no it DIDN'T and you fucking know it

"while *maybe* it has a history in japanese feminism or otaku culture, it doesn't in the english-speaking side of the internet, soooooo"

"ok but the word is used to harass trans men and--" AYE and it still doesn't change the fact that western fans took a term that JAPANESE WOMEN were using IN THEIR CONTEXT and gave it a new, COMPLETELY NEGATIVE meaning.

do you understand the problem. do you people understand the fucking problem. especially when japanese artists have been starting to post on tumblr because twt is shitting its pants? do you understand the problem of associating japanese terms with immoral debauchery robbing gay people of their dignity while the english terms are pure, healthy and wholesome? DO YOU UN(ry

"but yaoi IS pornographic and fetishistic" okay and now look me in the eyes and tell me people who foam at the mouth at the mere thought of those nasty disgusting fujos and their gross yaoi genuinely care about what gay men feel or think. or that they've thought about the issue for more than 5 seconds.

because if your problem is "pornographic" -- okay but people fuck. people are horny. people enjoy pornographic materials. surely you're not against that. surely if you don't want r18 materials in your zine/discord server/blog, you can say "no r18 materials please" rather than "no yaoi".

if it's "fetishistic" -- as in? reducing something to an object with the sole purpose of titillating you? good news, fictional characters aren't real, they're not going to be sad. bad news, you could say the same about completely sfw, fluffy coffeeshop aus, because you don't write them to give justice to gay men, you're writing them because you think they're cute and you want to see your otp kiss over a caramel macchiato after weeks of shy smiles and cup sleeve messages. and then possibly boink! gasp! they are also just tools for you to achieve the state of Kicking Your Leggies In The Air OMG I Love Them So Much. but good news, again, they aren't real.

even better news -- the general purpose of yaoi/pwp (yes hi hello we have a 'yaoi' equivalent in english!) isn't to portray actual gay men as accurately as possible. the purpose of it is to be fun for the creators and readers. the solution to the problem of "ugh, the entire romance section in my library is stupid harlequins where the stupid protagonist does nothing but swoon into the arms of her stupid beefy lover" is not to burn it all down and label harlequin readers (ie, your grandma and her neighbour) disgusting hornybrained homophobes, yknow.

bonus:

"yaoi has sex in it while shounen-ai is sfw and fluffy."

sort of.

according to gotdamn wikipedia, "yaoi" are self-pub (fan)works focusing on the sexual content rather than coming up with an interesting, complex story. the pwp fanfic. meanwhile "shounen-ai", as a word existing in the japanese language, literally means "love of young boys", or "pederasty". as jpn wikipedia states, inagaki taruho, a male writer, has been writing on the topic of "love of young boys" since the end of the taisho era, and in '68, he published "the aesthetic of shounen-ai", in which

In Taruho's unique essays on aesthetic eroticism (and erotic aestheticism) A[nus], which is directly connected to O[ral], is regarded as the most important and essential of all erotic organs/sites including V[agina], P[enis] and K[litoris]. He considers A to be the paragon of the comic, primitive, innocent, and beautiful. (source)

the works of inagaki, shibusawa tatsuhiko and mishima yukio were an inspiration for shoujo (largely romantic stories for young girls) manga artists, resulting in the works of takemiya keiko and hagio moto, amongst others, a generation of artists who revolutionized not only the shoujo genre but also manga in general. takemiya published "sunroom ni te" which later became "kaze to ki no uta", and hagio "thomas no shinzou" (the heart of thomas); their shounen-ai wasn't "the chaste equivalent of yaoi", because iirc the yaoi term surfaced a couple of years later, in late 70s/early 80s, while the aforementioned works all began in the 70s (sunroom in the very 1970). instead, it was complex, in both the plot and the psychology of the characters. dramatic, often tragic. it didn't show hole, but it dealt with topics of sex, sexual abuse, abuse, incest, suicide -- because of that, takemiya struggled for years to get their editors to publish it. here it is mentioned that

Early shōnen-ai works were inspired by European literature, the writings of Taruho Inagaki, and the Bildungsroman genre. Shōnen-ai often features references to literature, history, science, and philosophy; Suzuki describes the genre as being "pedantic" and "difficult to understand", with "philosophical and abstract musings" that challenged young readers who were often only able to understand the references and deeper themes as they grew older.

back to the word fujoshi -- after some v light googling i found that the term "fujoshi" with the 腐 was "used with self-depreciation", but because the first noted use of the term online is from a blog of a man (1999年 8月 11日) who's found it on a certain textboard, it's not clear which meaning was first: the derogatory one used by men, or self-depreciating used by the female fans themselves. this article mentions the self-depreciating angle and the fact that it was "obvious to everyone" that there was something "rotten" about fujoshi -- namely, that they were misreading the original works that featured no mentions of homosexuality at all, as well as the feeling of shame at being able to "impose" homosexual feelings upon the characters and sexualizing them.

it has to be said, though, that both this "shame" and the dreaded "tee hee my sinful babies! XD" brought up every time someone tries to tell people fujoshi are not the devil don't necessarily have to be a reflection of severe homophobia of the women, but rather a reflection of the society that punishes women for sexual desires in the first place, whether they feature a man and a woman or two men.

men don't call themselves "nasty freaks" for liking lesbian porn, iirc.

if the society was open and accepting to both homosexuality and female desire, would fujoshi be called fujoshi in the first place? it seems to me that the insistence that fujoshi are called fujoshi because Something's Really Wrong With Them, We Should Condemn! Wholeheartedly Condemn! Examine That is similar to people writhing and whining that queer people are calling themselves queer when queer is a slur and means a bad thing. aye. we live in a one-dimensional world and the sun is a quarter of a circle with sunglasses in the top left corner of the page.

and YES, there are men -- even japanese men! even japanese gay men! gasp! -- who criticize the popularity of yaoi/BL for the "i'm not gay, just in love with this one guy" trope, ignoring the matter of homophobia in society or making the uke too "stereotypically feminine" (ie, a meek, sweet, submissive little thing who's a master at cooking, gently taking care of his man and squeaking when said man plows him on the table). and these are valid criticisms! but you don't have to have a master's degree to know that this happens in heterosexual romances as well. furthermore, i have to leave in a second so i won't expand on this, but as i'm sure many people have heard/read, making Romance Works Featuring Two Guys gives women tools to examine femininity, the role of women in society and their position in relationships with men. just read this thing, it's neat.

tl;dr westerners please stop confidently acting like being tumblr/twitter antis gives you the right to debate and decide on the meaning and usage of foreign words, FUJOSHI DOES NOT, AND NEVER DID, HAVE THE MEANING OF "BAD WOMAN FETISHIZING M/M RELATIONSHIP AS OPPOSED TO APPROACHING THEM WITH RESPECT AND KINDNESS"

biting and mauling and exploding with my mind people who argue about the semantics of fujoshi/yaoi/BL/etc while possessing little more than your average anti circa about 2015's level of knowledge of the terms

#shrimp thoughts

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onstoryladders · 2 years ago

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Why do you think Pete fell in love with Vegas?

Difficult question lol but this is the way I see it (this got too long, there's a TLDR at the end lol).

Well, Pete's feelings for Vegas are extremely complex. Their relationship started from a place of violence and power imbalance (double, if we consider physical and emotional power), so it's difficult to grasp what might've lead Pete to get emotionally attached to someone like Vegas.

There's obviously a sexual component to this, but even then – even at the beginning – there are strong feelings involved, which can't be neatly separated from one another because of the situation in which they developed.

Pete is a very empathetic person, he understands others and is very open-minded. His mind doesn't work in absolutes and dichotomies, he sees the motivations beyond the surface of every action, and that means that he gets where everyone is coming from – “no heroes, no villains”.

That doesn't mean he can't distinguish right from wrong, though, nor that he's into gratuitous violence and stuff. He knows Vegas is fucked up and has issues and is pretty much insane, but he also knows that there's more to him than that.

When he gets a glimpse into Vegas’ relationship with his father, it's the first step towards establishing a connection between them. The abuse from their dads is something they have in common, and even though I'm pretty sure Pete was just trying to find a way out when he first started talking to Vegas, I also think that it wasn't all strategy when he brought that up in conversation. He saw his younger self in Vegas, and wanted him to learn something that he'd already learned a long time before.

Pete sees beyond all the masks that Vegas puts on: he sees the sadness, the pain, the need to be loved and appreciated – which is probably something he experienced too. He must know what it means to try your best just to be seen by somebody else, so he feels for Vegas because he can recognize himself in his suffering.

Then again, he's also very empathetic, and that's why he can't run away when he gets the chance.

So at first it's all about what Vegas needs from him, but then the sex happens and Pete gets something in return. We see how he abandons himself to Vegas’ touch, how he takes whatever he wants and needs from him. He wraps the chains around his wrists, hands him the ropes and surrenders himself to pleasure – and it's something he probably never indulged in before, a desire he must've kept inside for so long.

