#i would cut off my left ring toe if it meant i could exude the same vibes as jon berenthal’s frank castle

[nosugarsweetener]

i have spent too long in denial. i am not the feminine girly girl i keep trying to be. no feminine girly girl continuously and viciously pines over the fact that she does not exude the same vibes as a rugged middle aged man that simply does not happen

[losingmymindtonight]

Whump: Dehumanization

Tony’s always said that the first day of your captivity tells you the most.

It’s a day to focus, analyze, pull together every bit of information you can to estimate just how royally fucked you are.

And by his estimate, he and Peter were so fucked that it didn’t even register on the scale.

First of all, their captors knew exactly who Peter was. They knew he was Spider-Man, knew about the gene mutations, knew everything.

Second of all, they didn’t make any demands. Didn’t monologue about how Tony had wronged them, or how Spider-Man had locked them or someone they loved in jail. They just chucked them in a cell and left them there.

Tony stumbled to his feet at the same time Peter did, breathless and confused. He went through his list of priorities, lining up everything he needed to do in a split second.

“You good, kid?” He gripped Peter’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, eyes roving over his split lip and bruised cheekbone. They’d been a lot rougher with the kid than they had been with him, smacked him around without any real provocation. “Anything broken?”

“No, no.” The kid smiled, albeit weakly. “I’m all good.”

At Peter’s reassurance, he let himself observe the cell. It was plain. The wall, floor, and ceiling were all the same shade of medium gray. There was only a single, narrow cot in the room. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he was grateful that they at least had one. There were blankets, too, which Tony intended to wrap Peter up in at the earliest available opportunity. The cell was cold, and the kid struggled to regulate his body temperate ever since the mutation.

Sometimes. spider DNA really wasn’t the best thing in the world.

“Why did they take us?” Peter had wandered over to the door and was running his hands over the cracks, trying to find a weak spot. “They didn’t even say.”

“Not sure, but it doesn’t matter.” He didn’t dare tell the kid that it was disconcerting, that the whole situation was settling a bad feeling in his stomach. “I’m sure they’re just dragging out the suspense, making us wait for it.”

Peter glanced back at him. “People are crazy.”

He snorted. “Yeah, kid, you’re telling me.”

--

They burst into the cell an hour later. Two guards went straight for Tony, pinning him against the wall, while a set of four seized Peter and flung him to the ground in front of a man who Tony assumed must be their leader.

Peter tried to get up, only to have his knees kicked out from behind. He was manhandled until he was kneeling. One of the guards grabbed a fistful of the kid’s curls and forcefully bowed his head.

Peter whimpered. Tony saw red.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He snarled, jerking against the hands holding him back. “He’s just a kid. Whatever you want, you can get from me.”

The leader looked at him, impassive. Tony had to grudgingly admit that, if he wasn’t so obviously a fucking sadist, he might’ve said that the guy was attractive. He had short, dark hair. Clean shaven. Young, too. He looked a lot like the business school upstarts he met at college fairs.

“Your capture was never the plan, Mister Stark.” Wait, what? “If you agree to walk away, we’ll free you.”

His eyes narrowed. He heard exactly what the man left out of that proposal. “Does the kid come, too?”

The leader sneered. He poked Peter’s leg with the toe of his boot, disgust twisting his face. “It will not be going anywhere.”

“Then I reject your offer,” he replied coolly.

“Mister Stark!” Yeah, Peter was pissed. “You can’t just-”

One of the guards slammed the butt of his gun against Peter’s temple, effectively silencing his scolding. Tony shouted again, to no avail, while the leader knelt in front of the kid, smiling cruelly.

“Listen closely, insect.” The man grabbed Peter’s chin harshly. “You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not look your superiors in the eye. You do nothing unless you’ve been given permission. Do you understand?”

“Honestly,” Peter said, voice tight with pain, “you just kinda sound like a high school teacher. D’you really expect me to be afraid of you?”

The leader stood suddenly. He nodded to one of the guards. “Break his arm.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tony yelled, panicked. “Leave him-”

The sound of Peter’s bone cracking echoed across the cell. The kid did an admirable job of muffling his scream, but not good enough to hide it entirely.

Tony’s vision blurred with angry tears.

“Peter, hey, kid.” He hated the gleeful look on the men’s face, hated that they were looking at Peter like he was their newest chewtoy. “Just breathe. Breathe through it. It’s-”

He cut himself off. The leader was in his face now, eyes cold and dangerous. Still, he couldn’t help but be relieved that he’d redirected to him rather than the kid. Little victories.

“Now, Mister Stark, since you’re staying,” his eyes roved over his face, calculating, “you should learn the rules as well.”

He glared. “Yeah, yeah. No back-talk. No eye contact. All that jazz.”

“That’s for the mutant. Luckily for you, you’re human.”

For a moment, he floundered. Were these people crazy?

Wait. Never mind. Scratch that. Of course they were crazy. They’d kidnapped him. Historically, not a good move.

He glanced at Peter. “He’s human.”

“No, he’s not. He’s been tainted. It’s our job to eradicate the lesser members of society. To keep the human race pure.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that you’re into eugenics? I hate to break it to you, but people’ve tried this kinda shit before, and it’s never worked. The name Adolf Hitler ring any bells? Marie Stopes, perhaps?”

“We will succeed where others have not.”

“Jesus Christ. You really are off your rocker.”

A sharp slap stung across his cheek. “I do not wish to hurt you, but I will not allow you to interfere with our plans.”

“Which are?”

The leader smiled, stepped back. 

Oh, great, he thought, here comes the monologue.

“Enhanced individuals are a threat to society, and yet their powers are exploitable. That’s what we’re here to do.”

Tony snorted. “Yeah? So you, what, imprison them and wait for them to agree to help you out? Nice plan. How’s it going so far?”

“We know how to convince them.”

“Yeah?” Tony drawled, covering his fear with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “And how do you do that?”

“You break them.”

--

Tony learned the rules quickly, because every time he broke them, Peter took the blame.

Peter wasn’t allowed to sit on the bed. Peter wan’t allowed to eat Tony’s portions. Peter wasn’t allowed to make eye contact. Peter wasn’t allowed to be touched. Peter wasn’t allowed to speak, or to be spoken to.

They had cameras hidden in the room, somewhere. Microphones too. One wrong move, and a legion of guards would storm in, beat the kid within an inch of his life, and leave.

