possessive caine wouldn't be like. him pinning you to the wall or whatever. it would be either him growing to be big enough or you shrinking to be small enough for him to pick you up with one hand like a child graspign at it's toy- exactly like how he was holding pomni in that one scene.
i think people trying to make possessive caine sexy in a very. normal way and imo you gotta get a little weird with it. considering his power and control over the circus and the cartoony-ness of it all. you gotta get weird with it.
cw ahead: medical treatments, medical negligence, misdiagnosis, painful intercourse due to medical reasons
you didn't ask for it but you're getting it anyway —🦊
Sex has always been a sore spot for me because, physically speaking, I’ve had to deal with searing, burning pain during intercourse for years.
Gynecologists couldn’t tell me what it was. They called me overly anxious (which wasn’t untrue, but also irrelevant for my case), severely stressed, and “afraid of sex”. When I explained that I wanted to have it—mentally—but that my body couldn’t handle it, they referred me to a psychologist to explore my supposed “fear of sex.”
But so many things didn’t make sense. I wasn’t afraid of gynecologists, I was actually very accommodating, cooperative—I was the first one wanting to find the root of the problem. I wasn’t scared of being touched. And ultimately… I just wasn’t afraid of sex. In fact, I liked the idea of sex. I was envious of people who could have it without feeling like their lower half was catching fire—because that’s how it felt to me.
That was my diagnosis: fear of sex.
Every time the doctors asked what I felt during intercourse, I said, “It burns, like someone’s inserting a scorching metal rod inside me. It scratches like continuously rubbing velcro on skin". I had physical signs too—internal abrasions, cuts, bleeding. My tests all came back negative, and so they never investigated further. They pegged it all to my “sex phobia".
From then on, my sex drive plummeted to the pits of hell. I wasn’t attracted to it anymore—I only associated it with pain. And with pain, there was no orgasm, no fulfillment, no intimacy. It was torture. That was it.
I was lost, fighting alone, talking to wall after wall because no one was listening—until I stopped searching for answers and reluctantly decided to make peace with my condition.
And then, just when I was about to accept that sex would never feel good to me, I had a random gynecological visit with a random doctor in my hometown. He didn’t like what I’d been told. He didn’t like the shallow diagnosis. So he—and his trusted obstetrician (I adored her and still do)—decided to dig deeper.
And the first thing they told me was:
“Never believe that sex should be painful. Never think, 'Because I used it [my vagina], it’s okay if there’s pain'. Sex should not be painful. There can be discomfort, but never pain.”
It was never fear, it was physical pain. It was never anxiety, it was a physical impediment. I was never scared, I was never anxious or stressed—I was in pain.
After two years of increasingly distressing and invasive physiotherapy, antidepressants, neuropathy treatments, myorelaxants, supplements, and so fucking on—I found out what sex should feel like.
And I liked it. Fucking hell, I loved it.
I loved having it. I loved talking about it. I loved discussing it with friends. I loved studying it—because look at me now, working to help people with their reproductive health.
And I found it even more liberating to fantasize about it, about all the stuff I could try now that it didn’t hurt anymore. How to turn those feelings around and make them good. I was excited. I was ecstatic.
But the societal shame of being AFAB with a high sex drive knocked early. It was terrifyingly easy to go from “I’m ashamed of not liking sex” to “I’m ashamed of liking sex too much”.
The psychological journey toward making peace with this different kind of shame has been long, but I think I’m almost there. There’s still work to do, and I’m not ready to yell it from the rooftops just yet—but I know I’m close, because things are changing. I see it. I feel it.
To write smut, for me—and forgive the dramatics—is healing. I love writing it. I love nitpicking every emotion people go through while they’re at it. I love exploring the mental gymnastics, the physical exchanges, the psychology behind it.
It’s me discovering things I never felt, things I might feel someday.
And it’s me telling the reader what I’ve finally—finally—managed to experience.
I’m still wary of pain—both reading and writing about it. But maybe that’s the turning point, no? My mind still reels from it, my body remembers it. But maybe when I can face it… that’s when I’ll know I’ve made peace with it.
Not there yet. But seeing how far I’ve come makes me hopeful.
I’m sorry if you stumbled upon my blog expecting fluff and ended up in a smut-hole.
I’m sorry if you’re not comfortable here, but I am, and ultimately that’s what matters to me.
I’m sure there are wonderful writers out there who’ll wrap their readers in fluffy blankets and warm 'em up with a hot chocolate of romance. And if you can't find those writers, become one. Lord knows starting to write what I wanted to read has laid the foundation of my journey.
However, I’m here to tell feelings through sex, because I’m thrilled to finally understand them.
Heartbreak and how sensual touches change into languid brushes or desperate hands because of it. Jealousy and its covetousness, how caresses become clutches and kisses become bites. Hate and how it can tangle with attraction, that confusing cocktail of disdain and perfect pleasure.
Love, and how it can be fun and kind and good and reverent, clumsy and personal at times, but also rough and biting during others, when both parties agree. That, too, is healing.
And so, so much more. I can’t wait to explore it all. Read it all. Write it all, and live through it all, too!
This blog is my safe space—and I hope it’s someone else’s too.
I hope my sex anthologies, my sexy one shots, my weird-kinks-I’m-still-not-sure-about and my very-much-established-kinks-I’m-very-sure-about, and my sappy love stories can be our own version of a fluffy blanket and hot chocolate.
Being horny is not a crime. Wanting to have sex doesn’t make you an uncontrollable monster. Writing characters who experience desire (especially if that desire mirrors your own) does not turn them into wild, animalistic caricatures. It doesn’t make them shameful, and it doesn’t make you shameful either.
And please remember: dyspareunia (painful intercourse) is not normal. Pain during sex can be a consensual choice (to each their own preference!), but it should never be forced, unexplained, or accepted as your baseline. It should never be your "normal" or something you're told to "live with"!
If you think you're experiencing it, please find the courage to contact your gynecologist about it.
Your body is entitled to feel good—you are entitled to feel good.
And you deserve to feel safe, cared for, and understood.
There is something about Frank recognising Nietzsche in Mel's words and Robby having "Amor Fati" as his tattoo, which is repeatedly mentioned and explored by Nietzsche as a philosophical concept and approach to life in "Ecce Homo: Wie man wird, was man ist" and "Die fröhliche Wissenschaft" and "Also sprach Zarathustra: Ein Buch für Alle und Keinen".
Thinking that maybe Michael got his tattoos done relatively recently (the linework looks crisp in the show, which I will use for the benefit of my headcanon with no shame, sue me), and maybe that's what moved Frank to get into Nietzsche's philosophy out of curiosity.
I keep wondering what their dynamic looked like before S1, and evidence of their early interactions in S1 leads me to believe that there was (and still is, but that's a different conversation) a strong mentorly bond. Maybe Langdon also did his rotations at PTMC, giving more time to acclimatise to each other for a bond to form, whatever. So it's not a completely wild idea that Langdon would have noticed the fresh tats during scrubs change or just plain movement. Maybe it was the first time they both talked about something outside of medicine and work.
Just makes me happy (and also sad) to think that maybe that small part of that still wet-behind-the-ears Langdon is in there somewhere. The one who read up on Nietzsche after seeing his new mentor's tattoos. The one who found the tattoo and the idea behind it cool (he is a history nerd; obviously he would find something like that cool). And maybe it's ironic for him to hear "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger" and then Kelly Clarkson's name. Maybe in that moment he wishes he had never read up on Nietzsche.