Pete sees himself through Vegas’ eyes, feels his own body through Vegas’ touch, and he becomes a new version of himself: beautiful and desired – and even more than that, needed.

Irreplaceable.

And when Vegas has sex with him, Pete gets a glimpse of how things could be between them: the softness, the care, the devotion he can feel in each single touch, in every single kiss.

And he loves it.

But of course this causes a great inner conflict. He can't simply forget what Vegas did to him, and yet he longs for what they had in those moments and for what he could see in Vegas, hidden so deep beneath the layers of trauma and violence and all the walls he'd put up through the years.

There's this ambivalence in the way Pete feels about Vegas: on one side, there's care and trust (because you can't let someone tie you up if you don't trust them a little); on the other side there's resentment for what Vegas did to him, and the way he made him feel when he was already so vulnerable (right after they'd had sex).

But when he escapes and Vegas meets him at Yok's bar, he crumbles because he realizes that it doesn't matter how much anger he feels for the other, he can't kill him, because a part of him cares about Vegas – the lost child he saw crying as he held his dead hedgehog, the bleeding man who begged him to stay because he needed him.

Pete knows he's already started to forgive him, and he hates it. He doesn't want to forgive him, it shouldn't be possible for him to forgive him.

And then the final showdown happens, Vegas says sorry again and again and tells him he loves him and asks him to kill him if it ever comes to it and Pete is like what the fuck are you on about.

He can't kill Vegas – he couldn't do it at the bar and he can't do it now, and he'll probably never be able to do it at all, because Vegas got under his skin and gave him something he didn't know he needed, and even after everything they've had to deal with Pete just can't let him go.

So he can only accept his feelings.

TLDR: Pete falls in love with Vegas because he sees the real him and understands what he sees. Because Vegas is a mirror and then the other side of his coin. Because Vegas gives him something no one else has ever given to him, something he craves and needs and ignored for far too long.

Pete falls in love with Vegas because they need each other.

#kinnporsche #kinnporsche series #kinnporsche the series #vegaspete

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fablefan · 3 years ago

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Sniper Interview at MAGFest

So I was listening to the 2013 MAGfest Interview with John Patrick Lowrie (Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3), and I collected a whole bunch of info about the Sniper that he mentioned / did in character for. Given that Valve didn’t confirm anything he said as “canon”, take it with a grain of salt.

Doesn’t like The Bee Gees (thinks they’re an embarrassment to the country of Australia)

Likes Bangkok, Hong Kong, and Detroit in his down time for the cheap prostitutes there

Thinks the human population should be smaller, and it’s “not all it could be”

Hates coffee and every brand of it; it pisses him off, gets him nauseous, and gets him in the “right mindset” for work

Doesn’t consider himself a “happy person”, in general, and mentioned he has “down times” (he mistook the question as this instead of “down-time”, as in what he does for fun)

Had a hamster named Boom (!!!)

His father is a flower arranger and wanted him to follow behind his footsteps (said father is disappointed in him because he chose sniping)

Doesn’t call his parents often because it “doesn’t go well”

Grew up in Alice Springs, Australia (even though he apparently mails letters to his parents and addresses them to Adelaide, Australia, which is... 15 hours away by car, so. Which is it.)

His first three girlfriends were sheep (and then eaten by other people)

Had sex with the sheep??? “The best part about dating sheep is that it’s a deeper and more complex relationship then… it’s not just about sex.”

(I legit don’t know if he was joking or not, because he joked about it later — “If I had to pick between sex with a sheep and sex with an insane robot (GLaDOS), I’d go with the insane robot every time”).

Went to boarding school in Sydney (!!! Interesting)

Had a classmate named Maury who wore a blue face mask in class and was French and bullied him by giving him wedgies (It’s why he likes shooting spy, as it “makes up for something”)

Hates people who stand still, “I have to move.”

Father got him his first sniper rifle for hunting (!!!) which he modified extensively for a longer barrel and a scope… and his Dad was upset thinking he would start shooting people with it

Had a “bonding moment” in a fishing trip with his dad way up north in Australia, and a crocodile grabbed his Dad. Mundy shot the croc through the head and through his dad’s leg in a very clean shot.

He then thought his dad’s response to that was touching: “WHAT THE F*CK WERE YOU THINKING?! YOU SHOT ME IN THE BLEEDING LEG, YA WANKER!”

Hates his teammates, thinks they’re all idiots and unprofessional

He DOES like Pyro, though, because they don’t talk, and — apparently — are a poet and “a very sensitive soul”. They have “short, sweet poems about bunnies and unicorns and rainbows and Mummy.”

His favorite hat is his campaign / camping hat

His first professional kill was a man named Malcolm in Bangkok, “… and he was in business there, and his pricing structure was not where I liked, and fortunately other people didn’t like it too, and I got hired to put a hit on him.”

Apparently has respect for the opposing team’s sniper (and a deep lust??? Enjoy the Snipercest shippers) “It’s nice to see someone with such charm and such wit and such a great jawline and obvious virility and vast, vast sexual prowess and a real good eye for a deal on prostitutes. It’s just very heartwarming to see him over there, and it’s nice to have a good, qualified opponent rather than the trash and the crap that I usually face.”

Hasn’t met / heard of Saxton Hale, and thinks he’s crap. There’s only one Australian he respects, and that’s Steven Irwin (my man)

Favorite weapon is the rifle, because the grip is familiar and “almost romantic”

#TF2 #TF2 Sniper #Team Fortress 2 #John Patrick Lowrie

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sweetest-devotion · 2 years ago

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EMMA CORRIN on My Policeman and playing Marion, to FLAUNT MAGAZINE, Nov 2022, photographed by Federico De Angelis. [full interview here ]

Playing a woman scorned by her husband’s affair isn’t exactly uncharted territory for Corrin. But in My Policeman, Marion’s naïveté in conjunction with the social conservatism of the 1950s has led the actor to tackle a role that is diametrically opposed to their 2022 sensibilities. In one of the most devastating moments of the film, Marion, enraged and heartbroken by Tom’s love for Patrick, mails a letter to the police that exposes Patrick’s sexuality, forcing him through a humiliating trial, and lands him in prison.

While the gravity of the moment was initially lost on Marion, it is not lost on Corrin, who, in their lifetime, has witnessed a drastic change in social and political attitudes surrounding queerness. In 1967, British Parliament passed the Sexual Offences Act, which many celebrate as the decriminalization of gay relationships. However, Corrin was born in a time when, despite some legislative progress, people were still persecuted for their sexuality. They were 18 years old when same-sex marriage was legalized in the United Kingdom. Legal recognition of gay marriage is not equivalent to full-fledged equality either. In the UK, according to Stonewall, one in five LGBTQ+ people has faced a hate crime because of their gender and/or sexual identity in the last year; two in five transgender people have faced a hate crime in the last year.

As a queer, nonbinary person, Corrin’s character’s actions fly in the face of their very existence. The actor concedes that playing someone with such backwards beliefs—even if just expressed out of hurt—felt strange.

“The words coming out of your mouth are so the opposite of what you believe in, what you’re advocating for every day of your life,” they say. “But it’s so interesting because Marion is such a product of her time. I don’t think she’s had the exposure or this experience yet to come up against these beliefs, these ways of thinking that have been drummed into her.”

It was Marion’s episode of rashness and, ultimately, her inability to deny Tom and Patrick’s love that drew Corrin to the character.

“In that moment, I don’t think it’s got much to do with [homophobia] at all. I think it’s a fear of losing this person that she loves. And it’s an insane amount of hurt, and pride, and the heartbreak that comes with falling, being heartbroken, and it makes everyone say insane things.”

In fact, they made the choice to play the moment as a swirling internal conflict coming to a head, a realization that Marion’s innate knowledge that Tom and Patrick belong together overpowers her contrary upbringing.

“I really hope this came across [onscreen], that she’s so convinced within herself, that she’s trying to persuade herself that this is wrong because she knows that it’s not what terrifies her that is real. That these two people are in love, that her husband loves someone else who is a man and she knows it’s true, and she knows that they should be together. And there’s nothing she can do.”

Though Corrin’s character begins on the wrong side of history, Marion ends the film decades down the line by inviting an ailing Patrick into the couple’s home, and leaving her marriage behind in order to give the two men their deserved shot at a life together.

“It’s devastating, but also so that he can be happy at last with Patrick, and that’s a testament to fondness for both of them,” Corrin says. “I just thought it was really touching and complex.”

Despite the violence against queer people and heartbreaking series of events that concern the plot, the actor looks at My Policeman holistically, and considers it a win for queer narratives.

