your world is dying. your husband presumably dies in space so now you're a widow and your world is still dying. then 50-ish years later your husband everyone assumed was dead pulls up in a random spaceship full of a highly volatile atmosphere with the solution to your impending apocalypse and none of the original crew from his mission and instead with a wet, blobby alien that he pack bonded with and almost died for and is now emotionally codependent on that now wont stop complaining about the temperature of the water in its enclosure. your name is adrian and you dont know how you got here
“The woman who checks her makeup half a dozen times a day to see if her foundation has caked or her mascara has run, who worries that the wind or the rain may spoil her hairdo, who looks frequently to see if her stockings have bagged at the ankle or who, feeling fat, monitors everything she eats, has become, just as surely as the inmate of the Panopticon, a self-policing subject, a self committed to a relentless self-surveillance. This self-surveillance is a form of obedience to patriarchy. It is also the reflection in woman’s consciousness of the fact that she is under surveillance in ways that he is not, that whatever else she may become, she is importantly a body designed to please or to excite.”
— Sandra Lee Bartky, “Foucault, Femininity, and the Modernization of Patriarchal Power.”
After rehab, Frank’s back is in a really good place. He’s been doing physical therapy and actually treating the source of the pain, not just the symptoms. He’s eased up on some of his lengthy runs, swapping to a lower impact workout.
These days, a couple of Tylenol or Aleve is enough to get him through the pain days.
And on the days where the pain is a little worse, like after he and Mel bring the kids to Hershey Park and he gets tossed around on rollercoasters he might be a little too old for, Frank’s flat on his stomach in bed with Mel’s magical doctor hands fixing his muscles.
“Oh fuck - jesus, right - yeah right there,” Frank groans into the pillow as Mel’s fingers work at a particularly painful knot in his lower back. The pressure of her fingers nearly brings tears to his eyes but it feels so good. He should’ve known that he was going to regret the third go on the Wildcat with Tanner.
Mel hums as she works, smoothing her palms over his back and pressing the heels of her hands into the dimples just above his ass. Frank’s groan makes her shiver and she laughs faintly, “anyone listening at the door would think something else is happening in here.”
He laughs, biting it off into a groan when Mel digs her thumb into another knot. “Ow - fuck, Mel, that feels good. If you flip me over, we can make that something else - ow, shit that one hurt - happen,” his voice is strangled from her work and Mel dances her fingers lightly over his flank.
“I’m not putting extra pressure on your back,” Mel says, slipping her hands lower and kneading at his ass cheeks, making Frank’s hips twitch. “But I promise I’ll make you feel good, honey.”
He loves when the term of endearment slips from her lips and can feel his cock thicken and his back pain recede. Frank groans her name and Mel clicks her tongue, shifting to straddle the backs of his thighs. His leg hair tickles her skin and Mel thinks that she probably will end this with her panties around her ankle and Frank’s come all over her body.
“What if I said the ache is in front now?” Mel can hear the laugh that’s muffled by the pillow Frank has his face buried in. She rakes her nails over his back and ass, watching the red lines appear and darken. She’s wet and achy herself and gives herself an absent rub over Frank’s thigh. He hisses. “Fuck, baby, I can feel how wet you are. Come on, let me roll over.”
“Not yet,” Mel sighs. “I’m enjoying the view.”
Frank’s ass is perfection, as far as Mel’s concerned. Her boyfriend is in amazing shape in general from his running and chasing after the kids, but Mel’s always liked watching his ass as he worked, hugged by his scrub pants and straining against the fabric when he bent over. Sometimes she thinks she objectifies him too much, but then she remembers this is Frank Langdon she’s talking about and he peacocks in front of her on purpose.
“View of the front is even better,” he teases, bending his knee so his heel bumps against Mel’s back. He looks over his shoulder, craning his neck, and it makes his smile crooked.
“Mmm,” Mel hums and leans down to press a kiss to his shoulder. “I do like the view of the front.”
Frank laughs and Mel lets the intrusive thoughts win, scraping her teeth over his shoulder and biting down, slightly harder than she should.
“Fuck, Mel, baby,” Frank whines, his fingers tightening around the sheets. His hips twist and pump into the mattress and Mel’s taken along for the ride, his ass cradled against her pelvis. “Can’t just bite me and expect me to behave.”
“Do you promise your back is feeling okay?” Mel murmurs against his neck, laying on top of him like a blanket. He reaches back and pats her hip, the only spot he can reach in their current positions.
“Mel, baby,” his tone is serious, “I promise my back is fine. Besides,” he continues, rolling and flipping so he’s on his back and Mel’s draped over his chest, “you’re going to do all the work.”
His grin is wicked and her answering smile is just as dangerous. Frank’s cock twitches between her legs, hard against her inner thigh, and Mel shifts just slightly so she can press it against her cunt. Frank leans up and kisses her, sucking on her tongue until she’s moaning in his mouth, rolling her hips against his.
“You’re so bossy,” she complains on a whine when he lets her pull back to breathe. Frank’s fingers snap at the elastic waist of her panties and he smirks.
“Hop on, Mel,” he pats her ass. “I’ll tell you just what to do to ease the ache.”
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