After a week, Tony was terrified to even breathe in Peter’s direction.

Their days were spent in stiff agony. Tony would sit as close to the kid as he could justify, hoping that he could exude the calm that he so obviously needed. Hoping that his presence would remind him that not everyone hated him. That he was human.

He could see it tearing him down. He suspected that the lack of touch was one of the worst things. Peter had always been tactile, bushing against Tony’s side or dropping his head onto his shoulder when he laughed. It was a natural thing for the kid to seek physical reassurance.

And now he couldn’t.

--

Nobody used Peter’s name. When they came to take him for their experiments, they’d kick him, spit on him, call him it with disgust.

Tony couldn't use it, either. That was one of the word offenses. Mutants didn’t have names, apparently. Didn’t deserve names. Peter wasn’t Peter, anymore. He was property, a mutant, an it.

Not a child. Certainly not Tony’s child.

The best thing he could do for his kid was ignore him.

--

One day, when they came in and grabbed Peter, intent on taking him god-knows-where and poking and prodding him to their hearts’ content, one of the guards paused and grinned at him.

“How’re you holding up, Stark?”

He strained against the guards holding him. “Tell your buddies to let go and I’ll give you a demonstration.”

The man cackled. “Missing getting to play with your little pet?”

Play. Pet. Peter was nothing to them. Nothing. “Fuck off.”

“Oh, c’mon now, Stark. I’m a reasonable guy.” He crossed his arms, smirk growing. “If you ask nicely, I’ll let you pet the little insect. Whaddya say?”

The idea made bile rise in his throat, but at the same time, he needed to touch the kid. This may be his only chance to give him even an ounce of comfort. He had to do this.

“Fine.” He grit his teeth. “Can I touch him? Please?”

“Ask if you can pet it.”

“You’re disgusting,” he snarled.

“Do you reject my offer?”

“No.” He took a steadying breath. For Peter. I’m so, so sorry, kiddo. “Can I pet it?”

“Say please.”

He locked his pride deep down on his gut, threw away the key. “Maybe I please pet it?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” The man nodded to the other guards. “Bring it here. Daddy Stark wants to give it a little pet. Isn’t that sweet?”

They dragged Peter over. The kid didn’t look up, just kept his eyes trained on the ground, but everything about his body language was keyed up in anticipation.

One of his guards release Tony’s arm with a stiff warning not to try anything, and he dragged it greedily through the kid’s hair.

The guard who struck the deal was beaming. “Tell him he’s a good boy.”

He hid his own smile. The joke was on him: Peter would know what he meant.

“Good boy,” he murmured, pouring every ounce of you’re doing so well, and I’m so proud of you, and just hang in there, buddy into the phrase.

He’d never forget the way Peter nuzzled into his hand in response.

--

They had a system. 12 hours with the lights on, 12 hours with the lights off. Without windows, the room was pitch black.

Peter always curled up on the floor beside Tony’s cot. It was as close to human contact as he was allowed, and the kid was learning to take what he could get.

It took Tony three weeks to work up the courage to drop his hand over the side. He hung it there, knowing it was probably dangling just inches away from Peter’s body, for a solid ten minutes.

Nobody moved. The cell door stayed closed.

Slowly, he ghosted his hand through the air until it knocked against something warm. Peter. Peter’s ribs, to be more exact. He could feel his breaths speed up at the contact.

For a moment, they both froze.

Then, he slid his hand upwards, over the kid’s shoulder until he found his face.

He settled his thumb on his cheekbone and tapped out P.E.T.E.R. in Morse code. He heard the kid’s breath catch.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

--

Some nights, he’d do exactly what he did on the first: silently tap Peter’s name out against his cheek. Steady, consistent. The only tether he could offer the kid to his identity.

Other nights, he just drew circles between his shoulder blades, or untangled his unwashed hair, or massaged the back of his neck. Little moment of physical intimacy, the only contact either of them had.

But least Tony had his name. At least they treated him like he was human.

--

It took Rhodey 2 months to find them.

When he’d imagined that moment, he’d imagined himself lunging off the cot, rushing to Peter’s side, pulling him into his arms like no time had passed. A reunion for the history books.

He’d spent weeks living in the same cell as the kid, and he’d never felt further from him.

When the door did burst open, however, and revealed the silver-gray War Machine armor instead of monotone uniforms, Tony just froze.

It wasn’t until Rhodey tried to speak to Peter and the kid threw himself into a corner with a panicked whimper than he forced himself into action.

He stumbled to his feet, staggering over to Peter and dropping to his knees a foot or so away from him. “Buddy, hey, it’s over.”

He got an unintelligible sob in response.

“Peter.” The kid physically flinched at the sound of his name, but he didn’t stop. “Peter. You’re name is Peter. Do you hear me, Peter? You’re human. You’re just a kid. Everything they said was wrong, but you’re safe now. Rhodey’s here, I’m here. You’re Peter, and you’re safe.”

Slowly, like a wounded animal curling out from its shell, Peter reached out a hand in Tony’s direction.

It was all the invitation he needed.

He crawled forward and wrapped the kid up in a hug. For a second, all Peter did was flounder. Then, old instinct kicked in, and he was snaking himself around Tony like this had all been a dream, like none of it was real.

“Peter,” he whispered against the kid’s hairline, reverent as a prayer, “Peter. Peter. Peter.”

“Mister Stark,” the kid choked back.

I know, buddy. I know. I hear you.

“Peter.”

[avaalons]

Chris Evans Fic: Anticipation (NSFW)

So I’ve written this, in a struggle, during a horrid bout of writers’ block. Given the request, this should not have been so difficult to write and definitely shouldn’t have taken so long. It’s done now though so sorry for the delay and hopefully I’ve seen the back of pesky writers’ block!

Can you do a cute Chris Evans one of him inviting you over to his house for the first time and youre nervous because yall haven’t taken the relationship sexually yet? Thanks!

***

‘Gracie, help! This is a code red. I repeat: code red,’ you left the voicemail on your best friend’s number as you hurried through the city streets to your apartment, the heels you wore to work clacking against the pavement.

