#frederick&margot.

[vitalphenomena]

imagine your life is perfect and you get away with everything you want but the man you care for deeply and are intimate with on a furiously regular basis is named frederick

[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]

it's simple really. jordy writes the weird guy with unhinged ethics who can be kinda rude, and i write the girl who kills people that he is obsessed with

[vitalphenomena]

It's all right. We both stab each other and we both crawl in the grave and we die together like Romeo and Juliet, and somebody would find the tapes. And when they see it, we'll be like, history together. Look, you're afraid. Don't be afraid. I'm not gonna stab you. Here. I love you too much. Take it. Take the knife. You do it.

[vitalphenomena]

[vitalphenomena]

margot hemingway when she leaves her 'hehe chilton is so obsessed with me' bubble and gets reminded she is not a particularly likable person.

also margot at any given moment when rifat is trailing her and she has no fucking idea what he's doing

@hypocratic @eviji (source)

[vitalphenomena]

[vitalphenomena]

margot + men + meta.

margot has always considered herself superior to men, naturally and inherently so. her father is kind of a dope. she beat her uncle at chess the second time they ever played. once she realized what she was good at and where she was going to succeed, the accomplishments of her male family members and male peers felt incredibly trivial.

margot often feels as if she is competing with men because, like, she literally is in chess tournaments. she also feels like she was competing with men for relationships/sexual encounters with women. pursuing encounters with women came naturally to her because of her ideas about gender roles, femininity, and emotions. also, she finds women more interesting than most men. after being emotionally neglected and starved for praise from her father, i think part of her feels like men have failed her and she wants nothing much to do with them.

as her competitors in chess tournaments and academics (her degree program and university as a whole are male-dominated), she considers them inferior as she believes - knows - she will ultimately prevail as The Best.

she respects her male professors somewhat, but also are they even good at chess? do they have the instincts of a killer?

uncovering The Organization a few years ago complicated her feelings towards men somewhat. she was forced to reckon with what certain men - many men - in positions of immense power with obscene wealth want the world to look like. and what they get off on. for awhile, it was terrifying; she saw men who would attack and subjugate her around every street corner, down every hallway. her fear has subsided into something more rational, but she finds men capable of a chilling, selfish, sadistic cruelty completely distinct from her bloodlust. her bloodlust is fine. obviously.

when it comes to how men see margot, she is often underestimated, degraded, ignored. being Seen by dr chilton for the first time, even if he was taunting her, was incredibly jarring. she respects him because he understands her stakes and her drive in a way nobody else ever has. also, his academic accomplishments are impressive as hell, and she does acknowledge that.

also, dr. chilton is willing to fill the void left by her father that she rarely consciously acknowledges as something that leaves her feeling lacking or let down. despite knowing her dad is kind of a dope, his ability to ignore her and look over her accomplishments had a scathing effect. unfortunately, she does love him and want to matter to him - she doesn't know who else she would matter to.