#frederick c.

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic

"You know, it's as if you like re-watching my matches more than I enjoy competing." How is that possible?

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic

[ sms: Dr. Frederick Chilton ] I need you at the hotel. [ sms: Dr. Frederick Chilton ] Now.

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic

BALTIMORE HAS BEEN SUBMERGED IN SNOW AND SLEET. Margot sits at the kitchen table—hers or Frederick's, I'll let you/him decide—and sets up her (treasured, cherished) travel chess set. It's become habitual for them to knock feet and/or ankles when at the table like this, but now that a game is in the works, she is all business. Prim and proper, but neurotically alert.

"You'll be white, Your Grace, and I'll allow you to go first."

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic

"Dinner just arrived."

"—you must be starving."

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic

"Maximus certainly had a good time."

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic

MARGOT HAS DR. CHILTON HELD DOWN BENEATH HER HIPS AND WITH HER HANDS AROUND HIS WRISTS. Even when her fast-paced, staccato-like pants don't sound like laughter, she can't stop smiling.

"Got you pinned," she taunts, mocking. "You thought you had me. Twenty moves in. But you didn't—" She nips at his nose. His earlobe. Someone else might lose their train of thought completely. She is far too focused for that—capable of multitasking, operating in parallel lines. Her nails scratch at the skin over his radial artery—a playful and harmless movement, mainly just to stay active.

"—you didn't see the stronger pin I had set up. At all. It's as if I'm better than you at this."

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic

HERE'S HOW THIS GOES: they are not on a couch or in Frederick's office as originally anticipated. Margot, at some time or another time, has been appropriately (explosively—and forgive me for that, but, seriously) satisfied in those locations. In literal bed, though, it seems she can't get enough of him.

It's the middle of the night. At Frederick's. (She's almost as comfortable here as in her own apartment, which she's been in since her sophomore year. She prefers his sheets, has asked where he bought them.)

Frederick is in his undershirt, his pajama pants. They rarely fall asleep completely naked, or in whatever state they'd had sex in—something about regaining composure, control, after the fact. (And she still knows very, very little about that scar, its precision.)

However, he only has so many pajama sets, and sometimes, Margot prefers her own silky shorts and more properly-fitting button-ups. She doesn't want his pajamas to become hers; doesn't that undo some of the appeal?

Margot wakes up with an ache in her stomach, a throbbing between her legs. Some sort of dream, some sort of leftover feeling from what they'd gotten up to after they ordered dinner, after he looked over her presentation and accompanying paper for an assessment tomorrow in her Capitalism class. Now, half asleep, she rubs sloppily against herself, over her shorts, with the heel of her palm. Something about it—her coordination, her pressing and swollen compulsion—isn't enough. She tries putting her hand beneath her waistband, rubbing harder—also insufficient.

Groaning, she rolls over. She wraps a leg around his, pervasive as a vine but much faster moving. This is usually how they fall asleep or spend their mornings. However, it is also not enough.

At this point, or perhaps slightly before it, Frederick wakes up. He tends to do so jerkily, with a start, which used to startle Margot in turn. Tonight, he was a little more relaxed and comfortable when he finally fell asleep; he takes his time gaining consciousness, assessing his surroundings.

Margot looks up to see the shine of his eyes in the near-complete dark. The house settles. She has no idea what to say for herself—did he hear that earlier groan, that desperate and animal sound? She tries to let out a mistakenly-held breath—instead, she groans again. His arms are around her in an instant, pressing her body even closer to his. Approval. Mutual want. A warm, broad hand against the small of her back.

Instead of covering her mouth (shame does take over—it is an ugly thing, to express something so jagged and primal and base), all four limbs engage in repositioning her so that she's straddling higher up on his body, her core pressed against the outermost part of his upper thigh. Instead of using her mouth to state, firmly, what she wants and what she asks of him, her forehead and slicked-down bangs nuzzle against his stubbled jaw, and her breath comes out hot, heavy, against his sweat-prickled neck.

They shift again. Now, he's sitting up, back pressed against various pillows. Engaged. Hand still on the small of her back—not that she needs the added pressure. She remains straddling one leg. Eyes squeezed shut, but indeed barely conscious of how he nods his head against her (yet also incapable of basic speech), she rolls her hips. Slowly, at first. This does not last; she's too fucking eager for something.

Her shorts riding up provide some necessary tension. Her focused work provides the rest. Her arms wrap around him in an embrace that is exceedingly grateful, extremely possessive, and all he's really done is let her (rudely!) awaken him and use him like certain dogs use certain pillows.

Meaningful words continue to evade her. In their place, she places open-mouthed kisses against his earlobe. She loses the ability to steady her breathing or keep it from teetering towards more obscene vocalizations. He couldn't be at a better vantage point for hearing them.

Even keeping her eyes closed requires a bodily focus that has been entirely redirected towards grinding on Frederick's leg. Her eyelids heavily lidded, she tugs at his shirt.

Briefly, a toothy smile, a delirious grin. This is all she needed.

[vitalphenomena]

@hypocratic asked for: celebration kiss

MARGOT WASN'T EXAGGERATING ABOUT THE FEELING. She has the perception that she really could do anything in the moments during and after a victory.

It gets to her, this time. Maybe it's because she went on one of her first ever dates (real or not real, genuine article or not—it certainly felt most approximate to a date). Maybe it's because her second-to-last opponent made such a brilliant move with his surviving rook that it caused Margot's stomach to drop—and she still fucking indisputably won. It doesn't matter.

She fidgets with her medal during the photographs and hand-shaking. She focuses on nothing but the feeling, forcing it to remain.

And finally, she's able to approach Dr. Chilton while he rises from the "closing ceremony" audience and adjusts his blazer.

Instead of I'm not surprised you weren't on stage with me or Nobody got anything over me ever again or Are you proud of me?, it's:

"Walk me to my car. Okay?"

She's still adjusting to walking side-by-side with him—realizes there's usually some imbalance between them that she doesn't want to maintain as she matches his stride. Shorter, smaller steps. Lighter falls of her feet. Her, side-eying him, unwaveringly.

He's on the side closest to her car (too nice for a twenty-something to have afforded without mommy and daddy's money), and she doesn't change this as she takes out her keys to unlock the vehicle. But she does do something in rare form: ramble nervously.

"I could have had champagne and vodka at lunch and still won, you know. The finale wasn't as difficult as it should have been—sometimes, these people make me start to believe in dumb luck. But that will always lose to skill, I think."

She attempts to gauge his reaction. Are you proud of me? Are you proud of me? Are you proud of me?

In their consistent dance of close-but-not-too-close, taunting each other, he's come close to leaning against the side of her car—but won't dare dirty his suit by actually pressing against the windows, slightly dull from dirt.

Margot, meanwhile, boldly puts her hand against the panel above the window. He hasn't answered the question yet. She hasn't asked. Still, she demands a reward.

Blissfully aware of the medal's weight around her neck, she leans forward, bronze metal bouncing against his chest as her lips brush against his. She's more hesitant than she would like, less exploratory than her confidence would usually compel, but that's just because she's never before kissed a man of his stature, of his intelligence, with his stubble and intoxicating mouth.

She pulls away like it was nothing. Like her arm isn't shaking.

"Thanks for lunch. Maybe next time, you'll let me treat you."