You finally, finally reached your building and fumbled with the three locks on the front door. You took the stairs two at a time - nothing short of a miracle in your office-appropriate pencil skirt - and had your key ready for the next three locks on your apartment door. You kicked your heels off as you rushed through to your bedroom, flinging your handbag down on your bed, tugging your blouse out of your skirt’s waistband and over your head, not even bothering to undo the buttons. You unzipped your skirt and let it fall to the floor, stepping out of it as you walked through to the master bath, switching the shower on just as you heard your phone ring.

You ran to answer it, responding without even so much as a hello.

‘Gracie, he’s invited me over. Tonight. This is it. I’m fucking shaking. I have nothing to wear, I need to shave my legs, deep condition my hair, exfoliate from head to toe, paint my toenails…’

‘Babe, slow down and breathe. What exactly is the problem?’

‘Tonight. I am going to Chris’ house. For sex.’

’…has he said that explicitly? I seriously hope he didn’t actually include sex in his invitation.’

'Well no, but this is the first time he’s invited me to his house. We’ve never been to each others’ places before. This means sex, right?’

'There’s a high possibility. What are you freaking out over? It’s not like you haven’t had sex before. You do want to sleep with him, right?’

'Grace, you’ve seen the guy! He looks like he was sculpted from marble. I still have to pinch myself when I’m on a date with him.’

'Hon, how many times do I need to tell you? You’re freaking hot and you’re amazing, the-

’-the whole package. Yeah, yeah, I know, you’ve said. But he’s probably seen loads of actresses and famous women naked. Who are, like, Hollywood hot and not just normal person hot. Like, I know I’m not vomit-inducing or anything, but I don’t look photoshopped when I’m naked either.’

'Hollywood hot has a whole lot of ugly on the inside, in my experience. If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t keep asking you out. Try and apply a bit of logic to this situation, dumb ass. Now get your pert backside in the shower, shave your legs and thank all the deities in existence that you had a bikini wax booked in this week. Moisturise everywhere and get that really hot Boux Avenue lingerie set out - the one you got when we were in London, remember?’

'Yep, got it now,’ you assured her as you dug through the top drawer in your dresser, laying your hands on the pretty dusky pink silk and lace strapless bra and panty set.

'And then just wear a really simple, understated but short dress over the top. You want to look like you’re not planning on wearing it for long.’

You rifled through your wardrobe, cradling the phone between your ear and shoulder as you weighed up your options.

'Satin cami dress?’

'Is it tight or swing cut? And what colour is it?’ Grace was in full outfit-planning mode now. You needed her cool calm in the face of your panicked energy.

'Swing cut and it’s like an aubergine colour.’

'Yes, that would be perfect. I love that whole nightwear-as-outerwear trend. Some black strappy heels, hair blown out, smokey eye and out the door. Are you going for dinner or anything first?’

'No, he’s cooking apparently. He’s coming to pick me up at eight.’

'Yeah, you’re definitely getting laid sweetheart! Oh, this is so exciting! He seems like the type to have a really huge dick but doesn’t brag about it.’

'Gracie!’ You pretended to be affronted but her humour was a calming influence on you.

'Listen to me right now. Don’t get anxious, don’t get stuck in your head. If he’s cooking and coming to pick you up, I think I’m probably right in guessing he’s going to want you to enjoy yourself above all else, so fucking enjoy it, okay? He’s lucky to have this chance with you.’

Grace was your best friend for many reasons, but one very high up on the list was that she always had your back.

'Thanks Gracie.’

'You better tell me all the good details tomorrow.’

You grinned, 'Just try and stop me.’

You said your goodbyes and hung up. Glancing at the time before you put your phone on charge, you had about two hours to primp and preen before Chris would be here, and you were going to make sure you were scrubbed and smooth and silky from top to toe.

***

It was seven forty five when you felt like you were finally ready. You headed to your kitchen on your heels, trying to steady your nerves. You needed to calm down, he was going to be here soon and you were going to end up a sweaty, flustered mess. You threw open the doors onto your Juliet balcony to let in some fresh air and headed back to the kitchen to dig out something that might steady your nerves. A shot of tequila should do it, right?

It burned but it warmed you just enough and you took a deep breath. You had this. You took another shot for luck and did one last check in your full length mirror just as the buzzer rang to let you know that Chris was downstairs. You dashed across the room to the console and buzzed him in, collecting your bag and reapplying your lipstick and perfume once more.

When the knock came at your door, you composed yourself and answered with a big smile. You were happy to see him after all, despite the stage fright rolling around in the pit of your stomach.

'Wow,’ was Chris’ first word upon seeing you. 'You look… breathtaking. I kind of wish I’d dressed up more!’

He had jeans and a Henley on: he looked hot, of course, but you wondered if you’d misjudged this whole evening.

'I… probably didn’t need to wear this, did I?’ A nervous smile passed over your face and you struggled to look him in the eye, feeling more awkward than ever now.

You saw him in your peripheral vision take a step towards you, in your apartment now and only inches from you and when he spoke, his voice had an unmistakable gravelly quality to it that hadn’t been there before.

'I’m glad you did.’

You looked up shyly from under your eyelashes, 'Oh.’

'Hmm, oh.’

You were frozen there by his heated gaze while you briefly contemplated slamming the door behind him and stripping yourself naked so he could do what he liked with you, but then his eye line flickered to something over your shoulder and his gaze narrowed.

'You started without me?’ He inclined his head towards something behind you and when you spun around to see what it was, you remembered you’d left your bottle of tequila on the kitchen table.

'I… um… had one. Or two. Just to… start the night right,’ you rolled your eyes at yourself, knowing that Chris was looking elsewhere. Could you sound any more pathetic? But then, anything was better than admitting the truth: that you were so nervous to have sex with him that you needed a couple of shots to take the edge off.

He fixed his eyes back on you, seemingly considering you for a moment. Then he dipped his head towards yours, capturing your lips with his in a long awaited greeting. His tongue swept your bottom lip and it suddenly dawned on you that he was tasting tequila.

The material of your dress bunched in his hands as he gripped your hips, slipping against your skin over the silky fabric and pulling you in close to his body, the two of you fitting together like jigsaw pieces. Your hands instinctively went to his head, your fingers threading themselves through the shorter hair at the nape of his neck as you deepened the kiss. You felt like you were making a promise for the night ahead.

Chris pulled back minutely, just enough to speak against your mouth, the vibrations from his deep voice delicious on your lips.

'Yeah, I think that tequila will be coming with us.’