“To be part of such a beautiful queer story was really the most beautiful thing, especially one which ultimately celebrates that love and interrogates it, and interrogates what was going on at that time,” they say. “So actually, it didn’t ever feel hugely conflicting, because the message of the film is love.”

Though on the surface it seems there are light years between Marion and Corrin, the actor found a universal approach to slipping into Marion’s life. Instead of channeling the hurt and anger that Marion feels, Corrin began from a place of love:

“Maybe when you experience—especially in Marion’s case—that first time you love someone. It’s so all-consuming, and I don’t think any of us ever really forget that feeling.”

#emma corrin #mp promo #flaunt magazine #federico de angelis #my policeman

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donotpercieveme123 · 3 years ago

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hummmm madara ?

Thank you for the ask!

1. Favourite thing about them

He is fucking insane in the best way! Have you ever seen someone so dramatic or iconic. He is obsessive and unhinged, and the only sane person for miles. He is completely right, but also wrong about everything. He loves it when people beat the shit out of him, and he gives off the most feral power bottom energy I've ever seen lmao! He's just sksksjsb. He's also such a complex character who is allowed to be kind and cruel, and flawed and yah just aaaahhh I have no coherent thoughts about him at this point, I just love him!

2. Least favourite thing about them

He'd be down for colonising the other great nations in the name of peace. His entire philosophy is become so powerful that you can force people to submit to peace. I understand if there is a 100% guaranteed plan where true ever lasting peace can be achieved, but that's not the case with politics, and yh I don't need to explain why forcefully occupying other nations is bad lol. Also it's not his fault but he's kind of dumb. The Infinite Tsukuyomi plan is so short sighted, like how is humanity supposed to reproduce and survive for starters. It would have been more interesting if he took away people's free will and forced them under his peace that way.

3. Favourite line

Literally anything that has come out of his mouth ever!

4. brOTP

Izuna!!!! Listen I care about 2 things maybe, and the brotherly relationship between Madara and Izuna is definitely one of them! I have no coherent thoughts, I just have to hold them up like DO YOU SEE?!!

Also Hikaku!! Childhood friends, coworkers, divorced couple. What is there not to love about them?!

5. OTP

For the record I don't ship him with anyone romantically, and I do prefer this ship to be on some level of platonic. But Hashimada! They have a bond that transcends definition. I'd call them soulmates but that doesn't quite capture it. The star-crossed tragedy of it all gets me ngl. I do think their bond holds more depth and value if it's not romantic, because having attraction thrown into the mix waters it down. Having no other reason to feel as strongly and be as selfish as they are about each other, than the simple fact that the other person sees and shares their dream. (And when they choose not to be selfish it's even more tragic).

But I also think it's hilarious if Madara is living out this unrequited romeo and juliet narrative, acting like some scorned lover, while Hashirama is just like you are my best friend, you are my gift from the divine, you are half of my soul. And Madara thinks he doesn't care as much because he doesn't want him romantically (or what he perceives to be romantically) lmao. Clowns (affectionate).

Also they have good sexual chemistry, and they give me big platonic life partner vibes. But also that whole thing where they have sex, and while it is about attraction, it's less about romance and more about companionship. Maybe I'm biast about the whole anti romance thing lol, but that is peak Hashimada content for me and I will eat it up like nothing else!

6. nOTP

Mad*tobi. Next lol.

But no this ship makes no sense to me, I don't enjoy their chemistry in any way shape or form, and whenever I come across it I feel physically sick. I hate everything about it. The relationship I think is most important to Madara (and that I care most about) is his relationship with Izuna. Izuna is also my favourite character, and it physically pains me to even think about Madara so much as considering spitting on his brother’s memory like that. I just can't. I do get why people ship it tho, and all the people who do ship it that I've interacted with are all so lovely!💖 I just personally cannot stomach it.

(Also Madara is entirely obsessed with Hashirama, I can't fathom in what circumstance he'd ever settle for his brother's murderer instead).

7. Random headcannon

He is immune from fire of all kind. As a kid he'd probably crawl into fireplaces because it's warm and toasty lol. He also sets himself on fire if he can't be asked to wash himself, rationalising that that's how you sanitise shit! (Izuna is embarrassed to be related to him sometimes lmao).

8. Unpopular Opinion

I don't think this is actually unpopular, but despite having big dick energy he's small ~.~ I'm talking no bigger than 5', and that's the most I'll ever give him lol.

9. Song I associate with them

For my sake, by Shinedown. (Also my number one song about Madara being angry at Hashirama, aka my favourite genre of hashimada music lol). it just fits perfectly, the lyrics, the emotions, the sound, and just the general vibe. Also it slaps!

10. Favourite picture of them

Of course.😌💅

#ask game #madara #uchiha madara #izuna #hashirama #hikaku #tobirama #hashimada #anti madatobi #naruto #naruto founders

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sevenstarsinning · 4 years ago

Text

Sweat

Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3 - Ch. 4 - Ch. 5 - Ch. 6 - Ch. 7 - Ch. 8 - Ch. 9 Ch. 10 Ch. 11

Chapter 12

The faint sound of birds chirping pulled you from a heavy sleep, forcing you to shy away from the brightness of the sun and turn directly into a broad chest. Your eyes flitted open, curious when Vegeta had returned home and how exactly you got home, but it wasn't Vegeta and you weren't at home.

"Goku?! Fuck." You sat up instantly, recognizing precisely where you were.

"What's wrong?" He sat up with you, immediately on alert.

"What's wrong?! I'm here, that's what's wrong. Why am I in your bed?!" You started to panic.

"You passed out and Kyla said to make sure you got to bed after I dropped her off." He explained.

"She probably meant my bed, Goku. Not yours." You scrambled out of the bed, in full panic at the fact that you'd spent the night with Goku.

"I didn't think Vegeta would like me showing up in your bedroom with you in my arms. Plus, I-I missed having you here." He admitted.

"Goku, I know this hasn't been easy on you, but you can't just-"

"I slept last night. I don't sleep when you're not here." Goku climbed off the bed and stopped you from putting your shoes on, "I don't want you to go."

"Goku, I'm with Vegeta."

"But he doesn't need you like I do. He doesn't want to spend every second with you."

You let out a soft sigh, feeling even more conflicted by the second.

"Goku, I-" Before you could finish your sentence he cupped your face and kissed you.

You pulled back instantly, staring up at him in disbelief, but you couldn't stop yourself. You threw your arms around him and pressed your lips to his again. He pushed you back against the wall, hands gripping your hips as his tongue slipped between your lips. Everything about him was so soft, so sweet and perfect, it was hard not to get wrapped up in him.

"Stay with me. Please?" He begged softly against your lips between kisses.

"I- I can't." You said, feeling like you were breaking his heart all over again.

He stopped kissing you and pressed his forehead to yours, "I know. I just wanted to ask again."

"This was a bad idea. All of it." You admitted.

"I can take you home now if you want?" He stepped back from you.

"That's also a bad idea. We need more time, Goku. I think at least for a while, we should stay apart." As you said the words they almost tore your heart out completely and you could only guess how it felt for him.

"Okay. If that's what you want." He said, barely audible with his head hung low.

The ride home in the cab was heavy, every ounce of your being telling you to go back, to leap into his arms and never leave, but it wasn't that simple. You took a deep breath before you pushed the front door open, almost running straight into the wall of muscle and anger known as Vegeta.

He squeezed past you with nothing but a glare on his face and headed outside.

"Wait, can we talk? I... I'm sorry about not coming home. I started drinking and I ended up passing out," you explained, hopeful he wouldn't ask where you stayed. At least, that's what you thought you wanted until you realized he didn't care enough to ask.

"I'll be home later, we can talk then if you're even here."

"Can't you skip training so we can figure out whatever is going on between us?" You tried to keep calm and not start crying, but the entire fucked up situation was too much to process.

"I'm not training, that ridiculous Bulma woman is making me clean up the mess I made of the gravity chamber last night," he grumbled.

"Wait, what? You're skipping training to help Bulma?" You asked, brow furrowed at how ridiculous the idea was.

"Only so it'll shut her up," he added. The surly prince crossed his arms and let out a heavy sigh.

You knew there was absolutely no reason you should be jealous, or that you even had a right to be, but you couldn't shake the feeling.

"Can I come with you? We can talk on the way."

"No. You'll only slow me down." He shot you down quickly.

"I really want you to stay so we can talk about this stuff." You pushed, needing him to stay.

"Talking got us nowhere last time. I see no point in continuing the process over and over again."

"What other choice do we have, Vegeta? If we don't figure this out... " you trailed off. Neither of you needed to say what you knew was true. Something had to change or the relationship was going to be over before you ever got to fully enjoy it.

"I'll be home later," he said again.

He left without another word. You stood there, feeling empty and alone. You wanted to force him to stay, to hash things out, but honestly, what else was there to say? Your relationship began with him cheating on Kyla and with you fucking his friend.