***

You chatted as easily as you were able to in the car, trying to keep the jitteriness out of your voice, keep your dialogue light and breezy: all a perfect mask for the whirring thoughts and feelings just under the surface.

You felt stiff and not able to relax into your seat, your whole body on high alert. How you were supposed to eat later was anyone’s guess. The heady combination of excitement, anticipation and nerves had you feeling more than a little nauseated but you wanted desperately to appear cool and confident.

His house was incredible. A bachelor pad, yes, but incredible. It was all minimalist lines, smooth and sleek, with pale, calming colours contrasting the dark wood of his furniture. He led you through to an L shaped kitchen, breakfast room and living area where the whole of the back wall was just huge glass panels looking out over his garden. Despite the light colours, it wasn’t cold or clinical, but you still felt a little unsure of what to do or where to go. You were caught in a strange limbo, not wanting to appear to be too instantly comfortable in his home but also not wanting to be overly awkward about it all. Why you couldn’t just exude an effortless charm at all times was beyond you. It didn’t seem fair, how some people just had that gift and you were stuck second guessing every step you took.

He’d handed you a glass of chilled white wine and invited you to sit on one of the high rise padded chairs he had for the breakfast bar. It meant you could watch him cook and he’d could talk to you while he was working.

'Paella okay?’ he asked as he began collecting ingredients from his fridge and cupboards.

Now he’d said the words, you could actually feel a bit of hunger creeping up on you. Maybe you’d just started to calm down a bit, or maybe the wine was helping soothe the anxiety.

'Actually couldn’t think of anything I’d like better right at this moment?’

'Good,’ he’d grinned, 'It’s about the only thing I can make that is just fancy enough to be impressive. If I can get it right, of course. Otherwise we’re on mac n cheese from a box.’

You laughed, his need to please and impress you helping you feel a bit better about yourself, 'That would suit me just fine too, don’t worry. Shall I do something to help?’

'No way, you just sit there and let me try to prove what a great chef I am… at making paella and paella only.’

He set about chopping, crushing, sautéing, and boiling as he asked you questions about your week and as you watched him and he led the easy conversation, you did feel yourself relax, the tension ebbing out of your shoulders, the muscles around your spine finding a more comfortable position. It was nice watching him work his way around the kitchen. You could almost forget the whole Hollywood thing. He was just a normal guy, trying to impress a girl by making her a meal.

He’d noticed your wine glass was empty and pointed it out, 'I’m terrible host, would you like a top up?’

You immediately jumped up, fully aware that he was at a crucial stage in the preparation of the meal and said, 'I’ll get it, don’t worry.’

As you darted towards the fridge, so did he, the result being that you collided together, hands on the door handle.

You both laughed awkwardly and apologised before the tension simmering between you took over and he gazed down at you, bodies pressed against one another.

'You’re really hot, do you know that?’ you told him, the wine clearly having gotten rid of ninety nine point nine per cent of your inhibitions.

'Well, I’ve been slaving away in the kitchen, haven’t I?’ He retorted, just a hint of cheeky cockiness crossing his features, 'Body temperature is bound to have risen a little.’

'That’s not what I meant and you know it,’ you whispered, lost in his eyes.

'I know,’ he grinned back, bringing his head down just enough to whisper in your ear, 'I find you extremely hot too. Especially in this silky dress.’

You reached up for his neck exactly as his hands encased your ribs on either side and he spun you ninety degrees so your back was pressed against the fridge door, pinned there by his body. He stared at you intensely, eyes searching your face for something… what, exactly, you didn’t know but he dipped his head and kissed you tentatively, almost experimentally, before pulling back to look at you again. Time seemed to slow and you were all to aware of your laboured breathing and the cool, smooth surface of the refrigerator door at your back.

'Chris..?’ your voice was low and raspy.

'Yes?’ He whispered back.

'The paella’s about to burn,’ you told him, inclining your head towards the view you had of the stove.

He let go of you instantly with a curse and covered the short distance across his kitchen in no more than two strides, removing the pan from the heat immediately.

You took a steadying breath and pushed yourself off the fridge, just about able to trust your legs.

'I think I’ve saved it,’ Chris poked at the contents of the pan as you headed back to the breakfast bar.

'So, the mac n cheese will live to see another day,’ you replied jokingly, trying to dilute some of the crackling tension in the room.

'It will. It’s day will come however. We can be sure of that.’

He plated the food and slid the plates across the counter: one for you and one in the place where he would sit once he was on the right side of the breakfast bar.

'I never did get you that wine,’ he remembered and stopped at the fridge on his way past to pull the bottle from the shelf in the door.

'No, apparently we’re both very easily distracted.’

'I blame the dress,’ Chris decided as he sat down.

'Well, you know, the dress can go any time, if you find it so inconvenient. Just say the word.’ Wow, talk about Dutch courage.

He raised his eyebrow with a smirk as he considered you and murmured, 'Now there’s a thought. I’ll keep that in mind.’

Your face heated under his gaze and then the moment was broken as he poured a measure of wine into your glass.

'Now, apologies if this is actually barely edible but I gave it my best shot.’

'It looks and smells delicious, Chris. Thank you.’

'You’re welcome,’ he picked up his fork, flashed you a boyish smile and waited for you to do the same before tucking in.

***

Chris’ paella was fantastic and the decadent chocolate fondant he’d served up with vanilla ice cream was a surprise too. You’d tried to be as ladylike as possible with tiny little bites but Chris had given you a sidelong glance and smirked.

'Go on, just go for it, I know you’re desperate to.’

You’d laughed bashfully and started eating with more gusto. Inside, you were dancing. He’d remembered your favourite dessert.

Once you had cleared your plate, you leaned back in your chair with a satisfied sigh.

'Well, Chris, you’ve earned yourself some definite brownie points tonight.’

'Oh yeah?’ he smiled around his wine glass as he took a sip, 'And what will my prize be?’

'You tell me Evans. That’s what you brought me here for, after all, right?’ you told him in what you hoped was your most breathy, most seductive voice as you slid a brave hand up his thigh. This was better, you thought, if you were controlling the situation, it gave you something to focus on other than your frayed nerves.

But, there was a problem, that much was evident almost instantly. You could see his brow furrow in response and you were instantly on the defensive, snatching your hand back. Had you got this all wrong? Oh god. This was so humiliating. You watched him in horror, starting and ending sentence after sentence as he obviously tried to phrase his rejection of you in the most diplomatic way possible.

'I… didn’t,’ he stopped again, let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

You just wanted to put him out of his misery, call a cab and go home to curl up in a ball in the middle of your bed and die. You were never going out with a guy again, not if it always ended up with you reading signals wrong and embarrassed beyond belief.

'Look, Chris, sorry. I’ve obviously just read this whole thing wrong, so I’ll just call myself a cab and be out of the way…’

You heard him begin to speak but you were already up on your feet and hunting down your bag to find your phone. Maybe Grace would come and pick you up actually. That way you could cry all the way home without judgement.

You retrieved you bag from where you had left it next to his sofa and opened it up, only to feel a strong grip around your upper arm, a gentle pressure turning you to face what you knew would be a look of sheer pity.

'Hey, wait. What are you doing? This isn’t what I-’

’-look, I get it. I knew this was too good to be true. My friend will come get me, it’s fine,’ you began fumbling with your phone, refusing to look up at him, until a calm hand covered the screen and your own hand.

'Will you just stop for a second, please? If you really want to go home, I’ll take you myself but first, you need to listen to me. So please, just look up at me.’

You felt a finger under your chin, softly drawing your face up to meet his gaze. You tried to remember to breathe in and out. This was torture.

His expression was wary, but a smile appeared when your eyes met.

'Now, I’m sorry about my reaction just then. It kind of threw me, is all. You are wildly attractive, believe me, but I didn’t bring you here purposefully for sex. This isn’t a set up or a seduction. There wasn’t an endgame other than getting to know each other a little bit more. You’re here because I like spending time with you and I wanted to just have a more relaxed date with you, that’s all. There was no expectation.’

You processed this information, trying to take it all in. Slightly overwhelmed, you blew a breath out, the hair that had collected around your face flying backwards. You considered his words and decided it wasn’t exactly a rejection but there was still one thing you needed to get straight.

'So… do you want to have sex with me or not?’ There was nothing seductive or breathy about your voice this time. This was a question you needed answering honestly and quickly, for your own sanity more than anything.

In a not-too-encouraging response, he barked out a laugh before cupping your jaw in both his hands, edging forward so your bodies were even closer together.

The blue of his eyes was darker than usual, it seemed, and seemed to sparkle as he answered.

'Yes,’ he breathed out, 'Of course I do. Probably more than is gentlemanly. But, after this, I think I’m leaving the ball firmly in your court.’

You were entranced, unable to tear your eyes away from his, his palms holding your head fast.

'Me? I have to…’

He gave one definitive nod, 'You decide when and where.’

You were both silent for a moment, each considering the other, weighing up this new deal that had been made. In that moment, you realised you wanted him. Like right now. From the moment you left that voicemail with Grace, you knew that sex with Chris tonight was inevitable, and not because he’d invited you to his house, or cooked you a meal, or prepared your favourite dessert, but because he was fucking sexy as hell and was probably going to be incredible in bed. All you really wanted was him to show you a good time, and for him to be blown away by how amazing you looked in your lingerie. This required a ballsy move and a deep breath.

You had a new set in your face, reflecting the determination you felt at the core of your being, steeling yourself and letting yourself recall every single moment he’d let on just how sexy he found you. You wrapped your fingers around his wrists and tugged them down gently as you stepped back just once. Keeping your eyes unwaveringly on his, you slid your fingers under one cami strap, sliding it down your arm and freeing it. You raised an eyebrow at Chris, almost challenging him to stop you, before freeing your other arm from the dress and letting the whole garment plummet to the floor, the silky material flowing over your curves.

And there you stood, shameless and, you hoped, confident, in your dusky pink lacy lingerie set, strappy heels and nothing else. Chris swallowed hard, caught like a deer in headlights.

'I believe,’ you began, 'that if the ball was in my court, I’ve just sent you a pretty hard serve. Fancy a volley, Chris?’

He nodded slowly, unblinking, before launching into action, lurching forwards to snake his arms around around your waist and walking you backwards with his mouth pressed roughly to yours. He led you until your back was against a wall and he pressed his body into yours, forcing the breath from your lungs. You brought one leg up, bent at the knee and bracing your foot flat against the wall, cradling his body between your legs, rolling your hips against his.

He hissed, pulling his mouth from yours minutely.

'Fuck. Do you have any idea what you do to me?’

'Show me,’ you whispered.

'Not here. I’m doing this properly. Come on.’

Gripping your hand, he tugged you off the wall and led you down the hall, pulling you into a dark room. He switched a lamp on from somewhere and a warm glow filled the room. The momentary reprieve had made all those insecurities come flooding back to the surface and you stood, in what was clearly Chris’ bedroom with your arms wrapped awkwardly around your near-naked body.

'So this is where the magic happens,’ you tried to joke, the quiver evident in your voice.

He reached out an arm for you and pulled you into his embrace, back to his chest, praising your arms from around you and replacing them with his.

'Don’t try and hide yourself from me. You’re so beautiful, head to toe, inside and out.’

He planted soft, open mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder and you leaned your head the opposite way to give him better access, eyes rolling back in your head at the sensation. His hands smoothed over your stomach and hips, travelling down to cup your butt. A giggle escaped you at his touch and you spun around in his arms, steadying yourself by gripping his shoulders, realising just then that he was still fully clothed. You ran your hands down his chest, tugging at the hem of his Henley. Pulling it upwards, he manoeuvred to help you pull it over his head and throw it behind you.

Trying really hard not to focus on just how crazily sculpted he was in comparison to your own, incredibly normal and regular body, you let him capture your mouth again as you travelled south towards his belt and jeans.

'If this is… too fast, just say so,’ Chris breathed out even as you hastily fumbled with his buckle. 'You’ve seemed on edge all evening and I… don’t want to be the cause of that.’

'Chris, it’s not too fast. I just… you’re fucking sculpted from marble. Look at you. How I am supposed to… can we have the lights off?’ You pushed his jeans down to the floor, trying to distract him.

'Are you kidding me? Baby…’ he kicked his jeans out of the way, 'Come over here.’

He tugged you towards another door in the room, opening it out and revealing a full length mirror on the back.

'Just stand here,’ he pulled you in front of the mirror and stood behind you, 'Can’t you see what I see?’