"How dire is my situation if I'm considering day drinking?" You asked when Kyla answered her phone. Somehow, you had already adjusted to having her in your life as a friend rather than an enemy. Kyla without Vegeta was a drastically different person. Or perhaps you just never saw her as anything more than Vegeta's bitchy girlfriend.

"Well, that depends. If you're drinking right now, I'd say it's pretty fucking dire. At 5pm? Not so much," she answered without missing a beat.

"Damn. That's what I thought." You sighed.

"Dickhead do something?" She asked.

"Kind of, but not really. I spent the night with Goku and-"

"Hold the fuck up. You spent the night where?" She interrupted.

"He didn't take me home last night. We just slept, but we kissed this morning." You wanted to go back to that moment.

"And now Vegeta doesn't want to talk and he's over at Bulma's helping her with something. All of this makes me want to drink." You sighed.

"Fuck, it makes me want to drink." She said.

"I really don't know what to do anymore. I thought I could ignore the feelings for Goku, but they just keep getting stronger."

"If you want to really figure out how you're feeling and what you want, alcohol isn't the best option." Kyla said.

"When did you become the voice of reason here?" You knew she was right.

"When I started letting Yamcha hit it and found out he really is just empty space." She said with full seriousness.

"Apparently we both need a break from the bullshit."

"We've tried that two nights in a row. Both nights we ended up getting trashed with Goku and I'm pretty sure the three of us would've fucked last night on the baseball field if you two weren't hopelessly in love with each other," she said in one breath.

"We're not hopelessly in love." You argued.

"Oh, do you have evidence that you're not?" She shot back.

"Yes, I'm with Vegeta." You said simply.

"You do know that's not really helping your case, right? You can be with someone but still love someone else."

"Okay, well, we aren't hopelessly in love because Goku doesn't understand the concept." You felt like you were grasping at any defense.

"He may not understand the concept, but he understands what he feels, which is complete devotion to you." Kyla said.

"Goddamn it." You sighed.

"We can do this all day but you haven't given me a vaild reason against it. You also haven't mentioned actually being in love with Vegeta either."

"You're relentless, Kyla, goddamn." Your chest heaved and you let out a long, slow breath.

"Yeah, at some point I actually started to care about this shitstorm. Seeing Goku like this really tugs at those annoying heartstrings."

"What if you're right about me and Vegeta? The whole sexual attraction mistaken for feelings thing." You cringed at the mere thought.

"Then you have a choice to make. Stay with him despite knowing there are no real feelings there, or end things as they are before it gets any more complicated."

Everything she was saying was spot on, but you couldn't sift through the feelings without worrying you were wrong or making a mistake.

After your conversation with Kyla you tried to find something else to focus on. You cleaned the house from top to bottom, showered, cooked lunch, and even organized your bookshelf. By the time you finished you'd actively spent your time avoiding the topic of your love life, but the second you sat down, it all came flooding back.

You frantically searched for something else to keep your mind busy, but you came up empty. After collapsing on the couch, you began flipping through the channels on the tv, settling on one of your favorite movies that you'd seen a million times before but still loved. You focused on the movie and the insane chemistry between the two actors, finding yourself getting drawn in to the sex scene as it unfolded. Your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your panties as you felt yourself getting more turned on by the second.

You closed your eyes and thought about the last time you had sex, how rough Vegeta was with you, how he bit you. Soft moans escaped your lips as your fingers circled your clit. Images of Vegeta crawling up your body, eyes hungrily gazing up at you. You rolled your hips against your hand, Vegeta faded and Goku replaced him. His sweet smile never failed to leave you weak. The way he could be rough with you and gentle right after was a balance no else could achieve, at least not in your experience. You were already getting close to coming just from the mental image of Goku on top of you, thrusting into you with the perfect amount of force. It wasn't any special saiyan form, just him. That was all you needed.

You bit your lip to hold back the moan, knowing which name you were close to screaming. It was all so confusing and complex. You focused more on how perfectly Goku fucked you, how quickly he'd learned how to work your body to give you the best orgasms. Your fingers moved faster as you neared your release, short breathy moans escaping your lips along with broken remnants of a name.

"Fuck... Goku..." you whimpered as you finally let go.

"Why did you even bother coming back?" Vegeta asked, ripping you away from the very private moment you were having.

Before your brain could process just how bad your next words were going to sound, you blurted them out. "I don't know."

"Foolish human. You don't know what you want- "

"Fuck off, Vegeta. This isn't one sided and you know it," you snapped.

"Don't assume you know what's going on in my head, woman. I was fine with whatever this is, you've been the one ruining it," he shouted back.

"Whatever this is? It's called a fucking relationship, Vegeta. Or maybe it was just sex for you and I was stupid enough to believe it was something more!"

It hurt to watch your relationship with him deteriorate so quickly, but you didn't cry like you expected. You did start to think it was mostly a physical attraction, but that wasn't something you were ready to admit.

"It is something more, you frustrating woman! I want you around more than anyone else on this pathetic planet," he roared, revealing more of his feelings than you expected.

"Then why weren't you here? Why have I spent the majority of our relationship either alone or with your ex?" You stared back at him, waiting for some explosion of anger.

"You chose to strike up that friendship with Kyla, not me. And you were well aware of how I spent my time but you couldn't be satisfied with that." He said.

You stood up and approached him, "I wasn't satisfied with seeing my boyfriend every now and then and having to beg him to stay home. I need more than that, Vegeta." You hated to admit how much you needed reassurance, affection, but it was the truth.

"I'm not going to be the weak, clingy boyfriend you want. You'd think your new friend would've caught you up on that little detail." He said.

"I don't want clingy, Vegeta, I just want you to be here, at least half the time." You felt like you were begging for basic attention.

"You're the one who pursued me, you wanted this."

"I didn't fucking want this. And I remember you being the one to kiss me first and then fuck me to prove whatever power, dominance thing to Goku."

He made two easy strides towards you, "don't act like you're innocent in any of this. You were jealous of Kyla from the second we started dating and I was no longer looking in your direction."

"Oh I'm far from fucking innocent, I know that." You had been carrying the guilt with you since day one.

"What do you want, woman? Just tell me what you want." He asked.

"I-I don't know anymore. I thought I wanted this, you, but now it just all seems so fucking... fucked. What about you? What do you want?"

"I'm not answering the question for you. You either want to be with me or you don't. It's that simple." He crossed his arms.

"It's not simple though." You shook your head, everything seeming more complex by the second.

"Then I'll make it simple."

In one swift movement, he had your body pressed against his and kissed you like he never did before. You could feel his need, and it threw you off. For a second, you thought it was an accident. But you knew the mighty prince of all Saiyans, if he let that little trace of emotion through, it was because he wanted you to know.

You kissed him back, feeling the ache in your chest growing. You wanted Vegeta, or at least you wanted to want him. Seeing him vulnerable like this was almost too much to take, especially when all it did was make you even more confused. But you continued to kiss him, hoping things would suddenly become clear, that you'd know the answer instantly.

You pulled yourself away abruptly, "I-I don't know. I- this isn't helping. I just need some time to think."

Vegeta's expression quickly turned from a rare softness back into stoic and brooding.

"When you figure out what the hell it is that you want, let me know." He stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

His words echoed through the night, circling your mind as you fixated on them. What did you want? Who did you want? It was a simple question, but there were no simple answers.

You tossed and turned, finally giving up on sleep. You resorted to standing in the living room having fake break up conversations with both of them. That only complicated the process of sorting through your feelings and you were left feeling more confused than you were before. Part of you wanted to work it out with Vegeta. He was willing to show a softer side, something you were desperate for.

Meanwhile, Goku was amazing, affectionate, and he wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable in front of you. There was a third option, your last resort if there was no clear decision. You could distance yourself from both of them. The question was, could you handle the pain of not having either of them?

#vegeta x reader #goku x reader #sweat fic #lynn #supremeleadershitlord

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antiloreolympus · 3 years ago

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8 Anti LO Asks

1. as a mythology buff, i honestly think it was really weird of rachel smythe to take Hecate, a goddess who helped Demeter search for Persephone after she vanished and heard her screams and shared in Persephone and Demeter's joy after reuniting... and then just make her into Hades's like... total bro who plays aggressive matchmaker to h/p to the point of trying to break up Hades's current relationship. but honsestly i refuse to believe rachel smythe did literally any research before making this comic judging by how she depicts the mythology she's taking inspiration from so honestly im not suprised

2. I don’t know if anyone on here has discussed this, but LO very much plays into the idea of “good victim vs bad victim”.