His hands brushed your hair to one side so he could lay kisses against the sensitive place where your neck met your shoulder. His hands travelled your ribs, down and then back up, lazy and slow, before unclipping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. You looked at yourself as he worked your body, lips swollen and parted, eyes heavy lidded, lolling your head to one side to allow Chris to suck at and tease your skin.

One hand travelled down your stomach, toying with the edge of your lacy underwear, the dusky rose creamy and decadent against your colouring. He dipped his fingers under, just slightly, and you watched him in the mirror, arms encasing you, and you looked at yourself, wanton and writhing.

He kept going, dipping lower, teasing your clit and you watched his fingers moving under your lingerie as he ever so slowly circled and stroked through your heat and wetness. The sight alone was enough to make you whine, and the sensation was already causing a slight wobble in your knees.

He slowly circled you, never taking his hand away from you.

'We look pretty hot together right?’ He whispered in your ear, and all you could do was nod as you tried to grind against his fingers.

He sank to his knees in front of you and you immediately tried to edge away but he held you fast by your hips.

'Don’t take your eyes off us in the mirror,’ he directed you and you just about managed to breathe out an 'okay’.

You threaded your fingers in his hair and watched you both in the mirror. You could see yourself, with Chris on his knees in front of you, back to the mirror but you were able to see the intricate patterns of his muscles in his back, flexing as he moved his arms.

You could feel his fingers over your underwear, pressing the material into your wetness, letting the skimpy material soak it all up.

It wasn’t long before he hooked his fingers around the material and pulled the whole piece of lace down your legs, revealing you to him completely. He held your panties still while you stepped out of them, using his shoulder to help steady yourself. He placed gentle butterfly kisses against your thighs, travelling upwards a couple of inches before swapping to the other one, and, so deftly and expertly that you barely even noticed, he nudged your legs apart to provide himself with better access to one part of you he wanted to get to know very intimately indeed.

Chris continued his kisses, only pausing to ask, 'Are you still looking at us in the mirror?’

'Uh huh,’ was your only reply. You could feel his fingertips gliding over your skin getting ever closer to where all the heat in your body was currently radiating from and as you watched him in the mirror, you could see his hands working torturously slowly towards that spot. You tried not to grip him too hard but it was proving difficult as the anticipation grew and grew. The pressure was building within you and you knew that if you’d ever felt like this when you were alone, you’d already have two fingers inside yourself, pumping impatiently towards orgasm.

As it was, however, you had an incredibly sexy man on his knees in front of you and he was going at his own pace, teasing you, cranking you up notch by notch with every purposeful avoidance of your clit as his fingers and lips darted around your lower body, everywhere but right there.

'Chris…’ your voice was barely more than a breath, 'Please.’

He looked up at you sweetly, making you feel worshipped.

'Please what, baby?’

'Please just touch me. I can’t… I need…’ it was almost a sob.

'Okay, okay, I got you,’ his voice was calm, reassuring and you watched him in the mirror lean forward, the intricate pattern of muscles in his back flexing and locking with each minute shift. Then, you felt, rather than saw, one broad, thick stroke of his tongue over your clit and you couldn’t control the moan that tumbled from your lips.

His fingers took over what he couldn’t reach with his tongue in this position and before long you could feel one, then two digits sliding obscenely in and out of you. It was easy, barely any friction, wet as you were, but he moved and shifted and changed angle and explored you so that every touch was new, no part of you that he hadn’t felt out.

You watched yourself in the mirror, carding his hair with your fingers, lips parted, a pink blush over your entire body, your legs quivering under your weight. You could see his head bobbing, could see the muscles in his neck twitching as his jaw and tongue moved against you, could see his tricep pumping as his fingers slid in and out of you. Everything was so intense, all the sensations in your body plus being able to see the two of you together in the mirror, you were scared you wouldn’t be able to hold yourself up if you came here and you could feel the coil in the pit of your stomach tightening in that tell tale way. His ministrations were relentless, giving your body no reprieve, and your hands tightened in his hair.

He must have felt your weight beginning to collapse against him because all of a sudden he rose quickly, leaving you just on the cusp of an orgasm. Disappointment flooded you on instinct but when he started backing you up towards the bed, you were glad. He leaned forward to kiss you as you took careful steps backwards and you could taste yourself on his tongue. There you were, your mark all over him, and that thought only intensified the excitement in your body. You wanted him in you, over you, claiming you, right now. You pushed his boxers down as he walked and he stepped out of them as you wrapped one soft hand around his hard cock. You revelled in the hiss it brought forth from him as you ran your thumb over the tip, spreading the precum forming there.

The bed hit the back of your legs and you immediately sat down, looking up at him in awe, still working his dick in your hand. He leaned forward again, capturing your mouth with his, guiding you backwards until your back hit the sheets. His hand travelled the length of your body again, heading straight for your clit and circling it slowly, just enough the keep the sensitivity building but not enough to let your orgasm explode.

‘Chris… condom… now,’ you forced out breathlessly against his mouth and you felt, rather than saw, him shift one arm towards the night stand, rummaging around blindly, never taking his mouth from your lips, your jaw, you throat.

Your hips began to undulate in anticipation, searching out his dick, hungry to have him inside you, and finally you heard the tell tale sound of a package being ripped open and then a few moments of stillness. You propped yourself up on elbows, watching in fascination as he rolled the condom over his thick length, admired his dick standing proudly, jutting out, ready for you.

You spread your legs wider and he pulled you towards him by the hips. He was still standing, bracing his legs against the edge of the bed, and you knew this was going to be hard and fast. You giggled helplessly as your body was pulled across the sheets and you tried to catch your breath in readiness. You wrapped your legs around his hips, your butt hovering off the surface of the bed and he slid his cock through your heat a few times, letting you feel his hardness against your clit. He teased your entrance each time, never pressing in, just gliding over, and you were getting antsy.

He grinned down at you, knowing exactly the effect he was having.

‘You ready, baby girl?’

‘More than.’

He cupped your butt, holding you firm, and you watched as he lined himself up. Not able to look away, you watched him sink into you, his whole length disappearing into your body in one swift movement and you let out an obscene, wanton moan. It felt so, so good. He filled you exactly, just enough stretch and just deep enough to intensify the feeling he already been building tonight.

Then he moved. Increasing speed with each thrust, rocking against you, controlled but with an edge of wildness that betrayed his own pleasure. You could do nothing but be shunted against the sheets as he took complete control of your body. Your head fell back against the mattress, unable to support it anymore and you sobbed out into the night as each thrust drove you higher, pulling the orgasm from within you.