A “good victim” has suffered many things, but despite it they still remain cheerful and happy and pleasant, they do not put others out or lash out at them even if they are triggered, they do not become petty or angry or hold onto negative emotions. They, in essence, “get over it”. Thus, the narrative rewards them: they get many friends, a love internet they’re happy with, and a happy ending. This is what Persephone is. She’s the “good victim”. Despite her many hardships, we know she will not suffer in the end. She will get everything she wants and more.

Then there is Minthe, the “bad victim”. They too have gone through many hardships, but they’ve become cold, angry at the world, they lash out and have trouble opening up and connecting to others, they even hurt others, themselves victims to the toxic pain they can’t get rid it. They do not and have not “gotten over it”. Thus, the narrative punishes them, even when they try to better themselves. It’s never good enough. These characters often are lonely, the cast are large do not like them if not outright hate them, and they more often than not end up dead. This is what Minthe is. She is not a pleasant person, she’s a victim of a manipulative older man and a cruel, unjust society and system, and we know how her story ends. It’s in pain, her maiming/possible death framed as a joke and not even a genuine hint of sympathy towards her fate. She was a “bad victim”, she “deserved” what she got.

Now, you only often see this in fandom, since the actual works that deal with victims of trauma and how they react will often try to give more nuance to every shade of victim they may have on cast, but it’s very disturbing to me that Rachel seems to eagerly play into this idea, like she gets joy out of punishing a victim she created and watching them suffer even more at her hands. It’d be one thing if she kept Minthe a shallow, one dimensional character who was just evil for the sake of it, fine, but her showing us her actual complex nature and the very real struggles, trauma, and manipulation she went through, especially at the hands of our supposed “heroes” of the story, just to have her demise framed as a win for Persephone and a joke for the audience to laugh at? That’s highly disturbing to me. It’s one thing for fans to act that way, but the writer themselves? It’s very dark, to say the least.

3. "I'm invested in working with fairy tales and folklore for my next project" oh no no no oh god please no. Fairy tales have been through enough hot takes and modern "betterments", they really don't need Rachel "Apollo is bad, actually" Smythe to add to it

4. Quick question

Greek Mythology is mostly incest.

So what if someone who is actually good at writing and storytelling and consistent artwork

Kept it in

For example Zeus and Hera arguing like the married couple they are

And Hera uses older sibling card

With Zeus dumbfounded face

I don't know why but I want it but would it be weird since it's incest

Most fanfics always keep it out. Just keep it in if you want it to be closer than the actual methods you know

Hera is youngest daughter of Cronus and Rhea and older than her brother Zeus, who was also her husband.

I want to do it but like I have no clue how to start a webtoon so you know💀

5. Oh god, Hades not needing therapy because Persephone's "love" is enough? To quote my lord and savior Kennie JD: "not the p*$$¥ being therapy!"

6. uuuuuh sexual trauma warning.?

So I was writing a comment on the "Re: bpd" ask and i had a realization about persephone

She reminds me of how I was about the idea of sex

I'm demisexual and have sexual trauma and the idea of sex excited me but I wasn't able to like, do it. Me and my partner would mess around but because Mctrauma i couldn't do it cuz I hadn't exactly worked through my trauma and i wanted to get through that because i was finally experiencing sexual attraction.

Kinda reminds me of Persephone. The problem is at that point it had been 6-7 years since my trauma occurred and persephone's happened like last month.

Considering how everyone talks about persephone being a self insert i think Rachel has some things to work through

Also made the realization literally as im typing that Rachel's attitude towards asexuality could be because she's demi and doesn't fully understand what that is or means

becuase if you're ignorant enough you can 100% end up describing demisexuality as "being asexual and then like, slowly turning gay."

this ask weirdly personal so fuck it this is gonna be anonymous feel free to delete if it makes u uncomfy

7. That’s also a part about Hubris Rachel clearly doesn’t get: it was always committed by rich, often people in high authority, NEVER lowly farmers or the poorest of ancient society. They always knew better. Niobe was a queen! Minos was a king! Arachne was the rich, spoiled daughter of a really successful merchant. Sisyphus was a cunning king. The trojan war was kicked off by royal drama. The list goes on and on. You have to notice these things and genuinely study the myths or you become like Rachel, who seems convinced the poorest people would be stupid enough to not only defy their bosses, but the gods themselves? They would be the last people to do such a thing! They don’t have the ingrained sense of entitlement and arrogance like the rich and powerful to even dare act like that towards the gods, as is the case with hubris. Because of this, Rachel ends up creating a narrative that the rich and powerful (literal GODS) are the real victims to those cruel, uppity poor people, going as far as to say in comic they deserve to be slaves for hades’ benefit and they’re wrong for ever hating Persephone for, you know, murdering them because she had a bad day! They should know their place! It’s absolutely insane that she doesn’t actually seem to realize what she’s writing. Unless she does, which is an even bigger issue, and shows a really dark look into how she views the world and society and how it should be run. It’s all a bad look.

8. Have you seen the "The demon, is here in the room right now?" meme

Welp, that's literally Persephone and her "feeling"

I legit saw that video about a dude faking a mental illnes (and seeing a demon that made him do bad things) after he commited a crime and that was so cringy and I can't stop thinking about Persephone confessing her AOW like that

#anti lo #anti lore olympus #lore olympus critical #lo critical #anti lo art

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years ago

Text

Hopelessness of Wanting [Part 4]

<- Part 3

Frederick Chilton x Reader

Warnings: NSFW. 18+ only! Suicidal thoughts. Nonconsensual blowjob, dubcon smut with reader (gender-neutral). None of the smut in this chapter is healthy! Two messed up people falling in love, only one is a lot more abusive than the other (Chilton. It’s Chilton). Reader is not in the healthiest of mind states to interpret their relationship. Everyone more or less gets what they deserve by the end.

6,400 words

Red morning light flooded into the bedroom through expansive panoramic windows that gave a spectacular view over the bay. Dr. Chilton—no, Frederick—was still beside you, rolled onto his back, snoring lightly. The bed was warm and smelled like him. A spicy, timeless fragrance. Expensive and a little off-putting at first whiff, until it melted into something complex and beautiful.

You felt hollow. Numb. Like you could float away or sink to the bottom of the ocean and never claw your way back out again. But calmer, at least. The impulse to hurt yourself was gone.

The negativity that had been devouring you from within had been washed away by a flood of tears and joy—crying until your eyes burned and your throat was hoarse, fucking your boss, going home with him, and then falling asleep crying again while he held you.

This morning, you had nothing left except static.

And there was Frederick Chilton, asleep beside you like a dreaming titan—the silhouette of his body beautiful and ominous. You resisted the urge to cuddle up next to him. He reacted badly to being touched without warning, and besides, you dreaded waking him up. What if he wasn’t happy? What if everything from last night was a mistake?

It all seemed surreal. That he had wanted you all along was too good to be true. Now that he had you, you were certain to be a disappointment. Your chest heaved unexpectedly, and you bit back a fresh sob. Suddenly your face was wet again.

Your nerves were so raw.

The peaceful static buzzing through your mind was fragile. Any sudden movement or loud thought might set you spiraling back down that hole again. You’re just going to screw this up, just like you screw everything up. Maybe it would have been better if you’d just gone through with it—saved everyone the inevitable heartache.

But if you had gone through with it, you never would have found out that Frederick returned your feelings. That knowledge—that something wonderful happened after your planned date of expiration—was reason enough not to try again. Sometimes good things happened. Things could change. Things could get better, and you could be happy again. You had to believe that.

So you moved slowly, and thought quietly. You listened to Frederick’s breathing in and out, and remained wrapped in the warm cocoon of blankets.

***

On the spectrum of touch aversion, Frederick Chilton was hardly a dramatic case. There was a Mr. Walton in his custody at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane who was imprisoned for murdering his four-year-old daughter because she would not stop hugging his calves as he walked by. Restraining the man for treatment required four muscular orderlies prepared for him to kick and bite at the slightest grazing of his skin.

That was touch aversion. Dr. Chilton considered himself perfectly normal by comparison.

He was able to shake hands with an acquaintance, hug a close friend or relative when social normalcy dictated he offer one, and even engage in sexual intercourse when his libido overrode his discomfort. As a man with a very high libido and next to no dating life, sex won out at every opportunity.

Yesterday, the hasty, frantic encounter with you in the medicine storage closet had been almost fully clothed. His hands explored your body as he rutted into you, but yours were braced against the tile wall, passive.

It was impersonal, and he was in control.

This morning, he awoke wrapped in the warmth of your body heat after you spent the night in his bed. In his home. He fell asleep watching you and awoke to you watching him thrashing out of a nightmare, your eyes full of so much emasculating pity that he lunged forward at once to kiss the look off your face.

Fuck—he did not know what he was thinking. A muffled noise of surprise escaped your crushed lips and then melted into a moan as you reciprocated. You opened compliantly to allow his tongue entrance. He meant to bully away your perception of his weakness with the aggressive kiss—he had not expected you to coil your fingers deep into his hair and pull him closer. Your leg pushed between his, and as he pulled back, panting, you quickly closed the gap and kissed him again.