He kept it up, the relentless pace, and you could process nothing, feel nothing, be aware of nothing except him and all too soon you were on the edge and tumbling over, clamping around him hard and you felt him slump forward against you as his own orgasm hit. He found your mouth and kissed you long and deep, still rocking against you as he milked both your orgasms, and you linked your ankles behind his back, wanting to keep him there for as long as possible.

He leant up, brushing your hair from your face, planting kisses here, there and everywhere, stopping every so often just to gaze at you, still inside you.

‘That was intense,’ and there was an edge of apology to his voice, ‘I totally had his idea that I’d go all slow and sensual the first time, but I…’

‘Don’t you dare apologise. Literally never come so hard,’ you cut him off.

‘Really?’ He asked, pride in his voice.

‘Don’t go getting all big headed about it now.’

‘Promise not to,’ he insisted as he planted yet more kisses against your mouth, quickly turning into slow and lazy making out. ‘Is it bad that I just want to have sex with you all night now?’

You pretended to think about it, ‘Hmm, I could probably put up with that.’

You gasped as he slipped out of you, feeling the emptiness keenly and immediately wanting him back. He got up, removing the condom as he went, and headed for the bathroom.

He lay down next to you when he returned, rolling you on top of him and kissing you again, tongue in your mouth, hands running over your naked body.

You pulled up just to look at his face and smile at him in your post-orgasmic haze.

‘What?’ He asked in response to your gaze.

‘Nothing. Just excited for slow and sensual now.’

He grinned at you, ‘Give me thirty minutes and then I’ll show you slow and sensual so good you’ll barely be able to stand it.’

You giggled, gently nipping at his lips with pecking kisses.

‘Can’t wait,’ you told him honestly.

[carp3n0c73m]

Frozen in Memory: People, Activities, Objects - Chapter 5

As I arrived at the bottom of the stairwell, I was rewarded for my tenacity (and climbing skills) with no further hallways, landings, or stairs, but with what I assumed was the under carriage of the theatre, spread out before me.  It was still slightly misty therein, but mostly it was low-hanging vapor and light haze; it would not have surprised me if the haze was coming from the stage, artificial in nature, being pumped from a small electric unit to provide the canvas on which a lighting director paints beams and patterns.  It was also hot and slightly humid, most likely due to the wet weather outside.  Ahead of me was a doorway framed in white-painted brick with an angled mirror at the top right corner and, what drew my eye, a small sign taped below it with a large arrow pointing straight ahead that read “Stage”.  To my left was another doorway, unmarked and without doors, which led to a small hallway that looked like temporary storage.  To my right was an open area that contained a callboard hanging on the wall just to the right of another doorway whose door was ajar.  I could see ironing boards and hanging costumes and waist-high tables overlaid with a thick plastic sheet for cutting patterns; I had found the wardrobe room. Further along the wall with the callboard were what looked like small offices and it looked like the room opened further into a common area and I could faintly detect the warm smell of dry laundry and lint from that direction.

           I took a step forward, getting my bearings and enjoying no longer being cramped by narrow passages and lions literally stacked to the ceiling when I heard the whoosh.  That is best that I can describe it, like when one goes to light a gas BBQ grill and the propane is on, but it is taking a long time for it to catch, accumulating slowly in the tray of the grill and then it goes WHOOSH! catching all at once and igniting the collected gas cloud all together in a loud, hot, eyebrow-scorching ball of burning fuel.  That was the sound that came from just behind my right shoulder.  It was not scary or disconcerting (although there was an accompanying and startling flash of heat), just out of place, but then again that seemed to be the theme of the afternoon.  I turned my head and fight or flight kicked in, hard.

           What I had not seen (I didn’t even glance at the mirror, much to my detriment) was a tiny doorway that contained a bi-level door, one of those barriers that has a horizontal separation in it so that one can open the top portion while leaving the bottom part shut.  The top of the door was open now and what I saw behind the half door spoke to every nightmare from my childhood and chilled me.

           She was midnight black, her rippling muscles flexed lazily beneath her flawless scales, each possessed of a faint inner light giving her an almost imperceptible glow, just enough to make one question whether one was dreaming or awake. Her underside was a deep metallic purple with larger plates of impenetrable chest armor.  Her fearsome wings were leathery and tucked back behind her.  Her black horns adorned her serpentine head in a horrific crown that spoke of agony and death and becoming nothing more than a crunchy bite for her mouth and the daggers within that entrance to burning hell. Her eyes glowed with a shimmering green luminescence and while they were not trained on me at that moment, I hoped against hope that they never would light upon my poor self for they were bewitching eyes, filled with suggestions of suicide and torture.

           Before me, come from the pages of fairy tales by way of evil dreams, was a black dragon.

           I could feel her aura (and I knew it was a her, not a him, though how, I am uncertain), palpable in that closed space, burning off her like a raging fever. I took in the sight of her, like Bilbo looking on the terrible magnificence that was old Smaug, and slowly backed up to give her as wide a berth as I was capable when she shifted her position slightly and I heard a metallic clicking followed by a low muttering.

           So impressed was I at the initial sight of the dragon, it wasn’t until that small detail, the clicking sound, provoked my brain to come back online and logic took over (as much as was possible in that place).  I realized then that the room in which she was reposing was far, far too small to hold her, and yet there she was, not looking diminished or cramped whatsoever.  I paused in my retreat, curiosity getting ready to kill the cat, overtly standing directly across from her doorway and observed her, for she was not paying attention to me in the slightest.

           She was crammed into a tiny alcove of an office, a closet really, meant for someone to receive deliveries and lock and unlock the stage door (I saw a CCTV monitor on a little shelf just inside the doorway and realized that it was this dragon that had been watching as I had burst into laughter at Charles de Gaulle’s antics up top).  She should not have been able to fit.  She was massive; I could feel her size in her presence, and yet there she was in a space that was far, far too small.  I noticed that there was a slight lensing effect if I stepped off of center and viewed her from a slight angle.  It was like looking through imperfect glass and she would warp just slightly and then I would step back to look at her straight on and all would seem, well, normal is not the right word, but all would seem right again with the view.  If I didn’t know better, I would say that she was an optical illusion, but she was much too real and I perceived her with all of my senses (save touch, of course; I had no wish to be devoured, but yes, I could faintly taste the smell of dragon).