Your bright floral scent was everywhere, surrounding him, invading the familiarity of his sheets. Your hands were pulling at him, softly caressing up and down his back.

It was intimate.

And he was terrified.

You saw him freezing up, and your hands stopped grabbing at him. Some of his tension evaporated as soon as you gave him space. A worried smile thinned your lips.

“Sorry. I forgot,” you murmured. “Is this better?”

You remembered. This was usually where his bedmate would call him too cold, or roll their eyes in annoyance. There was the usual guilt trip: if he was attracted to them, he would want to be crowded with physical affection. But you asked if he wanted to stop—asked him what he needed. No one had ever done that for him before.

“I am fine,” he swore to your skeptical frown, and it almost wasn’t a lie.

Knowing that you would stop put him at ease. The sunny persona you used at work may have been a forgery, but your gentle kindness was not. With you, he almost was fine.

He kissed you again, this time as tenderly as he had while you were sleeping. Felt you breathe in as his lips met yours, and then melt into him as you breathed out. He caressed your hair, and when your eyes opened again, taking him in, his heart felt full.

***

As a general rule of thumb, it is not a good idea to fuck your boss. This rule goes double when you are in the middle of a mental health crisis, and increases geometrically when said crisis was precipitated by your boss’s callous, condescending, cruel behavior in the first place. Or—that is to say—when your boss is Dr. Frederick Chilton.

But when you wake up in your boss’s bed having already fucked him, he pushes his tongue into your mouth, and the twitching of his erection against your thigh makes you feel alive again, you might as well accept you’re in too deep and go for it.

Dr. Chilton’s cock was already slipping through the open fly of his pajamas, and your hand helped it the rest of the way out. You licked your lips, imagining the weight of him on your tongue, his salty taste filling your mouth. Bracing a hand on one of his thighs, you lowered yourself to the pink dome.

“N-no,” Frederick stammered. “You do not have to do that.”

“I want to,” you hummed, a seductive rumble to your voice.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward once in appreciation for your willingness, but his eyes kept a haunted dullness that told you there was more behind his refusal than politeness. There was a story there, and you knew better than to push it.

You couldn’t have known it was his conscience intruding.

Taking control, he pushed you back down onto the mattress. The sound of lube squeezing from a bottle shortly preceded a cold slickness spread between your legs. You reached for him instinctively, trying to make it romantic, but he pinned your hands down by your side. The crown of his cock pushed against your tight entrance, which burned at the penetration it was unprepared for. It was cold, rushed—but as he canted his hips forward, his fingers laced through yours.

“Oh god,” he moaned as if he were kneeling in prayer, whispering his sins in confession—guttural, yet barely a breath.

You grit your teeth to cage the pained cry that leaped in your throat, stifling it into what passed for a whimper of pleasure. The stretch of his unceremonious insertion was the punishment you deserved for being so dramatic and causing so much trouble yesterday. For making him bring you home, worry about you, feel like he had to take care of you. For being weak. For all the incompetent mistakes. You didn’t complain that your body screamed in protest at being forced open too fast by such a large implement. It wasn’t that bad, and the sensation was mixed with pleasure. Satisfaction of seeing the handsome doctor’s face contorting with lust warmed your stomach, and soon your body relaxed around his cock, warmth pooling and coiling in your lower back.

Chilton’s first thrusts were controlled, experimental, rocking forward by slow inches and then retreating until the crest of his cockhead was barely hanging on to the tight rim of your opening. Then he rocked forward again while his analytical green eyes studied your reaction.

After a few of these slow strokes, the pain was gone. Perhaps he had been cognizant of it, waiting until you were letting out soft moans, your pelvis tilting to meet his, before continuing. Then his leg muscles tightened, and his next thrust slammed his hips into yours, filling you completely. You cried out in unison—his a satisfied growl, and yours a wail like you’d been punched in the gut but got off on it.

He lost his thin facade of control after that, rutting into you with force, pressing sloppy wet kisses over your mouth, down your neck. Your fingers clenched his tightly, your knuckles turning white, and he gripped back just as hard. He only slowed to arch his back so he could tease your nipples into hardened peaks with his tongue, releasing new yelps and whimpers from your throat. A possessive bite drew a more resounding cry of pleasure and a dark bruise.

The only thing restrained about his performance was his voice. After his first shout of pleasure, he grew silent except for a few strained noises that told you how hard he was working to strangle back the others. You wondered what wild howls Dr. Chilton hid within him.

“I want to hear you,” you panted.

His face was a mask of effort, already covered in a sheen of sweat that betrayed his poor physical shape. He stared down at you like an enemy soldier in a trench—a spy picking at his weaknesses—and gave no reply.

A strange sort of bravery born of lust came over you. “I want to hear it when you come inside me,” you challenged.

The rhythmic motion of his hips stuttered, and a moan slipped past his defenses as if by your command.

“That’s good,” you purred. “That’s a good boy.”

Something shifted in his suspicious eyes at your praise. A wall came down. “Yes,” he rasped. “You want to hear it—” his voice was punctuated by a powerful snap of his hips and a wet sound of flesh “—when I fill you with my seed.”

“Fuck—yes. Please. Fill me, come inside me!” your voice shook as you moaned your assent. You were so hollow. You needed him—needed him to fill that emptiness inside. Needed his thick cock splitting you open, punishing you, claiming you.

“When I make you mine.” His eyes were wild, almost frightening in their focus upon you—perfect green tunnels into a soul as volatile as yours. He pounded into you deeper.

And he was loud. He had been loud yesterday when he took you fast and hard against the wall, but that encounter was a blur in your memory. Now his voice was the only music filling your head, replacing the static. He spoke continually in filthy promises and eloquent details of what he wanted to do to you, but his words were punctuated by inarticulate grunts and moans. An aching need built with each primal noise that was so unlike the repressed, cynical Dr. Chilton you knew at work.

Every trembling declaration of your name, every prayer to god that passed his lips sent a shock of arousal to your core, and when he half-begged, half-demanded, “Mine… you are mine,” you couldn’t help but agree.

“Yours!”

You were close, all of your senses lost to an overwhelming need. Chilton released one of your hands and slipped between your legs. Every nerve in your body came alive as he stroked you. Your back arched as you went rigid beneath him, crying out.

His head fell against your shoulder, hips bucking wildly, and he sobbed, “Oh god… yes… yes. Mine… mine… mmm—!”

He shuddered as his warmth flooded you. Though his hand became lazy as his own climax overtook him, you eked out an orgasm from the friction between your bodies. It was enough. Enough to leave a slippery mess on his bedsheets, and enough for the resulting crash.

Your emotional high popped like a soap bubble and left you just as hollow—somehow emptier than before—even with Dr. Chilton’s cock still inside you and his seed filling you. You felt wrong. Guilt churned in the place arousal had been occupying. You almost started to weep as he pulled out of you.

Chilton didn’t seem to notice, glowing with the opposite effect of his completion. He ducked between your legs, grabbed your thighs, and began sucking your overstimulated flesh with renewed enthusiasm.

“Ah! W-wait,” you squirmed in his grasp, but it was firm. “What are you doing? I-I already came!”

The sloppy wet noises paused. His chin was soaked and he took sadistic delight in your distraught whimpers. “Therapy,” he smirked. “I have a theory you have another one in you, and that it will benefit your health.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Be a good little subject for me and try,” he answered, “or we shall be here a long time.” Then he buried his face between your thighs.

It felt sickening at first, like swallowing a cup of sugar—too much of something good that becomes painful. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as his tongue worked mercilessly. Then his fingers pumped inside you, his slick cum serving as a lubricant, and that aching need began to return. Choked cries of misery dissolved into ones of pleasure. He didn’t stop until you came again in his mouth, legs quivering and bruised under his grip. This one was more powerful than the first—you could feel it through your entire body, in every limb, and when it finally passed and his mouth popped wetly off of you, your body was too leaden to move.

Chilton smiled, quite satisfied with himself, licking your release off his lips.

***

Work was less stressful when you returned to it on Monday. Dr. Chilton was suddenly understanding of your mistakes. Though you were terrified he would decide he was wrong about you—you were too much of an idiot and failure for a relationship—things at least improved to the point that you could pretend to be cheerful again. Fake it until you make it was your mantra.

Everyone could tell something had changed.

Shifts were rationed out fairly without the express aim of frustrating employees. Patients received actual treatment. Dr. Chilton’s mood was so much less spiteful that a new hire unironically called him nice.

“He must be getting laid,” was the rumor around the hospital, though no one could decide who in their right mind would sleep with him. Your grin dropped at an orderly’s suggestion it was a prostitute.

You were gathering up your keys and jacket from your personal locker in the staff room when the sound of expensive leather shoes clicking on the stone floor signaled the doctor’s approach. It no longer made you flinch.

Chilton glanced in from the hallway and, seeing you were not alone, politely said, “Good work today,” and continued on, his step lighter than usual.

“You didn’t,” Nurse Clerval said flatly.

“What?”

“You didn’t,” they repeated. A raised eyebrow caused worry wrinkles to erupt beneath a hairline steadily turning grey.

“Of course not!”

“Then what is all this about?”

Your entire body was shifted in the direction Dr. Chilton had gone as if straining to follow, and a tell-tale smile shaped your lips into a fawning curve. Oh, you were so busted.

“We happened to talk the other day, that’s all. In private.”

“How private?” Another brow raise.

Your cheeks burned. “It’s not like that! He’s shy. When we talked one-on-one, it turns out we get along. He apologized for always singling me out, and he’s just trying to be more supportive. As a management style.”

Clerval stared at you hard. Your chest puffed out, really proud of that lie. The older nurse had seen enough within the hospital walls to know the administrator suddenly adopting a kinder, gentler management style was horseshit. But their jaded heart had not lost all compassion. A young nurse caught fucking the boss would get ripped to pieces by the gossip mill in this vicious place.

“OK. Fine,” they surrendered. “Just don’t go around making googly eyes, or people will get the wrong idea.”

***

A timid knock sounded on Dr. Chilton’s door, although it was still open from his last meeting—a junior psychiatrist who hurried out fuming and near tears. Perhaps that was why the next appointment was hesitant to come in.

He looked up from his computer, and the crankiness entrenched in his bones shook off at the sight of your face. You were his eighth performance evaluation that day, somewhere in the middle of the pack, and he’d lost track. Now his demeanor shifted, and he did something he hadn’t done for the others by rising from his desk to greet you.

“Close the door, if you would,” he said before you got too far into the room.

The latch clicked shut.

You were nervous. Though you had been dating for months, you remained distant during the workweek to avoid scandal—if news of a relationship got back to the board, you might be transferred to another hospital. Alone in his office, it was unclear whether Dr. Chilton was your boss or your boyfriend. Letting you dangle in suspense sent a thrill of excitement up his spine.

“Take a seat. Let’s get started, shall we?” he said, sitting back down behind his computer.

His massive desk was known as “the moat” by his staff, and it created an impersonal distance between you. He eyeballed you from across the moat, tapping his fingers together as he sank into his tall-backed leather chair. You sat on a small wooden chair, feeling very much like a specimen, and focused on the space between his eyes.

“You have been late five times this year and had to have an ID card replaced,” he said in clipped syllables, launching right into the review with one “needs improvement” after another.

Your stomach twisted into a familiar knot, but you managed not to spiral into an attack of self-loathing and anxiety. If you were going to cry, you could hold it until later.

Talking to someone helped.

Even Chilton admitted it was unethical for your boyfriend to be your therapist, and recommended you to someone with more expertise. You had been seeing Dr. Bloom for three months, and the dark fog was slowly receding. She taught you how to beat it back. Finding another job, for example, was not an outrageous, impossible idea if your current one was making you miserable. And most of your mistakes were no worse than the mistakes of your coworkers whom you very much wanted to keep living. She started you on a bupropion prescription that helped stabilize your moods, and you found yourself able to focus better because of it, too.

It also helped not being bullied at work every day.

The more your self-esteem improved over the months, the more you came to resent the shameful way Frederick used to treat you. Yet, as those same months went by, his actions drifted further into the territory of Past Frederick. That man was a stranger now—you could hardly hold Present Frederick accountable for his actions. Present Frederick was attentive and warm, always surprising you with lavish meals from Baltimore’s finest restaurants, spa days, and quiet nights at home. And as your boss, he was aloof but polite whenever he had cause to speak with you.

Why was he acting so cold now?

Dr. Chilton’s green eyes bore into you over the top his computer screen. “Tsk tsk… I am afraid your performance has not been exceptional, nurse. Perhaps there is something you can do to improve what goes into my report…” A thin lecherous smile spread over his lips.

You weren’t sure what he meant until he beckoned you to his side of the moat, and his hand slid under your shirt.

“What are you willing to do for a better evaluation, my little pet?” He winked mischievously, a hint of playfulness lighting his eyes, though his desire was deadly serious.

“We said never at work.”

“Yes, but now we have reason to be locked in my office, alone. Nothing that would raise suspicion. You are all mine for the next twenty minutes.”

A gasp rushed from your lips as his fingers expertly found a nipple and pinched. Your skin prickled with need.

“In that case, doctor… what will it take? I’ll do anything!” You added a desperate tremble to your voice as you got into the role he wanted you to play.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to bend you over this desk?” Frederick growled with lust, his breath hot in your ear as he grabbed your arms and spun you to face it. It had been a fantasy for far longer than you had been dating. His erection pressed against your ass.

You twisted your neck to catch the side of his mouth in a sloppy kiss. He smirked against your tongue before shoving you down.

The flat of his hand trailed up your back, fingers splaying between your shoulder blades to push your cheek into the polished mahogany.

“Good… very good,” he said. His breath shook with excitement.

Pulling your scrubs down, he rubbed the thickness of his cock over your opening. You shuddered at the cold sensation of lubricant and moaned as he reached between your thighs to stroke you.

“You are always ready for me to take you whenever I want it. To do anything I ask. It is my favorite thing about you—did you know that, my needy little pet?”

His hips rocked, the blunt head of his cock circling, pushing at your tightness. You let out a strangled whimper that almost sounded like a, “Yes, Doctor Chilton.”

“Be quiet now, remember,” he chided as his strong fingers dug into your hips and drew them against his in one fluid motion.

A gasp erupted from your throat—you fought to comply as he stretched you open, biting down on your fist. You were so tight around his cock, but it was the rush of power that drove him into a frenzy. He felt so in control, gripping your hips as he pounded you against his large desk. The desk was his own furnishing, and he was proud of how substantial it was—too heavy to scrape across the floor even as he fucked you. No creaking to indicate cheap construction. The height of refinement. Silent. No one would know what was happening just behind the closed door of his office—his domain. He had control here. It was something he was desperate for after two near-fatal attacks left him weakened and helpless, and his office was one of the few places he could exert his will absolutely. His office was his safety. And you. You completed it.

“You’re mine,” he grunted. “So submissive for me, bent over… God, yes—”

The one thing Dr. Chilton desired in life more than control was to be adored, and you adored him. The most pleasant ray of sunshine to grace the BSHCI was secretly broken like him. Was secretly his. All his. He had everything he wanted—your obedience, your affection, your strangled cries as you fought to stay quiet, your body writhing in pleasure beneath him—

He shuddered and came.

He finished sooner than he intended, and awareness of being old and weak came flooding back as his release dripped out around his cock and dribbled down your thighs. Fuck. He fucked it all up. But you turned and wrapped your arms around him anyway, kissed him like you weren’t even disappointed, and made him forget he wasn’t good enough. God, he could get lost in you.

Every day, he was a little less self-conscious. More comfortable having you close. He learned to trust you.

After a life of suffering, you were his happy ending.

***

“I love you.”

You hadn’t said it yet, but you were going to today.

Frederick Chilton’s hand was always in yours wherever you went—under the dinner table, on your thigh in the car, on the couch while the other hand typed away on a laptop. Soon he wouldn’t be able to hide his affection at work. You already caught him nearly slipping up and calling you “pet” in front of another nurse. It wouldn’t be long before it all came out. And it would be alright.

You were already looking at jobs at other hospitals in Baltimore. Most even came with a pay increase. Then when your relationship went public, there would be no scandal, no dating your boss, just the two of you together. A real couple. He was going to invite you to move in with him so you could still see each other every day—you were sure of it. The thought sent thrills of goosebumps tingling up your arms.

For once, when you looked to the future, you saw something bright.

“Hey Clerval, have you seen Dr. Chilton? I tried his office, but…”

The old nurse sighed heavily. Swinging their feet off the breakroom table, they set aside the yogurt cup they were halfway through and gave you a tired look. You hadn’t exactly told Clerval about your secret relationship, but they knew, and so far, no one else did. Not that they approved. In fact, you had never seen Clerval so worn down as when the topic of you and Dr. Chilton came up.

“His schedule says he’s in his office, which means he’s probably in one of his ‘unorthodox therapy’ sessions.”

Your head cocked. “His what?”

Clerval pinched the bridge of their nose, giving yet another sigh at your naivety. (At this rate, they were going to run out of air.) “Experimental procedures. Things the good doctor doesn’t want on record.”

There was a bitter bite to their words, yet at the same time, resignation. This hospital sucked the soul out of everyone who entered it, and Henry Clerval had been a nurse here longer than anyone. Longer than Frederick Chilton had been a doctor.