           Throughout all my reconnaissance, she paid me absolutely no mind, though twice over the course of four or so minutes that I initially observed her did I witness her WHOOSH again.  And it turned out to be exactly what I thought it was: a ball of fire.   She was muttering under her breath and on occasion she would inhale sharply, but with a vocalization that sounded like a young sheep being turned inside out, a screech, an inward singing pterodactyl scream of a hiccup, hold it for a moment, and with a belch blow out a sizable orb of flame from her mouth and nostrils that quickly dissipated, but was no less impressive.  It was further curious to me that the flame never crossed the plane of the doorway. I could feel the heat and hear the sound, but it was all contained behind that barrier.

           After having observed for a bit, I became unable to further foil my curiosity, even at the gamble of personal risk, but history (all five minutes of it) was telling me that on the list of priorities for dragons and other magical creatures in the immediate vicinity, chomping me to bits was not particularly high. I crept on soft tiptoe (which really was soft heel-to-toe) across the eight-foot void to stand just in front of her door and looked inside.  Though I was expecting anything (I thought), what I saw stopped me for a moment and brought forth from my mouth that age-old ejaculation which up until that point I felt that I was doing well at not evoking: “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”

The entire was room, I now saw, was filled with guns.  

There were guns of all sorts littering the floor and piled up in heaps in the corners, spreading out further than I was capable of perceiving: handguns and pistols and six shooters and .22s and .38s and shotguns and rifles (elephant and otherwise) and muskets and tiny little Derringers and .45 magnums and Walther PPKs like James Bond uses and cannons and AK47s and Uzis and Gatling guns and tommy guns like the gangsters in Chicago used to use too.  A vast, vast armory stretched out before me as I peeked through the top of the split door and it was all contained, along with a dragon, within a little closet-of-an-alcove that looked as though it could barely hold the 275 pound doorman from Brooklyn who no doubt inhabited it, let alone a she-dragon and her arsenal.  

I found myself close enough to finally make out what the dragon was muttering; it wasn’t until later that I marveled that dragons speak English.

“72,343… 72,344… 72,345…”

She was counting the guns in her lair. Yes…

A BLACK DRAGON was COUNTING GUNS.

And it was indeed a dragon’s lair that I saw through that doorway, the kind described in children’s stories that exuded archetypical architecture and atmosphere.  It was a huge vaulted space with stone arches and flagstone floors (though from my view through the door, it seemed small).  Dim light was filtering from above somewhere, but the majority of the illumination came from numerous torches along the walls in cobwebbed sconces. That being said, it was missing the most characteristic (in my opinion) aspect of a dragon’s lair: gold.  For what is a dragon’s hoard without gold? There were no piles of gold-minted coins with rubies and sapphires and emeralds cascading along the ground, littered with crowns and tiaras and bejeweled rings aplenty.  There weren’t even partially melted suits of armor collapsing and rusting in the corners. However, though not what I was expecting, this cache of weapons was most obviously her hoard and she was overtly relishing the act of cataloguing her dangerous cornucopia.

           “72,346… 72,347…”

           How was it possible that everything that my eyes were witnessing now could fit within that space?  It wasn’t enough for my brain to simply say that I was likely dreaming or at least that in the time/space reality into which I had drifted it was possible; I had never done well with accepting the answer “It’s that way because it is” or “Because I said so”.  There was quite certainly more going on to make this witchery happen.  Then, suddenly, with the thought of that word – witchery – I suddenly lit upon what I was seeing.  

The doorway was acting like a lens (or like a cauldron or crystal ball that a witch might use to scry the future, or in this case, as a window to peer into the goings-on in a different location), a gateway to another place contained within the confines of the little space and the door was the barrier; a portal like Mary Poppins’ bag, bigger on the inside than on the outside.  Like looking through a pair of binoculars from the wrong end, what I was seeing was a tiny, shrunken version of somewhere else with all the proportions intact, but smaller than in real life to fit the screen that was the doorway.  Her lair had to be enormous and in a moment of inspiration/stupidity, I decided to test out a hunch.  I was hoping that she most likely couldn’t see me.  I carefully pushed my hand through the space of the doorway and into the office.  It felt as though it was entering into water, but with no temperature change or wetness, more like the air became heavy and thick.  My hand slowly disappeared, and then my arm up to the elbow, and reappeared far below (I saw by looking down into the office), at the base of my vision coming out of what looked like a tiny archway.  

All of the sudden, I felt something fill my hand, a most worrying feeling when one’s hand is in a magic portal, what amounts to basically a blind hole, a fox den or gopher tunnel that may or may not have some small vermin at the opposite end with a view of feasting on my invading digits.  I immediately withdrew my hand with a jerk, not consciously in control, but rather my reptile underbrain reacted to the stimulus presented and disliking the odds, went to work surviving, but at the same time I kept hold of what had brushed my fingertips.  As I pulled my hand from the gateway, I was relieved to see that there was no damage and thankfully no sensations of pain presented themselves to my nervous system. Having avoided what I was subconsciously anticipating as a snake bit, I looked at my hand closely to see what my prize was.  Three playing cards lay in my hand, their values coming to my mind even before I turned them over to confirm their identities.  I put them in my pocket and looked again at the dragon.

           The dragon continued to count aloud, scooping up a huge claw-full of weapons (thus the clinking sounds) and letting them drop one at a time into the piles surrounding her.

           “72,361… 72,362… 72,363…”

What I couldn’t understand was why the dragon’s preference was for guns as opposed to the more classical (and, it seemed to me, practical) jewels and riches.  I also wondered if she slept on the piles of guns and if so, which style was most comfortable?  Were the guns loaded?  Did she ever accidently shoot one by rolling over?  Was that dangerous for her if the gun had an armor-piercing round in it?  Was she just a modern dragon and knew that guns were valuable?  Did she sell them on eBay?  These and a plethora of other questions ran through my mind, but ultimately I decided that rather than tempt fate and the ire of the dragon, it would be best to move on and explore the theatre.  I considered trying to speak to her, but she seemed very involved in her counting and I don’t know what she would do if I made her forget which number she was on; I’m doubtful that she would have heard me anyway.  So I very quietly (out of habit, I suppose, since nothing I had done had disturbed her) moved along towards the callboard.