“Oh,” you said. “Well,” you scuffed the white rubber sole of your sneaker on the stone floor. “I’m sure he has a good reason.”

“I always see those hypnotherapy lights flashing around Ward A when no one is scheduled for therapy. Try there,” Clerval suggested with defeat.

“Thank you!” you called, sneakers already running down the hall in the direction of the women’s ward.

“Are you sure you want to interrupt his session?”

“I want to surprise him! I’ve got something important to say!”

***

If anyone had been outside women’s wing cell 4B on any Wednesday around noon, they would have heard a wet choking sound, but the staff was too jaded to care. If the guards had any idea what was happening, they got off on it, and didn’t try to stop it.

“Am I good girl, daddy?”

“Yes… yes,” Dr. Chilton hissed between his teeth, biting his lower lip to keep his breath from exploding out in a tortured moan. “A good girl.”

It was an accident the first time a hypnotherapy session regressed Julianne back to a sexually abusive childhood. She grabbed for his belt, and he froze. He almost yelped out in terror and called for a guard, but then she had his cock in her warm, wet mouth, sucking it to fullness, and moaning for him (or rather, for the memory of the father and brother she eventually murdered).

This wasn’t therapy.

When you became a soft part of his life, he stopped trying to justify his actions as anything other than more exploitation in her long life of being exploited. He let it happen because he was lonely, and he continued doing it because he did not care who else got hurt. There were no possible therapeutic benefits for the patient. He himself noted an exacerbation of dissociative symptoms, if there was ever any doubt that he was not thinking of her care. He only wanted a warm mouth to service him, even if it was not the one he longed for.

Then you became more than a daydream, and he recognized how deeply he hated himself. Because he had you—not only your body, but your heart.

But he never stopped.

Every week, like clockwork, he continued the hypnotherapy sessions and left Julianne confused with the bitter taste of his ejaculation in her throat.

You could have been his happy ending.

It wasn’t too late. You filled his lonesome days with affection and understanding he never thought possible. You taught him that he wasn’t too old and broken to love. In forty-five miserable years, he hadn’t ruined things so badly he could never find happiness.

You could have been his epilogue if he only loved you as well as you loved him.

It was not your fault what happened next.

But of course, of all the nurses and orderlies, doctors and guards in the BSHCI, you were the only one kind enough to want to surprise him with lunch. The only one who would have a sinking feeling about the rhythmic squelching coming from cell 4B. Anyone else would have said it was someone else’s business and walked away before seeing something that might obligate them to fill out paperwork.

You were too kind for this place. Too kind for the scarred doctor whose heart died a long time ago.

He watched your eyes widen from the other side of the bars. Saw your face turn from confused to nauseous, then crumple into tears as an involuntary groan escaped his lips—Julianne kept sucking at an unwelcome, now painful pace.

Then you turned and ran.

Julianne never stopped until he finished, though he was no longer in the mood. He never touched her, but he tried to back up, wanted to run after you. She stayed with him. This time he broke his rule and placed a hand to her forehead to push her away. Grasping his thighs, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked harder. Blood hammered in his ears. If he ripped her away, she could become violent or wake from the hypnosis, and he did not know how much was she aware was real. What her reaction might be. She was surprisingly strong as she held on, teeth grazing threateningly along his shaft the more he struggled.

She never stopped until he finished.

He was trapped.

He whimpered, cock going soft even as she bobbed faster. He tried to close his eyes and think about you, but that was ruined. You were gone forever. There was nothing he could say to explain himself, unless he drugged you with the right cocktail of psychotropics to make you suggestible, your memory malleable…

Solutions he knew would never work raced through his mind as the throbbing between his legs became an agonizing burn devoid of pleasure.

Panic rose and tightened his chest.

***

An anonymous call was made to the board of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The subsequent investigation found “no conclusive evidence” of Dr. Chilton’s alleged breach of ethics, owing not to the lack of such evidence existing, but the board’s desire to sweep the incident under the rug. He was, however, summarily fired and replaced by Dr. Alana Bloom. A forward-thinking move—if the truth ever came out, the hospital would have a friendly feminist face for public relations.

He never went to jail. Never got what he deserved.

Within a month, his book Hannibal the Cannibal became a national best-seller, and he was on tour, raking in wealth and acclaim. He probably would have left his position at the hospital anyway.

There was only one thing he lost, and he used much of the book’s royalties hiring a private investigator to keep tabs on you. It was the only way he could be sure you were safe when you would not return any of his calls.

As much as he was terrified of you becoming suicidal again, the truth hurt more.

You were doing well.

You resigned from BSHCI. Within a month, you had a new job as a graphic designer of all things. He never knew you were an artist. There were so many things about you he never asked, and now he never would.

Every so often, he would drive by your house and slow down, trying to catch a glimpse of you. He imagined seeing you hanging a rope, and rescuing you just in time. A thousand versions of the confrontation played in his mind—you screaming, “Stay away from me!” with disgust. Tears streaming from your puffy red eyes. Him pleading, “Do not hurt yourself because of my mistake.” The bark of your sardonic laugh at the realization that he cared.

In a few, precious few, of these fantasies, you would throw yourself into his arms and forgive him.

But he never saw you in danger, and he rarely indulged dreams as unlikely as reconciliation.

Eventually, he didn’t even get to hear your voice directing him to leave a message—only an automated recording that the number has been disconnected. Sometimes, however, you were sitting on the couch in your living room near the window, and it was enough to justify the forty-minute detour through your neighborhood.

One day, your silhouette was not alone.

***

Nurse Clerval quit two days after you left.

They couldn’t forget the shock on your face when you burst into the breakroom and nearly collapsed. It was the most heartbreaking thing to see someone so innocent crushed.

“Ch-Chilton… he—”

Sobbing and stuttering, you told them what happened, and Clerval took care of it. You were in no state to get on the phone, be put on hold, and fill out the miles of paperwork that went with everything in a government-funded hospital. It was a pain in the ass, and nothing would get done anyway, which was why no one ever bothered… but they couldn’t ignore the look on your face.

“You’re going to get through this,” the nurse said when you hadn’t moved for a long time. “Just breathe. It’s going to be bad for awhile, but you just keep breathing, keep surviving, and one day you’ll wake up, and… you’ll be through it.”

You rubbed the tears from your eyes to look up at Clerval with new appreciation. The jaded nurse had been haunting these halls for too long and it hardened them, but they were always watching out for you.

When you tried to throw yourself at them, desperate for stability, they turned you down, patting your head like a child. “You’re not in a clear mental state.”

***

A brown paper takeout bag sat on your kitchen counter. You’d missed your own “congratulations on the new job” party, and Clerval got worried, hiding their relief when you answered the door. Your eyes were lifeless.

“I couldn’t face everyone. If any of them knew I was… seeing him”—you shuddered and avoided saying his name—“they wouldn’t be caught dead with me. How could I be so stupid?”

A calloused thumb wiped a tear from your cheek. “I miss your smile.”

They gave you a small, sad smile of their own. It was the first time you’d seen Clerval smile. Their face looked like it was made to smile, you decided—like it used to a long time ago, but forgot how.

“When you were dating Dr. Chilton... fuck that bastard, but you were happy. I loved coming to work and seeing you smile like that. It brightened up the gloom. I’d like to see you smile like that again someday.”

“I’m sorry,” you choked. “I don’t know if I can anymore.”

Suddenly you were wrapped in a hug, with a comforting voice in your ear. “You can. You will.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Shut up, I’m clair-fucking-voyant, and I goddamned know you will. Now go on and live your life like you believe it too. Don’t you dare turn into an old cynic like me.”

***

Frederick Chilton thought his lungs would burn through his ribcage—that his throat would close up, and he would die. Seeing you with someone else was more than he could stand, and he drove home with a death wish, gas pedal to the floor. He would rather be wrapped around a telephone pole than make it back to his empty, too-large house.

But the universe does not dole out fair consequences.

He deserved to die in a jealous rage. To be arrested. You should have thrown wine in his face in a dramatic public confrontation. Screamed at him. But you never did.

There was no satisfying comeuppance or divine punishment.

There was only the memory of your heart breaking, and knowing three things in that moment: You loved him. It was over. And it was his fault. There was a time in his life when he was happy. When he had you to hold in his arms, kiss away his nightmares, and fill his days with love.

And then he didn’t.

All he had left was the smell of you on his sheets and a hoodie you had forgotten. He laid it out on a pillow beside him and inhaled until even your scent was gone.

Years later, lying in his own charred remains inside an oxygen chamber, he wondered if you would visit and start to cry at the sight of him. Forgive him.

He never saw you again.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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#Frederick Chilton x reader #darkfic #angst #gender-neutral reader

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